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“Are you kidding? I wanted to play in Canada anyway, but finishing high school in a place where they didn’t do active shooter drills—where there was no goddamned need for them—soundedamazing. And it was.”
“Says a lot, doesn’t it?” He shook his head. “Kids shouldn’t have to think about that.”
I squeezed his hand. “Neither should teachers.”
Isaiah shuddered.
“I’m sorry you have to deal with that,” I said, because I didn’t know what else to say.
“Unfortunately, it’s the reality of teaching in this day and age.” He laughed bitterly. “Maybe I should follow your example and find a job in Canada.”
“I wouldn’t blame you if you did. Moving to a Canadian school made a huge difference for my mental health.”
He let his head fall back against the couch and exhaled. “I can only imagine.” He stared up at the ceiling, features tight with some unspoken thought. After a moment, he quietly said, “It really fucks with my head. I work with a retired Marine, and I don’t know how the hell he handles it. We all kinda… don’t talk about it, but whenever I see him after one of the drills…” He trailed off again.
“Wow. Really says something when being a teacher is hard on someone who’s been to war.”
“Right?” He paused, then admitted, “I even have a hard time when I go to hockey games.”
“What do you mean?”
Isaiah swallowed. “The crowds. Outside before the game, because what’s to stop some random psycho from opening fire on a crowd of people waiting outside the doors?”
It was my turn to shudder. “Ugh. Yeah. That’s why I hate crowds.”
He held me a little closer. “And even on the way out of a game, when I know everyone there has been through metal detectors…” He sighed, shaking his head as he absently stroked my shoulder. “In the back of my mind…”
“I get that. And I mean, I won’t name names, but I played with someone who refuses to do signings because the one time he went to one, he couldn’t stop thinking about what would happen if some lunatic showed up.”
“I’ve had that same thought,” Isaiah murmured. “I still go to signings, but I won’t pretend they don’t make me nervous.”
I closed my eyes. “It’s all fucked up, isn’t it?”
“Seriously fucked up.”
We sat in silence for a long time. I tried not to dwell on my own memories of active shooter drills, especially how terrifying they’d been when I wasn’t old enough to truly understand what they were. Orwhythey were. Then how much worse they’d become when Iwasold enough to understand. Or how my Canadian classmates hadn’t understood when I’d jumped out of my skin after someone dropped a textbook on the floor.
And Isaiah dealt with that every damn day. With the expectation that if it came down to it, he’d sacrifice himself to protect his kids. How the hell did someone live like that? Sometimes I almost buckled under the pressure that came with playing hockey. Nobody was going to be traumatized or fuckingdieif I missed a shot or took an ill-timed penalty.
I’d thought more than once when we’d only known each other online that Ian sounded a whole lot stronger than I could ever be. Apparently I hadn’t known the half of it.
“Have you ever, um…” I sat up a little and searched his eyes. “Has there ever been a threat at your school?”
“Not an active shooter, no. An eighth grader was expelled a few years ago for bringing a gun to school, but that was before my time.”
“Jesus. Good thing someone found it before someone got hurt.”
“She actually showed it to someone. I guess she brought it to show off. Wanted to be tough, or…” Isaiah shook his head. “I don’t know. Like I said, it was before my time, so I don’t know all the details, but I do remember she was required to get some psychological help after that.” He exhaled, his gaze distant. “I hope it helped.”
“Do you think it did?”
“No idea. But if a kid is doing shit like that, something’s not working, you know? Either there’s a family problem, or a psychological one, or…” He waved a hand before letting it drop heavily to his thigh. “It’s not something well-adjusted kids do. So I just hope she has access to whatever resources she needs.”
That was a tough thing for me to comprehend. I vividly remembered hoping that if someone tried to shoot up my school, they were taken down quickly and permanently. Isaiah was in a position of having to potentially put himself in the line of fire to protect his students, and he still found compassion and concern for a kid who had, with or without violent intentions, brought a firearm to school.
And it occurred to me that that was exactly the kind of person I’d imagined Ian to be. He’d always been so passionate about things, especially about protecting people who were vulnerable, and he’d had no patience for dismissive attitudes about things like mental illness. I’d wondered a few times if he was a psychologist, or maybe even a physician. A social worker? Confirming my occasional suspicion that he was a teacher hadn’t been a surprise at all. It just made perfect sense.
More and more, everything about him made sense. The man sitting beside me was, in every way, the same man I’d talked to for the past four years. He hadn’t made himself out to be someone or something he wasn’t. He hadn’t been “virtue signaling” as some people on social media liked to accuse both of us (such a classic and pathetic way to try to shut someone down when they made you look like an ass). He was just… him. Ian was real, and he was sitting right here beside me, in the flesh, as Isaiah.
