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Authors: Sarah Lynn Scheerger

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BOOK: Are You Still There
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My parents' voices are low, rumbling, like they don't want anyone to hear. Of course this makes me even more curious. “… clear message,” Dad is saying, his voice tired and soft. “… professional job.” Dad must be facing away from the stairs, because it's hard to make out his words. Or maybe he just doesn't want me or my sister to hear. “Took our best guys over an hour to ensure the bomb we found was disarmed.”

“Do they think it was a staff member?” Mom's voice, somehow much clearer, and with a sharp edge. I can just imagine Mom facing him, arms crossed, demanding information.

“… not ruling it out …”

“Who else could it be? Who would want to do such a thing?”

“… looking into it … full investigation … possibly ex-employees or ex-students … could even be a current student, but the sophistication of the layout makes that unlikely … You never know though. Some of these kids are really bright.”

I creep down the top two stairs to hear better. I can see the light reflecting off Dad's bald head. He's still wearing his work clothes, which look a lot more like business clothes since he got promoted to lead detective.

Mom sighs and suddenly she sounds tired too. “Between this situation today, that note you found, and that poor girl who hanged herself after all that teasing, I'm beginning to think private school is a better option.”

Note? What note?

Wait
—
private school? No way!
My ankle cracks as I shift my position.

Dad pauses for a moment but doesn't turn. He's no longer whispering. “Listen, Susan, these things happen at many large high schools. Westmont High had a suicide last year and a big drunk-driving accident with all those cheerleaders. And Blackbury had that six-hour lockdown last semester when there was a domestic shooting in the neighborhood. When you've got two thousand people on the same campus, you get exposed to all walks of life. It happens everywhere.”

“You're not comparing apples to apples, Al, and you know it.” Mom's voice sharpens. “What happened today is of a whole different caliber. This wasn't just a bomb threat. There was an actual bomb on campus. We could've lost both our girls in one afternoon!”

I rest my head on the banister. My temples are starting to throb.

“Let's not overreact. I don't think this guy actually wanted to harm anyone.”

“How the hell do you know?”

I need to take some aspirin. I rub my fingers against the sides of my head.

“This is what I do for a living, Suze. If this guy wanted to blow the place to smithereens, he would've. He
chose
not to. He carefully orchestrated the whole setup so that the bomb
wouldn't
go off. He wanted to send a message.”

“Why do you keep saying ‘he'?”

“Because nearly every perpetrator of school violence has been male. I study this crap, hon. I know what I'm doing.”

“It's just …”

Suddenly his voice softens. “I know you were scared today.” I peek down and see him wrapping his arm around her shoulders. He's facing me now, and I shrink back against the banister. “I was too. But early tomorrow morning I'm going to meet with the assistant principals, and we've got some plans about how to proceed.”

“What do you mean?”

“That part is highly confidential. But the school realizes they need to do some preventive outreach. The bomb threat and the note were warnings. We've got to catch this guy, and until we do, we have to hold him off by showing him his message was heard.”

“How exactly do you plan to do that?”

“Confidential.”

“Since when has that stopped you?”

“There are ears everywhere.” He dips his head to the right, toward where I am crouched, my hair dripping down and soaking into the carpet.

Damn
. Sometimes I hate having a detective for a father.

Stranger's Manifesto

Entry 2

Every year it takes the teachers until winter break

To learn my name.

That's why I call myself
Stranger
.

I am a stranger. To everyone.

Because
no one
knows me.

Or notices me.

Because I don't act like the whiz or the dunce or the shit-talker or

the bully.

Because I listen.

Because I turn in homework.

Because I don't draw demented pictures with guns and blood.

Or carve up my arms.

Or smell like weed or cloves or spice.

Or tweak around and pick at my skin.

Or tag or bang.

So they don't see me either.

No one sees me.

The invisible dust parachute.

Just wait.

They will notice me soon.

3

First thing in the morning, the school sends an administrator to each homeroom. Mine is calculus. Goal—to calm everyone down. It does the opposite. Administrators don't come to hang out in math class unless the world is ending.

Dr. Paisley stands in front of my class and clears her throat. She wears a long braid down her back, with a loose, flowy top and peace-sign earrings. She looks like a hippie love child stuck in the wrong decade. Paisley smiles. “Okay, folks, why do you think I'm here to talk to you all?”

We all know why she's here. But there isn't anything she can say to make us forget about what happened. At least half the seats are empty today. I look around and wait for someone to answer. I feel a little nauseous.

Garth Johnson shifts his massive upper torso in his seat. He looks like the dad in
The Incredibles
—not when he's retired, but when he's in good shape. “You're here to get us to talk about what happened yesterday. Obviously.”

“You got it.” Paisley points her finger at him. She reminds me of that old-fashioned “I Want YOU for the U.S. Army” poster. “But I'm also here to talk about how to improve our school. Generally when something like this happens on a school campus, some students knew about it beforehand.”

I need water. I am definitely on my way to being sick.

This little pipsqueak kid, Simon or Steven or something, raises his hand. “You're saying there are kids on campus who knew someone was going to try to blow up the school?” He sets his pencil on his desk and it rolls toward him. The sound of the pencil against the desk is louder than I would've thought. He stops it with his hand.

“I'm saying that when experts have studied incidents of school violence across the nation, they've tried to identify patterns. Often the aggressor has told his close friends or made threats.” She lets that thought hang over us for a moment. “Unfortunately, sometimes there's a school climate that interferes with those friends coming forward and telling an administrator. We aim to fix that.”

“So you want us to rat on each other?” Garth calls out.

A bunch of kids laugh and someone mutters “Petey” in a low voice. Pete Plumber is this brilliant, socially inept kid who thinks he has to tattle about everything to make the world go round. “So-and-so's chewing gum in class,” “So-and-so's copying homework,” and yada, yada, yada. The other kids have a field day, just messing around with him. I think it's mean, but honestly, it's none of my beeswax.

“Not rat.” Paisley smooths back the loose wisps of hair around her face. “Let's use another word.”

“Snitch?”

When Paisley smiles, she pulls her lips back too far, making it seem forced. I'm close enough to see one of those clear teeth straighteners over her pearly whites. There's something creepy about adults with braces. Plus it makes her slur. “How about something with a more positive connotation? How about ‘share'?”

Exactly how long has it been since she was a teenager? Maybe she's older than she looks. That hippie thing is working for her.

“Here's the thing. If there really had been a live bomb, and if we hadn't been able to defuse it, we would've been looking at massive casualties.” Pause.

I look around for a trash can just in case breakfast decides to resurface.

“And let's say hypothetically some of you knew about this plan before it went down … Think of how you'd feel. Think of how it would be to go to one of your friends' funerals.”

We all stare.
Well, duh
. We
have
been to other students' funerals. Paisley has only been an administrator at our school for six months, so maybe she doesn't know. But freshman year Alicia Benton died of bone cancer. Sophomore year Jo Moon hanged herself on a tree. Junior year a group of kids got their hands on some bad ecstasy. One died and another fried his brain.

This year, senior year, we've been tragedy free. So far.

Paisley moves around the side of the room and we all shift in our seats. “Here's my point. We need to create a school culture in which people feel comfortable sharing their own observations with the administration. Where students can come to me and tell me their concerns with no fear of retribution from peers.”

There is a trash can by Paisley's left knee. I might puke right here in front of everyone.

Paisley fingers her peace-sign earrings. “So we'll be pulling every single student out of class for an individual interview. We'll gather data about how you all feel about this school, what you think we can do to improve the school climate, and so on. If you know anything about yesterday's incident, this will be a time when you can share. We promise to keep your comments confidential.”

Someone in the back row coughs. Loudly.

“Yeah, good luck with that,” someone else calls out.

Paisley ignores this. “I also want to commend you all for coming to school today. With all the support we have from the police at this time, school is the safest place on earth for you. Tell your friends. We'd like everyone back in their seats tomorrow.”

“Yeah, good luck with that,” I whisper under my breath.

I text Beth that evening.
FYI, Paisley says “school is the safest place on earth.”

She must have her phone in her hand, because she's quick.
No … that'd be Disneyland.

Disneyland is the happiest place.

Not for me. My happiest place is my bed.

If you'd ever had a boyfriend in your entire life, that'd sound dirty.

LOL! Your mind's in the gutter!

Proudly. Hey, you coming back tomorrow?

Dad's making me. Gotta keep my “eye on the prize.”

I'm impressed you stayed home today.

Yeah. Faked a fever.

Clever.

It's okay. School's my happy place too.

I know, you rocking genius.

Look who's talking, Miss Straight A.

That'd be sweat and tears and zero social life.

Study groups are social. There's conversation. And snacks.

Yes—but no kissable boys!

Boys are drama. No time for that. You've got too much to do.

Thanks for reminding me.

The story of my life.

Stranger's Manifesto

Entry 3

Look at me

Writing in a journal

Like I'm Anne freaking Frank.

Like what I have to say matters. Like anyone will care.

But the only reason the world

Gave a shit about Anne Frank's diary

Was because her words documented history.

Pain. Suffering. Strength.

Well, so the hell will mine.

The world just don't know it yet.

But when they do—
and they will
—

I want them to understand. Because if they don't

Then all this—that I've done

And all this—that I'm planning to do next

Will be for nothing.

This journal is my record.

When they find it—
and they will
—

They'll care what I have to say too.

What a crying shame

That they don't have the goddamn common sense

To care
now
. When it
could
make a difference.

Before the world goes to shit …

And it's too late.

4

I get my blue slip in fifth period the next day. AP government. Since blue slips have been floating around like snowflakes, no one bats an eye when I pack up my backpack and walk out of class, waving my pass in the air.

I push open the door to the front office, but it bangs against something. “Ouch!” I hear. I poke my head around and realize why I couldn't open the door. It's because the school is breaking safety code by cramming the room way over capacity. Some guy in a black cotton hoodie and purple Vans scoots over. They haven't timed these blue slips right.

I wedge my way into the waiting area. When the boy in the black hoodie tries to make more room for me, I can smell his gum. Cinnamon.

I swear it's ninety degrees in here. The air's heavy and stale.

“I think I'll just wait outside,” I say out loud, but to no one.

I back through the door. The air in the hallway feels cool in comparison. I slide down the wall to the floor. It's gonna take them hours to interview all the people they have in there. If they get to me before the end of the school day, I'll be surprised. I pull my knees to my chest and rest my head.

The door opens. Someone steps out and sits down next to me.

“You've got the right idea,” he says with a light accent. His voice is husky.

I lift my head. Black hoodie boy leans back against the stucco. “Might as well take a little siesta.” He makes a pillow out of his backpack and arranges himself against it. I can still smell the cinnamon, but now I also get a whiff of fabric softener. He crosses his arms and closes his eyes.

BOOK: Are You Still There
12.72Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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