Shooter Read online

  Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

  Just breathe, like Coach Dufour says. Sometimes even that is hard enough. My chest tightens. It’s so freaking hot in this stupid costume.

  Inhale. Exhale. Deep. Slow.

  Nerd Girl stares at the floor but doesn’t sit down. Izzy goes back to her phone. I pick up the fisher head and twist one of the whiskers around my finger. I knew this mascot crap was a stupid idea. I told him. But Wilson called it an “opportunity,” a “chance to give back to the school.”

  Give back? What the hell did St. F-this ever give me?

  Like you deserve anything anyways.

  And Wilson is all, “It’s not too late to redeem yourself.” How will jumping around in a fur suit, making a total fool out of myself in front of the whole school, on purpose, do me any good? Why does Wilson even care, anyways? There’s no redeeming me. I know that. My teachers know that. They’ve given up asking why I miss work, miss class, miss detention. I can tell by the way they look at me. The way Dad looks at me. The way Izzy doesn’t look at me. They’ve all given up on me. Why won’t Wilson?

  Screw it. I’m not doing it. He can expel me if he wants.

  The whisker snaps, uncoiling itself from my purpled finger.

  Izzy looks over at me and rolls her eyes again. This time, I rip out a whole fistful of whiskers. She just snorts and goes back to texting.

  But Nerd Girl can’t stop watching me, all wide-eyed and twitchy. She looks away when I catch her staring. Hell, she’s even trembling. Yeah. She’s afraid of me. Can’t stand being near me. Whatever. I get it, though.

  I can’t stand to be around me either.

  We sit for a few minutes, the silence broken by the click-click of Izzy’s texting. A sound she could have muted, but no, not Izzy.

  “Ughhh,” Izzy moans in her overly dramatic way, like she’s always on stage. Like we’re always her audience. But I can’t stop watching. “Why do we even have these drills? Hello? This is Birchtown. The boonies. Geez, it’s not like we’re living in some inner-city gangland.”

  “Maybe it’s not a drill,” Nerd Girl says. “Maybe it’s another one of those pranks. It is a Friday.”

  “I doubt it,” Izzy says. “You think those idiots would try pranking a lockdown?”

  “Well, idiots aren’t typically known for being intelligent,” Nerd Girl says. She looks at me and her face goes all red. “Not that you’re an idiot…I mean…statistically speaking…uh, jocks and…criminals aren’t very…”

  She mumbles on.

  Yeah, a lockdown prank sounds exactly like something those guys would do. They’ve been pulling the fire alarm every Friday for weeks now, setting up their stupid jokes after we evacuate, then painting their red-circled X. It’s all over the school, like it’s their calling card. Total Marvel rip-off. Some kids even started wearing homemade T-shirts with the X or “Brotherhood of Mutants.” Lame. Still, I got to miss a few tests thanks to these X-Men geeks. I glance down at my costume. And maybe even the dumbass pep rally today. But, even I have to admit, a lockdown is taking this prank thing to a whole other level.

  “Wilson’s not gonna like this.” Izzy rolls her eyes. “At that last assembly two weeks ago, he told the whole school that if the pranks didn’t stop, our extracurriculars would. Can you believe it?! No dance. No sports. He even threatened to cancel my prom.” She shakes her head in frustration. I knew somehow she’d make even this about her. “Why do I have to suffer because some stupid X-morons, whoever they are, get off on playing stupid pranks? It’s not my fault…” She glances back at her phone, more interested in whatever conversation is going on there.

  I don’t blame her.

  ISABELLE

  BRI: Where you at?

  Helloooo—earth to Izzy? You back in class? Getting the evil eye from Carter because your phone keeps buzzing?

  BUZZ!!

  BUZZ!!

  BUZZ!!

  Mwah ha ha ha!

  IZZY: Got caught in the stairwell putting up flyers.

  You’ll never guess where I ended up.

  Or with who.

  BRI: Library?

  Not the psycho janitor’s closet?

  IZZY: Worse.

  BRI: I dunno…that closet’s pretty creepy.

  Lead pipe, in the conservatory, with Colonel Mustard?

  IZZY: Try: Hogan. With a joint. In the boys’ bathroom.

  BRI: OMG!!! EWWWWW!!!!!!!!

  Hands off!

  IZZY: Nice. It was a long time ago.

  Just one kiss.

  Do you have to keep bringing it up?

  BRI: :/

  I meant the bathroom—that’s like ground zero for boy cooties.

  Seriously. I saw a documentary on that.

  Don’t even touch the walls.

  IZZY: Too late.

  BRI: Ew. Ew. Ew. Go wash your hands.

  IZZY: No thanks. Sink looks like a science experiment.

  BRI: So…Hogan? Seriously? Is it just the 2 of you?

  IZZY: No. Another girl. At least I’m not the only one.

  BRI: Who?

  IZZY: I forget her name.

  That weird guy’s sister.

  BRI: ?

  IZZY: The one that mops with the janitors in the caf.

  BRI: Noel?

  IZZY: Ya. His sister.

  Wears those dog T-shirts and that fanny pack.

  BRI: Oh ya. Dresses like a tourist.

  IZZY: Well she’s lost for sure.

  BRI: LOL! Lost in the 80s.

  IZZY: Where are you?

  BRI: Main office. Under secretary’s desk by the copiers.

  Wilson can’t see me txt here.

  I was photocopying more flyers when he called lockdown.

  IZZY: Weird time to have a drill.

  BRI: You shoulda seen the secretaries bolt.

  Single file to the staff room. You’d think it was real.

  IZZY: Probably “hiding” in the staff room cracking open their TGIF wine.

  BRI: So did Darren ask you to prom yet?

  IZZY: No. Why?

  BRI: Just wondering.

  IZZY: Maybe he’s taking his time–working on a big promposal.

  Maybe this drill is it.

  Dress up like a cop and go door-to-door looking for me.

  Give me a rose, ask me to prom and charge me with “stealing his heart.”

  *sigh*

  BRI: You think Wilson would let him do that? A lockdown is a big deal.

  IZZY: Hello?! So is my prom. We only get to do this once…And it has to be perfect.

  BRI: He would look hot in a uniform. Just saying.;)

  IZZY: He’s taking so long to ask.

  I worry he’s thinking about asking someone else.

  I know, I’m being stupid.

  BRI: Really?? WHO? Did he say anything?

  IZZY: No. Just a feeling I get sometimes.

  BRI: Who knows, Iz, someone else might sweep you off your feet.

  Maybe even the Hulk.;)

  Throw you over his shoulder.

  Neanderthal style.

  Fisher costume–kinda like a uniform.

  Might be hot…

  …and you are such an animal lover. :P

  IZZY: Don’t. Even. Go there.

  If Darren doesn’t ask, I’m not going.

  BRI: WHAT?! You have to go!! You’ve been planning it all year.

  The band. The decorations. Your dress! OMG the dress!

  IZZY: Like I wanna show up SOLO at my prom.

  What would everyone think?!

  Not gonna happen. I’d rather stay home.

  BRI: Officer Scott just arrived.

  IZZY: Good. They should start unlocking the rooms soon.

  The sooner this drill is over the better.

  BRI: Hot cop with him, too.

  IZZY: You need help. Seriously.

  ALICE

  The pounding in my head eventually slows to a pulse in the growing lump. What I need is ice, but for now a cold compress will do. Com
e to think of it, didn’t the Hulk give me one just as Isabelle burst in? Didn’t he try to help me up? Maybe he is telling the truth. After all, being a total klutz sounds way more like me than being the desired target of a sexual assault. I stand next to him as I crank the paper towel, rip it off, and move to the opposite side of the sink, as far as possible from where he sits.

  He is the Hulk, after all.

  The foot pedal squeaks as I press it. A pathetic trickle of water drips onto my wadded paper towel. The Hulk sits on the other side of the marble trough, staring intently at the stall doors across from him, breathing fiercely. Sidelong I watch him, mesmerized by his energy and intensity, the way the muscles in his cheek and jaw clench, how his nostrils flare as he inhales and exhales. He’s a mass of angry muscle just looking for a reason to charge, kind of like the bull at our neighbor’s farm. Gran always warned me about it, told me to never EVER cross that fence. Yet, here I am inside its very pen.

  “I think it’s wet enough,” he says, not looking at me.

  I jump and the sopping paper falls into the filthy basin, but there is no way I’m going near him to get more. I pat my wet hands against my hot face and neck, mumble something about needing to cool off, and move to the corner farthest from him and closest to the door. Sitting on the floor on the other side of the gym bag, I try to do what I do best: disappear.

  Most of my life I’ve felt invisible. In fact, I kind of like it that way. There are no threats or expectations, no misunderstandings, no mistakes when you’re just watching. I love to read life. From afar, that is. Body language. The sounds or smells of a setting. How all the pieces come together, or how they symbolize something bigger. It’s like I’m there, but not really, so my brain is free to read all those details other people probably miss. Ms. Carter said that’s why my own writing is so strong. I soak up what I see and put it in my stories. I’ve got about twenty notebooks full of them. Not that anyone ever reads them, except for Ms. Carter. I’ve shown her a few. That was the first time I ever felt like maybe I wanted to be seen. Maybe I wanted to be heard. That maybe, in some small way, I mattered too.

  Now I wish I hadn’t shown her. Not because she said they were terrible. No, Ms. Carter did something worse—she said they were amazing. Riveting. That’s the word she used. She told me that I had a great voice, original ideas, and, worst of all, that I should apply to UBC’s Creative Writing Program. I wish she hadn’t told me that. Because I would not have dared to dream it otherwise. I would not have made a portfolio or filled out an application. I would not have gotten the e-mail that arrived yesterday from the University of British Columbia, the one that that broke my heart.

  I could blame Ms. Carter for that. But really, it’s my fault, for getting my hopes up. I should have known better. I should have stayed invisible.

  The e-mail.

  I remember now. I had just left Writer’s Craft class for my appointment with Mrs. Goodwin, my guidance counselor, when Mr. Wilson called the lockdown. Just as well, I figured. I’d printed the e-mail from UBC to show her. I knew she’d want to talk about it. But really, why bother? How was sitting in Mrs. Goodwin’s office, sucking on a Lifesaver, squirming under the weight of her concerned gaze, going to make any difference? Pity is the last thing I need. Or want. Besides, talking won’t change anything. I am not going to UBC.

  But by the time I got back to class, Ms. Carter was in full lockdown mode. Lights out. Door locked. She’d even covered the long rectangular window with her Snoopy poster: “Be the author of your own life.” I knocked anyway, called out, jostled the handle only to hear shuffling, giggling, shushing—but no one let me in. They were gathered in the dark corner trying to make each other laugh. Trying to secretly text their friends doing the exact same thing in every other room. That door wasn’t opening until the police or the principal unlocked it. And getting caught by them, out there like that, would not only ruin Principal Wilson’s perfect lockdown drill record, but also my invisible life. I could just imagine being the lockdown loser—the butt of everyone’s jokes. Bad enough my own class was laughing at me, I didn’t need the whole school mocking me, too.

  I remember trying the door to the women’s washroom in the far corner down the hall. I banged on the locked door a few times but no one opened it either. At the other end of the hall, the stairwell handle clanged as someone pulled on the latch and, instinctively, I lunged for the next door on the other side of me. MEN. Vandalized, just like every men’s room door here, with a helmet drawn in red Sharpie on the man icon standing beside the wheelchair one, and that big red X before the word MEN. But I hardly gave it—or the fact that I was resorting to the men’s room—a second thought. I needed to hide.

  I shoved the door—relieved to feel it give way as I blundered in. I barely glimpsed the red bag by the entrance as I tripped over it, or the marble sink on the right that I tried to avoid as I fell. But the last thing I saw before slamming my head was what surprised me most: a six-foot, 250-pound rabbit in a plaid vest, standing at a urinal.

  “I remember now,” I say, clearing my throat. “I did trip coming in.”

  Absorbed by her tiny screen, Isabelle completely ignores me.

  Indifferent, the Hulk flicks his ash on the floor.

  Just as well. I’m not looking to be noticed by either of them. Especially him. But I can’t help but wonder: What is his story. Where do all those rumors come from? And if Isabelle hadn’t come in…what would he have done? My mind pulls at threads, trying to weave his story in a way that doesn’t leave my stomach in knots.

  We’ve been in here just a few minutes and it already feels like a lifetime. Maybe I’m picking up on their feelings—his anger or her irritation. Sometimes my empathy overwhelms me. Or maybe it’s just a mashup of my fears: being trapped…feeling exposed and vulnerable. Antsy, that’s the word. Either way, I want out. Now. If only there were a DRINK ME bottle or an EAT ME cake. A magic mirror. A tiny door—I’d take it. I’d take anything over this.

  Poor Noah. This must be how he feels most of the time. I hug my legs and rest my forehead on my knees. Ten more minutes. I can do ten more minutes in here, can’t I?

  I reason it through. Isabelle has a phone. Worst-case scenario, we call for Mr. Wilson to come let us out first in his drill rounds. Surely he will, if Isabelle Parks asks. Besides, most drills only last about fifteen minutes, and if Noah can do it, so can I.

  I think about my brother. Period 4 is his quiet time with Kim. And even though she’s absent today, the supply educational assistant is with him. There’s space in the High Needs room—much more than in here. Books to keep him quiet. Of the two of us, I’d say Noah is the lucky one.

  For a change.

  NOAH

  HOGAN

  I stub the joint on the tile and flick it at the wall. With a ping, it ricochets off the rusty towel box beside Izzy. She looks up, disgusted, and just goes back to her texting.

  Man, I’d give anything to have her see me like she did that day back in grade 10. When I scored that touchdown. When I felt like I could do almost anything because of how she looked at me—like I was awesome. Because of her, I believed it too.

  And at the bush party later that night, how she sat next to me on the log and leaned in. Man, she was beautiful. Hair swept high in a ponytail, firelight glowing on the curve of her neck. Her face warm. And her eyes dark and sparkling as she smiled at me. I just wanted to kiss her—and next thing, I did. Isabelle Parks—the girl every guy wanted. And she wanted me. Hogan King.

  I wish I could go back two years. Back to that night. And stay there. Forever.

  Before everything happened. Before I was this loser, stinking of weed and sweat in a mangy Value Village reject costume, sitting on the bathroom floor.

  Oh ya, Hulkster, she must find you irresistible now.

  I got a glimpse of what it must be like for guys like Darren Greene or my brother Randy. But who am I kidding? That kind of life, that kind of love—it’s not for me.

  After Rand
y died, everything changed. Nothing matters any more. Mom and Dad. Teachers. Wilson. Everyone looks at me like I’m a problem. A problem they can’t solve. The ones I never get on Hurley’s math tests. Solve for X. I gave up trying to make sense of it. I gave up talking about it. They can ask the question fifty different ways but sometimes X is just a dumb X. Nothing more.

  Once a loser, always a loser.

  “That’s my last one,” I say to her, nodding at the butt on the floor by her feet. I want her to know. “I’m done with that crap. Just so you know.”

  “Right.”

  “No, seriously. I’m done.”

  “Whatever, Hogan. It’s your life. I don’t care.”

  And the thing is, she doesn’t. I can’t get mad at her for that, even though I am. She did care once—I had my chance with her and I blew it. Hell, I’ve blown a million chances these past two years—with football, school, my job, my parents. Coach Dufour tried to kick me in the ass a few times. But he didn’t get it. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t do anything but watch as it all went up in smoke.

  It’s like, whenever someone cares—I can’t. When they believe there’s still good in me, I go outta my way to prove them wrong. Because there can’t be good in me. There isn’t.

  Not after what I’ve done.

  Still, I made a promise to Coach not to buy any more weed. And I haven’t. I won’t. That doesn’t mean I’m about to let this last one go to waste. It’s not like I’m in training or anything. But if Dufour catches me, he’ll kick me out of Outdoor Ed, and honestly, it’s the only reason I come to school any more. Izzy’s right. I do hate school; I’m probably failing everything—but I like Coach’s class. When we go out on the trails up in the Gatineau Hills, it’s like I leave all that other crap behind. I blast my tunes, pump my legs until the sweat is dripping off me, just like I used to in football practice, and I feel myself rising above it all the more we climb. I swear, that is a high way better than any hit. Coach even brought in a mountain bike I could use when I said I didn’t have one.

  No pity. No judging. Not even after he found out what I did. He just brought in the bike. He’s all right, Coach Dufour—because he isn’t trying to make me into something I’m not.