The Angels

I run my fingers through my hair, not once but twice, to rub away the morning’s dullness. It’s too giddy a feeling to go to 3rd period even with the four-stair climb, because I know I get to sit next to you. 

You’re there, before me, per usual. I ask how your day is going and you say good and I say same and we say little nothings until Mr. Knaur starts class. I don’t remember what it was we were learning about. Perhaps igneous rock or the El niño year. 

Mr. Knaur interrupts lecture to throw in something about his golfing or skiing or fishing trip. You look to me and mouth here we go again.

We take notes in our AP Environmental Science notebooks, preparing for tomorrow’s notebook check. Our seats are right in front of the window, so the sun makes our paper extra white. Did you get that last part? I slide my notebook over. 

Another student, maybe Claire or maybe Colette, had been using their phone between their legs. Claire or Colette gets up and goes to the window. 

What is it? The class rings. Clare or Colette’s response is solely gauche. 

I turn my head, hoping to accidentally lock eyes with you, but you’re less eye-catching than the ambulance. The gurney. Mr. Sinclair? He always yells at us to get in from lunch. Straight to class Angels!

The speakers go off, their voice the word of God, all of us Angels look up. It used to be our principal who spoke, but technology is bound to replace such frequent endeavors. 

Mr. Knaur locks the door and keeps talking about his golfing or skiing or fishing trip. He bites a chicken wing and dips carrots in ranch while closing the blinds. 

You and I bring our notebooks to the floor and continue filling them in because lockdowns like these come more often than notebook checks. The time, it moves like mud, but I’m not afraid and you’re not either.

Mr. Knaur says we’re being evacuated bottoms up—4th floor is last.

…

I’ve played lots of Call of Duty with my brother. He always forced me, even though I wasn’t any competition. He’d knife me while I struggled to fire the first-tier gun. His tiers would advance, guns throwing bombs and fire and making the people inside the scope dance in green.

What tier are they at? Nearing end of mission it looks.

The SWAT officers yell at us to move orderly. I tuck my notebook safely in my bag before doing so.

The four flights of stairs go slower with my hands up. It isn’t so often you walk like that and I worry I’m going to fall. The guns upgrade as I progress, just like Call of Duty. I’m at the closeness where the game could surely be ended. I’d laugh when the game used to end, watching my character fall to the ground in a meek death. So I laugh now, although this game doesn’t cease. I know it’s not appropriate and I tell my mouth to stop but when it asks what to do instead I have no answer.

SWAT leaves us at the foyer in a sea of black vests and backpacks. Out of sight, out of mind, it seems they feel. 

We stroll to the school’s lot together, where our parking spots sit neighborly. Usually I’d have a rehearsed anecdote to dazzle you, but my geniality is subdued by the news, police, EMTs, and screaming parents. 

I had wished for class to bring us closer. I thought of all the ways I could milk it to do so; studying or a group project or notebook checks. But even my most creative of thoughts could not reach the scheme of an American reality—after all I did get my extra time.

…

The next day we turn in our notebooks at the front because a shooting is no reason to postpone a notebook check. We say our little nothings, ignoring the newly required dog tags draped on our chests that prove we’re East Angels. How fitting a mascot it is, given we just supplied Heaven with a new one.