But before the words left my mouth, I felt something hit me—hard—in the middle of my lower back. I tumbled forward in what felt like slow motion. I don’t remember if I tried to stand up after I hit the ground. I just know that I closed my eyes and started to pray as more gunshots fired in the hallway. There was shouting and running and then something heavy fell on top of me and I gasped.
“Shh,” a harsh voice hissed in my ear. “Don’t. Move.”
It was Miles Mason. A kid I’d never given the time of day. He was a couple years younger than me and, by all accounts, a bad seed. He was one of VCHS’s most notorious troublemakers—certain to be held back a year because he’d missed so much school while being suspended. He spent more time in detention than in class. Miles Mason was the kind of kid I warned younger students to stay clear of.
And there he was, throwing himself on top of me. Protecting me.
I lay as still as I could, playing dead beneath Miles and trying not to think about why I couldn’t feel my legs. I opened my eyes just a little, peering through my lashes, and realized we were right near the girls’ bathroom. I saw a pair of shoes,redactedshoes, walk inside.
Where I’d left Sarah and Lee a few minutes ago.
I held my breath and tried not to sob as I heard more gunshots. And then a pause.
And then I heard a conversation that changed my life.
“What’s this?” It was his voice. “A cross necklace? Who the hell wears this ugly-ass cross necklace?”
“Me.”
The voice was strong. Not quavering or scared. And I knew it was Sarah’s voice. It had to be. It could only have been Sarah.
“Yours?” he asked.
“Yes. It’s mine. Can I have it back?”
“You think Jesus is looking out for you now?”
“I do.”
Pop. Pop.
The next few minutes are still a blur. There was yelling and crashing and footsteps and Miles whispering for me to not move, don’t move. But I couldn’t even if I’d wanted to. And then he climbed off me and there were sirens and police officers and blood and an EMT asking me my name.
The next clear memory is hours later, after I woke up from surgery. My parents and my little sister, Tara, were all there, hugging me and crying, and a doctor told me I’d been shot in the spine and I might not be able to walk again.
I’d have to deal with my feelings about all of that later. First, I had to tell everyone what I’d heard. I had to know what happened to Sarah, because I needed to apologize to her.
“Sarah McHale?” the detective who had come to ask me questions in my hospital room said. “Unfortunately …”
He didn’t have to finish the sentence.
I’d heard Sarah’s last words, though. They were brave and defiant as she declared her devotion to the Lord. Just a few minutes before, I’d been shaming her for not being the kind of Christian I was, but then she was the one to stand up to this monster, to use her last moments refusing to deny her faith. I don’t think I would have been strong enough to do that.
I told everyone who would listen about what Sarah had done. The police, her parents, our preacher. I also told them about Miles, being the hero I never would have expected. And I vowed from that day on to never be the judgmental person I’d been before. That wasn’t what being a Christian was supposed to be about. That wasn’t what God wanted from me.
And for the first time in months, I felt like I had some clarity. Yes, my life was upside down and I was going to have to learn how to fit into this new reality, but I felt like God was guiding me again. I knew what He wanted from me. And I knew the first step was to forgive. Forgive myself for the person I had been, for the way I’d treated Sarah the last time I’d seen her, and to forgive the boy who shot me, because being angry at him would solve nothing.
The only person I’ve had a hard time forgiving is Kellie Gaynor.
Shortly after the shooting, she started telling people that the cross necklace police had found in the girls’ bathroom was hers. That she was the one who had spoken to. I don’t know why she lied. It’s not like anyone would believe her, anyway. Kellie was an angry, rude person who’d never stepped into a church in Virgil County as far as I knew. So for her to try and take that away from Sarah, to take her last moments of bravery from her …
I don’t wish Kellie Gaynor ill. But I want nothing to do with her. And I hope she thinks about her lies every day and regrets them.
It’s not super logical, I know, that I could forgive a boy who put a bullet in my back but not Kellie. Maybe it’s that I already had bad feelings about her and she just proved me right. Maybe it’s that her lies made a mockery of my faith and tried to damage a moment that meant so much to me. Maybe it’s that she could suffer the way I had, the way the other survivors had, and still bring herself to fabricate stories and take something away from the dead.
Or it could just be that by the time I found out what she was doing, I was all out of forgiveness.
When that boy shot me, it was random. He didn’t know me. He was younger than me, and I don’t think we’d had a single class together. He was just messed up and angry, and I was there. But something about what Kellie did feels personal. She tried to take something away from Sarah. And, because what Sarah did had resolidified my own faith, had been my light in the darkness after the shooting, it felt as if she was taking it from me, too.
