Simone

In the past few months, the only time I’ve truly valued my existence was last week, when an assistant principal, maybe for the first time in his short career of bureaucracy, was made to feel useful by calling for a lockdown. He screamed, “Active shooter!” three times in a row, inciting a messy and uncoordinated visceral reaction on my part. I threw desks and chairs out of my way and in front of my friends to squeeze my lumpy body into a corner, where I hid, shaking for the next two minutes. (Two minutes doesn’t seem like a long time, but it feels like an eternity when you’re using it to listen for bloodcurdling screams and gunshots.)

I sat there shaking, beginning to accept the fact that I’d die in the classroom of a teacher who didn’t think I was very smart. I came to terms with my crippling non-athleticism, which would prevent me from some tactful maneuver to save my life. The shooter would shoot the handle off our measly locked classroom, and I would remain still and frozen, just like all those nightmares. Of course, this was if the active shooter cared enough to enter my classroom. If he didn’t, I’d be forced to live with the memories of that fateful day, having lost friends and acquaintances, but not deemed to have suffered enough to be burdened. Years later, grand nephews and cousins twice removed would mention my encounter in their high school history class debates on gun control. And yes, those debates will still be being had—even if I were to die or suffer, no legislator would change a thing about guns.

But it wasn’t real. And 10 minutes later, called to rest over the loudspeaker, the class erupts in laughter. My face was so funny, they say. I threw a desk at someone. The girl next to me could feel me shaking.

I giggle with them. If I’d seen me, I’d be laughing too. But mostly, because I’m happy. I’m happy because I cared. I didn’t think I cared anymore. ♦