WARNINGS: school shooting, violence

"The final portrait is often furthest from the truth."- Dave Cullen, Columbine


April 20, 1999

I was using my fork to push all of my scrambled eggs to one side of my plate, pondering the uselessness of AP physics, when my mom burst into the kitchen, work bag in hand, blue scrubs on, white shoes on her feet.

"Mija, eat up. You're already late. You cannot be late for the exam!" She talked while she hurried around the small kitchen, exasperated and frustrated, turning on the water in the sink to soak the pan she had used to make my eggs. Leaving the water on, she hurried from there to the coffee maker, bringing the full mug to her lips and cursing when the hot liquid burnt her tongue. It happened every single morning, and I could not understand why she didn't wait to drink her coffee so it didn't burn her mouth. I shook my head at my eggs.

"Mom, I'm not hungry. I don't feel well." The excuse slipped from my tongue without thought. "I don't think I should go to school today." It was easy for me to tell lies, easy to get what I wanted. Getting what I wanted was easy when it came to everyone except for my mom.

"Santana, don't try to trick me. You look fine," she countered, her tone lightening, becoming sympathetic. She slowed down to turn off the water running in the sink and placed her coffee on the counter, smiling at me lovingly. I looked away, uncomfortable under her gaze.

I sighed. "I just really don't want to take this test, mama."

She smiled weakly, knowing. "I know, Santana. But you've been studying for over a week for this exam, I know you're ready."

My bare feet found the creaking wood floor below me as I ignored her and carried my plate of uneaten eggs to the trash can, scraping them off with my fork and leaving the dish in the sink. I leaned against the counter and my mom approached me, looking up at me from a shorter height, and straightened my short-sleeved blouse.

"You are beautiful," she complimented. "So grown up."

"Yeah, well, being a beautiful grown-up won't help me pass my physics exam. Which I," I glanced at the clock, "will most definitely be late for if we don't leave soon."

Reproach colored her face, settling in the stress lines on her forehead and at the creases of her eyes. She was offended. She turned away from me, grabbing the coffee and the briefcase simultaneously and plucking her keys from the dish by the side door, mumbling in Spanish about my poor behavior. I grabbed my own bag and followed her out to the driveway and got into the Honda. When my behavior had become so uncharacteristic that it required explanation, I had passed it off as exhaustion, which was a part of it, but I had been feeling more distant from everyone lately; I had been working myself to the bone all year to pull good grades in AP classes to improve my GPA and have a shot at a good college. In the process I had blown off movie nights with friends, dinner dates with boys, and heart-to-hearts with my mom to lock myself in my bedroom room to study for hours. My grades reflected the hard work, and I was satisfied with them, but I was soon realizing that my efforts had caused my relationships with my mom and my friends to deteriorate.

Guilt had been a visitor that I was becoming more accustomed to feeling the burden of. I knew I was all my mom had; my dad was out of the picture, leaving before I had been born. I had no idea what he looked like, and I didn't care to know. I knew he broke my mama's heart, and for that, he didn't deserve a place in my life. I didn't need him. The school year was over in a little over a month. Today was my last physics test before finals, and my grade in the class depended on it more than it should have. But I knew that once the school year was completed, I would have the entire summer to spend with my mom looking at colleges and repairing our relationship. I was looking forward to the break.

My mom had been driving me to school since high school started. As a freshman I had begged my mom not to make me take the bus, explaining that it was so terribly dorky to ride the bus to school when we only lived five minutes away. She had grudgingly obliged, driving me to school in our dated Honda. Five mornings a week we drove through the Denver suburb, and she dropped me off at the front doors before driving to the city to the hospital, where she worked as a nurse. This particular morning I leaned on the window, watching the sun begin to streak the sky with tints of yellow and pink.

Because of my general lack of enthusiasm in the morning, our car rides were usually silent. Today, the silence was deliberate, on her part. Feeling guilty, I picked at my newly manicured nails, earning a look from my mom. I stopped, sighed, and let my hands fall into my lap. I asked her meaningless questions about work and she gave short, distracted answers. Annoyed with myself for making her angry with me, I tapped my fingers on my legs. She pulled into the front of the school, which was already teeming with students. Seniors pulled into the parking spots closest to the school, and juniors walked from the further lot, cradling cups of coffee and juggling heavy backpacks. Underclassmen hurried off of the buses when they arrived, ducking into the school and desperate to be ignored.

I leaned over the center console and grabbed my backpack from the back seat by one strap, slinging it into my lap. Gripping the car door handle, I twisted in my seat to peck my mother on the cheek. She mustered a sad smile, touching my arm as I got out of the car, my backpack slung over one of my shoulders. I stepped onto the curb and moved to shut the car door, but I stopped, suddenly, and ducked back inside of the car.

My mother watched me wearily, but with curiosity evident in her features.

"Hey mom?"

"Yes, Santana?"

"I love you, you know that?" I shifted the weight of the bag on my shoulder, supporting it with my back. I waited for her response, feeling as though I needed her forgiveness. Distractions would not help me on my test.

"Yes, mija. I love you too," she smiled, this time a real Lopez smile. "Now go ace that test."

I smiled back at her, removing myself from the car a second time and pushing the door closed. The day was warmer than usual for April, and the long Colorado winter was finally transitioning into a mild spring. I welcomed the change, having grown tired of sweaters and winter coats and boots.

I pushed through the hordes of students congesting the hallway and made my way to my locker, where I exchanged a few textbooks and dropped off my lunch. Cheerleaders in blue and silver uniforms brushed my shoulders as they passed, some of them stopping to survey my outfit, most of their looks disapproving. I ignored them. Some of the girls had the new colored Nokias pressed to their ears, giggling at their conversations. Jocks walked past the cheerleaders, turning around to stare at their asses in the too-short skirts they wore daily. The particular pair of meatheads I was observing high-fived before one flicked the brim of white hat resting backwards on his friend's head with a too-loud laugh. The hat fell onto the tiled floor, and the boy picked it up and whipped his friend with it. The hats were ubiquitous, a mark of a true jock. I didn't bother to hide my disgust.

I didn't have a cell phone, only the upper echelon of the community had those, and they flaunted them. My mom had only invested in one when I started high school, needing one to contact me at home if she needed to stay late at work, which was becoming more and more often. She worked overtime constantly, struggling to support us and continue to pay the rent each month on our apartment. I had my own key to the place, and I took the bus home, much to my chagrin. Yes, I was a latchkey kid. Being alone wasn't a problem for me, though.

By 7:30 I was in homeroom, standing to recite the Pledge of Allegiance, after which attendance was taken. I didn't pay much attention to the morning announcements; I was poring over my physics textbook, memorizing photoelectric formulas and modes of radioactive decay. The information was ingrained in my memory, but I still felt better looking over the chapter in my book. I found comfort in knowledge; it was a form of mental protection for me. Being smart made me feel safe, even if striving to know everything had made me somewhat unapproachable. I felt successful and untouchable. Academics were the primary focus in my life.

The other students in my homeroom had far passed the stage of caring about schoolwork; summer was approaching, and that was all that mattered to them. It was a feeling unfamiliar to me. The school year lasted for 180 days, couldn't they relax when those days ended? I wasn't complaining, however; it meant less competition for me when we began to apply for college. That was all I really cared about at the moment. Being at the top. I wasn't the top of our class, but I busted my ass and I was in position to get there senior year.

A few cheerleaders in my homeroom sat in the back of the classroom, flirting with the jocks as they threw pieces of chalk at the blackboard. The teacher graded papers, taking no notice of them. Some of the other members of my homeroom ignored them like I did, but some watched wistfully, both boys and girls alike, wanting to participate, to wear a skirt or a white hat. It was sad, how they idolized these self-proclaimed "popular" kids. It only fueled their distorted confidence. Low chatter about an upcoming baseball game against Chatfield and the sounds of giggling floated from the back of the room towards my seat against the windows. I blocked it all out, trying to make it through homeroom without having a nervous breakdown about my physics test. I cracked my knuckles on my desk.

When the bell rang, I nearly jumped out of my seat, knocking loose papers from my notebook onto the floor. One of the jocks walked past my desk and kicked the papers, his Nike Airs squeaking against the linoleum.

"Spaz," he whispered, walking out the door with a snickering cheerleader on his arm. I knelt down to pick up the papers quickly, not wanting to be late for physics and not wanting to be seen by any of my homeroom teacher's first period students. Pissing my mom off and getting picked on had not made for a good start to my day, and my confidence wavered.

I tucked the physics book under my arm and walked out of the room quickly, not wanting another encounter with the pompous asses in white hats. Down the hallway I went, weaving between towering football players and heavy backpacks and mostly staring at my plain shoes. I ducked into the room I took physics in, smiling at the teacher who stood in the front of the room, shuffling tests. He smiled back as I walked to my seat in the back of the room, placing my bag on the floor next to me. Knowing that he would distribute the tests at the bell, I replaced the textbook in my bag and took out a pencil, a pen, and my pink eraser. I folded my hands in my lap while the room slowly filled with juniors, some yawning and nonplussed about the test, others frantically studying notes from the past few weeks. Those that were nonplussed about the test were either prepared or just didn't care; I assumed that the majority were the latter. I, however, was as cool as a cucumber as the girl first in my row took one from the stack of four and passed them back while the bell rang. I took my test and passed the last one to the guy behind me. I set the packet in front of me.

I filled in my name and the date in tiny, neat print. A girl to my left tapped my arm, and I started, turning to widen my eyes at her. She leaned back, alarmed.

"Chill, I just need the date. Do you know it?" She spoke quietly, not wanting to interrupt anyone or be accused of cheating.

"Uh, the twentieth," I stuttered. "Of April." Blushing, I returned to the test and began to work. She shook her head at my glaring unsociability, filling in the date on her own test.

The multiple choice was easy. I filled in the bubbles quickly and wrote my essays neatly and with as much information as I knew. My pen was slippery with sweat from my hands when I finished the last essay. The muscles in my hand felt cramped. I looked around the room, finding that no one had even started the final essay. I checked my answers once, doing a quick check that I had completed the test before walking to the front of the room to drop the papers on the front table. The teacher smiled at me again, silently commending my speed in finishing. He was a favorite teacher of mine, even though we had a virtually silent relationship that consisted purely of awkward smiling.

I cracked my knuckles, relieving the pain in my left hand. Having nothing to do for the remaining seven minutes of the period, I studied my nails and looked out of the window at the parking lot. The bell rang, and this time I was sure not to drop anything on the floor. I grabbed my bag from the floor and left class feeling extremely confident about my performance on the test.

I set my shoulders and walked to calculus. After calculus was English, and then Spanish, and then geography, where Mrs. Hagberg reviewed the research paper that would make up a large percentage of our final grade. The paper had been blown off in preparation for my physics test. Researching the breakup of Yugoslavia was making its way into the forefront of my priorities, and I was thankful when the old hag gave us the rest of the period to research in the library. We made the trek as a class up the stairs by the cafeteria, stopping outside of the library for Mrs. Hagberg to silence our chatter with a single finger to her thin, dry lips. I rolled my eyes. We entered the musty upstairs room and I crossed the gray carpet to the reference section, immediately locating the section on Yugoslavia. It was limited, but I got there first and took the books that looked the most promising, wrapping my hands around the spines of two nondescript hardbacks. Other students milled around the library, some researching their essay topics on the bank of computers, others searching in the reference section near me.

Crossing the library, I placed the books on the checkout desk and fished my ID out of my bag. I showed the librarian, and she typed my name in on the computer and scanned both of the books. She dismissed me with a curt "have a nice day," at which I nodded and turned to find an empty table. With ten minutes remaining before the bell rang for first lunch, I pulled my geography notebook out of my bag and opened it on the table in front of me. I opened the book to the facts page and created a bulleted list of demographics, physical geography, and culture. The bell rang before I had completed an entire page of notes, and the entire class fled from the library quickly, leaving a few stragglers, including me, behind. While I did have first lunch, I figured that missing it wouldn't kill me, and finishing it would give me more time that week to read and hang out with my mom. It wasn't like I had any friends wanting me at lunch anyway.

I continued to transpose the information from the book into my notebook, but I was quickly realizing that a comprehensive paper on Yugoslavia would involve some research on more recent current events. Sighing, I lifted myself out of the cushioned chair, leaving my bag unattended next to the chair, my notebook open on the table. The carpet absorbed the noise of my footsteps as I weaved between the mostly empty tables back to the reference section, where I knelt in front of the bookshelf and ran my fingertips along the spines of the books, looking for a more recently written one. My eyes scanned the shelves.

Though the carpet absorbed most noise, I felt footsteps near me, and I turned to find a cheerleader behind me, looking terribly out of place in her blue and silver uniform. My eyes found her long, toned legs first, and they ran from there up to her face, which was framed by a high, blonde ponytail, perfectly curled and bouncing behind her. Her forehead was wrinkled in confusion, almost like she was just as unsure as to how she had gotten to the reference section as I was. The row of shelves was otherwise deserted, and figuring I would leave the blonde to her own devices, I hastily found a book and stood in front of her, preparing to make my exit. I couldn't risk confrontation.

As I skirted around her, avoiding interaction, a long, pale arm reached out and tapped the soft skin in the crook of my elbow, and I whirled around to face her, immediately defensive; I took a step back from her and stumbled into one of the shelves, luckily not knocking any books to the floor. She didn't seem to take notice of my alarm. I waited for her to criticize me.

"Hey, I'm really sorry to bother you, but I'm looking for this book… and I can't find it," she said, looking into my eyes. Hers were blue, and they were beautiful. I recognized her, but only vaguely. I was sure she had to be a senior. I had never had a class with her.

I stumbled over my response. "There are computers for you to look that up, you know," I said quickly, hoping to end our conversation as quickly as possible. She toed the ground, biting her lower lip. I blinked, watching her motions, trying to figure out her motives.

"I don't know how to use the computers," she admitted. Blush colored her pale cheeks. I stifled a groan, and brushed some of my hair from my forehead, suddenly conscious of its placement. Dumb blonde jokes flooded my brain. I decided in a moment of genuine kindness to help her find the stupid book so she would leave me alone and I could finish my research before my lunch period ended.

I already had a preconceived disposition about cheerleaders, and she seemed to pick up on my annoyance with her.

"If you want, I could just ask someone else, it's no big deal," she tried, her posture tensing up as she prepared to walk away.

"No, no, it's fine," I sighed, running a hand through my thick hair.

Be cool. Just be cool.

"What's the book?"

She held a small piece of paper in her hand, a yellow post-it. Squinting, she read from it. "It's called Where the Wild Things Are, by Maurice Sendak."

She struggled over the pronunciation of the author's last name. I was familiar with the children's book; my mother had read it to me when I still needed someone to tuck me in at night. It was completely lost on me as to why this dimwit cheerleader would be looking for a classic children's book in our high school library.

"Why do you need that book?" I asked curiously. I suddenly regretted asking, I knew she would find it weird that I cared enough to know.

She blushed again, unable to meet my eyes. "It's for my sister. She's six. They read it at her school, and she asked me if I could read it to her. I thought they might have it here, since this is where books are, you know," she rambled, trying to justify her reasons for looking for the book.

I raised an eyebrow, a small smile growing on my face. "I don't think they have that book here. This is a high school library, it doesn't really have a children's section."

She sighed, clearly disappointed. "Oh. Thanks anyway."

She turned on her white-sneakered heel to walk out of the library, but this time I stopped her, touching her arm, feeling bold on my home turf that was the library. The cheerleader turned to face me, and she smiled. It was my turn to blush and look away.

"You know, though, they probably have it at the public library," I said.

She frowned. "I don't have a library card. This is the first time I've been in this library this year by choice, why would I go to a public library?"

I laughed, and it echoed off of the shelves. The few patrons of the library craned their necks to peer at me around the shelves, and I blushed deeply, lowering my voice. The girl was smiling too, amused that I found her so funny. She was proud.

"I thought you looked out of place," I managed through a giggle.

This time she laughed, holding a hand over her mouth to silence it. We both smiled at each other.

She stood on her tiptoes to peer at the clock over the lower shelving in front of the reference section. It was almost 11:20.

"Well I have lunch right now, so I should go eat. It was nice to meet you…" she paused, waiting for me to fill in the blank.

"Oh, uh, Santana. I'm Santana," I supplied.

She repeated my name, and it rolled off of her tongue effortlessly. "Nice to meet you, Santana. I'm Brittany."

She stuck out her hand, and I took it, smiling at her ridiculous chivalry. I mean, who shakes hands in high school?

My fingers slid past hers, and her hand was pleasantly warm. We had maintained eye contact for a little over two seconds when I heard a pop, followed by another two pops in rapid succession. Startled, my hand slipped from hers, and I gripped my book tight in my left hand. I looked at Brittany.

"What was that?"

"I have no idea," she replied, backtracking a few steps to the end of the row, where she looked out of the windows, which were a few rows down.

"I can't see anything, but I thought it came from over there."

I nodded, agreeing with her. The other students in the library looked at each other, also curious about the odd popping noises. We both made our way to the other end of the row, back to the work tables, where students had stopped reading and writing to look around.

"Aren't they doing construction on the roof today?" she asked, glancing once again out of the library window.

"They might be, I'm not sure," I answered, just as puzzled by the pops that were still sounding through the hallways.

The floor below us began to buzz, and a stampede of students began moving in the cafeteria below, noisily making their way out of the lunchroom. Confused, I looked at the clock again. It was only 11:20; lunch wouldn't end for another twenty minutes.

I turned to look at Brittany, starting to ask her, as if she would know.

"Brittany, what-" but I was interrupted by a teacher running through the library doors, eyes wide and frantic, hair tangled. She had specks of red on her white shirt. I was beginning to full on panic as more pops began sounding from downstairs. Brittany and I spun around, bewildered. We glanced at each other momentarily.

She grabbed the phone on the main desk, punching the keypad three times. Even the biggest idiot would know what number she had just dialed. She covered the mouthpiece with her hand and addressed everyone in the library.

"Everybody get under the tables! There's a kid out there with a gun!"

Too shocked to move, I looked at Brittany, who was looking at the teacher, shocked.

"I said, everybody get under the tables! Right now!"

The occupants of the library began to move slowly, tossing bags aside to move underneath the tables. I moved before Brittany did, subconsciously sticking my left hand behind me, my pinky extended. She wrapped her own pinky around it, letting me tug her to the nearest table. Forgotten, my book on Yugoslavia dropped to the floor with a muffled thump. Papers rustled as other kids pushed chairs out from the desks to crawl under them. I got to my knees and yanked my pinky from Brittany's, grabbing the chair in front of me with both hands, creating space under the table for both of us. I crawled under first, reaching out to pull her under behind me. I scooted against the board supporting the one side of the table, pulling my knees to my chest. I gestured for Brittany to crawl under the table next to me, which she did, mimicking my body position. Fear was evident in her blue eyes, which had darkened in the shadow of the table. I reached out for her hand, clutching it with my own, scared shitless. She held it, squeezing back, her knuckles paling against her already white skin. With my other hand I gripped a leg of the chair I had just moved and pulled it in so the front of it dug into my side, hoping to give the illusion that the underside of the table was unoccupied. I looked around to find that only one of the other tables nearest to us was occupied by a single boy. We made eye contact, and he looked just as scared as Brittany, whose death grip on my hand had not faltered.

"Santana, what's going on?" she whispered, biting her lower lip. "Why do we have to do this? What's wrong?"

"I think somebody is shooting up the school," I spoke, my voice trembling. Panic was settling in my stomach. "It's going to be okay, though. It'll be over soon and it'll be normal. It's probably just a prank, right?"

She nodded, believing me. I hoped I was right, for both of our sakes. We both sat silently, our hands sweating together, the only sound in the library being the sound of the teacher speaking into the phone. She was speaking quickly, panicked, just like us.

"Yes, I am a teacher at Columbine High School, there is a student here with a gun, he has shot out a window, I believe one student," she relayed into the phone, her voice steady, but faltering into a succession of "um's."

A student? It was a kid? It was real? I glanced at Brittany. She had her eyes squeezed shut and her head on her knees. Her ponytail hung over her shoulder. I had no idea if she was listening to the conversation the woman was having on the phone.

"I don't know what's in my shoulder," she spoke, becoming less and less collected by the second, "if it was just some glass that went through it." Her voice hitched.

Bile rose in my throat. Had she been shot?

What the hell is going on?

A burst of volume came from the teacher, suddenly. "I am, yes! I don't know who the student is."

I stopped listening, breathing hard under the table. My other hand found Brittany's shoulder, and I found myself parting her legs to pull her to me, needing someone to hold onto. Even this cheerleader who was a complete stranger to me was a someone, and I clung desperately to her. The gesture didn't seem unusual to me, given the circumstances. My hand separated her bare knees and my fingers squeezed her smooth calves, pulling her legs around my closed ones. She looked up at me as I pulled her to me and wrapped my arms around the starchy material of her uniform. Tears were spilling onto her cheeks. Tears began to prickle at my own eyes, and my vision blurred. Brittany's own arms wrapped around my waist, and I knew the position couldn't be comfortable for either of us. My back ached against the table. Brittany was breathing hard too, each breath thick with quiet sobs.

I rubbed her back with my hand, trying to comfort her. I didn't question the way we held each other; I just knew that it felt safe.

"Shh, Brittany, honey, it's okay," I soothed, and I thought of my mom. The tears began to run down my cheeks, and my heart was beating faster than it ever had. Brittany's body was burning against mine, and I thought of the silver cross that was hanging around my neck on a simple chain. I rarely thought of God, or anything, really religious, and wearing the cross had just been something I had done since I was a child; it was something that pleased my mother. We rarely went to church together anymore, usually spending our Sunday breakfasts in silence. Mama read the paper. I studied. It was easy, and it worked. But she was a devout Catholic, and at least once a month she would slip out of the house to confession or mass. I often felt guilty for not going to confession, or to Sunday mass, but it was hardly a priority. That had been another point of separation in my mother's and my relationship, but it was hardly one we spoke of. On the nights we ate dinner together, we said a simple grace that I had known from memory since the young age of four.

My science-minded brain was stubborn to accepting the fundamentals of the religion as I aged; the presence of a God, of heaven, of hell, it all seemed impossible. Now that I was consciously thinking about religion, about heaven and dying, the silver of the cross felt like fire, branding guilt into my chest where it rested. It was karma, out to get me. I would be killed and I wouldn't be able to go to heaven because I had ignored my mother and my religion and my life in general for so long. I was doomed.

More pops reached our ears, closer to the library. Brittany and I both jumped, and she let out a loud sob.

"Brittany, you have to be quiet. Please," I begged in a whisper, knowing that we couldn't draw attention to ourselves. It could be the difference between life and death, of heaven and hell, at least for me. She nodded, leaning her head on my knees. I rested my chin on the top of her head. I could smell her shampoo. The scent was something normal, unfamiliar as it was, and it kept me grounded. Tears continued to wet my cheeks.

Smoke began to fill up the library; it was low to the ground, and it was thick. I coughed into the crook of my arm as the fire alarms went off, and I thought that at least the fire department would come get us. If they didn't, we were going to be shot or burned alive.

Footsteps pounded in the outside hallway, stopping close to the library doors.

"Oh my God," I whispered. "Oh my God, not like this."

Brittany continued crying, soaking the knees of my jeans with her tears, and I worried for a second that I had scared her, but I knew I couldn't be the scariest one in that building right then.

The wooden doors to the library burst open with a bang, hitting the walls, and the person to whom the footsteps belonged stepped into the library, obscured by our limited visibility from under the table. Brittany started, her head jerking up from my knees and banging my chin. I saw the sob bubbling from her lips and clamped my hand over her mouth, silencing it. I could feel her tears run over my fingers. Her lips pressed into my palm, and she breathed hot against my skin. She looked into my eyes, and I into hers. I put a finger to my lips, looking sideways at the gray carpet, waiting.

And then a voice broke across the silence of the library.

"Get up!"

And then another voice, also male.

"Everybody with white hats, stand up!"

I didn't recognize the voice, but I knew what he was talking about. The jocks. I didn't hate them that much, but apparently this horrible person did. This couldn't be happening. My teeth were buzzing and my head was numb.

This isn't real.

He wasn't finished yelling.

"This is for all the shit you've given us for the past four years! All the jocks get up! We'll get the guys in white hats!"

I listened for movement in the library, but heard nothing, only Brittany's muffled wet breaths into my hand. No one was standing. I didn't blame them. Smoke hung around the room, lowering my visibility. I could no longer see the boy under the table nearest to ours. The smoke had become too thick.

Now there were two shooters, not just one, as the teacher had told the 911 operator, and the identity that belonged to their angry shouts was lost on me. Recognition didn't even flicker across Brittany's face, and I realized that neither of us knew them. If it came down to it, it was likely they wouldn't spare us. They had no idea who we were, and the same went for us. And worse, Brittany was wearing a cheerleading uniform. That fact quickly became more apparent in my mind, and I realized that Brittany was technically a jock as well. I hoped to God that she didn't bully people as a pastime.

Briefly, I wondered if sharing a table with her had been a bad idea, but when her hands tightened around my waist, like she knew what I was thinking, the thought dissipated. She was keeping me safe, not putting me in danger. The room waited, breathing in the smoke of the unseen fire.

Then the voice was back. "Fine, I'll start shooting anyway!"

Oh my God.

Brittany was full on sobbing into my hand, and I was finding it difficult to keep my own sobs at bay while silencing hers. Shots rang through the library. Wood splintered and the sound was deafening. I squeezed my head between my shoulders, trying to cover my ears without removing my hand from Brittany's mouth. Brittany's long legs were tense around my own, her too-short skirt forgotten and pushed to her hips by my own legs. This situation didn't call for modesty, and I was hardly paying attention.

There was movement again, and just like when I felt Brittany behind me in the reference section, I felt the vibration of feet pounding across the library, shooting all the way, and laughing.

Fuck, they think this is fucking funny.

They shot at the windows, which shattered, panes of glass crashing to carpet. More distant shattering could be heard, and I assumed that pieces of the window had fallen to the ground below. I hoped to God that someone saw the glass and ran up to get us, to protect us. I held Brittany tighter, my hand still pressed to her lips. Her eyes were squeezed shut. We hid there together, under the table in the library. For someone that wasn't particularly religious in my daily life, I found myself praying and hoping to whatever deity actually existed. Whatever being was up there, I figured that there wouldn't be a better time in my life to start believing in it.

There were voices towards the front of the library, and more shots. These shots never hit the carpet. Brittany moaned, her hair plastered to her forehead with sweat. I frantically shushed her, putting a finger to my lips again.

Somewhere behind us, there were two loud slaps, and I assumed someone was hitting a table with their hand. Then a male voice spoke, quietly, maniacally.

"Peek-a-boo."

A shot. The splatters against the table were too much for me, and my stomach leapt into my throat. I was vaguely aware of the nausea that had taken over my senses. I dry heaved and gagged. My throat and eyes burned from the haze of smoke.

He was talking to someone, but I couldn't make out the words. My ears were ringing from the shots that were fired behind us, and my brain was numb. I finally removed my hand from Brittany's mouth, trusting her to be quiet, and I pressed my forehead to hers and breathed loudly through my nose. Her blue eyes found mine.

There was some more shouting, and the two were saying something about "blowing the whole school up."

I was slowly becoming more certain that these minutes I was spending with Brittany the cheerleader under the table in the library would be my last.

It didn't matter what I had gotten on my physics test. I wasn't going to college. Or getting married, or having kids, or ever seeing my mom again.

They were still laughing, firing shots left and right. Some of the bullets hit their mark, some didn't. It sounded like the shooters were moving chairs out of the way and shooting under the tables. I knew that they would find us soon; there was no way that the underside of the tables was dark enough to camouflage us. We couldn't hide. It was only a matter of time before they killed us. The footsteps came closer, and closer still, and then there were black combat boots in front of the table. I squeezed my eyes shut tight and leaned on Brittany, waiting for the face, or the shot. It never came. I tentatively opened my eyes, waiting for his face to appear, but he had gone. The boots were gone. He had passed us. I cried in relief, but I knew not to feel saved. I knew they could come back.

Each minute was an eternity, and each second a lifetime. My breaths were numbered. I cried. Explosions rocked the room, making the floors vibrate. It appeared as though they had explosives, too. Bombs. They would bomb us and kill us all.

Blow up the school.

Why didn't I just fucking go to lunch? Why was I in the library today, of all days?

And Brittany, scared shitless in her cheerleading uniform, picked today to go to the library, which didn't even have the book she was looking for.

It was sick and twisted. It was fate.

Probably karma, I thought.

They weren't stopping, and shots continued to ring through the library, accompanied by moans of pain. My lower lip trembled. I dug my nails into Brittany's back, and she returned the favor. I welcomed the sharp pains. They gave me something to focus on, to be distracted by. The fire alarms were still blaring, but I had tuned them out.

They were in a different section of the library now; fiction, I believed, and one of the murderers was having a conversation with someone. And then that someone was out from under the table, standing, running. The library doors opened, and their footsteps thudded against the hallway before the doors to the library closed.

These footsteps were not the combat boot footsteps of the shooters.

Did they let someone go?

There was more movement and more shots, and the thought was extinguished by the blinding fear that gripped me as tightly as Brittany did. Glass continued to shatter while they shot and explosions came from the exit. The minutes stretched on, and the shots subsided and there were only loud crashes, as if they were jumping on the tables or throwing things. Then it was silent. Eerily silent except for the ringing of my ears, and I assumed the fire alarm was still screeching, but I couldn't hear it. Brittany breathed into my ear, warm and uneven. Tear tracks were beginning to dry on both of our cheeks. Around us, people cried and moaned, in pain on the library floor.

Were they gone? I had no idea. They could be waiting for us all to stand up from under the desks so they could kill us. We didn't move for a while, and just sat there holding each other. Brittany was shaking.

Before long we were hearing shots below us, and I looked into Brittany's eyes, asking her if she thought we could make it out of the building, but not speaking. She shrugged, knowing what I was thinking. We could wait it out. They could come back. Endless possibilities flew through my addled mind, each striking new fears in my stomach. I thumbed the cross hanging from my neck, stunned and paralyzed. Unable to bring myself to leave the fleeting safety we had been presented with.

Suddenly there were footsteps, and then there was someone else on the floor with us, crouching behind the chairs that surrounded us, but the person hadn't sounded like the combat boot shooters. This person was wearing Nikes and jeans. He was huge, crouched there next to us, and I cowered into Brittany. He was quick to make his identity known.

"Hey, I'm not going to hurt you, it's okay," he whispered, pulling the chair out that was on my left. He poked his head in, and his forehead was sweaty. "I'm Finn Hudson, I'm a senior."

He stuck out his hand, offering it to me. It was the second time that day I had shaken someone's hand. I removed mine from around Brittany's and offered it to him. He took it, his meaty fingers dwarfing my smaller ones. His palm was also sweaty. I recognized him from the hallways.

"Santana," I answered. "Junior."

He nodded, glossing over courtesies. "We all need to get out of here. There are some people that are injured that I'm going to try to carry out. I need you two," he glanced at Brittany, "to get out from under this table and get out of the school. There are ambulances and police and people that will help you in the parking lot, I can see them out of the window. You will be safe."

I eyed him skeptically, looking him up and down. He had blood streaked down the front of his shirt, and it didn't appear to be his own. His jeans and his white sneakers were stained with spatters of red. Underneath his ruined gray shirt was a lump of something, something stuffed in his waistband. I pointed to it, scared, horribly gruesome thoughts plaguing my dizzied brain.

"What is that?" I asked him.

He looked down at himself and lifted the shirt, revealing a white hat. It was stuffed in his waistband. Right then, I knew I could trust him. He looked at me sadly.

"I knew I had to hide it," he whispered. "I couldn't… I couldn't let them…"

His voice trailed off, and he seemed to be at a loss for words. I didn't know what to say, either.

"Okay. I got it," I nodded, at a loss for words. "Which door should we use?"

He smiled at me, a small, scared smile, but it was warm nonetheless. I was listening to him. He reached for my hand again, and I took it, and he pulled me out from under the table easily. I stood up on shaky legs and began to turn my head to survey the damage done to the library, but one of Finn's massive hands found my cheek, blocking me. He forced me to look into his eyes.

"What the-" I swatted his hand away, rubbing my cheek where it had been.

"Don't look. Please don't look." He shook his head, dropping the hand to his side.

I followed his advice, tunneling my vision to the floor below, where Brittany was crawling out from under the table. She reached for me, and I grasped her hand with one of mine and wrapped my other around her forearm and pulled her to her feet. She dusted off her skirt, making eye contact with Finn. It appeared as though they knew each other. They nodded at one another, and Brittany had not let go of my hand.

Finn looked to his left, looking for others to help. He flinched, and I restrained from following his gaze, trying not to look. I faced Brittany, taking both of her hands and forcing her blue eyes to look into mine.

"Brittany," I said, "do not look anywhere in this building other than at me. Okay? Don't look." My voice shook, still disbelieving, still scared.

She nodded. Her eyes were wide in shock, like a deer in headlights. Finn started to weave through the shelves in the library, kneeling down at another table. Other people moved elsewhere in the library, standing from under tables. I looked at the ceiling while I followed the small crowd of people towards the library exit, forcing myself not to look down at the carnage I was sure covered the floor. The carpet felt soggy under my feet, and I ignored the nausea that erupted for the second time that day. Brittany trailed behind me, our fingers wound tightly together. I knew her eyes were trained on my back; I could feel them. Despite the impending danger that the shooters presented while they still roamed throughout the building, we all moved slowly through the double doors. It was only when the carpet transitioned to the familiar hallway linoleum that I began to speed up. Survival was so close. I couldn't slow down until I got there. I tugged Brittany's hand, and she seemed to understand, lengthening her strides to match my pace. The alarms kept shrieking.

I was first to the emergency exit, thrusting the door open with a push of my shoulder. We broke into the light on the west side of the school, other students stumbling out behind us. I squinted in the harsh sunlight; it was vastly different from the previous unknown amount of time I had spent under a table in the fluorescent-lit smoke-filled library. There was a squad of black-clad men in various positions of attack in front of us; each had a gun cocked and loaded, pointed at me, and then Brittany, whose hand I dropped. Having watched enough crime shows, I knew that we needed to show we weren't the shooters; we weren't threats. I raised my hands above my head, palms out to the sky. The team dropped their guns, waving us along the brick walls to the parking lot. Brittany reached for my hand again and I took it gladly, barely registering the chaos that was unfolding in Columbine's parking lot, which had looked drastically different when my mom had dropped me off that morning. Ambulances, police cars, and SWAT vehicles littered the bus lanes, preventing any cars from entering or leaving the parking lot. One of the men in black had waved over some medical personnel, who were guiding us to the multiple ambulances. Students milled around the lot aimlessly behind crude police barricades that had been set up around the school, unable to leave. Some parents had begun to show up, men and women in business attire parking in the grass by the school and running over to the parking lot in heels and dress shoes.

Brittany leaned into me, barely able to support her own weight. She was still shaking. I managed to get the two of us to one of the ambulances, where a man in a clean white outfit wrapped a linen blanket around both of our shoulders. The material scratched my bare arms, and the warmth wasn't appreciated as much as it should have been. Seconds later, the man came back, setting two water bottles on the floor of the opened ambulance before grabbing me under my arms and hoisting me into the vehicle. Still in too much shock to protest, he then picked up Brittany in a similar fashion and placed her next to me, securing the blanket around our shoulders once again. He unscrewed the caps on both water bottles and placed one in my hands and one in Brittany's.

"Drink," he urged. "You need to drink some water."

He held a walkie-talkie to his face, turning away from us to speak into it. I heard broken pieces of his conversation while I took small sips of the water, careful not to upset my stomach, which was still rolling.

"Yes, trauma victims…"

"The library, I think."

"No, minor wounds on some."

"Gunshot victims with St. Anthony's. Yes. Okay."

He turned back around to face us.

"I'm going to ask both of you a few basic questions, okay? You're safe now. Because of the trauma you just experienced it's completely normal to be in shock, so I'm going to ask you a few quick questions so we can send you home. I know right now you might not want to answer questions, but after I finish with you we're going to try to get you home right away."

Some policemen had already approached the ambulances, where they were writing on small notepads and speaking quickly into walkie-talkies.

Back at the exit we had come from, Finn had appeared, this time covered in even more blood. He was carrying a student in his arms, bridal style. The student was also covered in smears of red. Behind Finn came another boy of similar height and weight; he carried a girl, supporting her legs with one arm and pressing her chest to his own with a bloody arm. She, too, was injured. More medical staff rushed to the survivors, wheeling gurneys to the curb, where Finn and the other boy helped to lay the injured down. A policeman approached them and patted each boy on the back. Finn had removed the white hat from his waistband and was twisting it in his large hands, worrying the white fabric that had become ubiquitous to my high school.

An insistent tapping on my denim-clad knee snapped me back to the parking lot, where the same member of the medical staff that had lifted me into the ambulance was tapping my knee, trying to get my attention. I focused my attention back to him.

"Name?" he asked, staring at me intently with gray eyes.

"What?" I responded stupidly. My voice sounded thick and slow.

"What is your name," he repeated, eyes intense.

"Uh… Santana. Santana Lopez."

He nodded. "Okay, good, Santana. My name is Will; I'm a paramedic at Exempla Lutheran Medical Center. Who's your friend?"

His intense gaze had moved to Brittany now, who had not spoken since we'd left the library.

"Honey, what's your name?"

She just stared at him, her blue eyes blank, shocked.

"Can you tell me your name?"

She squeezed my hand hard. I waited for her to respond.

Will looked back to me. "If she can't tell me her name, I need to hear it from you. And then we might need to send her to the hospital. Do you know if she's sustained any injuries?"

"I-" I started, but I was quickly interrupted.

"Brittany! Brittany S. Pierce!" Brittany blurted, squeezing my hand harder, and I felt one of my knuckles crack. I winced.

Will looked between the both of us, hesitant to proceed. I wasn't sure what was going on with Brittany, so I leaned over and rested my chin on her shoulder so I could whisper in her ear.

"Brittany, you're hurting my hand," I whispered. Her grip loosened, but her eyes remained wide and blank. "This guy is just going to ask us some questions, okay? We need to answer his questions and then we can leave and you can go home. We're safe, Brittany, we're okay."

She visibly relaxed at my words. Her shoulders slacked, her eyes closed, and she breathed deeply through her nose. I could feel more of her weight on my shoulder, and I knew she was leaning on me.

"Okay," she whispered. "Okay."

I was the one squeezing her hand this time, hoping to reassure her. It seemed to work. Will was looking at the both of us.

"Ready?"

I nodded. Brittany mimicked the motion.

"I'm not going to ask any questions about the cause of the trauma, that's not my responsibility. I'm just here to make sure you're okay and that you don't need to be taken to the hospital. Okay?" He looked at each of us.

"Okay," I said.

"Alright, now Santana, can you tell me how old you are?"

"17."

"And Brittany?"

"17," she anwered.

"Alright, good. So you're both juniors, I presume?"

We nodded. "Okay, great. You're doing really well. Don't stop drinking that water."

I glanced at the half empty bottle in my lap. I had completely forgotten about it.

"Santana, can you tell me what you did this morning?"

All of the questions Will was asking were trivial and very weird, but I answered them anyway, just wanting to finish and go home. "I had breakfast, my mom drove me to school, and then I had a physics test, and then-"

He interrupted me before I could talk about the library. "And where is your mom right now?"

"She's at work," I explained. "She's a nurse at the UC Medical Center."

"Perfect, do you have a way to reach her? Cell phone, maybe?" He waited for my response.

"I don't have a cell phone."

He sighed. Brittany piped in. "I have a cell phone, you can borrow mine," she spoke quietly, angling her head so she could see my face. She twisted our fingers together.

"You have a cell phone?" I asked stupidly.

She nodded. "Yep."

Will looked at the two of us curiously, as if piecing together the nature of our friendship, and how sudden and immediate it was. He apparently decided not to question it, and moved on to repeat my questions with Brittany, who gave a detailed report of her entire morning. It was endearing, in a way, to my compromised mental state, how she released my hand to number each event on her fingers; the cheerios she ate for breakfast, how she got dressed, brushed her teeth, waited for the bus, took the bus to school, got off the bus at school, walked to her locker, and attended each of her classes.

Will nodded intently, hanging on her every word. It looked forced, but I figured he was well aware that you shouldn't interrupt a trauma victim. When she finished, she found my hand again, which was lonely and growing cold in her absence. She waited for Will to respond.

"Well that's… great. Sounds like a good morning."

"It was," Brittany assured him.

"Right. Well. Where are your parents, Brittany?"

"Mom's at home, dad's at work."

"Do you think you'd be able to contact your mom to come get you?"

"Yeah, definitely," Brittany answered. Meanwhile, I was panicking about how to get home. If I contacted my mom, it would take her at least 45 minutes to get to Columbine from Denver to pick me up.

Will and Brittany were both looking at me now. "Santana? How will you get home? I've been told that all of the schools in the district have been dismissed, but parents are responsible for getting their children. The buses aren't running."

"I… uh…-" I stuttered, thinking.

"She's coming home with me," Brittany interjected. She looked at me pointedly. "Right Santana?" She elbowed me in the ribs, not being discreet at all.

"What? Oh, uh, yeah, I'm going to Brittany's," I clarified. Will looked at us skeptically, but ultimately gave up on deciphering us.

"Alright, then I'm done with you guys for today. I have your names, and I'm sure in the next few days the police will be in contact with your families for witness reports. Keep an eye on the news."

He reached out to touch my shoulder. I stared at his hand.

"Be safe, girls. Please."

We nodded. Brittany cracked a small, grateful smile, the first one I had seen in what felt like years. "Thanks for the water."

He smiled back, a tired smile, and gestured over his shoulder with a thumb. "Now go home." He ran a hand through his curly hair and straightened his uniform while Brittany and I hopped out of the vehicle, our hands still clamped tightly together. She tossed the blanket back into the ambulance and tugged me towards the far end of the parking lot. We weaved through packs of students, and for once, none of them cared what I looked like, or whom I was with. Half of the students were crying, others just seemed frozen. Many were talking on cell phones. We reached the corner of the parking lot, and Brittany stopped abruptly before we reached the dead grass, causing me to stumble into her. My numb legs didn't stop me, and my cheek hit her shoulder and a sharp pain ran through my face to my ear.

Gunfire sounded from near the school, and I whipped around, lost my balance, and found myself falling into Brittany again, but this time my back was facing her. The SWAT team was shooting at the library windows, where fire was being returned. Brittany's strong arms were around me again, holding me up. I stood up quickly and backed away, leaving Brittany with her arms reaching out to me.

"Sorry," I mumbled, looking at the ground. Thank God Finn had gotten us out of that library.

Brittany ignored me, and stuck a hand through the neck of her cheerleading uniform. She fished around in her bra, and I averted my eyes, blushing. Her tongue poked out of the corner of her mouth, pink and wet. I forced myself not to stare, not wanting to embarrass myself. Her arm returned, and she was holding a red cell phone in her hand. She typed a number into the keypad quickly and brought the device to her ear. While it rang, she scuffed her white cheerleading shoe against the pavement. She reached out for my hand, and I took it, gladly.

Someone had apparently picked up on the other end.

"Mom? It's Brittany."

I couldn't hear the other end of the conversation. Brittany tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and thumbed the back of my hand that she was holding.

"No, something really bad happened. Mom, I don't want to talk about it right now. I can't."

Brittany sighed, blowing more loose strands off of her forehead.

"Yes, I'm okay. Can you please come pick me up? And Emily. Get her first."

Brittany squeezed my hand.

"Yeah, yeah. Okay. I love you too. Bye."

Brittany hit end on the keypad and dropped her hand to her side, the phone still secured in it.

"She'll be here in fifteen minutes," Brittany informed me. "And you're coming home with me. Here, call your mom and tell her. I know she works far away, but I'm not leaving you here to wait for her." She held out the cell phone to me. Bewildered by her forwardness, I took it in my right hand and stared at the numbers, willing my thumb to move. I typed in the number I had memorized many years before and held the device up to my ear while it rang. She picked it up on the third ring.

"Hello?"

"Mom, it's me."

"Oh my God, Santana, we've been watching what happened on the news, the gunshots, they don't know what's going on, oh my God, I've been trying to reach you, but no one knows where you are, I was so worried-"

"Mom, it's okay, I'm okay," I cut in, simultaneously exasperated and comforted by her voice, but irrationally angry at her distance from me. "I'll tell you what happened later. Can you come home? Please?"

"Mija, honey, I'm trying, but-"

"You can't," I said flatly. Of course she couldn't. It wasn't the first time she had gotten stuck at work. Brittany's thumb continued to rub the back of my hand, following the curves of my knuckles. The sky started moving too fast, and bile rose in my throat. My own mother was deserting me.

"Santana, you have to understand. I can't leave, they're bringing in victims from the school." Angry tears pricked at the corners of my eyes. "Can you go to a friend's, or let yourself in at the house?"

"Yeah, I can. Whatever, mom. I almost got fucking killed and you can't come home for me!"

"Santana, I'm-"

I yanked the phone away from my ear and pushed the end button angrily, turning my head so Brittany couldn't see the tears in my eyes. She had just seen me cry for God knows how long, in the most frightening situation either of us had ever been in. But I couldn't let her see me cry now.

She replaced the phone in her bra and I felt her warm hand on my cheek. She pulled gently on my jaw, brushing a tear away from my cheek. Her fingers were warm.

"Santana, it's okay."

"No, it's not. She always does this. She has to help them, not me," I spat. I was being selfish, and I knew it. I still hadn't looked at Brittany, whose hand was still resting on my cheek.

"Santana, look at me," she demanded. I met her eyes, blinking back more tears. I was more embarrassed now than anything, and she sensed that.

"It's okay. You're going to come with me, and my mom will make you dinner and we can watch a movie with my sister."

"No, really, you can just drop me off at my house, I have a key, somewhere-"

Brittany opened her mouth to protest as I patted both of my pockets before realizing that my bag was still in the library.

"Fuck!" I yelled, stamping my foot. Pain shot up my shin, and I instantly regretted the action.

"What is it? What's wrong?" Brittany questioned, alarmed.

"My bag is in the library," I moaned. "I don't have my key, or my books, or-"

She shushed me with a finger to my lips, which I knew were dry and cracking. I began to protest, and I tasted the salty skin of her finger.

"Shut up. Mom's here, let's go."

Startled, I dropped Brittany's hand, suddenly conscious of what her mom thought of me. Of me holding her daughter's hand. A Buick with wood-grain side panels had rolled into the parking lot and was slowly making its way through the crowds to our corner of the parking lot. Other students were trying to leave in their cars, and a cop had taken over the role of traffic guard and was directing cars around the parking lot and onto the road.

The Buick moved slowly around the other cars. I turned to Brittany, and began to panic for the umpteenth time that day.

"Brittany, I don't know your mom. Or you, really. I don't want to bother your family." I was struggling to remember Brittany's last name. She certainly didn't know mine.

She looked at me, her blue gaze wise. "You won't, trust me. They'll love you, you protected me."

It was a 'p' name. What was it? Peters? Pearson? Pierce. That was it. Pierce.

"Brittany, I didn't do shit in that library."

But the blonde was already walking towards the Buick and I had no choice but to follow, my numb legs pulling me towards the car. Brittany had opened the door and was talking to the driver, who I assumed was her mom. She had the same blonde hair as Brittany, and her face was contorted into a similar worried expression that I had seen on Brittany's face just an hour before in the library. Brittany pointed at me, speaking to her mother. I wasn't close enough to hear what she was saying, but Mrs. Pierce was nodding, which I figured was a good sign.

Brittany walked back over to me and took my pinky in hers. The gesture was comforting.

"Don't just stand there, get in," she chided, smiling. How was she smiling? I was still numb.

I walked to the passenger side of the car and opened up the paneled door, sliding in to the leather seat. Brittany got into the car directly in front of me, and as soon as I was in the car, the cheerleader and her mother were turning around to address me.

"Mom, this is Santana. Her mom works in Denver, so she needs to come home with us."

I decided to interject then. "Thank you very much for taking me in, I would insist that you just drop me off at home, but my key is in the library, with my bag."

Mrs. Pierce appeared to be corroborating the events of the day, but she just looked more confused than before, and still worried. She sighed.

"That's fine, honey. But I expect a full explanation from somebody when we're at home, and when this one is out of the picture," she said, nodding her head at a miniature Brittany that was sitting next to me in the car, peeking out from a car seat at the commotion in the parking lot. I could only see the back of her white-blonde head, but I assumed that this girl was Emily. The same girl who had wanted Brittany to read Where the Wild Things Are to her. I shivered.

Mrs. Pierce had turned around in her seat and was putting the car into drive. Brittany found my eye in the rearview mirror and smiled grimly as we pulled out of the parking lot.