When I said I wanted to start my senior year with a bang, I didn’t mean the kind that would send all three schools on the block into lockdown. I didn’t mean the kind that would leave one 15-year-old boy dead and another shot in the leg. But that’s what I got.

It was the end of the second day of school. I trudged upstairs to Calculus, wondering how I’d been at this school for three years and the stairs had yet to become any easier. My mind was swirling with the unnerving prospect of applying to college while the teachers in the district protested: they wouldn’t write recommendation letters unless they got paid for their time. Naturally, that news caused seniors like me to panic, and the oh-so-familiar angst was setting in. I sighed. The top of those stairs was still so far away….

But the sound of running footsteps on tiles overhead caught my attention. The heavy, sharp way they fell told me it wasn’t a freshman who thought he was late to class, as much as I wanted to dismiss it as such. The burning in my legs subsided as I quickly forgot my woes and scurried up the remaining stairs.

As I whisked into the math department, I glanced around for hints as to what felt so eerie. They were not hard to find. All around me, teachers’ arms shot into the hallway, snatched the doors, and slammed them. One teacher caught my eye and warned, “Get to class. NOW!”

She needn’t have bothered, though—I was already running. Into room 355 I skidded, and as I did, my teacher killed the lights and threw the heavy wooden door shut behind me.

Everyone was already at the front of the classroom, all hugging their knees and sitting under the enormous desk. For some reason, I thought of the way I sometimes squeeze letters together so the whole word fits onto the end of a page. It looked sloppy. Unnatural.
Unplanned and unexpected.

I hurled my backpack at my desk and immediately regretted it; my phone and water were inside. I didn’t have to hear the announcement coming over the loudspeaker; I knew by now. I wouldn’t be allowed to get up from under the desk to retrieve my backpack. This was real.

It was then that our teacher sat down with us and explained. There was only one shot. Out on the sidewalk in front of school. They don’t know where the shooter is. Gang-related. Just one target. We’re on lockdown as a precaution. But it didn’t make us feel better to hear siren after siren whining past the windows. And it really didn’t make us feel better when the picture started circulating on Snapchat: a boy sprawled on the cement. There were streaks of red, like angry tear tracks, on the sign behind him: PROVIDENCE CAREER AND TECHNICAL ACADEMY. There were whispers: they shot the wrong kid. This one’s just some sophomore. Wrong place, wrong time. I grimaced and pushed the cell phone away.

I stared at the floor for a long time after that. It had been sweltering in school all day, but I don’t remember feeling warm at all. My eyes focused on the same spot on the floor the whole time, but I don’t remember what I saw. Knowing we were in no immediate danger, I didn’t feel afraid. I felt empty. Though my classmates’ warm sides pressed beside me, I just felt completely alone. There was nothing to do for a long time.

In the end, we all had to leave the school through the door farthest from the scene. I texted my parents to tell them I was okay and checked in on my little brother, who was a freshman. This was his second day of high school. Sports were canceled; everyone was sent home. I got caught up in a stream of students, all headed for the bus, as I searched for my friends.

“It’s happened to us too now.” I overheard a girl murmur to her friend as I brushed by.

It has happened to us too. After all that, we had merely joined
the ranks.