I would like to preface this chapter by addressing one particular review (user pleasegirldontyoudieonme) and by adding a warning to this story:
The shooting is just a catalyst for a story of emotional development for both characters. I do not intend for this story to focus on the tragedy or on death or gun control, nor do I intend to offend anyone in the manner in which I use the event as a starting point for a potentially complex romance. I hope for this to be a love story, not a horror movie.
As a side note, any and all technical information regarding the shooting is accurate, but the following story is original. Thank you for all of the reviews, follows, and favorites. Also, cover image credit to both Dave Cullen and Glee.
The car ride was ridiculously short, lasting all of about five minutes. I rubbed a pattern into my jeans, feeling the heat from the friction burn my fingertips. Emily was the most talkative one in the car; she asked constant questions in a tiny, high voice, and Brittany answered every single one with a smile and a kid-friendly explanation. The near-death experience at the school had left me unusually sappy, and watching the way Brittany interacted with her younger sister was beautiful; the way the cheerleader told the six year-old about how the high school library didn't have the book, and how she would take the girl to the public library; the way she explained that something bad had happened at school, but in a way that stopped Emily from asking "Why?"
Brittany held her mother's hand over the center console of the car, a pale hand against an equally white one. I was jealous. I missed holding Brittany's hand, and I was jealous that Brittany had her mother and her sister when my mom couldn't be bothered to come home from work. I was jealous Brittany had gotten picked up at school. I was jealous that she was so calm when I could barely breathe.
The jealousy only mounted as we pulled on to Brittany's street, which I recognized as Caley Place. It was lined with perfectly manicured lawns, baby trees, and every driveway had a shiny, expensive car in it. I sighed. Of course Brittany lived a suburban life like this, with the family of four, the car, the cheerleader, the blonde hair, the blue eyes. It was all too much. We turned into a gray concrete driveway in front of a three-car garage, and I was feeling increasingly uncomfortable. I lived in a town house, with a single mom. Who was a nurse. I was Latina. I had dark hair, dark eyes. I didn't even own a cell phone. I was so out of place in this neighborhood, with this family.
Brittany turned around in her seat and looked at me with those wise blue eyes, and I forgot it all. My stereotype of cheerleaders was rapidly changing. Either I had been completely wrong about the blue and silver clad girls, or Brittany was a major exception to my stereotype; all I knew was that with her, it was okay to be who I was. But that didn't stop the nagging in the pit of my stomach when we got out of the car, and suddenly I was hearing gunshots, and having flashbacks, and there was the blood on Finn's shirt, and I missed my mom, and I was barely out of the car before I fell to my knees and vomited on Brittany's driveway. I puked up the contents of my stomach, making horrible retching noises as tears flowed down my face and the concrete scraped my hands. Black spots obscured my vision and my throat and nose burned.
And then Brittany was rushing to me, holding my hair back, saying, "Mom, go inside, I got this. We'll be right in."
Her cool hand was on my neck, and she was whispering in my ear that I would be okay, that it would be okay. I was sobbing, embarrassed and sick and guilty and scared. Brittany's arms were around me then, and I knew I smelled like vomit. I knew I had known Brittany for a few hours, but it felt like years. I retched on the concrete for a minute more before I stopped and just panted, waiting for the spots in my vision to clear.
"Come on," she said. "Let's get you cleaned up."
She picked me up off of the driveway gently, brushing loose bits of dirt and rock off of my palms and my jeans. I continued to cry, no longer caring about her seeing this vulnerable side of me. She tucked my hair behind my ear and her right arm wrapped around my back, supporting my upper body. Her left hand found my left bicep and I leaned into her. Black spots still danced in my vision, and I didn't see much of the house other than tan siding as we stumbled through a blood-red front door. My stomach roiled.
There was a staircase to our immediate right, and ahead I could hear Emily's chatter and the metallic clangs of pots and pans, and I knew the kitchen was ahead. Even though the kitchen couldn't have been more than thirty feet ahead of us, Emily's voice was miles away. A TV hummed, the volume on low.
"Mom!" Brittany yelled, and I winced. She noticed and covered my ears, as if her makeshift earmuffs would protect my throbbing head. My hair felt like straw against my skin and her fingertips felt cool where they rested against my temples.
"We're getting changed!"
"Okay!" Came the reply, and then Brittany was helping me hobble up the carpeted staircase. The wall was lined with staggered photographs of Brittany and Emily and their mom and what I assumed to be their dad. There was another blonde boy on the wall, but he was only in a few of the pictures. It was difficult to tell which pictures in the frames were of Emily and which were of Brittany; they looked exactly the same at a young age. Brittany's house smelled like grilled cheese and lavender, and it was the strangest combination, but it was warm, and it smelled like a home should. It was a soft smell, if smells could be soft.
We were careening right, and I had to steady myself on a wall so my stomach didn't leap into my throat again. Brittany held me and waited.
After a few seconds, she asked, "You okay?"
I merely nodded, unable to choke out verbal affirmation. We were then in a blue room, with floral wallpaper and a simple iron-framed bed in the center against the far wall. It had a pink quilt on it. There was a table at the foot of the bed, displaying multiple pictures of Brittany in a cheerleading uniform. Brittany led me over to the bed, where I sat down and shivered.
"I'll be right back," she assured me, and promptly disappeared into the hallway we had just come from. I heard running water and I used the opportunity to look around the room. The black spots had disappeared from my vision, and I could see it more clearly now; the girl's bedroom was radically different from my own. It was large and carpeted, and all of the furniture was an antique white, including a stuffed chair that looked like it belonged in someone's grandmother's house or a baby's nursery. The artwork on the walls were simple prints of flowers, oddly placed at rather consistent intervals on the wall, and they all looked as if they were stolen from various motel rooms. It was strange. There was a window behind me, next to a large armoire, and the shades were drawn. The bed beneath me was neatly made.
Brittany returned to interrupt my surveillance of her bedroom, carrying a bottle of mouthwash, a cup, and a dripping washcloth. My nausea dissipated slowly. She smiled at me, her ponytail swishing behind her. She sat on the bed next to me, with one leg hanging off and the other folded beneath her. "Here," she said, patting the spot across from her. "Sit."
I pulled my legs up on to the bed and crossed them in front of me so I was facing her. I extended my arm to take the washcloth from her, but she pushed it down and leaned forward to dab at my forehead, my cheeks, and my mouth. The washcloth was cold, and it felt wonderful. Her pink tongue was at the corner of her mouth again, staring me down. I watched it, unable to look into her eyes. She was close enough that I could see every freckle on her face; there was one in the corner of her left eye, right on her nose, and another on her chin.
"How are you so calm?" I blurted, asking the question that had been on my mind for the last half hour. "After all that? I just vomited on your driveway and you're just sitting here washing my face."
She shook her head, smiling grimly. "I had a brother. He was younger than me by about two years."
My interest piqued, and I listened carefully to Brittany's use of the past tense. What did her brother have to do with any of this?
She sighed. "He died when I was eleven. He had Leukemia. Emily never met him, she was born right after he died."
"Brittany, I'm s-"
"Santana, I was eleven. It's okay. My family is okay. I still love and remember him, but you don't need to apologize." She shook her head again. I nodded, still uncomfortable. She continued to dab at my face and neck with the washcloth, brushing my now stringy hair over my shoulder. I still wasn't sure why she was telling me about her brother, and what that had to do with her calmness.
"His name was Michael," she sighed, "And when Michael died, my parents sent me to a grief counselor, because Mike and I were really close. The grief counselor outlined the stages of grief for my parents, you know, the ones they teach you in health class? And they were all like 'this stage will take about six months, and this could take a year, depending on psychological this and that,'" she said, waving her hands. The washcloth dripped onto the quilt, leaving wet blotches. "Because I was a child. And children that lose a sibling sometimes never get over it."
"But I just… progressed through the stages of grief really fast. I was just a kid, but I got it. I missed him. But I didn't deny that he was dead, or think that I could bring him back, I didn't get angry. That 'acceptance and resolution step,' the last one? I just went there, like right away. Because I knew that's… that's what he would've wanted. He wouldn't have wanted me to be sad, or angry, or hurt anybody. I could deny that this shooting happened." I winced when she said 'shooting.' "I could be angry at you for not telling me to get out of the library, which just doesn't make sense. I could be sad that people died and guilty that I'm alive and they aren't."
Tears were once again threatening to spill onto my cheeks. Brittany's blue eyes were squeezed shut. She was sharing a lot with me, really soon, and I knew that I was hearing something that not a lot of people got to hear from someone they just met. She seemed like an extremely open person.
"But I'm not," she said, opening her eyes. "I'm not any of those things, because what happened happened. It had to happen that way; I'm just accepting it. I'm not indifferent to it. But I know… I know Michael is up there somewhere," she looked up, "and he was watching down on you and me, Santana. And he'll help those people that died today, and, and-"
I cut her off with a bone-crushing hug, just holding her tight to my body. We were both crying now, and I whispered into her ear, "I understand. You're so strong, Brittany. I wish I was strong."
She hugged me back, letting me burrow into the crook of her neck, which was wet with a mixture of our tears. She laughed, but it was mirthless. "This world is kind of fucked up, isn't it?"
"Yeah, it is, Britt. It is." The shortened form of her name was easy to say, and it felt friendly. It felt right. We just sat there for a few minutes, thinking and crying on each other. She didn't feel like a stranger anymore.
Brittany broke the silence. "When we were about to die, I thought, 'I'll get to see Michael again.'" Her head was still on my shoulder, her blonde ponytail resting on her back. I couldn't see her expression.
I just held her silently as tears ran down my cheeks.
"When I couldn't speak back there, with the paramedic," she continued, "I was grieving, if that makes any sense. I was numb for a little while, but now I have to be strong. For you, for my mom, for Emily, for dad, for Michael."
I was startled by her ferocity. "Brittany, you don't have to do anything for me. This is more than enough."
She pulled away from me to look at me. "But don't you see, Santana? This is coping, for me. Being there for other people, not for myself. That's grief, for me. That's resolution."
The tears spilled onto my cheeks, this time threatening to land on Brittany's pink comforter. She brought the washcloth back to my face and patted my neck with it. I leaned into her touch.
"Let me take care of you," she whispered, but she didn't look at me as she said it.
"Okay," I nodded, watching her.
"Let's get out of these clothes." She peeled herself off of the bed and walked around to the wooden armoire. I took the opportunity to rinse with the mouthwash Brittany had retrieved from the bathroom and left on the quilt next to us. I struggled to steady my hand as I poured a small amount into the paper cup and tossed it back. It burned my mouth, and I nearly choked on it. It was strong. I gargled, letting the liquid bounce around my mouth to eradicate any traces of vomit, and spit back into the cup. I leaned over the foot of the bed to place it on her nightstand, mentally reminding myself to throw it out when we left her room.
Brittany returned with a small stack of clothes and tossed them onto the bed. I stared at her.
"Well? Did you forget how to put clothes on?"
I kept staring at her numbly. "I'm not wearing your clothes. That's ridiculous, you've done enough."
"You want to sit around in that all day?" she asked, pointing at my sweated, bled, and vomited-on shirt. I shook my head, accepting defeat. I knew I smelled awful. She reached out for me with both arms, still standing by the bed. Instead of grabbing my hand, she wrapped two fingers on each hand into the belt loops on my jeans and pulled me up off of the bed. As she pulled me towards her, I realized I wanted to stumble into her arms again. We'd been in each other's arms all day, and I selfishly wanted more. More of that safety, I told myself.
Brittany eyed my wide-eyed expression curiously. I choked and began coughing into my arm.
"You okay?" she asked, and I stood with my arms crossed, still red in the face.
I thought briefly that Brittany must be one of those people that recover from a situation by moving on with life, though she hadn't said that explicitly. She appeared to be coping by pretending that everything was okay and normal. I didn't know how she did it, and I certainly couldn't.
"Here," she said, reaching into the stack on the bed and pulling out a pair of blue plaid flannel pajama bottoms. She handed them to me. "These are old, so they're probably around your size." I took the pants while she rummaged around in the pile again, this time coming up with a long-sleeved white Columbine Rebels t-shirt. She then reached for the zipper on the side of her cheerleading uniform and unzipped. She took the top off, leaving her in the skirt and a bra. I couldn't help but stand there and stare, alarmed by her complete lack of modesty.
I shuffled awkwardly, pressing the borrowed pajamas to my chest. "Um, should I change in the bathroom?" I coughed again, but this time it was so I could use my hand to hide my blush.
"Why would you do that?" She asked, pulling her own blue Columbine cheerleading t-shirt over her head.
"Uh. Nevermind," I replied.
Not wanting to seem weird, I tugged off my blouse and laid it on Brittany's bed. My silver cross bounced against my chest as I quickly turned away from the blonde, not wanting her to see too much of me. The shirt smelled strongly of lavender fabric softener as I pulled it over my head. It was a calming smell. I pulled my hair out of the shirt and tugged the hem to my hips, where it sat loosely. The shirtsleeves bunched at my wrists.
My hands were shaking slightly, and I was still a little dizzy. I fumbled with the button on my jeans. I knew Brittany had to be finished changing. I felt her eyes on my back, just like I had when we left the school. My cheeks burned.
I quickly dropped my jeans to the floor, kicking off my plain brown shoes as quickly as I could. I quickly unfolded the pants and slid them onto my legs. The flannel was warm on the goosebumps that had risen on my naked legs. I leaned over to pick up the jeans. I folded them and placed them on top of my blouse on Brittany's bed and looked up to find her eyes.
She wasn't looking at me then, but she was facing me, toying with something on the table at the foot of her bed. I was still embarrassed about changing in front of her, despite using the girl's locker room to change for gym every other day. She was wearing the short-sleeved Columbine shirt and a pair of clashing navy sweatpants resting low on her hips, the drawstrings pulled tight. She grinned at me, and I mustered a smile in return. Her hand returned to the table, and I saw her put back the red cell phone.
"You should call your mom and tell her where you are, Santana," she suggested. "She's already called my number three times since you hung up at the school."
I sighed. I really, really didn't want to call my mom. She was busy. Talking to her would upset me.
"Fine, give me the phone," I said tiredly.
Brittany handed me the Nokia. I typed in the familiar number again and pressed it to my ear, waiting for my mother's worried voice to answer. After eight rings, her answering machine picked up, and I breathed a sigh of relief. I wouldn't have to talk to her.
After the beep I explained where I was and whom I was with.
"Hey mom, it's me. I'm sorry I hung up earlier, but we… we can talk about it later, when you get home. I met a girl today who invited me to her house for lunch, her name is Brittany. Her mom is here with us, and I'm safe. My key is inside of the school, so I can't let myself into the house." Brittany watched me, encouraging. "I guess I'll see you tonight. Call this number back when you can, I guess."
I hit the end button and handed the phone back to Brittany. The time on the digital screen told me that it was almost two in the afternoon. Brittany slipped the phone into one of her pockets.
"Are you hungry? I think my mom made lunch."
"Okay," I agreed. She nodded and walked out of the bedroom to the carpeted hallway. I followed her, passing the bathroom on my right. She bounded down the stairs two at a time. I descended slowly, glancing at the pictures of her brother in my peripheral vision. Sadness sat in my chest.
Brittany grabbed the end of the railing and used her body weight to spin around it. The dark stain of the wood was worn thin where her hand had held the banister. It was one of those things, seeing people move around their own house, that made you feel like you knew them better. Seeing the pictures on the Pierce's walls and the quilt on Brittany's bed and smelling the lavender fabric softener on Brittany's clothes felt personal. I felt welcome and familiar and safe in her house. It certainly beat waiting alone for my mom in our small townhouse.
Brittany took my hand when I reached the bottom of the staircase and led me through a white hallway to a well-lit kitchen. Mrs. Pierce stood at the stove, standing over what I believed to be lunch. The TV had been turned off in the adjoining living room. Emily was sitting at the counter eating a grilled cheese sandwich. Grease covered her tiny face and orange cheese oozed onto the plate. The appliances in the kitchen only appeared to be a few years old; they were black and shiny against the dark wood cabinets. The kitchen was painted a light green.
Both Mrs. Pierce and Emily both turned to smile at us as we entered the kitchen; one smile was tired and lined, but warm, and the other was sunshine and grilled cheese-filled. Mrs. Pierce turned back to tend to the sandwiches cooking on the stove. Brittany led me to the granite-topped island, where three high, dark, wooden chairs rested. Emily occupied one of them. I pulled out the chair on the far left and sat down in it, crossing my legs at the ankles and resting them on one of the wooden rungs below me. Brittany sat in the middle chair, brushing blonde wisps out of Emily's forehead as she leant on her elbows on the counter. Her left hand reached for mine under the tabletop and I took it, glad to have something to hold on to again.
I had never held hands with someone so freely in my life.
Emily's chattering from the car had subsided, presumably silenced by her sandwich, but Mrs. Pierce attempted conversation. She was clearly just going to dismiss the fact that I vomited on her driveway.
"Brittany, have you offered your guest a drink?"
"Oh yeah, sorry," Brittany smiled bashfully as her cheeks pinked. "Do you want anything to drink, Santana?"
"Whatever you're having," I answered simply, not too particular about my liquids. Brittany's hand disappeared from mine and she slid out of her chair. She opened one of the cabinets and removed two tall glasses, and I watched Emily eat as Brittany filled the glasses with ice from the freezer and water from the tap. I didn't realize the smile growing on my face watching this mini-Brittany eat until big Brittany was sitting beside me, displaying a toothy grin, watching me watching her younger sister. I hid behind my water glass, downing half of it in seconds. I hadn't realized how thirsty I was until the liquid hit my dry mouth.
Emily had finished her lunch and was clumsily wiping at her mouth with a napkin. She tried to slide out of the high chair the way Brittany had, but she slipped on one of the rungs. Brittany's quick hands found her waist, steadying her, and Emily smiled as she dropped to the wooden floor of the kitchen, her socked feet padding silently over to the stove, where she tugged on her mother's shirt. Brittany shook her head fondly.
"What is it, baby?" her mother asked, pushing the sandwiches in the pan with a spatula, a hand on her hip.
"Can I play on the computer?" she inquired, bending her knees and jumping a few inches off the ground.
"Of course," Mrs. Pierce replied, kneeling down quickly to plant a kiss on Emily's cheek.
Emily rolled her eyes, feigning embarrassment, but I could see the smile on her face as she ran out of the kitchen and into a room in an unseen location of the house. The room was quiet for the next few minutes. Brittany and I busied ourselves with our water glasses, and after a while, Brittany's hand had slipped into mine again. It was a familiar and comfortable motion, and I could tell by her expression she hadn't thought much of it. I smiled a tiny smile into the ice cubes from my glass bumping against my lips.
Mrs. Pierce had retrieved two plates from the cabinet and was flipping the sandwiches onto them. She placed a few baby carrots on each plate and placed the two meals in front of each of us. I smelled the fabric softener again as she leaned over me to place the plates on the counter. I dropped Brittany's hand to pick up the warm sandwich, and I lifted it to my mouth and sank my teeth into the melted cheese. It was delicious, and I was absolutely ravenous; similar to the water, I hadn't realized I was hungry until I was chewing on a bite of the warm bread. Brittany ate her lunch with seemingly equal enthusiasm.
Brittany's mother placed the pan from the grilled cheese into the sink by the stove and filled it with water. She turned around and faced us, placing her two hands behind her on the counter and leaning on locked arms. Her face was worried, her weary blue eyes sad.
"So," she prompted, interrupting our eating. Brittany watched her, mid-bite. "Can somebody tell me what's going on now?"
I watched quietly as Brittany finished the last bite of her grilled cheese and wiped the grease from her pink lips. She looked at me, and our eyes connected, brown on blue.
"And don't you dare dumb it down, Brittany Susan Pierce. I see that look," Mrs. Pierce said sternly. I found Brittany's hand and squeezed it.
Mrs. Pierce's eyes welled up, the sternness leaving her voice as quickly as it had come. "I just want to know what's going on."
Brittany's eyes were tearing up too, and she seemed at a loss for words. Her mouth opened and closed again. I figured seeing her mom cry was something that triggered a lot of emotion in her. So I started to speak, looking at Brittany for the okay. She nodded at me, and Mrs. Pierce looked to me. Her blue eyes were slightly darker than Brittany's, but they had the same nose. Mrs. Pierce was tall and thin and had smile lines around her eyes and mouth. Her blonde hair was graying.
I spoke slowly. "I was in the library, researching a project." I looked at Brittany. "Brittany was in the reference section, looking for Where the Wild Things Are, for Emily. But she couldn't find it."
That comment brought a small smile to the older blonde's face, and I was glad. The next events would be difficult to say out loud, and hard to remember. Brittany squeezed my hand.
"I told her I'd help her find it, but then there were… explosions, I think. Pops. Like gunshots, maybe, but I'm not positive. I thought it was a senior prank."
Brittany spoke, adding, "Yeah, me too."
"And there was this teacher, running into the library, you know," I said, "and she was grabbing the phone and calling 911 and yelling at us to get under the tables. And I had no idea what was going on." A lump had formed in my throat. "So we got under a table, and we were just sitting there, hiding." I omitted the part about Brittany and I holding each other; I figured that a mother might not want to hear about her daughter holding another girl she had just met, even though it was normal under the circumstances. Brittany seemed glad I had left it out, and I became curious why, but I continued my recollection of the events.
"And then there were these two guys in the library, shooting, and I knew they were killing people, you could hear it, and shooting under tables, and-" and then I was nauseous again, about to be sick and lose my grilled cheese, and I put my forehead to the cool countertop and my arms over my head and just breathed, stabilizing my head and my stomach. Brittany released my hand and rubbed my back, massaging my shoulder blades, seemingly comfortable to pick up where I left off.
She sighed and told her mother about the shots, and the splats, and the thumps, and the smoke and the smells and the bodies and the blood. Tears leaked from my eyes to the counter, and I didn't lift my head. Brittany didn't stop rubbing my back until her mom walked around the table and wrapped her in a massive hug, crying into Brittany's shoulder.
"I can't believe I almost lost you, baby girl," she whispered. "I don't think I could've lived through it." I lifted my head to see Brittany's mother breaking down in Brittany's arms, her tears soaking her daughter's shoulders. I sat awkwardly in my chair, watching them.
In that moment, I missed my mom like hell.
After Brittany's mother had peeled herself off of her daughter and wiped her eyes, she convinced the two of us to go busy ourselves while she cleaned up the kitchen. Brittany had taken my pinky and led me to a door in the white hallway by the staircase. We descended down another set of carpeted stairs, Brittany tugging me behind her as she took the steps two at a time.
We emerged into a finished basement with a relatively open floor plan; a flashing pinball machine caught my attention first where it occupied the closest corner of the room, next to a green ping pong table and a small counter with three stools at it. Two doors were set into the right side of the room, and in the far end of the basement was a living area with a large black leather couch, a flat screen TV, and beanbag chairs. Brittany led me around the ping-pong table to the TV area and plopped down on the couch, dropping my pinky as she sat. She grabbed the remote control off of the coffee table in front of her and pulled her legs up on the couch so she was sitting Indian style. I sat a few feet away from her on the long couch. I wasn't uncomfortable sitting right up against her; I wanted to, but I didn't want to make her uncomfortable.
I pulled my legs up in a position similar to Brittany's so I could tuck my feet under my pajama pants to warm them. Brittany flicked on the TV. The news was already on, but a familiar car commercial played. The CNN logo glowed red in the bottom left corner of the screen as headlines scrolled. I didn't read them. Brittany watched me.
"We don't have to watch the news, you know," she told me. "They probably know even less than we do."
I shrugged, shivering in my borrowed pajamas. Brittany noticed and rolled her eyes. Her weight shifted on the couch, and then she was directly on my left, pulling a large yellow afghan off of the back of the couch and draping it over the two of us. My feet were warmer instantly.
"Thanks," I said flatly, trying to muster up a smile. It never came.
"Do you want to watch this?" she asked, pointing the remote at the TV to show me she could easily change the channel. I shook my head.
"Leave it on," I said. "I need to know if they got caught. So I can stop being scared."
She nodded and tossed the remote to her side and resting both of her hands in her lap over the blanket. The commercial ended and went back to the news.
It was weird seeing an aerial shot of a building I had spent nearly three years of my life taking classes in. I could point out each individual wing of the school if I wanted to, and the cafeteria and the library and the exit we came out of just hours before. The shot zoomed in on the ground where there were much fewer students than when Brittany and I were at the school. A female news anchor then filled the screen.
"Ladies and gentlemen, if you are just now joining us, we are currently witnessing the aftermath of the largest massacre ever to occur on a high school campus."
Massacre? They're calling it a massacre?
The report cut back to the aerial shot of Columbine. The individual police cars could be seen blinking in the parking lot behind the barricade with the SWAT vehicles and the ambulances and Littleton fire trucks. SWAT teams filed into the building.
The voiceover continued. "The death count is rumored to be at almost thirty, but a complete total has not been confirmed by our sources." She glanced down at a sheet on her desk. "Parents of Columbine students and other schools in the area should call the hotline number below for more information on instructions how to proceed. Witnesses may be brought in for questioning." A number flashed across the bottom of the screen.
I looked at Brittany.
"My mom knows where I am, and yours does too; we can call later if we need to," she said. I nodded and turned to face the TV again.
The news anchor spoke while the hotline flashed. "The two suspects thought to be responsible for this massacre are both students from Columbine High School. The number of suspects and the identity of shooters and their whereabouts have not been confirmed, but authorities are now slowly evacuating the building. They are certain that both shooters are still inside. All schools in the Littleton, Colorado area are under lockdown."
I was speechless. I was disgusted. My hands shook under the blanket, and I felt lucky that the afghan covered them.
"President Clinton has made a statement on the matter-"
"Holy shit," Brittany whispered.
"-and is presently urging American people to pray for the victims of the shooting and their families during this tragic time. More information after the break."
The news cut to another commercial.
My stomach roiled again, but my eyes stayed dry. More tears just wouldn't come. It was almost as if I had cried out all of my tears and I just couldn't cry anymore. The news anchor returned to the screen and began to paraphrase the information we had just heard. The report showed live footage of our school being invaded by SWAT teams. Brittany moved in my peripheral vision, swiping the remote off of the couch and turning off the TV. Deafening silence abruptly filled the room.
"I don't want to watch anymore," she told me quietly. I shook my head.
"Me neither."
We sat on the couch, drinking in the quiet. My hands shook under the blanket. After a few moments of staring at the dark TV screen, I felt a hand tentatively rest on my leg. Slender fingers brushed the inside of my right thigh, searching for my own. I grasped Brittany's hand hard, desperately needing something to hold on to. Her palm was clammy, but warm. She rubbed circles into the skin between my thumb and my first finger. Our hands rested on my leg as I calmed down. My hands stopped shaking, but it seemed as though my heart only sped up. I felt Brittany watching me, and I glanced uncomfortably away, studying the many loose strands on the blanket in our laps. It crossed my mind that I had never touched someone this much before.
She rubbed the same spot on my hand and I slipped into a daze of barely conscious thought and ignorance and exhaustion. I'm not sure how long we sat like that; it could've been hours, or ten minutes. My concept of time had been radically distorted since the library. I still didn't know how long we had been under the table and I hadn't really thought much about it. Fog rolled across my brain like it sometimes did on the ground on those misty spring mornings mom drove me to school, obscuring the details of scenarios that I had been imagining since I had stumbled out of the high school. I felt like the fog was preventing me from seeing something, or getting to someone, or some conclusion. The fog was an obstacle. I was in a daze.
My eyes fluttered closed every few seconds, but every time they were shut I saw combat boots and blood against my eyelids. My eyes would snap open on their own accord, running from the fog and the tragedy burned into my eyes. Every one of my limbs felt impossibly heavy. I was sinking further into the leather of Brittany's couch, being swallowed by it. My head felt heavy and fog was rolling through it and I let my eyes close momentarily. After a few seconds I had drifted out of consciousness.
I was back in the library, under the table, and Brittany was holding my hand and rubbing the space between my thumb and the first finger. I couldn't remember how I had gotten back to the library, or why I was there, but before I could think too hard a faceless intruder was ducking under the table, holding a shotgun in my face, and panic was leaping into my throat as fear took over my senses.
"Peek-a-boo."
I shot up out of the couch with a scream, startling a dozing Brittany and gasping for air. Her grip on my hand had slackened, but strengthened again as she came out of her sleepy stupor. Sweat had collected along my brow. A pale hand came up from my side to cup my clammy cheek.
"Santana? Santana, what's wrong?"
I couldn't breathe. I choked and heaved and stuttered while Brittany searched my face with a concerned blue stare. Her hand nudged my jaw gently, willing me to look at her face. My chest fell up and down rapidly.
"Santana, it was just a nightmare. It's okay, you're going to be okay." She was so worried, brushing away tears that had begun to run down my colorless face. Her posture had relaxed and she was leaning towards me with the concern obvious on all of her facial features. Her lips pinched nervously and her top teeth worried her bottom lip. Her eyebrows knitted together.
I had stopped choking long enough to fall into Brittany, who caught me easily. She scooted forward on the couch to make our position more comfortable as I hiccuped into her shoulder. Her hands moved from my hand and my cheek to my back, where they rubbed my tense muscles. She whispered into my ear a practiced, "It's okay. It's okay," over and over again. It would've sounded rehearsed if I had been listening for it.
"The gun," I sobbed. "The blood."
"I know," she whispered, "it's all over. You're safe."
I cried weakly, burying my head in her neck, which was warm from sleep. She opened her legs to pull me into her. I let her, a watery sigh escaping my mouth as her legs wrapped around me. The afghan was long forgotten in a heap on the floor. Her hands continued to rub my back. Footsteps crossed the ceiling above us, but I barely listened to them. Blonde hairs tickled my face as I breathed heavily into her neck, which glistened from my tears.
"Do you want to watch a movie?" she asked, gesturing to the VCR under the TV with her hand. I nodded.
"Sure."
"Have you seen Forrest Gump?"
"No, is it good?" I kept my head on her shoulder.
"Yes. We have it on video. It's one of my favorites, because Forrest reminds me of me. I hope I'm like him when I grow up."
I smiled at that, despite not entirely knowing the premise of the movie. She gently unwrapped her arms from around me and let me lean back into the leather of the couch. She unfolded her long legs and stood from the couch, stretching like a cat with her arms high above her head. Her long arms found the afghan on the floor and she placed the heap on my lap. I straightened it out and placed it over my legs while Brittany walked towards a basket of tapes under the unit the TV was on. She took the video out of its casing and popped it into the VCR. She came back and sat next to me, haphazardly throwing the other half of the blanket over her own legs. A blue screen appeared, and Brittany hit play before inching towards me in what she seemed to think was a subtle manner.
I noticed and met her in the middle, leaning into her side. Her hand found mine again and squeezed. I squeezed back.
The title screens appeared, and a piano melody filled the room as a feather floated down from a blue sky and landed on a sidewalk in front of a man. I watched with interest as I found out the name of the man and his manner and his experiences, and I began to realize how alike he was to Brittany. Compassionate, but still simple-minded. His story was beautiful. I don't normally cry at moves, but there were moments when I wished the tears would come, just so I could have some normal emotion besides fear.
As Forrest was getting on the bus to go into the army, and he sat next to an unusual looking black boy, Brittany grabbed the remote off of the coffee table hastily and began to fast-forward, her thumb pressing hard against the button.
"What are you doing?" I asked, wanting to get lost in the distractions the movie provided.
"I don't like this part," she lied. I knew she was lying, because it was one of the first times that day she refused to make eye contact with me. I didn't like liars.
"Brittany, really, why are you fast-forwarding?"
"Bubba gets shot," she said simply. "It's scary and bloody and I'm not watching it, okay?" She turned and looked at me, her eyes serious and intense.
"Okay," I said dumbly. "Thanks."
"Anytime," was her reply. Her thumb kept pressing.
She fast-forwarded for a long time, until Forrest was in the hospital playing ping pong. The images on the screen were stretched and distorted, but there were split seconds where I saw red. The VCR whirred. Satisfied that we had passed the war scenes, Brittany replaced the remote on the table and relaxed back into the couch.
When Forrest sees Jenny again, and meets his son, the smile on Brittany's face was so wide I thought her cheeks would break. It really was her favorite movie; that was clear to me. I did find the movie amusing, especially Lieutenant Dan, who reminded me of me in some twisted way. I found myself on the verge of laughing more than once, but I think Brittany and I both understood that it would be hard for me to laugh so soon. Brittany didn't laugh, either, but her smiles were enough. The movie was a worthy distraction, and I was grateful to Brittany for suggesting we watch it.
The backs of my eyes prickled with unshed tears when Jenny died, and Brittany squeezed my hand. After the movie ended, the credits rolled and the piano played again. We sat on the couch for a few more minutes, listening to the sounds of the house. The digital clock on the receiver below the TV told us that it was almost five. Emily's tiny feet padded overhead, and then a door was opening and another person was entering the house.
Brittany looked at me with a smile. "That's my dad," she said. "Come on, you have to meet him, he'll like you."
Of that I was unsure; most adults found me quiet and sometimes smart if they got to know me, but rarely did they genuinely like me. I doubted her reasoning. But the leggy blonde was leaping from the couch, discarding the blanket on the floor in a yellow pile, and tugging on my pinky to help me off of the couch. I stood quickly and blood rushed to my head as I followed a skipping Brittany to the stairwell, where she grabbed the post at the bottom of the banister and spun onto the stairs. I took faster steps to match her longer ones, and we were soon out of the basement and in the main hallway again. The kitchen light was on, and indistinguishable voices bounced down the walls. Brittany dropped my pinky as we reached the kitchen, and I frowned.
A man in a wrinkled black suit was standing near the counter, speaking lowly to Mrs. Pierce, whose back was to us. Emily hugged his leg. He didn't see us at first, and it soon became more obvious what they were talking about.
"Alan, not right now, Emily is in here, and they're-"
The man stopped talking when he noticed me and Brittany and he rushed towards her, pulling her into a massive hug. He was rather tall, at least a foot taller than me. He picked up his daughter easily. Emily had released her hold on his leg to stand next to her mother. I assumed that Alan was this man, Mr. Pierce. He petted Brittany's hair and held her tightly, closing his eyes and sighing.
"I love you," he said.
"I love you too, Daddy," Brittany replied calmly as her father replaced her on the ground.
"And you must be Santana," he said, looking to me. His eyes were green, and his light hair was receding. I stuck out my hand.
"Santana Lopez," I confirmed. His larger hand engulfed mine and we shook.
"Alan Pierce. It's a pleasure to meet you. Will you be staying for dinner? I brought pasta," he said with a sweep of his arm to the kitchen counter. "I picked it up on the way home."
Silver tins sat stacked on the counter next to a large brown paper bag.
"Thank you so much," I told him as he released my hand. Brittany stood on my right. "Thank you for everything. It means a lot."
"Of course, honey," Mrs. Pierce smiled kindly, the wrinkles around her eyes becoming more prominent. "Any friend of Brittany's is welcome here." She ran her fingers through Emily's white blonde hair.
Mr. Pierce clapped his hands together. I flinched at the sound, and Brittany was the only one who seemed to notice. She sent me an apologetic glance.
"So who's hungry?" he asked. "Because I'm starved."
"Alan, the girls just ate a few hours ago," Mrs. Pierce said, stopping her husband from serving dinner.
"I don't care, Eleanor, they can eat now or later, but I'm hungry," he replied. Mrs. Pierce removed her hands from his broad shoulders and shrugged at us, as if to say, 'That's men.' Brittany grinned. I looked at the floor.
The pasta was heaped onto serving plates, steaming. I wasn't hungry. A plate of breadsticks was placed on the kitchen table, which was a simple rectangular dining table in more spacious right side of the kitchen. It was positioned right in front of a large window that overlooked a small, grassy backyard that backed up to a hill covered in trees. It was still sunny out, so the light above the table was not turned on. Brittany and I sat next to each other with our backs to the window. A glass of water, silverware, and a plate were in front of five of the six places at the table. Mr. Pierce sat at the head of the table, with his wife next to him and their youngest daughter on her left. Brittany sat on my left, to Mr. Pierce's right. He picked up the first plate of pasta and began to scrape it onto his own plate. Mrs. Pierce took another plate of pasta and began to do the same for Emily. I took a single breadstick and declined when Brittany offered one of the plates of pasta to me. She shrugged and served herself a small portion.
Mr. Pierce leaned back into his seat, where his suit jacket was draped. He ate quickly. Brittany mostly pushed around her small helping of pasta, eating tiny bites every so often. Mrs. Pierce made small talk with her husband about work. I gathered that he worked in business communications. Emily talked at Brittany about her day at school, but Brittany seemed distracted. Emily was oblivious to it. About midway through the meal, something brushed against the side of my left foot. I realized that it was Brittany's foot and glanced at her to see if she had noticed. Her mouth was full of pasta, and spaghetti sauce was smeared across her cheek. She smirked.
I shook my head and suppressed a smile as I bit off another small piece of breadstick and washed it down with a sip of water. Brittany's foot brushed against mine again, and a tingle shot up my leg, leaving goosebumps in its wake. I shivered. Everyone at the table kept eating, including Brittany. I played with my fingernails under the table.
A few minutes later, I hesitantly reached out and poked Brittany's foot with my big toe. She smiled wide, a forkful of spaghetti in her mouth. I blushed into my water glass. Mrs. Pierce and Mr. Pierce had finished their meals and were clearing the table.
"Santana, are you sure you aren't hungry?" Mrs. Pierce asked me, picking up the tray of breadsticks from the table. "There's plenty of pasta left, you hardly ate any."
"I'm fine, really," I insisted. "I'm still full from lunch."
"Okay," she conceded, picking up a serving dish half full of pasta in her other hand and walking back into the kitchen area. Brittany's foot poked mine. This time I couldn't contain the grin that pushed to my lips. Brittany's own grin was triumphant as she picked up her empty plate from the table and carried it to the sink. I followed with my own, placing it next to hers in the kitchen sink, where Mrs. Pierce had begun to wash the dishes and Mr. Pierce stood next to her, dishtowel in hand, ready to dry.
"Santana, have you talked to your parents recently?" Mrs. Pierce asked, scrubbing a plate.
"I left my mom a message a few hours ago," I told her. "To let her know where I am and that I'm safe. But I should probably call her back."
"Yes, you should. She should be able to come home from work soon, right?"
I nodded, but I wasn't entirely sure. "I think so."
Mr. Pierce joined the conversation. "You said she works in the city?"
"Yeah, she does," I replied. "At the UC Hospital."
"Okay, I know where that is," he told me, placing a clean plate in a cabinet to his right. "I just commuted back from Denver, traffic is a bitch."
"Alan," Mrs. Pierce scolded. She looked to the counter to see if Emily had heard.
"Sorry, a bear," he corrected with a wink. I smiled a tiny, close-mouthed smile. Mrs. Pierce shook her head. "Tell her to keep that in mind. I think everyone's parents are trying to commute back from the city right now," he explained.
I nodded. "Do you want to go call her from my room?" Brittany asked from her position on my right.
"Yeah, sure," I said, turning to follow Brittany out of the kitchen.
"Tell her about that traffic!" Mr. Pierce called from the kitchen, his voice filling the hallway as Brittany led me back up the stairs, her hand finding that same spot on the banister. It came to my attention that it was one of her quirks. She shook her head at her father's persistence.
We were back in Brittany's room in less than half a minute, and Brittany turned on the lamp that rested at the foot of her bed. Late afternoon light filtered in through Brittany's window. I sat on her bed next to her, avoiding the stack of my clothes that I had worn during the school day. We both sat the same way we had on the couch, but we were facing each other, so our bare feet were touching. Goosebumps rose on both of my legs as they tingled. The feeling was satisfying, in an electric way.
Brittany fished the red cell phone out of one of her sweatpants pockets and pressed it into my opened palm. She leaned back on her elbows, the navy material of the sweatpants stretching across her crotch to accommodate the new position. I took the phone and typed my mother's number for the third time that day.
I made eye contact with Brittany, and she gazed back at me with crisp blue eyes. Neither of us blinked. I listened to the phone ringing. She picked up on the second ring.
"Mom, it's me."
"Thanks for calling, mija. I'm just getting ready to leave work," she told me. I breathed a sigh of relief. I had missed her voice more than I realized. I blinked, breaking the stare Brittany and I had been holding.
'You lose,' she mouthed, blinking and curling her mouth into a smug grin. I shook my head and rolled my eyes, smiling shyly at her.
"Santana?" My mother was asking.
"Oh, sorry, what?" I replied, putting my hand up in front of me to shush Brittany, who fell backwards onto the quilt with a thump and an exaggerated sigh.
"I was asking if you knew the address of Brittany's house," she restated. "I'll be able to pick you up in about an hour or so."
"Okay, good," I said. "Let me ask her."
I covered the phone with my hand and asked Brittany what her address was. Brittany told me and I repeated the information into the phone.
"Alright, thank you, Santana. Are you okay?"
"Yeah," I said, quietly. "I'll be alright. I just want to see you."
"Me too. I'm so glad you're safe," my mom told me, and I could hear her getting choked up.
"I know, mama. I'll see you soon, okay? Come home quickly," I said into the phone.
"I'm leaving right now. Goodbye, Santana, I love you."
"I love you too, mama." I hit the end button and tossed the phone onto Brittany's stomach. She caught the device before it hit her and slipped it back into her pocket.
"That was easy, right? Will she be here soon?" Brittany asked.
"She's on her way," I told her.
Brittany smiled. "Did you tell her about the traffic?"
"Oh no!" I faked exasperation and slapped my hand to my forehead. Brittany giggled at my joke and sat up quickly, wrapping her arms around my middle and uncrossing her legs in one motion. She pushed me onto the bed, pinning me down. Her body hovered over my own. I blinked up at her, and the tingling raced over my body. The entire thing happened in less than two seconds. She grinned.
"I should punish you for that," Brittany said, holding her body in a catlike stance above my own. A sliver of pale, taught skin revealed itself below her t-shirt. She saw me looking, and my heart thundered in my chest while I caught my breath. I waited for her to do something, but I wasn't exactly sure what she was doing. While I was thinking, she dropped her entire weight on me and began to tickle my stomach mercilessly.
I shrieked with laughter and tried to roll her off of me as I tossed my head back and pushed at her shoulders. She continued to tickle me, moving from my stomach to my underarms and my sides. I tried to roll out from under her, but she followed me where I went, her long fingers rubbing at the fabric of the borrowed t-shirt.
"Brittany!" I gasped for air. "Stop it!"
She laughed like a maniac. "I got you to laugh!" She stated triumphantly, rolling off of me to lie at my side on the bed. "I thought you never would!" Her feet touched the headboard and she rolled onto her left elbow, propping her head on her hand. I ignored her stare and continued gasping. I hadn't been tickled in years, but I was absolutely still victim to uncontrollable laughter when I was. At least that hadn't changed with age.
Brittany was still watching me, a smug smile on her face, proud of herself for making me laugh.
"I like you," she said abruptly. Her blue eyes blinked.
I turned my head to find her eyes. "I like you too," I told her. I honestly did, I concluded. I liked Brittany Pierce. It had been a while since I had made a friend, or even had a decent friendship. "We should be friends."
"I thought we already were," she remarked, but the smile on her face told me there was no hostility accompanying the statement. I couldn't help but smile back. Brittany fell back onto the bed, bringing her arms back to her sides. We both looked at the white ceiling as the daylight faded from the room.
"I'm glad you think so," I said. "Can I tell you something?" I hadn't meant to have such a deeply emotional conversation before I left Brittany's, but I felt obliged to tell her what I was thinking. She was my friend now.
"Yeah, sure," Brittany said casually. I didn't look over at her, but I knew she was relaxed on the bed. Her breathing was even.
"I feel safe with you. I have since earlier today, and I want to be able to keep feeling safe," I explained, keeping my hands palms down on the bed. I knew I was rambling, but Brittany didn't speak up to stop me, she just listened. "So like… would it be cool if we hung out sometime this week? Like soon?" I knew I sounded desperate, but I wasn't sure what I would do if I went home and had a nightmare. My mom certainly wouldn't be of much help. I felt like I needed Brittany; I needed to touch her, to be next to her, to talk to her. I knew that I would be alone in the house for the next few days. I highly doubted we would go to school tomorrow, or even the rest of the week, even though it was only Tuesday. And I also highly doubted that my mom would be able to take off of work for those three days.
"Of course," she told me, and I relaxed instantly. Knowing I would see her again was comforting. My heart felt less heavy. Her fingers brushed my right hand and I stilled them, intertwining my fingers with her longer ones. Her hand was warm. I sighed, content.
"How can I call you?" I asked suddenly, trying to work out the details of our next meeting in my foggy head.
"Hold on," she told me, releasing my hand and rolling off of the bed. She walked over to the table at the foot of her bed. Missing the warmth of her hand, I settled for the warm spot on the comforter. I casually rolled onto my stomach into the area where she had just left and propped my head up in my hands so I could see where she was going. She took a pen out of a mug full of pens and pencils and took a pink post-it note from a stack by her lamp. She clicked the pen once and began scribbling on the post-it that rested in her palm. I watched her write, studying the creases in her forehead while she scribbled down her contact information.
She walked back over to the bed and sat down by my side, folding her legs beneath her and handing me the post-it. I took it and looked at it, observing her bubbly handwriting. Her number was on the page under her name.
"Why did you write your name?" I asked. "I'm pretty sure I won't forget it."
"Sometimes I forget my middle name," she said honestly, her expression serious. "It happens."
I watched her expression, waiting for a smile, or even a "just kidding," but neither came.
"Right," I said, drawing out the 'i' sound. She nodded seriously. I folded the paper in my hand and placed it on top of my clothes.
"Should I change back into those?" I asked, pointing at the stack. The idea sounded extremely unappealing.
Brittany shook her head. "No, of course not. I'll see you soon, right? You can give me the clothes then."
I nodded. I was glad not to be wearing my clothes from earlier in the day, and I was glad to have a legitimate reason to see Brittany again. I would wash her clothes as soon as I had time at home, which would probably be tomorrow.
The silence that followed our short conversation was clumsy and awkward; we had neither my tears, or Forrest Gump, or Brittany's family to distract us, and now I wasn't sure what to say to Brittany. She seemed at a loss for words as well, and we sat in silence. A little while later she reached for my hand, looking into my eyes, and I swore she could see the happiness I found in the simple gesture. Her thumb rubbed the spot on my hand she had been paying attention to earlier in the day. I smiled.
Before long the doorbell was ringing through the house, and Brittany jumped at the noise. We both got off of the bed, the shift in weight causing the mattress to creak in its frame. I scooped my clothes and the phone number post-it into my arms and pulled my shoes onto my bare feet while Brittany waited for me at the doorway. Feeling absolutely ridiculous in my shoes and flannel pajama bottoms, I descended the carpeted stairs after Brittany for the second time that day and emerged onto the first floor to find my tiny mother with her arms locked around Mrs. Pierce in a massive hug.
"Thank you," she was telling her. "For keeping my baby safe."
Mrs. Pierce was hugging her back. "You're welcome," she said, and then repeated it. "We're lucky to have her."
My mother wiped a tear from her eye. She had never been an affectionate woman; compliments from her were blunt and hard to come by, sounding insincere to anyone who didn't know her. She rarely hugged me. I assumed that my tendency for affection after tragedy was hereditary; I had never been as touchy-feely with anyone before, and I had never seen my mother like this. It was an unusual sight to witness.
Mama finally realized I had entered the room, and quickly crossed the small foyer to wrap her arms around me. The hug was stiff and unfamiliar, but still welcome, and I found that tears had begun to collect in my eyes. She was shorter than I was, her head only coming up to my chin. She rested her head on my shoulder as she hugged me and I breathed in her familiar perfume and the slight antiseptic smell that always hung around her after work. It was different from the lavender smell of the Pierce home, but it was pleasant nonetheless. I welcomed the comforting smell.
"I'm so glad you're safe," she whispered into my ear. "I love you, Santana, I'm so sorry this happened," she breathed, tears from her cheeks spilling onto my shoulders.
"It's okay, Mama," I told her.
She seemed to realize that there were other people in the room and she stepped back to hold one of my wrists at arm's length, reluctant to let me go. She straightened her scrubs.
"Please say thank you," she told me, her voice regaining some of its sterner edge that I had grown up listening to.
"Thank you, Mrs. Pierce. And Brittany. For the clothes, for the food, for everything. I feel very lucky," I told the two blondes, who were now standing shoulder to shoulder. Brittany was a few inches taller than her mother. I looked between the two, from one pair of blue eyes to the other.
"You're always welcome here," Mrs. Pierce told me. "We would love to have you back."
Brittany smiled at me, nodding to show her agreement with her mother's invitation. I didn't think when I approached her to hug her; I only knew that I needed to. She was a good hugger; her arms encircled my waist, bringing my body to hers, and my arms found her neck as I pressed my face into her shoulder.
"Thank you," I whispered, so that only she could hear. "I'll see you soon."
"Definitely," she whispered back, and I pulled away, smiling at her. She smiled back.
"Are you ready to go, Santana?" my mother asked. "Do you have everything?"
"Yes," I replied, walking back to stand next to my mother. Her bony hand wrapped itself around my right wrist. Her touch wasn't as comforting as Brittany's.
"Thank you again," my mother told Brittany and her mother, who opened the door to usher us out. My mother's car was parked in the street in front of Brittany's house. We walked down the sidewalk to the street and got into the car, where I leaned my head back against the headrest and closed my eyes.
My mother got in after me and buckled her seatbelt. Her hands shook as she turned the key in the ignition. She gripped the wheel with white knuckles, steeling herself.
"I can't believe this," she said. "I can't believe this happened to you, to that school, to those kids."
I shook my head, twisting my hands in the fabric of Brittany's shirt. My own clothes rested on my lap, the pink post-it on top.
She put the car into reverse and pulled out of Brittany's street and onto Pierce Street. We only lived about five minutes from Brittany's house; it could be considered walking distance, if you really wanted to walk; the distance was only a mile. That day, Pierce Street was packed with news vans and a helicopter flew above us. My house was further than the school from Brittany's, so we drove south. This car ride wasn't as quiet as the one from that morning.
"Have you seen any of the news?" my mother asked me, glancing at me briefly before returning her line of sight back to the crowded road.
"A little bit. What's going on? Where are the shooters?"
She glanced at me again, remaining silent.
"They shot themselves," she said darkly. "Fucking cowards killed themselves in the goddamn library."
I was appalled. All of that, all the talk of blowing up the school, and that's it? They committed suicide? Had it been planned like that all along?
"How many people died, mom?" I asked, fearing her answer.
She paused. "They think it's thirteen, but they haven't finished going through the school yet. And then the two killers deaths, so that makes fifteen."
Part of me believed that the way they ended their lives was cowardly; they didn't want to live to face the justice system. Another part of me was relieved that they were dead, relieved to know that they would no longer be on the earth to hurt anyone. Not me, or Brittany, or my parents. A separate, compassionate part of me broke down when I heard the number of deaths. It was irrational for me to believe that everyone could have survived, but it was sickening to know that what happened in the library was real and as terrible as I had thought. I immediately felt sympathy for those students and their families.
"Santana, where were you when it all happened?" she looked at me, her eyes searching my face for some reaction.
"The library," I whispered.
Her face paled, becoming ashen. I knew she had to have seen it on the news, all of the murders in the library.
"What?" She stuttered, paling further still.
"The library, mom. I was in the library, hiding under a table with Brittany while they ran around and shot under the fucking tables." I hadn't realized I raised my voice, but I yelled at her through tears that were running down my face. I cried into my hands, pushing at my eyes with balled fists to make the memories go away.
"Oh my god," she whispered. "You could've… you could've…" She trailed off, her words replaced with tears that were running down her face.
She couldn't even say it. I didn't want her to.
We pulled into the driveway and my mom fumbled with her key at the side door while I waited behind her. We entered the dark house, and she immediately flipped on the living room light and dropped her bag next to the door. She sat down on our dated couch and held her head in her hands. Her tiny frame shook with quiet sobs. I sat down next to her and tentatively placed my hand between her shoulder blades. I rubbed her back, hoping to calm her in the same way Brittany had calmed me down in her kitchen at lunch. I had never seen my mom so weak and helpless, and I was scared.
She should be comforting me, I thought. Like Brittany had. I already missed Brittany; her hair, her smile, her touch, her voice, her eyes. Everything. I looked at the post-it on top of my clothes, which I had placed on the floor next to the couch. I wanted to see her again.
After an indefinite amount of time, my mom stopped crying and took both of my hands in her own. "If there is anything you need," she said, "I am here for you. Just tell me what you need."
"Okay," I whispered, pulling her in for another hug.