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How to Stop a School Shooting Copyright © 2018 by B. K. Dell

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Cover art by wildEagles'99

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Printed in the United States of America

This novel is dedicated to my beautiful wife Eleasha, for whom—and from whom—I have scars.

How to Stop a School Shooting

By B.K. Dell

Tortured by constant failure, the individual becomes bitter. Disappointment and failure amalgamate, and produce a fantasy: the world is bent on my personal suffering, my particular undoing, my destruction. I need, I deserve, I must have—my revenge. That's the gateway to Hell.

—12 Rules for Life. Jordan B. Peterson

If any being felt emotions of benevolence toward me, I should return them a hundred and a hundred fold; for that one creature's sake, I would make peace with the whole kind! But now I indulge in dreams of bliss that cannot be realized.

—Frankenstein. Mary Shelley

Chapter One

Shane McCormick heard a sound he couldn't identify. Maybe it was the first drop of rain from an oncoming hurricane. It would uproot what people thought to be secure, topple what people thought to be mighty, and destroy their misguided sense of safety. Or perhaps it was a cat on the roof of a car that Shane was passed out in. He heard it again. Then three times in a row. Maybe rounds being loaded into a magazine. The next sound was louder—the palm of a hand striking a bolt catch. Then the clack of a mag being inserted into the well. Shane's mind faded in and out as he waited for the charging handle to snap into place. But there was silence. Something thumped his cheek. His facial muscles twitched. He was too out of it to open his eyes. Finally, he heard a thud. That had to have been the charging handle. The round is chambered now.

Something cold touched the right side of his face, and it forced him to slowly lift his head. He pulled the foreign object off his cheek and strained to open his eyes. It had a vibrant orange color and a fragrant aroma. It was wet and refreshing. It left his face and hands smelling sweet. Shane thought it was absolutely delightful. He rubbed it on his fingers a bit, then brought them up to sniff them. How majestic!

The other side of his face was wet too, but this wetness was warm like drool. It told Shane he must have been sleeping, but he had no idea for how long. He felt something in his beard and raised his hand to shake it out. An assortment of spitballs and torn pieces of bread fell to the floor.

Shane felt like he was slipping down into a dark drain. His world was becoming lower and darker and tighter. He could hear the infernal gurgling from the center of the drain, the point of no return. The basin must have been cavernous because the sound of the relentless gurgle came at Shane from all sides. It wouldn't stop. Or perhaps it was the loathsome sound of barking seals. It was haunting and horrible, and it made him angry.

Shane sat all the way up and was able to determine he was at school—actually at school. No drain. No rifle. No cat. No hurricane. He knew he was sitting at his usual table in the corner because it contained a single, lonesome bubble in the Formica.

Shane looked for his lunch tray but didn't have one. There were no wrappers left over to indicate he'd been eating lunch. He didn't even have his backpack, art pad, or laptop. His table, which was usually so empty, was littered with wads of paper, pencils, tater tots, apple slices, and orange slices.

An orange slice—that had to have been what hit me. How was it I didn't know that?

He'd been sleeping with his head on the lunch table, but he didn't remember entering the cafeteria. He didn't remember driving to school. The last thing he remembered was taking a few of his mom's Enzopryn. Or was it a lot?

He turned his head and saw a room full of students, table after table, face after face. They were the same ones who were always there and would be there for a hundred years. They were like props. They were the set design of a play. Shane McCormick was the actor. Shane McCormick... This was the first moment in his impaired mind's process of waking that he remembered he was Shane McCormick. The details of his entire existence came rushing back to him. Suddenly the orange slice was contemptible. It was boring and quotidian and lacked all magic.

And the students—they were worse. Human fodder! Worthless automatons! They were carbon-based carbon-copies, incapable of anything but base-level responses to stimuli. If you pounded out a beat, they would bob their heads. If you hit their knees with a hammer, they would swing their legs. If you talked about poop, they would laugh.

Human life was a mistake, and it was up to Shane to fix it. The population of the planet was a spill and Shane McCormick bore the onus of mopping it.

Shane still heard the terrible gurgling, but the sound had morphed into laughter. That's what it had been: cruel, mocking laughter. That's what it had always been. The students were watching his every move and laughing as usual.

Inside Shane's mind, the Enzopryn was vying with reality for control. It was like a weak radio signal being picked up by a remote receiver. In one second the effects of the drug would come through strong and clear; in the next second they'd be gone entirely, and he'd be Shane McCormick again.

The laughter from the students continued, and the thought came to Shane's mind—and this one must've truly been the effects of the Enzopryn—that perhaps they were somehow redeemable, that all his mocking tormentors were loved by someone, and that their lives were of infinite worth. Despite their posturing, they were being shoved through the same meat grinder as he. They were all being dragged through the same sewer; was it any surprise they'd all stink?

They were no worse than he. They were all susceptible to the same pressures of teenage life. If they bent under conditions which allowed very few to stand tall, was that reason to hate them? Judge them? Even murder them? Or maybe to reach out a helping hand?

These thoughts were who he was. This was the real Shane; he'd swear to it. While on Enzopryn, he felt like he was standing firmly at the end of a very long and well-built pier. Solid oak. The darkness, chaos, and terrors of the ocean lay beneath his feet and he had to fear none of it. It was medicine, after all. He was self-medicating. This was who he wanted to be. This was the person he abused his health, stole from his mother, and gambled his brain cells, just to be for a little while.

The memory of a question formed in his mind, Life? That was the question—the word life followed by a question mark. People? Society? These were the questions which had preoccupied his brain for the last four years.

Life? It was a referendum on existence itself—not just his existence, but all existence. Is there any value to human life whatsoever? And should Shane McCormick permit it to go on? Shane had begun to see the question as binary—yes or no, go on or end abruptly. The answer Shane formed to this question would be more consequential than anything these laughing simpletons would ever think, say, or do in their entire lives. An affirmative answer would bless every child and newborn baby of this world with love and best wishes. But a negative answer... what would that do?

Demand action, Shane answered his own question. A negative answer to the ultimate question would demand immediate and extreme action. He had the power, not they.

Shane looked around at his jeering schoolmates, having no idea what he'd done to entertain them. The laughter began to die down and he felt something in his hair. He reached his hand up to shake it out, and more spitballs and breadcrumbs fell to the floor. This produced another wave of laughter, and Shane's receiver lost the signal.

He fell from the safe pier of Enzopryn into the hopeless tempest of Shane McCormick.

He stood up to face the laughing crowd, but suddenly their faces looked demonic, and their eyes shone with a malevolent delight. It horrified him.

Vile demons! Be gone! I hate you. I hate you with the power of an eleven-ton bomb. I hate you like seven hundred rounds of an M16. I will be the cause of your suffering and the day can't come soon enough. The breath will slip out from your body unmourned. And your flesh will be left for worms and maggots. Truly, the fires of Hell do not burn hot enough for you.

The answer to Life? was No and the answer to People? was his bump stock.

The laughter intensified, and Shane wanted to hide. But there was nowhere to hide. He wanted to flee. He made a move to run, but the demons had frozen his feet and he fell to the ground. He landed hard on his knee, elbow, and jaw, but didn't actually feel it. He raised his head from the filthy cafeteria floor to look at the crowd. They seemed to move in tighter, ever tighter. He could feel their sulfur breath on his neck and their icy claws piercing his skin, pulling him down, wanting to drag him to eternal damnation.

He was completely surrounded when, stepping through the crowd of demons, he saw a magnificent creature. Her skin was like brushed bronze, dark but with the slightest hints of red-tones in the highlights. Her eyes were like doors that were never locked and always open, like a church or a hospital, offering love and acceptance, giving and giving and giving, asking nothing in return. Night after torturous night, he'd dreamt of finding such a sanctuary, but she was far greater than he believed the world was capable of producing.

She literally put her body between the students' and his and blocked all the laughter from reaching him. But how was that possible? Their judgment and their mocking had been stabbing him like arrows from all sides, so he couldn't understand how she could block all of it, but she did. She must've had wings he couldn't see. She must've been an angel, and she used her heavenly wings to surround him like a cocoon. Like an embrace. The laughter stopped, and the condemnation was unable to pierce her protection.

The Enzopryn signal was suddenly back, or perhaps it was just her kindness that lifted him from the waves. He considered a proposition that was both brand new and abundant in hope: the answer to Life? was love and the answer to People? was a single teenage girl.

The angel reached down her hand, offering to help him up. But who was he to touch an angel? He dare not touch her! He wasn't deserving. He tried to get up himself but couldn't. He made it to his knees but then fell back to the ground and rolled onto his back.

When the intoxicated boy had fallen to the ground a second time, it provoked more laughter. Keisha saw he was in no condition to stand and so did not offer her hand again. She opened her purse and pulled out a small plastic pack of wet wipes she liked to keep handy. She pulled out two and gathered them into a wad. She pressed them against his skin and tried to scrub his forehead clean. As she worked, she chastised herself for not doing anything sooner. She had watched Brody Tanner take a permanent marker to this poor guy's forehead while he was sleeping, but instead of trying to stop it, she just marveled: Why doesn't he wake up? There was a lot Keisha did not understand about drugs, and this was her first exposure to anyone in such a condition. But she knew about cruelty, and she knew Brody Tanner was a jerk. She had even watched Brody tie both his shoelaces together. She didn't laugh like everyone else, but she sure stood by and did nothing.

His face showed no response to her cleaning it. It was strange for Keisha to see how he was there, but also not there. The word on his forehead would not come completely off, but Keisha was happy that she was able to blur it. Satisfied that it would never be read again, she made her way over to his shoes.

She knelt at his feet and bent over him to untie his laces from each other. She had trouble getting the knots out, so it took a long time. The cafeteria was silent, and she looked up to see everyone watching her with a strange curiosity. But none of their faces were quite as ambivalent as the intoxicated boy's. He watched her with an eerie detachment. His vacant eyes could track her movements—with a little bit of delay—but Keisha wondered how much he actually saw and understood.

She got the laces untied so they were no longer unsafe. He wasn't in danger of falling like that again. He could walk. So she stood back up and considered walking away herself, but something kept her there in place.

She released a deep sigh and knelt back down beside his feet. With the eyes of the crowd on her—and the blank eyes of the boy—she bent over and tied the laces of both his shoes. The silent crowd now began to murmur. Keisha ignored them as she tied two perfect double slip knots.

Finally, she stood up and reached down her hand again to help him up. This time he took it.

His skin touched hers, and Keisha panicked. She heard a gunshot. Then another. Then another. Rapid fire. Six of them. The cafeteria faded from her sight and was replaced with a series of horrifying visions. She saw students running in fear, crouched down in the hallway, and hiding under their desks. She heard them sobbing, and cursing, and crying out to God for help. She felt their fear. She saw police tape and sirens, ambulances and news vans. She saw students exiting the school in a line, all with their hands up. She saw bodies covered in white cloth. She saw a SWAT team advancing with rifles and officers being led by dogs. She saw students hugging and weeping, and crying into their cell phones with film crews closing in. She saw parents at gravesides and she felt their pain. She saw the intoxicated boy's face, but he was no longer intoxicated. His clothes were different and he was standing. His eyes were looking down; there was a toothpick hanging from his lips; and his hands were loading a rifle.

Then in a matter of seconds, the visions were gone. She was back in the cafeteria in the present. The boy rose all the way to his feet, and she watched him, still horrified by all she had just seen. His eyes remained staring at her for one chilling second. She saw no life, no soul. He didn't say a word but turned to leave.

Keisha raised her eyes slowly to finally look back at her fellow students. She saw innocent children. She studied them with eyes that had been changed forever. She knew what they didn't know. She stumbled a little to sit down so she wouldn't faint.
Chapter Two

Keisha had one job and she failed. She stood on the doorstep outside Duke Thompson's party, trapped. Her attempt to press the doorbell had been so timid, she wasn't sure it actually produced a noise inside. Now she was stuck.

She raised her hand to ring it again but froze. What if it had sounded and I were to trigger it again? Someone is probably making his way to the door right now; how pushy and rude would it seem to ring it again!

Keisha wasn't even sure if she was supposed to ring the doorbell or just walk inside. Or perhaps there was some secret knock which only the wealthy, good-looking kids knew.

This wasn't going well. Keisha had hoped to spot Molly outside so she wouldn't have to walk into this party alone. She was anxious to tell her about the excitement she'd missed at lunch and the vision she received while touching hands with a boy named Shane McCormick. It's what made Keisha decide to come.

The door still hadn't opened. She took advantage of the extra time and checked her outfit. Her bright yellow shirt with petal sleeves was cute, but she tugged at the bottom of it, wishing that it covered more of her butt. The red scrunchie, which pulled all her hair to the top of her head, was meant to be sassy. It declared, Who gives a rip what anyone thinks? Keisha was worried people wouldn't like it.

The door still hadn't opened. Surely it wouldn't be rude to ring a second time at this point. She raised her hand, but her heart grew faint. Keisha had been standing there awkwardly for a full five minutes before she decided to just leave. She could talk to Molly on the phone later; she didn't belong here. There were a million different situations in which Keisha actually liked herself, yet this party had filled her with self-loathing and she hadn't even made it through the door yet.

She turned to go but heard a click from the door latch. The music instantly grew louder and she saw Duke Thompson appear in the doorway. The expression on his face was far worse than she'd even been fearing—a mix of judgement, condemnation, and something else she couldn't quite define. Keisha opened her mouth to make a case for her whole existence, but he shoved her out of the way. She shuffled her feet in order to remain standing but Duke tumbled down to the bottom of the steps. A crowd of people pushed through the doorway behind him, nearly knocking Keisha off the steps as well. When Duke reached the grass, he promptly began to vomit.

The crowd remained on the safety of the steps, jeering and laughing. One guy even recorded the terrible scene on his phone. Duke finally stopped retching and tried to pull himself up. His knee slipped and he fell forward into his own vomit, much to the crowd's delight. Everyone laughed. Someone called out, "Puke Thompson!" And they laughed some more.

Keisha turned her face away quickly and went inside, more anxious to find Molly than ever.

The living room of Duke's parents' house was cavernous and dark. The air smelled like stale beer and cigarettes. There were two huge speakers in the corners, blaring what Keisha assumed was the latest hip-hop mess. She'd never heard the song before, but softer, less obnoxious music was enjoyed by prisoners of war. Keisha picked up on another smell in the air and thought it might be pot, though she'd never actually smelled pot before.

A guy she didn't recognize was smoking on the couch, but it appeared to be a normal cigarette. Keisha watched in horror as he knocked his ashes straight onto the floor. No one was watching him; they all had their eyes on the couple right next to him making out.

The girl on the couch had brown hair, and Keisha got a bad feeling. She stepped a few paces into the room to see the girl's face. She was relieved to see it didn't belong to Molly, but none of the other faces in the room did either, so Keisha headed to the kitchen.

In the kitchen, Keisha noticed that an assortment of knickknacks and photo frames had been moved to the corner of the counter, but the bowl of bright red apples strangely remained front and center, right next to an impressive collection of alcohol bottles. She saw Jack Daniels, Jose Cuervo, Bacardi, Wild Turkey, Smirnoff, Johnnie Walker, Goldschläger. There was enough alcohol for a small village—and that's if every member of that village had just been dumped.

Keisha remembered the only other time she'd been to one of Duke Thompson's parties. It was her freshman year, and some of the upperclassmen brought a cooler of beer. One cooler. There were probably six or seven people at that party drinking, total. That was only three years ago but it felt like a lifetime.

Keisha picked up an apple awkwardly, though she wasn't hungry. She saw that the Thompson's still kept their step stool folded up and tucked beside the refrigerator, and she couldn't help but reflect on that first party:

Keisha had awaited Duke Thompson's party like a child awaits Christmas. She thought about it every day. His parents were out of town and this was the first party Keisha had ever been to that didn't have adult supervision. She'd felt like she'd finally arrived, like she was embarking on an exciting journey and had just entered into the most wondrous leg of the trip. She was anxious to soak up some of the magic of high school. But half an hour into the party, she discovered it was the most boring party she'd ever attended. There was nothing to do but drink. And those who weren't drinking just stood there awkwardly like they were waiting for something to happen. The parties in junior high had dancing, or games, or snack trays. Keisha began to wonder if perhaps she'd gotten high school all wrong in her mind.

She had a choice to make. She could float adrift and let her high school experience define her, or she could fight the current and be the one who defined her high school experience. She grabbed the step stool from beside the refrigerator and climbed to the top step. With her chest puffed out and the enthusiasm of a fool, she banged on the side of her Snapple bottle and said, "I know a game we can play!" Her words were met with pockets of laughter, despite her not having said anything funny.

Keisha pushed on anyway. "No, I'm serious. We should totally play hide and seek."

This time everyone laughed.

"I'm serious. We're not doing anything anyway."

The people there stared up at her blankly.

"It's actually fun. I play it all the time with my niece and nephew," she foolishly added.

The people laughed again, and Keisha suddenly realized she was standing on a stool. How absurd. She couldn't believe the scene she was making. She began to climb down from the stool in embarrassing defeat.

Keisha shrugged off the memory. She was so much younger then. She knew better than to put herself out there like that now. It's too hard being laughed at, so Keisha had learned to avoid those situations. Perhaps she was just less fearful at fourteen. She hadn't yet encountered anything in life to fear.

She still hadn't spotted Molly, so Keisha headed out to the pool. There was a bigger crowd out by the pool. The Thompsons had a large hot tub and about a dozen people were in it. Aubrey Anderson looked incredible with one arm across the edge of the hot tub and one hand holding a red Solo cup in the air just as regally as if it were a champagne flute. Her hair wasn't wet and her face looked like she spent two hours with a makeup artist—one that really knew what she was doing. She had a beautiful girl on each side of her and they had their arms wrapped around Aubrey like hot girls in a rock video.

Tabitha had failed to bring her bathing suit and sat in the hot tub in just her bra and panties. Greg and Randy were in their boxers. Wendy Taylor had been out of the hot tub for so long she had time to dry, yet she still chose to remain in just her bra and panties. She stood mostly naked in a cluster of fully-clothed young men as if it were an unremarkable occurrence.

"Keisha?" She heard a voice. It was a male voice, not Molly. She turned to see Levi Young. "What are you doing here?" he asked, timidly raising his arm to initiate a hug. His words were slurred slightly and Keisha looked down and saw a bottle of Shiner Bock in his hand. Keisha leaned into his hug gladly, and when their bodies touched, she smelled Encounter. He still wears it.

Keisha was folding up the step stool in order to return it to its spot by the fridge when she heard a voice.

"I'd like to play."

She turned to see her defender step through the crowd. He had brown hair, brown eyes, and a round cherub face. They'd never met, but she knew his name was Levi. She'd seen him before but somehow never noticed how beautiful he was.

"It sounds fun," said Levi. He turned to the crowd and said enthusiastically, "I think we should play." His smile was so bright and his confidence so hypnotic, he was able to convince everyone there.

And that's how it came to pass that at Duke Thompson's first party freshman year, they kicked off their new lives as high schoolers by playing hide and seek.

Keisha pulled out of the hug and took a look at Levi. She smiled. "I'm trying to find Molly."

Levi smirked. He looked like he was trying to stop himself from saying something.

"Molly Edwards," she emphasized.

"That makes more sense," he said.

Levi's face had held onto its boyish charm but had also grown more angular since their freshman year. His features had become bolder and the lines of his face more committed. It gave him a very attractive sense of manliness. Keisha was surprised and relieved she could look at him and feel so little in her heart. Then he smiled. Heck. The smile was awkward and guarded, but still Keisha had to admit she felt something.

"Have you seen her?" she asked.

Levi shook his head. He motioned over to two empty seats at a patio table and said, "You can come hang out with us, though. Can I get you something to drink?" Levi led her to a table before she had the chance to object. The only open spot for her at the table was right next to Brody Tanner, and she had little choice but to take it.

Their chairs were all facing the pool, so Keisha had to turn a bit to see who else was at the table. Brody's girlfriend, Jessica was there, as well as Daryl Long and one more guy she didn't know. Keisha waved one smiling greeting to the whole table. Daryl nodded and raised his beer and Keisha thought she saw Jessica blink, so not bad.

"Um, Dr. Pepper," she answered as she turned back to Levi.

Brody heard her and laughed out loud without actually looking over to her.

Levi chuckled too, but in a good-natured way. He said, "I'll see if Duke has any." Unlike Brody, Levi was trying to put her at ease. He said, "I'm so glad to see you. You don't usually come to these parties."

She shook her head to confirm. "Do you?"

"Yeah."

"All of them?" she asked.

"Pretty much."

"Do you ever think of that night?" Keisha ventured.

Levi stared off and smiled.

After Levi had convinced the crowd, they ended up playing hide and seek until after midnight—the drunk and the sober alike—and they all had a blast.

They agreed to play one more round, and Keisha thought it'd be clever to hide in the stables. They'd never defined any area as off limits, but she figured no one would think to look there.

She found a spot tucked in behind the door to the stables, completely shrouded in darkness. She stepped into that abyss and nearly jumped out of her skin.

"Shhh!" Levi hissed at her, laughing.

"I guess we picked the same spot," she whispered.

"We?" he whispered, urgently. "There is no we. Get out of my spot!"

Keisha huffed and turned to walk off, but Levi grabbed her by the arm and pulled her into him. She couldn't see his face, but she heard what he must've heard: footsteps just outside the door. The footsteps appeared to come closer, so Levi pulled her in tighter so that no light would hit her.

They were close enough for her to smell his cologne, a scent she wasn't familiar with at the time.

"I've never laughed as hard as I did that night," Levi answered her. "What about you? Do you ever think about it?"

Keisha looked down. "Do kids ever play hide and seek here anymore?" She sidestepped actually answering his question.

Levi shook his head. "That was the only time. I guess we all think we're too old."

"Yeah," said Keisha, a little sad.

"I did try to start it once. I really did." Levi put a hand to his chin, trying to remember what'd actually happened. "Oh yeah, I had just gotten everyone to agree to it because I told them how much fun we'd had before. We were arguing about who would count first when Brody showed up with a bottle of Everclear." Levi laughed. "Man, that party was epic."

Keisha and Levi were hiding behind the stable door in complete darkness. She was right about no one thinking to check the stables. The two of them grew impatient and began to whisper in each other's ears. One of them would laugh, then the other would sshhh, but the sshhh would be louder than the laugh. This only produced more laughter, but still they managed to go undiscovered.

Levi leaned in close. With every word he said, she could feel his breath on her ear and neck, and it caused her to tingle all over. She touched his arm. It was strong. He touched her waist and she felt slender and delicate beneath his large hands.

It was the first time she had ever felt an emotion so strong. It was as if life swooped in at the last second and delivered to her the high school magic she had dreamed of. The feeling was like a long symphony, soft and gentle, but with a rhythm that kept stepping her forward. The heartbreaking strings drew her in, and the rousing percussions double-dared her. The music sounded euphonic, so she allowed it to fill her head, but she kept her heart covered.

Before she was even aware, the melody had slipped past her defenses and softened her resolve. She revealed her heart, but just ever so slightly.

His cheek brushed against her forehead. Then his lips did the same. He allowed his mouth to press into her skin, not quite a kiss but not accidental. The phantom music began to swell and so did her heart, and without warning it was completely exposed, open to him and begging him to receive it. He did so lightly, as if with a gentle mist. Soft and tingling. She tried to conceal her excitement but knew he could feel her accelerated breath on his neck. He lowered his lips toward her, the final movement, and she raised her head in order to meet them with hers.

The symphony culminated in an awesome crescendo, and her exposed heart was hit with a tidal wave of sound. It surrounded her, and she surrendered to it. The weight she always carried on her shoulders was lifted, and she experienced the joy of floating. Her heels lifted and then her toes. The moment her feet lost connection with the ground was the moment she lost all control. She belonged to the current now, and she was in over her head. She felt all the emotions true to life and youth: tremulous fear and aching love and lustful infatuation and grinding insecurity and wild, wild fantastic imaginings. She felt good being young and open to love. She felt that all life is sacred, and all people are good.

Far from being a bust, she believed the party ended up being the most consequential moment of her young life. They were both fourteen. It was Keisha's first kiss.

Keisha lowered her voice so Brody Tanner wouldn't hear. She asked, "Do you mean the party when we played hide and seek was epic, or the party with the Everclear?"

Levi looked down at the beer he was holding. He said, "B-both."

The music at this party was deafening, even outside. Beats fell like hammers, pounding Keisha's sensitive and naïve heart into the dirt. She frowned. Scanning the area, still hoping to see Molly, she happened to catch sight of Aubrey Anderson instead. Keisha felt a chill wind in the air. She leaned into Levi and gave her best impression of a ventriloquist, mumbling, "I think your girlfriend's mad at you."

Six weeks after their first kiss, she heard Levi had gone all the way with Aubrey behind Duke Thompson's boathouse. He apologized to Keisha sincerely. He said it just happened. She was wrong before—this was her most consequential moment. This was the moment in which she learned what there was to fear in life. It is perhaps the root and foundation of all fears: heartbreak, loneliness, and rejection.

Levi's eyes panned the crowd, trying to find where Aubrey had ended up, then stopped abruptly. His face fell. Keisha saw, actually saw, the skin on his arm turn to goose flesh. He whispered, "Wow." He took a quick swig and let his beer linger, blocking Aubrey's view to his lips. "Have you ever seen a more wicked glare in your life?"

Keisha had to suppress a laugh. She smelled napalm coming from Aubrey's scowl and didn't want to cause a spark. She tried hard to keep her lips from moving as she said, "I don't think she likes you talking to me."

Aubrey obviously knew they'd begun speaking about her, because the red flame in her eyes turned white hot.

Levi took another swig of beer, then lowered it. With his bottle nowhere near his face, he said clearly and openly, "I don't care. I can talk to anyone I want."

Keisha blushed. This was the first gesture of acceptance she'd received since she stepped foot in the cold and unwelcoming party. Luckily, she was a black girl outside on a dark night, and so was able to avoid that terrible blush cycle—blushing because you're blushing—that white girls have to deal with.

Finally, Aubrey stood up out of the water. Slowly. Knowingly. Tactically. Heck. Keisha wasn't into girls, and she didn't go in for the trend of pretending she was. But heck. Oh heck, are you serious? Aubrey was wearing a tiny orange bikini with a yellow sunflower pattern and the light from the hot tub lit her unbelievable body from below. She took a few steps in their direction with her long, smooth, tapered legs, and for a moment she became silhouetted in their sight, which only enhanced the whole drama of the performance.

A few steps closer and her figure was illuminated again by the light from the house. She wasn't a slowly building symphony, but an air horn. She wasn't a mist on the desires of men, but a firehose. She was a valve on the side of a dam, capable of producing a flow of ten thousand cubic feet per second.

She walked straight up to Levi—made sure not to even glance in Keisha's direction—and said harshly, "Get away from her."

Levi's face was one Keisha understood well. It was secondhand embarrassment. It's when you're appalled by your friend's behavior, because someone has to be, and your friend doesn't seem to be. But that look quickly faded to one that, being a girl, she could only understand from a distance, one that every guy who just watched Aubrey stand up in that sunflower bikini understood. All his bravado was gone and it had only taken one ten-second walk. His shoulders slumped and his head dipped, and like a disciplined puppy, he stood up to follow.

Keisha couldn't blame him. Even she couldn't help but watch her, not him, as they walked away. Keisha wished she could hold on to the magic of high school. She wanted to squirrel away their past and shelter it from the present. She sighed.

With Levi gone, Keisha was sitting alone at the popular table, at the popular party, with the popular kids. Jessica and Brody were suddenly in some sort of a tiff. They tried to keep it private but Keisha could hear it basically consisted of "What was that?" "What was what?" "I saw that." "Saw what? What'd I do?"

The other two people at the table were hunched over a phone, watching a video and laughing hysterically. The small speaker reproduced retching noises and the words, "Puke Thompson."

It had taken less than fifteen minutes for that disgusting display to go from past to present, momentary to eternal. It probably had two hundred views by now. Keisha felt sad because she knew that video would be searchable for the rest of his life. It would never go away. Every time Duke Thompson would go to a job interview, or on a date, he will know that video is out there, attached to his name, just a two-minute search away.

The boys put the video away and got up to leave. That's when Keisha noticed Brody and Jessica had left as well. She was completely alone at the table now with both hands in her pockets. Levi had never ended up getting her that Dr. Pepper.

And she still hadn't seen Molly. Searching the area, she couldn't help but sneak a peek at Levi and Aubrey. She had both hands on the sides of his face as the two of them made out in the hot tub. Aubrey stopped kissing him for one second to look past his ear and confirm that Keisha was watching them. Keisha instantly looked away. Whatever!

Keisha remembered their time together and the kiss they had shared. She hoped Levi and Aubrey had been whispering, giggling, and laughing the time that it "just happened." She hoped it had that ingredient of precious, childlike romance, but she would never know.

Keisha stood up from her seat when she remembered who else she had fallen in love with the night of Duke's first party: Dan. As she walked quickly to the kitchen to grab an apple, she wondered why Molly's car would still be here when she clearly wasn't. Could she have left with someone else?

As she reached the stables, apple in hand, she was all alone. The music and the laughter were far enough behind that she could strangely appreciate them. It was as if the debauchery fell off first and the merriment was carried farther on the wind. From this distance, it all just sounded like a really great time. Keisha had been too hard on them in her mind. They were young and foolish, and she was no different.

The March night had the perfect balance of humidity—just enough to capture the heat suspended in air. The air was thick, and long after the sun had set, radiant warmth still surrounded them from all sides. No wonder all her classmates were horny. It was powerful stuff, being young in the Texas springtime, and she couldn't claim immunity.

The board above the stall had been painted by hand. It read "Dan's Final Farewell." The horse was already named when the Thompsons bought him. No one knew what the name meant, so everyone just called him Dan. She approached Dan's stall and clucked with her tongue. "Hey, boy. You remember me?" Dan turned around to greet her and Keisha held out a hand to stroke the tip of his nose. She presented the apple and he snatched it quickly with his mouth. "You hungry, Dan?" He finished the apple before she finished the question and then sniffed both her hands for more. Not finding any, he pushed his nose into her chest and lovingly blew his breath into her sternum. She said, "It's been a long time. You're such a beautiful boy."

Keisha reached out to stroke the horse's neck and heard a small noise. She stepped around the corner of the next stall to investigate—then immediately jumped back. She was happy for the dark stables; whatever those two people were doing over there, literally in the hay, she couldn't see them. But she could tell by the gasp she heard and the commotion to follow that they'd seen her. She said, "Um... sorry. Um... my bad. I'm just going to go."

She turned to leave but heard her name, "Keisha?" A female voice.

Keisha froze. No, don't tell me. She finally found Molly.

Molly stepped out from around the corner. There were a few pieces of hay in her hair, and she had her shirt on inside out.

Keisha said, "Molly, what the heck? I've been looking all over for you."

"I know and I'm sorry."

Keisha scrunched up her face. "I thought you were out sick today?" Keisha's first instinct was to worry about germs.

"I was skipping." Molly didn't sound like Molly.

"Are you drunk?" Keisha asked.

"A little."

"Who are you in there with? Is it Tony?"

"Shhhh!" Molly made two frantic wiping motions with her hands. "It's James Price."

"Oh. I don't know who that is."

"Keisha, how could you not know who that is?"

"How are you getting home?"

"I'm fine. Besides James said he could take me."

Keisha looked skeptically at the black void beyond the stall's threshold, hoping Molly would see her disapproval. "How long have you known this guy?" she asked.

"It's James Price. James Price. Everybody knows him. Are you kidding me?"

Keisha thought she had a pretty good guess who he was. With the hint that she was supposed to know him, a subtle confession that Molly was proud to be getting it on with one of the popular guys, it wasn't hard to put together. She said, "Molly. I don't like this. Let me take you home now. I have news to tell you, anyway."

"News can wait, Keisha."

"Well, if this guy likes you, so can he."

"You're so lame."

"I'd really just like to drive you home now."

"You don't even have a car," Molly snapped, meanly.

Keisha pulled out her mom's keys and jingled them. "C'mon, I have something to tell you."

"I'm not leaving," said Molly. "You can just call me tomorrow."

"You're drunk," pushed Keisha.

"I'm staying right here."

"This is foolish. Come with me."

"I'm not leaving. Now stop."

"Molly, I got a bad feeling and—"

As if those words triggered something, Molly thrust out her hand and slurred, "Toush my hand."

"What?" Keisha reared back, indignant.

"Touch my hand."

Is Molly really using my intuition as a way to blow me off?

"Touch my hand, and you can feel if I'll be safe or not."

Keisha looked at the void again. She hissed, "Keep your voice down."

"Touch my hand."

"It doesn't work that way... always."

"If you get a vision, I'll leave with you. It's the only way you'll get me to go. And you'd better not lie."

"You know I wouldn't lie," Keisha defended herself.

Molly grew tired of waiting and wrapped both her hands around Keisha's hand. "Do you feel anything?"

Keisha sighed. She closed her eyes, but really just for Molly to see, and tried to receive a vision. She saw nothing. Keisha opened her eyes and shook Molly's hands off hers. She reached into her purse and pulled out her wet wipes.

"I told you, I'm not sick," objected Molly.

Shooting a look into the darkness which concealed James Price, Keisha wiped her hand and said, "It's not you I'm worried about."

Molly rolled her eyes. She said, "But you didn't sense anything."

"I do have a bad feeling about this," Keisha answered.

Molly didn't listen. She placed her hands on both sides of Keisha's cheeks and kissed her lips, something she wouldn't do sober. She said, "Ah, but you had that feeling before you touched me."

Keisha turned her head to wipe her lips with her hand, realizing that Molly—and by extension James Price—tasted a lot like beer. When she turned back, Molly was already out of sight.

Keisha slunk back through the main house with her head down. There was no horrifying vision produced by touching Molly's hand, and although that wasn't conclusive, it was comforting nonetheless.

She didn't get the chance to tell Molly about the visions she had received, which had been her whole reason for coming. The news was weighing on her. She needed someone to help her think it all through and Molly was the only one in the world she could tell.

Keisha breathed a sigh of relief once she was able to close Duke's front door and leave the party behind her. She took two steps down the long drive and heard a slight splash. She said a rare cuss word as her brain pieced together what the noise—and the smell—indicated she'd stepped in.

And in that moment, a question occurred to Keisha that she'd never asked before. She asked: People?
Chapter Three

When Keisha stepped out of the lunch line, she looked to her left. Shane McCormick's table was empty. Isn't that where he usually sits? Keisha had been looking for him all day and hadn't been able to spot him once.

"Where is he?" she asked when she sat down next to Molly.

"Where is who?"

Keisha looked over both shoulders and lowered her voice, "Where is you-know-who? He usually sits at that empty table in the corner."

Molly turned her head to look at the table Keisha kept eyeing. "I still can't picture him. I don't think I've ever seen him before."

"Yes, you have. Long hair, full beard, smells like cigarettes, always wearing a trench coat, carries a large art pad, always drawing."

Molly squinted, as if it would help her memory. "Yeah, maybe."

"And he's big."

"You mean like fat?"

"No, not fat. He's just... a giant guy. He works out, maybe."

"What'd you say his name was?"

"Shane McCormick. I don't think he came to school today. He's probably still embarrassed about what happened."

"Good riddance. Maybe he dropped out of high school. Good for the rest of us."

"I haven't seen him at all today."

Molly's face changed. "Oh my God, do you think he's off loading his rifle right now?"

"No."

"It could happen today. It could be about to happen right now."

"No," Keisha said more firmly.

"How do you know?"

"My intuition."

"So, when will it happen?"

"I don't know yet."

"Then how do you know it won't be today?"

Keisha hesitated. "It's complicated. I just wish I could find him. I feel I need to talk to him." Keisha pulled her phone out to check it. "He still hasn't accepted my friend request."

Molly slammed down her fork. "Keisha, are you taking this seriously?"

"I'm taking it very seriously."

"I think you need to tell somebody. You have to go to the school. You have to tell the police."

"Tell them what? That I saw a vision of the future."

"Tell them the truth."

"That's the truth. I saw a vision. You remember how well it worked with Penelope Page."

"You said some of the coaches believed you."

Keisha frowned. "I get it, Molly, and I promise, the second I think it will help, I will tell someone." Keisha hit refresh on her phone.

"So, just what is your intuition saying to do?"

Keisha scanned the comment for sass or sarcasm and didn't find any. "I think I have to talk to him. I have to get more information, maybe find out what he's planning."

Molly was appalled. "Find out what he's planning? You mean like, ask him if he's planning to shoot up Jefferson High?"

"Get him to trust me," defended Keisha.

"Keisha, I don't like the idea of you being friends with this guy."

"Nobody said anything about being friends."

"You sent him a friend request! That means you are requesting to be his friend."

"Not really. And you know I didn't see him actually shoot anyone."

"You said he was loading a rifle," Molly said far too loudly.

Keisha made spastic hand motions. "Keep your voice down."

Molly looked over both shoulders just to make sure no one was listening. "Keisha, the people who do this—they're not human. They're evil. They cease being human and they become monsters."

"You don't think I know that?" snapped Keisha.

Molly shrugged and pointed challengingly to Keisha's phone.

"Don't you get it?" Keisha asked, holding up her phone. "If he accepts my friend request, then I can see his profile. If I can see his profile, then I will get more—"

"Information. Got it," Molly interrupted. "But do you know who could probably see his profile right now? The FBI!"

"You want to call the FBI? Call them. You have as much information as I do. Call them. Tell them what I told you. Go ahead."

Molly's posture deflated. "Keisha, this isn't right. You're biting off more than you can chew."

She frowned. "I know. I know, but my intuition is saying I need to talk to him."

Molly continued, "I don't think you understand what you're dealing with." As she spoke she got progressively more impassioned and progressively louder. "These guys get off on pain, on fear, on killing. What right do they have? It makes me sick to my stomach. He's evil. He's pure evil. He's not human. He's a monster."

"No. He isn't."

"He isn't?" she whispered fully as loud as a whisper can go and still count as a whisper. "He isn't a monster? Who besides a monster would point a gun at an innocent kid and rob a family of their son or daughter? How could someone do that if they weren't a monster? How could they do that if they're not pure evil?"

Keisha looked straight ahead. She could barely hear her friend's words. A million thoughts were assaulting her mind, all of them stomach-churning, all of them bloody, the deepest pain and the darkest hurt. Echoes of the nightmarish premonition she received filled her vision. And it all culminated into one word: yet. She looked at Molly and implored, "Yet. He's not a monster, yet. You are right about school shooters, once they make that choice, they're evil, real evil sent from the devil. Lock them up and throw away the key. Let them rot. Watch them hang. But until he makes that choice, he's just a boy—and he's lost. And there's still time."

Molly continued to shake her head. She stared daggers in the direction of Shane's corner, even though he wasn't there. She said, "Monsters like that shouldn't be helped; they should be fought."

"Molly, I agree with you. And I hate this monster so much, I want to stop him from ever becoming. Yes, fight. Fight, absolutely. Fighting is exactly what I intend to do."

Molly became very quiet but still shook her head. Her face lit up like a switch had been flipped. She shoved out her hand again and repeated her line from the other night, better articulated now, "Touch my hand."

Keisha shrugged. "I didn't feel anything on Friday."

"Just touch it."

Keisha noticed a few people looking over at them, and her eyes begged Molly to not always make such a scene. "I don't think you need to worry—"

"Just touch it."

Keisha dutifully grabbed Molly's hand. She used both her hands and tried to make as much contact with her friend as possible. She quickly ran through the routine she'd used to humor Molly so many times before. She closed her eyes and she made a face like she was concentrating, employing all her mental powers of Mojo and Ju-Ju.

But she hit a snag. Amazingly, she actually did feel something. She saw her friend Molly, crouched alone in the dark, surrounded by hay. She had her head in both hands and she was sobbing.

Molly saw the change in her face and she panicked. "Oh my God, you saw something? Was I shot? Do I die?"

Keisha made a stern face and shook her head. She said very calmly, "You aren't going to be shot. I didn't see you die."

Molly relaxed.

Keisha added, "But we have something else we need to talk about."
Chapter Four

Keisha had begun receiving assistance from her intuition long before she understood it was strange. She always thought of herself as a pretty normal girl, and she was. Although she had always felt strong inclinations from her gut, she never thought it made her special. She'd heard about female intuition and merely concluded she was enjoying the perks that came with being a girl.

Surrounding a traumatic event, her intuition would manifest itself as actual visions in Keisha's mind, but as a middle-class girl in a small town, Keisha lived a life relatively free from trauma. She liked to play games, go to parties, and spend time with her best friend, Molly.

On her eleventh birthday, Keisha invited a dozen friends from her class over for a swim party. By the edge of the pool that evening, Keisha's mom taught the girls to play a game called "Never Have I Ever..." In this game, players take turns saying "Never have I ever..." then adding something they'd never done in hopes that someone else in the group actually has. If a player has done whatever was mentioned, they lose a point and also have to tell the story to the group. A player wins by having done the least amount of exciting stuff, but the true objective of the game is to get to know the other players better.

Keisha was ahead, due to her boring life, and it looked as if she was set to win the game. She had never been hunting, tried waterskiing, flown on an airplane, played Minecraft, or tasted an anchovy.

It was Molly's turn to try to trap Keisha, and she had an unfair advantage because she knew Keisha better than anyone there. A sly smile crossed Molly's face and she said, "Never have I ever been in a car wreck."

Molly's smile was met with a cold, hard stare. "I can't believe you," Keisha whispered to her friend.

"What?" Molly laughed. "Never have I ever been in a car wreck."

Keisha's lips were tight. She shook her head in small rapid vibrations and said, "No. No, I'm not telling that story."

The girls there began to grumble. Keisha's mom watched on with a confused and terrified look on her face.

"What?" one of her schoolmates pushed. "C'mon. You have to tell us."

"C'mon," another echoed. "It's the rules."

Keisha didn't know what to do. She didn't want to spoil the party, so she begrudgingly retold the story which, up until then, she'd only ever told Molly.

"I was there when my father died. I was only three years old, but was able to see it coming even before he did. The driver of an oncoming car lost control of his vehicle and veered into the lane we were in. I screamed with all my might but couldn't warn my father in time, and the two vehicles collided head on."

Her memories were spotty due to her being so young when it happened, but what little she did remember was vivid and detailed. She described the sound of crushing metal, the broken glass, and the blood. She told them of how she struggled to get free from her car seat, and how she only wanted to reach her father but couldn't.

"The next thing I remember was shaking my father, trying desperately to wake him. That was the hardest part—seeing exactly what was coming, but being unable to stop it. I knew I couldn't save him. My arms were too weak. My voice was too weak. I was too young to understand, and I was too young to know what to do. I hated that feeling of total helplessness." She tried to smile. "But Daddy wasn't afraid. His last thoughts were of Mamma as he took his last breath, and I was there with him."

When Keisha was done telling the story, most the girls were crying. Keisha had lost the game and pretty much killed the party.

That night, as Keisha's mother was helping her clean up, she asked her daughter about the story. She said, "Keisha... I'm not mad..."

Keisha froze. Anytime her mother began a conversation with I'm not mad Keisha knew it was serious.

"Why did you tell that story about your father?" The strain in her voice was evident. She wanted to ask the question as merely a question, not a rhetorical condemnation.

But it couldn't be done. Keisha only heard the condemnation. She said, "I'm sorry. Am I not supposed to tell that story?"

Her mother's face only got worse. She didn't look angry, but completely confused. She spoke slowly. "Keisha, I just want to understand. Why did you tell them what you did?"

Keisha was horrified. She never wanted to upset her mother over anything and this topic least of all. She started to cry. She said, "I'm sorry I... it was just a game. I thought I had to tell it." As she became more frantic, she began to speak faster, "I've never told it before... I mean, I've told it to Molly. Only Molly. But, I mean... well... Am I not supposed to talk about Daddy?"

Her mom still looked bewildered. She shook her head and tried to make herself as clear as possible, "No Baby, you can talk about your father. Of course, you can. But, Keisha, why did you lie?"

Keisha instantly stopped crying. She put down the paper plates and cups she was holding. She returned to her mother the same look of raw bewilderment. Something in her gut—her intuition—told her the next words out of her mother's mouth would change her life forever.

Her mother said, "Why would you tell them you were with your father that night, when you were at home with me?"

The next two years passed without incident. Keisha's mother didn't know how much to believe about the time surrounding her husband's death or how much stock to put into the wild imagination of a three-year-old. She told Keisha that she, herself, had many nightmares about the crash—nightmares so vivid she felt just like she was there. Keisha came to accept this narrative and concluded that the images she remembered must have been produced by her own mind.

It was the summer of her thirteenth year that Keisha finally did get to fly on an airplane. She had been a talented gymnast, and her coach in Texas was able to secure her a spot at an elite gymnastics camp through the Victoria Coleman scholarship program.

The camp was put on each year in California. All the best gymnasts flew in from all over the country, but Keisha was the only girl who had—or needed—a scholarship.

She didn't look like the rest of the girls there. Maybe it was the financial or geographical differences, but the other girls understood each other in a way she couldn't.

They all looked so pretty in their brand-new leotards, which they changed every day. Keisha brought only one leotard to the camp, and it was faded and tattered and a little bit too small for her. To make matters worse, she wasn't quite as talented at the one thing they actually had in common: gymnastics.

When Keisha brushed the arm of one of the best students in the whole camp, and by extension the whole nation, she saw a harrowing vision. It was more than a vision, it was a full out-of-body experience. It was so unexpected and discombobulating that Keisha dropped to her knees. In front of all the girls, she shook and shivered and shrieked.

Before she ever had the chance to tell anyone what she saw, the girls had already labeled her a head case. Keisha saw Penelope Page performing a back handspring layout on the balance beam, barely missing her hand plant and crashing her head into the beam the exact wrong way. Keisha not only saw it, she experienced it.

None of the coaches wanted to hear it. They had all been just as cliquish as the girls, and Penelope Page was their pet superstar. They were all too busy grooming Penelope for the Olympics, each of them wanting to grab some of the credit for her talent.

Keisha told Penelope, but Penelope laughed at her and told all the other girls what she said. They all saw Keisha's vision as an excuse to ostracize her overtly, as they had been doing covertly the whole time.

Keisha pushed and pushed, and with every plea she made, she began to sound even more crazy, and they actually listened less. Every day she stopped what she was doing and watched Penelope's entire routine with a knot of fear in her gut. Every time Penelope would dismount successfully, all the girls would turn and look mockingly at Keisha, as if she had just been completely debunked.

As the days went on, the visions escalated. They came to her at night as Keisha was trying to fall asleep. She saw Penelope Page's body landing limply on the ground over and over and over. Keisha could definitely tell Penelope was unconscious by the time she hit the ground. She could not tell if she was paralyzed or even dead, but the injury she saw could have easily resulted in either, and definitely would have ended her future in the sport. The images became so terrifying to Keisha that she was losing sleep. Her performance at her own routines suffered and the divide between her and the other girls was widening.

One night the visions were so real and so frequent, Keisha was certain it would happen the next day.

Keisha stepped into Penelope Page's way and put her hands up. "Penelope, please, I'm begging you not to get on that beam today."

Penelope looked like her personal honor had just been insulted by someone like Keisha daring to block the path of someone like her. One of the coaches came up behind Keisha and grabbed her elbows, insisting that Keisha leave the superstar alone.

Penelope sidestepped Keisha and proceeded to approach the beam. Keisha yanked her elbows free from the coach and ran to where Penelope stood. She reached out to shove the blonde princess and simultaneously stomped down on Penelope's foot as hard as she possibly could. The girl's small frame headed to the ground, but her left foot basically stayed put.

Keisha had a juvenile record after that day and successfully ended her own future in the sport. But the visions stopped and Penelope Page went on to win four gold medals for the USA.
Chapter Five

When the students walked into Mrs. Moore's AP Government class, they saw the words written on her whiteboard in six-inch letters, all caps: REPEAL THE SECOND AMENDMENT.

The students in Mrs. Moore's class were used to this type of thing by now. Mamma Bear Moore was a once-in-a-lifetime teacher who was known for her provocative statements, which everyone knew she didn't actually mean. She had the habit of making a clear argument for one side, with a straight face, then turn around and make an equally powerful point for the other side. At the end of every year she would hand out questionnaires to her students—a way of self-auditing—asking them what they believed she was, liberal or conservative, atheist or Christian. The results would come back with one-third the class thinking she was a Christian conservative, one-third believing she was an atheist liberal, and the final third admitting they didn't know.

She became well-known for that practice, but was even more famous for looking out for her students. Her tendency to defend, champion, and sometimes physically protect her students had earned her the moniker Mamma Bear.

Last year when two of the school's most intimidating students got in a fist fight in the cafeteria, it quickly escalated to half the football team exchanging blows with half the baseball team. The art teacher was on the scene. He made a lot of noise with his mouth, but slow-walked his way over to actually break it up. Meanwhile, Mamma Bear, who was a full three tables farther away, ran over, literally stepped around the cowardly art teacher and threw her own body into the fracas, trying to prevent any students from getting hurt. Classic Mamma Bear.

After that, Keisha immediately went to her counselor and let him know she would be dropping art. She tried to get into Mamma Bear's class at the time but it was full. Keisha was able to get into Mamma Bear's government class this year, and as an extra bonus had it the same period as Molly.

The bell rang to start the class. Mrs. Moore checked down the hallway in both directions looking for stragglers, then shut the door. She stepped to the front of the room to address the class, "The epidemic of school shootings in this country is caused by greater availability of guns. Our gun culture in America teaches boys that guns are cool and symbols of their masculinity. We need common sense measures to prevent these kids from getting their hands on assault rifles, high capacity magazines, and all types of firearms. The government has the power to save the lives of future victims, if we just had the political will to get it done."

The teacher waited for a response from the class. "No one?" No one raised a hand, so she added with a smirk, "Really? —because I gave you a lot to work with there."

Keisha raised her hand.

"Keisha," called Mrs. Moore. "Go."

"Well, I think—"

"Here's what I think," injected Molly. Keisha shot her friend a look of mock outrage for interrupting, but Molly just plowed on in spite of it. "I think it's crazy that the people who tell us that one-in-five college girls get sexually assaulted are the same ones who want to take away our guns. Anyone who believes that stat should be the biggest Second Amendment supporter on the planet. How could you talk about empowering women and still want to remove guns from purses? And, I don't care if the number is one-in-five or one-in-fifty. If someone's going to try to rape me, it's my God-given right to shoot him in the head!"

The classroom laughed. Keisha put her hand back up.

"Did you hear that?" Louis Blair jumped in without waiting to be acknowledged. "That's our culture of violence right there," he motioned to Molly. "It's just what you said. We just saw the proof. We glorify gun violence, especially in the South."

"No. I'm not 'glorifying gun violence,'" protested Molly.

"Really? Okay," Louis turned the face the room, "How many of you thought it was cool when she said she'd shoot someone in the head?"

"If I were being raped!" Molly insisted.

A few students raised their hands. Keisha still had her hand up, but only because she was waiting to be called on.

"Really?" Louis challenged the room. "Because all of you laughed. And it isn't funny. It really isn't funny when innocent children really are being shot in the head."

"Innocent," stressed Molly. "They weren't trying to rape anyone!"

"The only way we're going to stop these school shootings is to ban all guns in this country," said Louis. "But that's not enough; we need to do something about the guns already here."

"Of course, you'd say that," John Hodges said. "We've seen your lame videos." John Hodges sat at the front of the class and didn't even turn his head to look at Louis.

"Really, John?" jabbed Mrs. Moore. "You're just going to insult him without even the decency to look him in the eye?"

John Hodges instantly turned around to glare at Louis, "Dude, your videos are lame."

The room laughed, and Louis flipped John off.

Mrs. Moore rolled her eyes and pretended not to see. She pressed her fingers to her forehead like she had a migraine. She said, "No. No. Don't just make fun of him personally; take on his arguments."

John shrugged. "I do have a problem with what you both said about the South. That doesn't sound right."

"What? We don't glorify guns here in the South?" Louis challenged.

John turned again to look at Louis, but then turned back to Mrs. Moore. He said, "My father taught me to shoot my first rifle when I was ten. He told me that police and firemen are not the first responders; we're the first responders. He said it was our duty to protect my mother. He said it was our job as men and not the job of the government."

Keisha put down her hand in defeat. Mrs. Moore saw this and finally called on her. "Go ahead, Keisha, what have you been waiting to say?"

"Well, now I forgot," huffed Keisha. "But, I agree with John though. It's like... It's like we're not listening to each other anymore in America. We don't understand each other. Because it's a totally different thing when we talk about guns in the South. People in the South see guns as part of their culture. Like John. I bet there's a good chance the rifle John got from his father, once belonged to his grandfather." Keisha looked to confirm it.

"Great-grandfather," John said. "He fought in the Pacific."

Keisha nodded. "So, for people in the South, the gun stands for family and heritage—"

"And liberty," Molly jumped in.

Keisha nodded to Molly. "Right, so when—"

"And death," Louis jumped in late.

"No," said Keisha.

"And violence," Louis pushed.

"No. No. That's what I'm trying to say. If guns mean death and violence to you, fine." Keisha turned back to Mrs. Moore, "So, if people like Louis hear us glorifying guns, they think we are glorifying death and violence, when really we are honoring family, culture, and liberty. They think we have a culture of violence, but really that's nothing more than a mistranslation. The word gun means two different things to two different peoples, no different than..." she grasped for the right analogy "...than someone from England asking for a cigarette."

Some of the students laughed. Mrs. Moore playfully shook her head.

John Hodges jumped back in. "It's like, if you listen to country music, you don't hear them glorifying murder, at all. But you hear that all the time if you listen to rap." He turned to Keisha, "Uh, no offense, Keisha."

John said it with a smile, so Keisha smiled back. She shrugged and said, "I listen to mostly Elvis."

"But you never hear the anti-gun folk going after rap music? Why is that?" John felt compelled to repeat, "Again Keisha, no offense."

Keisha threw up her hands, comically.

Molly said, "Yeah, Keisha," in sarcastic mock accusation and winked at her.

"You all are missing the point," said Louis Blair, commanding all the attention in the room back to him. He sat up tall and spoke with confidence and poise, "It's so simple. What would Jerry David Foster want before he shot up Wilson Jr. High, murdering twelve people, including a girl as young as eleven years old? Do you think he was happy we have a Second Amendment? Do you think the Second Amendment helped Jerry David Foster do what he did, or hurt him? Did it make it easier for him, or harder? That's all you have to consider."

"That's not all we should consider," reasoned Keisha. "It's not much of a debate if you begin the discussion by limiting what we are allowed to consider."

"No. Because anything else you bring up to consider would be something you're placing as more important than the lives of twelve middle school students. Nothing is more important than human life, so there's nothing more to consider."

Keisha didn't have a quick response. John or Molly didn't either. Mrs. Moore wanted the rest of the class to jump in. She pointed to Jessica Keller. "Do you have any response to what Louis said?"

"No," said Jessica. "I think his videos are great though."

"Okay, thank you Jessica," Mrs. Moore said kindly. "I don't know if his videos are great, nor do I know if they're lame. What I do know is he's got over a hundred thousand views; that's called making your voice heard. That's called playing a role in our society." Mrs. Moore looked at Louis and nodded. She added, "Although I do want to make the blanket statement that anyone who is disseminating information to the public bears a big responsibility to get his or her facts right."

The class laughed. Louis's face began to turn red from the thinly veiled criticism.

"And he could have more manners," Molly shouted out.

Mrs. Moore gave the tiniest hint of a nod in agreement. She said, "Let's talk about the Constitution. The Constitution says we have the right to bear arms, so we have the right to bear arms. Is it that simple?" As she said bear arms, Mrs. Moore made claws with her hands and big bear-motions with her arms. Everyone except Keisha was too cool to laugh at it.

"No, it's not that simple," Louis chimed in. "We can—"

"So, that's why they call you Mamma Bear," Keisha said. The joke came too slow and wasn't all that funny. No one laughed and Louis gave her a dirty look for interrupting. Keisha decided she would stay quiet for the rest of the period.

Louis started over, "We can change the Constitution, after all. What always gets me is the people who talk most loudly of liberty are the same ones who want us shackled by the Constitution."

"Shackled by the Constitution?" scoffed Molly.

"Yes. We wouldn't listen if the people of France told us how we could write our laws. We wouldn't listen if the people of Greece did. Because they are outsiders. But yet we listen to a backward, racist, sexist, slave-owning group of white men from over two hundred years ago. I submit that the people of France or Greece have more in common with us today, as well as a better understanding of the problems we face. So why are we beholden to the opinions of outsiders?"

"No... It's... You can't..." Molly stuttered.

"Listen," Louis continued passionately, "the right to assemble has never killed people. The right to petition doesn't kill people. The right to a speedy trial never killed anyone. But the Second Amendment has got to go, because people are dying. That's what—"

"Wait. Wait," Keisha decided she couldn't stay silent after all.

"That's what you have to tell me, only one thing—" Louis plowed forward.

"Hold on," Keisha still tried to jump in.

"Tell me only one thing: what are we going to do about it? How are we going to stop it?"

"Wait, what about the Twenty-Second Amendment?" asked Keisha. "Does that kill people?" She asked the question rather boldly.

Louis stared at her blankly.

"Presidential term limits?" asked Mrs. Moore.

"No, the one that says we can get drunk," laughed Keisha.

"Um, I think you mean the Twenty-First," said Mrs. Moore.

"Yeah," Keisha turned back to Louis, "If saving lives is the only thing we should consider, alcohol is responsible for far, far more deaths than guns. Should we outlaw alcohol?"

"It's different. People who die from alcohol do it to themselves."

She said, "Well, no actually, just as many innocent lives are lost to drunk driving as those lost to gun-related homicides." The urge to bring up her father here was overwhelming, but Keisha didn't. She wanted to base her argument on reason and logic, not a cheap emotional appeal. However, she did know the facts. "You and I, and everyone in this room who is not involved with illegal activity, have a far greater chance of being killed by a drunk driver than by someone with a gun. But you don't see students on CNN speaking out to end drunk driving."

Louis replied to Keisha, "Drunk driving is already illegal."

"Well, so is murder!" Keisha laughed. "Plus, 40% of gun-related homicides were committed by people under the influence of alcohol—so there's that. And do you care to hear the percentage of domestic violence and child abuse that involves alcohol? Trust me you don't. There is simply no qualification in which guns can claim more death and destruction than alcohol. The numbers are undeniable—alcohol kills more people than guns. So Louis, I want you to tell me only one thing: what are we going to do about it?" she intentionally mimicked his tone and phrasing from before, but she was smiling to ease the blow.

He smirked and shot her a cheesy look. "Newsflash: we already tried to ban alcohol and it didn't work. The solution was worse than the problem."

Keisha threw up both hands. "And so you think we can ban guns without a hitch? You don't think a black market would surface then too? You think you can get rid of the hundred million guns we already have in this country without some very serious unintended consequences?"

"Four hundred million," Louis corrected.

"Four hundred million?" Keisha repeated back, turning to Mrs. Moore, as if to confirm it.

"About," nodded Mamma Bear.

Louis tilted his head smugly. He presented a do-you-see gesture.

Mrs. Moore jumped in, "Keisha, to be clear, are you suggesting a prohibition on alcohol?"

"No. No. Absolutely not. I only bring up alcohol to remind people that there's a built-in drawback to freedom. We cannot have freedom without the drawback and we can't eliminate the drawback without eliminating freedom. So, it sounds so good and so persuasive when people say, 'We must do something because people are dying,' but at the end of the day, it's just phony."

Louis couldn't help barreling forward, "But... we must do something!" He added fiercely. "Because people are dying!"

"But do you hear yourself? How could any decent person be against what you just said?" asked Keisha.

"Right, how could you?"

"This is what I mean about people not communicating. 'People are dying!' It makes the person saying it look so good, and more importantly, it makes those who oppose him look so bad!"

"You're making yourself look bad," quipped Louis.

The people in the room ooow-ed. Keisha didn't like that one bit. Her pulse ticked up.

Louis added, "Children are being murdered, as young as six years old! And you suggest we do... nothing?"

"Well, I'm saying that—"

Louis stressed each word, holding her feet to the fire, "Do you suggest we do nothing?"

"Well, yes, but—" Many of the faces, people she was getting through to a minute ago, now looked down and away. She said, "Now, hold on, innocent people are dying from alcohol as well. And what are we doing about that? Nothing. What is Louis advocating on his vlog about that? Nothing. What are people on the Left advocating we do about that? Nothing.

"Why? Because we cannot eliminate these problems without first taking away people's rights. Anytime someone has a choice, the door is open for him to make the wrong choice. The only alternative is to take away the choice. The only way to prevent every malice and heal every hurt is absolute control, and that's the darkest future of all. And it's a fate, ironically, that can only be implemented at the tip of a gun." Keisha folded her arms in front of her with a hint of attitude. That's about as damned eloquent as she ever got. She was a little disappointed the crowd didn't ooow for that.

Louis replied, "Rights are being lost either way. Did the eleven-year-old girl murdered by Jerry David Foster get to keep her rights?"

Keisha frowned. She said, "I don't think we're hearing each other." She turned her head, and this time her full body, toward Louis. She said, "You're still talking about saving lives, but you haven't answered my question: Louis, if you really, really wanted to save lives, you'd dedicate your YouTube channel to talking about alcohol, or better yet, clean water and mosquito nets. So tell us, why are you obsessed with guns?"

He looked straight at her. It was clear he found offense in the question itself. He answered sternly, "Because guns are evil."

Mamma Bear smiled. She said to the class, "Well, what started as a class discussion has turned into a two-person debate."

Everyone laughed, including Keisha.

"Tell you what, I think we should do this the right way. I think we should host a debate on gun control right here in this class, informed and civil, two people, mano a mano. Then, I can come up with an assignment for the rest of you." She laughed and waved a dismissive hand. "Now, if I could just find someone to debate on the side of stricter gun control..."

Louis's hand shot straight up. "Me!" he shouted.

Mamma Bear looked expectantly at the class, "Anyone?"

Louis shook his hand vigorously. "I said I will."

"Anyone?" asked Mrs. Moore again.

The room laughed and Louis finally put his arm down and made a face.

"Okay, all right, Louis can do it. Now does anyone want to support the side of the Second Amendment?"

Everyone in the room turned and looked at Keisha. Keisha turned and looked behind her.

"Keisha?" asked Mrs. Moore. "Would you care to volunteer?"

"No."

"Keisha, I think you'd be the perfect choice."

"You mean, I have to debate this prima donna?" moaned Keisha.

"No personal attacks," admonished Mrs. Moore. "Now, how about the 26th of this month. That's a Monday?"

"The 26th is no good for me," said Louis.

This time Keisha presented the do-you-see gesture.

Mamma Bear laughed. "Is the 27th good for you? Or do I have to talk to your agent?"

"27th is good." Louis smiled, imperiously.

Keisha threw up her hands. What the heck did I just get myself into?
Chapter Six

After class Keisha walked over to Molly's desk. She said, "Oh my God, I have to debate Louis now? It's so unfair."

Molly didn't answer right away. She was still gathering her bags.

Jessica Keller was right next to them, getting up from her desk. She looked at Keisha and said, "I think you'll do great. You held your own today." She reached out to put a supportive hand on Keisha's shoulder.

Keisha flashed Jessica a kind smile. She said, "Aww, thank y—" and froze.

Keisha was wearing short sleeves. Jessica's ring finger, pinky, and half her palm landed on Keisha's bare arm, and Keisha instantly felt like she'd been shot. She heard the rapid-fire gunshots again in her mind. There were three right in a row, then two. Finally, a sixth. Six total. They rang out so loud she could feel the noise with every cell of her body.

Keisha actually fell to the ground, right there in the back of the classroom. She curled into the fetal position, involuntarily. It was the position Jessica was in when she was shot. Keisha saw a vision of a hallway but not much else. She ducked her head down between her knees and put both hands over her head. It was a desperate and horrifying position, with nothing to protect Jessica's brain, her memories, her personality, her life; just ten interlaced fingers. Only a coward would shoot someone in such a position.

Darkness encircled Keisha. She was overcome with a feeling of regret. It was a deep yearning that demanded her story, Jessica's story, go on. She had things she must do, and she railed against the injustice of tomorrow not following today. She felt sadness. At first it was a vague sadness for the fallen nature of our world, for the loneliness, for the anger and hatred, for suffering of all kinds. Next the sadness drew in closer to examine Jessica Keller's own life. She wished she had given her own mortality proper respect. She wished she hadn't wasted so many of her hours. She wished she had never flirted with depression. She wished she had slammed the door in its face the moment she first saw it, instead of inviting it in. She wished she had reached out and asked for help from her father, or even her boyfriend Brody.

And then she felt elation. She felt love, acceptance, and a gentle head-to-toe peace. It was like being the perfect temperature, surrounded by water. It was like not being able to feel her own body.

Keisha opened her eyes and raised her head. Tears streamed down her face. Everyone was staring at her. Some of the students were snickering, some were judging, others were concerned. She could hear Molly's distant voice telling people, "She's okay. It's... it's... a medical condition. It's kind of like a seizure, but just... not serious. Totally not serious, so don't worry."

Jessica Keller asked, "Are you okay?" She reached out a hand to help Keisha up.

To see Jessica alive again, after witnessing and feeling her violent death, produced a mixture of emotions in Keisha's heart. Jessica had never been particularly nice to her—she was okay—but seeing her face, Keisha was overcome with love for her. Strawberry blonde hair, hazel eyes, heart-shaped face, perfect bright smile—Keisha saw her in that moment as the archetypal teenage girl. She celebrated her beauty. She rejoiced in her popularity. These are good things. She wished everyone in the world could be so loved and accepted. Keisha wanted Jessica Keller as happy as she could possibly be.

Jessica leaned forward, still offering her hand.

Keisha hated how intolerably rude it was, but she didn't dare touch Jessica's hand again. She simply didn't want to risk feeling that type of pain again. She had no choice but to dumbly shake her head. Her eyes looked over to Molly, then back to Jessica, then back to Molly.

Molly understood and she quickly stepped in to block Jessica off, insisting, "Let me get her. Let me get her."

Mamma Bear was on the spot, asking, "Are you alright? Do you need to see the nurse?"

Knowing Mamma Bear's reputation for helping students, Molly knew there'd be no way around her questions other than getting away as soon as possible. She repeated to Mamma Bear, "Everything's fine. She just needs some water. I've got her," and practically dragged Keisha out of the room.

Once alone, Molly asked, "What happened? Is Jessica one of the victims?"

Keisha nodded. "I felt her dying."

Molly's face turned white. "Oh my God, that's terrible. Who—uh, I mean... who else? Who else gets shot?"

Keisha didn't answer. She still looked distressed, and the thought occurred to Molly that maybe she should get her some water. They made their way to the water fountain in the hall. Keisha took a long drink from the fountain as Molly stood by.

Finally, Molly asked, "Did you see anyone else die?"

"Not yet," answered Keisha.
Chapter Seven

When Keisha exited the lunch line the next day, she looked over to her left. She saw Shane McCormick sitting at his table in the corner, and her heart started pounding. He was hunched over his tray of food. Nothing was wrong with him today, at least he didn't appear to be under the influence of anything. He wore his usual dark trench coat. His long oily hair did a good job hiding his eyes, as his head was usually hanging down. The parts of his face his hair didn't cover were hidden by his beard. From across the cafeteria, Keisha couldn't actually get a good look at his face at all, but those lifeless eyes she once looked straight into had never left her mind.

She found her seat by her friend, Molly.

"He's here today," she told Molly.

"I saw."

Keisha sat down, but both her hands were still on the sides of her tray. They were, in fact, making two fists.

Molly looked at the fists. "What are you going to do?"

Keisha shrugged. "What can I do? I have to go talk to him."

"Have to?"

"Yes, I have to. You think I want to? I'm just going to talk to him. I'll be fine."

"Really? Because you're breaking out in a sweat." Molly pointed at Keisha's face.

Keisha grimaced. She grabbed a napkin and wiped the sides of her temples. "It's hot in here," she insisted.

"Uh-huh." Molly looked over to Shane's table, critically. "You know, he's not one of your dogs; he doesn't need rescuing."

Keisha frowned. This was more cutting than Molly knew. Keisha defended, "I haven't said anything about rescuing."

"This guy is prepared to commit mass homicide," Molly continued. "He's a murderer. He's not going to stop being a murderer just because he has one friend."

"Keep your voice down."

"You can't change a guy like that," Molly added, only slightly quieter.

"Wait," said Keisha. "Love can't change a man? Since when?"

"Love?" snapped Molly.

Keisha shook her head and made a repulsing motion with her hands. "No, no. I didn't mean that kind of love. I meant love as a friend, as a Christian." She made another hand motion to wipe it all away. "We were talking hypothetically." She took another look back over her shoulder.

"He killed Jessica," insisted Molly.

"Not just Jessica," Keisha confessed. "I think he's going to kill five more. I keep hearing six gunshots. I think it's for six victims."

The guy one seat down from them perked his eyes up and turned to look at Keisha and Molly. Keisha immediately flashed a charming smile and reached out to put her hand on the guy's bare wrist. The poor boy just looked confused. He pulled his arm away and angled his shoulder back in the opposite direction.

Keisha shrugged. "He's not one of them."

"Six victims..." Molly whispered. Keisha hadn't mentioned any numbers before. There had certainly been school shootings with higher death counts, so the news could have been worse. But this was her school. These were her friends. Suddenly six seemed like an unfathomable number.

Keisha moved to stand but Molly grabbed her wrist, restraining her. She said, "Never forget what he really is."

"What is he?"

"A psychopath."

Keisha shrugged the comment off. She said whimsically, "I'll be okay, Molly. After all, I can see the future."

Molly didn't laugh. She shook her head sternly. Her grip was getting tighter on Keisha's wrist and starting to hurt. Molly said, "You have no idea what you're getting yourself into. I think Penelope's gold medals have gone to your head. This won't be fixed by a sprained ankle."

The words stung because Molly knew her so well. Keisha's only reply was to knock Molly's hand off her wrist and stand up straight.

Keisha had made up her mind. She raised her lunch tray up in front of her protectively. She turned toward the table in the corner and swallowed hard. As she walked between tables, she subconsciously pulled her lunch tray up even higher. The closer she got, the slower she walked. As she reached his spot, she was only taking small baby steps. She tried to control her breathing.

She stopped at the chair across from him and turned to face him. He was looking down, hair hiding his face. She stood there sheepishly, arms bent at the elbows, food tray armpit-level. He looked up and gazed at her with only one cryptic eye exposed.

Keisha was hoping he'd say something, but he didn't. She was hoping he'd look away politely, or make some gesture or face or sound—something that would indicate either approval or disapproval.

He didn't. The single eye just bore into her.

His trench coat was black; his shirt was black; even his hair was black. Keisha, however, had on a periwinkle blouse with bell sleeves and a pussycat bow.

She couldn't speak. Her throat was dry. She might have stayed there for another hour, paralyzed by his gaze, if not for her fork. The fork on her tray began to make a loud noise, betraying the fact her hands were causing the whole tray to shake. She couldn't stall anymore. "Is this seat taken?" she squeaked. He didn't respond, so she gave the chair a small kick just so there'd be no confusion.

Shane looked to his left and to his right. There was nothing but empty seats all around. He said, "I'm saving that one for the Pope."

"Oh," said Keisha, just as dryly. "What about this one?" She nodded to the chair right next to it.

"Queen of England," he answered swiftly.

Keisha forced herself to laugh. When she did, she accidently inhaled too much of his stench. She couldn't believe the smell of cigarettes coming off him was so strong. Her laugh switched to a cough and Keisha's face began to redden. "You're funny," she croaked out.

Permission or no permission, Keisha sat down. She had to put her tray down and tuck her shaking hands out of sight. She chose the chair directly across from him. The Pontiff would have to make his own accommodations.

Shane pulled the hair away from his face, and Keisha was now able to look into his eyes. They didn't quite contain the same soulless void she'd seen in them the first time. But they were bloodshot... She studied them... And tired. And ugly.

Just then Molly plopped herself down right next to Keisha. She didn't ask, like Keisha did, and her whole attitude was imperious and condescending. Keisha was irritated by the new arrival.

Shane must have noticed because he said, "Here comes Her Majesty now."

"Hey Shane," blurted Molly. "You did say your name was Shane?"

"No," Shane said, sighing.

"So, have you heard? Keisha volunteered for a debate in Mamma Bear's class."

Keisha didn't like where this topic was going. She tried to kick her friend underneath the table, but she missed.

"Who?" asked Shane.

"Mrs. Moore," explained Keisha. "People call her Mamma Bear Moore."

"No, I mean... who's Keisha?"

Keisha raised a meek little hand and wiggled her fingers. She said, "Hi, my name is Keisha."

Shane said nothing, just looked down at his tray. He hadn't started on his food yet. He fidgeted with his napkin.

"So anyway," Molly continued, to Keisha's dismay. "She has to debate that dude, Louis, on his YouTube channel on the question: What makes a young man turn into a school shooter?"

"It's not going to be on YouTube," Keisha insisted.

Shane shrugged. "Okay."

"So, do you have an opinion on that? On what makes a young man turn into a school shooter?"

Both girls waited for him to speak. Shane was busy twirling his napkin into something resembling a tornado. He was paying more attention to that mindless task than to the girls. They were about to give up when he finally said, "I don't know. Anger?"

Keisha nodded agreeably. "I think that's probably a good answer."

But Molly pushed, "No. Because lots of teenagers are angry. Most don't kill people."

Shane shrugged. "Yeah. Okay. I guess if..." He was composing his thoughts. "Let's say a man decides he really hates, like, a politician or something. So, he goes to shoot him, but the politician has too much round-the-clock security around him, so he just can't reach him. You see it in movies all the time."

"Okay..." said Molly condescendingly.

"So that man could still hurt him, even though he couldn't reach him. Because he would just go into his kids' school and kill his children. That would hurt him worst of all anyway."

"Um, yeah. I guess that would technically be a school shooting," Molly said. With Shane's eyes on his napkin, Molly looked at Keisha and sarcastically mouthed the word, "Wow!"

Keisha was beginning to turn red—secondhand embarrassment. She hated how rude her friend was being and there's no way Shane didn't just see she had mouthed something mean. She tried to make her voice as pleasant as possible and said, "That sounds very interesting. Have they discovered that was the motivation for one of the recent shootings?"

Shane looked up at her for just a moment, then looked high to his right. "I think, probably for all of them."

Molly made another face at Keisha, wanting to connect with her over Shane's imbecility.

It mortified Keisha that she made no attempt to keep Shane from seeing it, as if he was so stupid he wouldn't even realize he was being mocked. Maybe it was the absurdity of the situation, or maybe the tension or the fear, but she'd never seen Molly act so superior.

Keisha turned her face back to Shane. Trying to sound casual, she said, "Hey, I know, are you going to watch the eclipse?"

"What eclipse?"

Keisha made a "pshaw" noise but didn't know why. "There's totally going to be an eclipse on the 24th. You haven't heard?"

"A total eclipse," Molly amended.

"There's totally going to be a total eclipse?" Shane asked, mocking.

"My mom bought us some eclipse-watching glasses on the internet," said Keisha.

He shrugged. "What are the glasses for?"

"Because you can't look at the sun. UV rays damage people's eyes."

"Not mine," said Shane without looking up toward either of them.

"Oh," said Molly. She shot Keisha a look that seemed to say, Let's get out of here before he eats us.

Keisha laughed at Shane's remark, ignoring her friend. But when Shane didn't laugh, and Keisha realized he wasn't kidding, she said, "Really? How cool!"

There was more awkward silence.

"Hey, I've got an idea." Keisha's voice wobbled a little with nerves. "My mom has an extra pair of glasses, why don't you come watch at our house?"

Molly's face suddenly became terrified. Shane remained silent. Finally, he looked up, vaguely curious—but not really—to see what Molly's answer would be.

Seeing this, Keisha amended, "No, you, Shane. Why don't you come watch the eclipse at my house?"

"Me?"

"Yeah."

"Why?"

Keisha shrugged. "Because we have an extra pair of glasses."

"Then take her," he motioned to Molly with his mini tornado.

"She's already coming," Keisha extemporized.

Molly's face went from bad to worse. Keisha tried hard to block her out, hoping she'd quit.

Shane didn't answer, so Keisha pressed on, "C'mon, it'll be fun."

"No, it won't."

"Yes, say you'll come," pushed Keisha.

"No."

"Um... do you mean you won't come, or you won't say that you'll come?"

"I won't come."

A strange thing happened. Keisha had to remind herself that she didn't really want anything to do with Shane McCormick. It wasn't a real invitation or anything; she was only trying to befriend a homicidal psychopath because her intuition urged her to. The only reason she was doing it was to try to save lives. Yet for some reason her young heart felt as if she was just rejected by a boy.

The bell had not rung, and Shane still hadn't touched his food, but he stood up to leave without saying a word.

Keisha called out to him, "Well, um, it was really great talking to you." He didn't respond, so to the back of his head she added, "Hey, I'm on Facebook. You should come find me."

Molly leaned into her. "I think your intuition got this one wrong. The guy's too dumb to fire a gun."
Chapter Eight

Keisha dumped her tray and headed to fifth period. She started to feel excited and didn't know why. The precise feeling her heart was being flooded with was anticipation. She was so anxious for something pleasurable to happen, a release, but she couldn't figure out what it was.

She heard a rattle and she began to look around. She almost ran into an oncoming student so she shuffled her feet to a stop. She couldn't determine exactly where the rattle was coming from. She searched the ground, afraid it might be a snake, although that made no sense. Kids trying to get to class bumped her from both directions.

She heard the rattle again and this time she saw a bottle of Oxycodone. It was in her hands—Jessica Keller's hands—and she was dumping pills out onto the table. Keisha was confused. Had this happened already or was it going to happen? She worried that Jessica Keller might be suicidal, but that wouldn't explain her acute feeling of excitement and anticipation.

Jessica's hands grabbed some pills—not all—and swallowed them with water. Was this the elation I'd felt from her before? Keisha wondered, Is she abusing pills?

The next thing Keisha knew, she was dizzy, and someone was shaking her. Jessica opened her eyes and saw her father. Pain struck her heart. "Jessica, darling, wake up. We need to talk."

She was afraid. She looked for the bottle of pills and it was gone. Keisha didn't know if this was a different day.

He said, "Is there something you need help with?"

"What do you mean?" answered Jessica as she sat up in her bed and pulled her covers in close.

"I mean is everything okay?"

Keisha could feel a horrible darkness surrounding Jessica. She wasn't okay. She was far from okay. She was ugly and useless and unloved. She was a burden and a nuisance. She didn't know where to turn. She didn't know what to do. Everything she ever tried failed and she had no control over any of it. She said, "Yeah, everything's fine."

What? shouted Keisha inside Jessica's head.

"Well, it's just that..." her father continued, bewildered. He wore a look on his face like he was out of his depth. "I just want you to know that I love you. I love you no matter what, and if there's ever anything troubling you, you can come to me and I can help."

Yes, shouted Keisha. Yes, tell him. Tell him you need help.

"No," said Jessica Keller. "I don't need any help."

"Honey, I can't help you if you don't come to me."

"I'm fine," said Jessica.

Her father sighed. He said, "Sweetheart, some of the pills I've been taking for my back are missing."

"Missing?"

"I'm going to ask you something, and I need you to tell me the truth."

Keisha felt like she was sinking. She was being drowned by a wave of guilt—guilt and self-hatred now on top of everything else. Keisha couldn't fight the current. It lifted her off her feet. It picked her up, then brought her down, just as the pills had. But the down was way down.

"Did you take any of my pills?"

"No."

"Jessica, I need you to be honest."

"I didn't!"

"Jessica, I'm not mad. I only want to help you."

"I didn't take them."

"Let me help you. I can't help you if you won't come to me," he repeated futilely.

"Dad, I didn't take them, all right?"

At some point, he had stopped being the center of his little girl's world. He knew that and expected that, but he had no idea when he had dropped so far in importance in her life. It all happened so fast. No one in the world loved her like he did, but his relationship with her was like the currency of a failed state. Friend-love and boyfriend-love was the new coin of the realm. A few bills of popularity could buy just about anything, but daddy-love? It was just worthless paper. Her father started to cry and Keisha started to cry for him.

But Jessica squared her shoulders and crossed her arms in front of her, the same way that Keisha's arms were crossed in front of her books. The hallway came back into view. The students were gone. Passing period was over. The bell had rung and Keisha's mind didn't even acknowledge it. She stood all alone in the middle of the hallway, tardy, with tears running down both cheeks.
Chapter Nine

Keisha had just loaded her tray with tater tots, chicken nuggets, a chocolate milk, and a bag of apple slices. She stepped out into the center of the cafeteria and had a decision to make. She not only didn't like Shane, she was afraid of him. He was a murderer and that made her hate him. And she also couldn't stop thinking endlessly about the fact that he apparently didn't like her. Why not?

She looked to her right. There was one empty seat next to Molly. She looked over in the corner to her left. There were twenty empty seats next to Shane—his entire table and even the table next to him. Keisha groaned.

She looked to her right, then to her left, then to her right again. At one point, Molly happened to look over, and she waved. When she noticed Keisha wasn't moving in her direction, she shot her a confused look. She saw where Keisha was looking, looked over to Shane, then back at Keisha.

"No," Molly mouthed and shook her head.

Keisha sighed. She slumped her shoulders, hung her head, and turned expressly to her left. Her heart started to pound and her throat was getting dry again. She'd never in her life played the assertive role with a boy. She had no idea how to go about getting him to trust her. She wished she were Aubrey Anderson. Saving lives would be so easy if she looked like that. Keisha marveled at the irony her own brain just produced: I can see the future, but here I am acting as if some silly cheerleader is the one with the superpowers.

She reached the table—far too soon. She had at least twenty paces to actually prepare what she could say, and she'd failed to do it. But she had to say something. She sat down directly across from him and blurted out, "I don't know, there's just something totally wrong about apple slices wrapped in plastic. What do you thi—"

No sooner than she sat down, he got up to leave.

"Hey—" she called out but it was no use.

The next day, she did not deliberate. She marched her tray straight over to Shane's corner. She sat down and said, "Hi, I think we must've started off on the wrong—"

But he got up and left. She didn't even have time to finish.

"Don't go," she called to him with no avail.

The next day she steeled her courage and tried again. She put her tray down on the table and asked boldly, "Would you rather French kiss Ms. Higgins or hit your thumb with a hammer?"

This time he actually looked at her. It was a look of severe irritation and utter contempt, but she counted it as progress. Then he left.

The next day she sat down, and with a voice full of undaunted pep said, "If you were an animal what kind of animal would you be?"

He got up to leave.

The next day she walked up to his table and sat down with her tray and asked, "What's your favorite color?"

He rolled his bloodshot eyes at her and got up to leave.

The next day she sat down and asked, "If you could have one superpower, which one would you choose?"

He didn't answer. He just got up to leave.

The next day she asked, "What's the airspeed velocity of an unladen swallow?"

She thought she saw him smirk at this one before he got up to leave.

The next day she plopped down and asked, "What is the meaning of life, the universe, and everything?"

This time he rolled his eyes and smirked. But he still left.

The next day. "Why did the chicken cross the road?"

The next day. "What do you get when you cross an elephant with a rhino?"

The next day. "How many licks does it take to get to the Tootsie Roll center of a Tootsie Pop?"

The next day. "Who you gonna call?"

The next day. "What is the sound of one hand clapping?"

Each day the same thing. He wouldn't answer and he walked away, leaving her all alone and feeling like an idiot.

Finally, she got smart. He must've had a fourth period class extremely close to the cafeteria because he always got through the lunch line before she did. So, she decided to bring her lunch from home.

When Shane had made his way through the line, he saw Keisha sitting right in his corner, unloading the contents of a brown bag. He groaned, took a moment to make a disgruntled face, then headed out the door.

Keisha wondered where he went when he left but wasn't dumb enough to follow him.

The next day Keisha somehow managed to get to the cafeteria before Shane arrived at all. She sat down with her lunch at his table and waited. When she saw him come in, he froze and looked at her, surprised she was already there. Disgusted, he turned around and didn't even go through the lunch line.

Keisha had just about given up when she decided to try one more thing. That Friday she didn't bring a sack lunch. She went through the line and walked with her tray over to the spot where he was sitting. She saw the irritation on his face, and she saw how he began to gather his stuff to leave.

Both hands were already on each side of his tray and his butt was already off the seat when she sat down on the opposite side of the table, eight chairs down. Hardly next to him at all. Not close enough to even hold a conversation.

He hung there suspended for a second, then decided to sit back down. He opened his milk carton and took a tentative sip. He looked over at her distrustfully, but she just looked straight forward and began to eat her lunch.

He looked down at his tray, then back at her. He took a few more bites of his Salisbury steak, then looked back at her. She hadn't looked at him once. Finally, he took out his drawing pad and flipped it to a drawing he'd been working on.

When Shane leaned over his work, his focus on the outside world would always fall off. He worked for five solid minutes before he remembered he had to eat. He shoveled another bit of food into his mouth and happened to look over at Keisha. Was she sitting closer? He counted the chairs but couldn't remember. He analyzed her face, but she was looking straight forward, offering no signs she was concerned with him at all.

He turned back to his drawing again and tried to concentrate on it but was having trouble. Through his peripheral vision, he saw her slide her tray very slowly over one space closer, and then slide her butt over one chair.

He dropped his pencil. He leaned his head toward her, hoping she would turn to see him glaring at her.

She didn't, and eventually he picked up his pencil and turned back to drawing. As soon as he did, she quietly slid over one space again. He threw his pencil down hard, permanently marring the piece he'd been working on. This time there was a slight smirk on her face.

He yelled, "What do you want with me?"

The smirk went away and she shoved some apple slices into her mouth.

He repeated, "What do you want with me?" This time he said it much louder, although he knew volume wasn't the problem.

She looked up and pretended to be surprised. She looked behind her as if she wasn't sure he was addressing her. She looked at the space still left between them and pretended not to know why he was initiating conversation out of the blue. She said, "I'm sorry... but are you stalking me?"

He didn't laugh. "Why do you keep bothering me?"

"I just thought that we could be friends," she said in as sincere a tone as she could muster.

"Why?" he asked.

She couldn't really answer this one honestly. She said, "You seem nice."

"No. I don't. Nothing at all about me seems nice."

"You seem interesting."

He had no answer.

She made a mental note that although he didn't like being called nice, he didn't deny being interesting even when it would have been advantageous for him to do so.

"What's the real reason?" he pressed. "No one acts this way."

He was right, and she knew it. She couldn't tell him the truth and could think of no lie to explain it. He began to gather his stuff. He flipped the cover closed on his art pad and stood up to leave. She tried to think fast. She couldn't stand to see the progress she'd made unravel. They had actually been talking. She couldn't let things slip right back to where they were. She blurted, "Let me see your drawings!"

He paused. "What? Why?"

"I like your work."

"When have you ever seen my work?"

"Someone told me they were good."

"So, you haven't seen them." He was trying to force her tiny lie down her throat.

"I think I might like your work. That's what I meant to say."

He hesitated.

"Well, what do you think?" she pushed. "Do you think there's a chance I might like your work? I mean, I see you drawing all the time; you must at least be kind of good."

He nodded, "I'm kind of good," but didn't sit down.

"Okay," she said. "Well don't light a candle and put it under a bushel."

He shook his head confused. "I wasn't."

She smiled. "C'mon. Sit down. Let me take a peek."

He sat down, and she instantly moved the few seats she had left to go to be directly across from him. He reluctantly turned his drawing pad around to be right side up from her vantage and passed it to her. She flipped the front cover and started at the beginning.

A lot of the sketches were unfinished, drawn just to pass time in class and avoid hearing the lesson. She saw dragons and swords and snakes and skulls. She saw wizards and warriors. It was clear his talent was extraordinary. There were a few pages she had to pass over quickly because they were too gruesome—worse than gruesome, they seemed to celebrate pain, suffering, and death. She was reminded again why she'd set out to talk to Shane McCormick in the first place. Her friend Molly's warning to never forget he was a psychopath echoed through her head.

He didn't seem to be ashamed of the pages she skipped, but neither did he make any adolescent male joke about her objection. He said, "I have more work on my laptop, too, if you want to see it."

She smiled without looking up. She said, "I'd love to see it all eventually." Keisha flipped to a picture of a young blonde girl. She had dark eye-shadow and dark lipstick. Her lashes were long and her mascara was applied until it began to clump together. She also appeared to be wearing glitter. There was only one girl in the school who wore her make-up like this. "Hey, is this Zoë Parker?" Keisha asked quite innocently.

"No," Shane lied.

"Oh," said Keisha. It was so obviously Zoë Parker. Keisha pretended to take another look and said, "Yeah, I was wrong. They just wear their make-up the same. That's all."

The first picture which truly caught Keisha's eye was of a man dressed in a dingy cloak. He seemed to be a beggar from the Middle Ages, but most likely he was meant to be from another time and another world. There were cobblestones beneath his feet and a hideous, wart-faced woman was hurling a piece of rotten fruit at him. Her contempt for the beggar was palpable despite the fact that she, herself, was fat, disgusting, and missing teeth. The movement of the work was masterful. The woman was frozen mid-throw, while the man just looked sideways at her. There was no hint from his posture that he would bother to dodge it, duck it, or deflect it. His face was one of abject resignation. He was completely ready to bear her attack and her mockery. Keisha couldn't decide whether the beggar's absolute acceptance of his fate was a type of quiet strength or just the saddest thing she'd ever seen: a man surrendered to hopelessness.

There were two girls over to the side of the drawing laughing about the whole scene. The laughing girls were extremely beautiful. Keisha couldn't help but notice their faces were Cheryl Hughes and Wendy Taylor.

She flipped the page and it didn't get any more cheerful. She saw a shirtless man who once might have had a powerful physique, except for the fact that he appeared not to have eaten in weeks. He had manacles on his wrists and ankles and was chained to a post in the ground. This man put up no more of a fight than the first. He did not try to break the chains with his might, nor lift that post straight up from the ground. Instead, he slumped down on the ground, leaning against his post. With empty eyes, he watched with perfect vacuous indifference as two rodents chewed away at what might have presumably been his food.

"Wait a minute," she said turning back to the page before. "Who's this?" In both images was a figure in all black, lurking in the shadows, drawn in the background but stalking the miserable wretch in the foreground.

Shane didn't look like he wanted to answer.

Keisha found another two drawings which contained the menace: a man at the gallows with the dark figure watching his fate from a distance but not a great distance; and a man in a cell, with the dark figure standing in the cell with him, just barely beyond where the torch light fell off, hardly visible.

"He's in almost all of them," she said, building her case that he simply had to tell her.

Shane breathed in a deep breath. "He's their shadow."

"Shadow? Who is it?"

Shane didn't answer.

"What is it?" she rephrased it.

Shane still didn't answer.

"What does it want?" Keisha kept prodding.

"It wants them to suffer."

"What does it represent?"

No answer.

"Does it signify Satan?"

Shane shook his head.

"Is it society? Is it Brody?"

He looked shocked. "Why would you ask if it was Brody?"

"Because of that day in the cafeteria," Keisha mumbled. She suddenly wished she hadn't brought up Brody.

"What day in the cafeteria?"

This time she looked shocked. At first, she thought he was making a joke, or being evasive. She hadn't had enough experience with drugs—or any at all—for her to understand how completely that memory had been erased from his mind. Realizing this, she certainly didn't want to be the one to tell him what happened if he didn't already know. "So, it's not Brody?" she asked trying to move on.

"No," said Shane, still looking confused. A smile cracked through his face and he said, "But I think Brody works for him."

She laughed.

"Or wait. Maybe he works for Brody."

Keisha smiled. It was nice to see him joking, and Keisha hoped it was progress enough for her to re-ask the question he had evaded before. "So then, who, or what, do you think the shadow is?"

He smiled at the way she asked it, as if there was a chance he didn't know, himself, even though he drew it. Shane grabbed the art pad and flipped a few pages to show her one of the gruesome pages she'd skipped. The man in that drawing had been dismembered and was obviously dead. He said, "What about this one?"

She took a look at the page, despite not really wanting to. "No shadow," she observed.

He nodded.

"Oh, I get it. So, the shadow is death, waiting around to collect? I can see that." She flipped back to a drawing with the shadow in it. "It's really powerful."

"No. The shadow isn't death." He shook his head. "The shadow is life, tormenting all of us until our final moments."

That's really sad, she wanted to say, but she worried he expected it. She worried he wanted her pity, perhaps even her contempt. She wasn't sure what to say so she went with the truth. "You're wrong," she said firmly. She studied his heart and soul, skillfully laid out onto paper. "You're wrong about life."

Shane didn't respond, so Keisha looked up to see his face. He put up no fight. She didn't need a long memory to know where she'd seen that expression before: abject resignation, a man surrendered to hopelessness.
Chapter Ten

After school Keisha went to talk to Mrs. Moore alone. "I wanted to talk to you about the debate between me and Louis."

"What about it?" asked Mamma Bear.

"I want out."

"Why?"

Keisha deflated. That meant no. "Because Louis has a vlog with like a billion subscribers. That gives him an unfair advantage. He's used to public speaking; I'm not."

"He's used to speaking his mind and never being challenged. That sounds like a disadvantage to me."

"But he really cares about this stuff. He knows, like, all the statistics and stuff."

"You did fine the other day."

"About alcohol. That was the only point I have," she laughed.

"You have time to look all the stats up before the debate."

"I know, but..."

Mamma Bear waited, then shrugged.

Keisha said, "I just don't get real excited. I guess I don't really... care."

"You, Keisha? Don't care? I know that's not true."

Keisha shrugged. "About guns."

"Well, you will never convince anyone about anything while speaking on a subject you don't care about."

"I know. So, what do I do?"

"Figure out what you do care about. You were very persuasive when talking on alcohol."

"That's just because my father was killed by a drunk driver."

"I know, Keisha," said Mrs. Moore.

Keisha nodded.

Mamma Bear turned her arm to present where the whiteboard still read REPEAL THE SECOND AMENDMENT. She said, "You know what's going on today. You know what's happening in the world. So, you'll just have to discover what about all of it you do care about... and what you want to convince other people to care about."

When Keisha stepped out of Mrs. Moore's classroom, she turned left instead of right. On days she didn't have play practice, she usually walked straight home by herself. Today she stayed behind to wander the halls aimlessly. She was watching her fellow students as if for the first time and repeated the question in her head, What is it I care about?

There was nothing special the students were doing: just living. Just living was special enough. Boys were trying to convince girls they were cool. Friends were joking and giggling and talking endlessly about pointless, sometimes raunchy, stuff. They were just being kids. It was an awkward and peculiar time of life, but it was life, and it should go on.

Keisha reached an intersection of two hallways. She had the choice to go left, go right, or go straight. She could also turn around and go back the way she came. She stood there in the center of that intersection and closed her eyes.

Nothing came to her, so she waited. She wasn't receiving anything at all. No visions. No intuition. She waited and tried to clear her mind. All at once she was jolted back on her heels. It wasn't a vision though; someone had just crashed into her.

Keisha opened her eyes. She saw Madison Perkins reach out her hand to catch her, saying, "Oh my God, Keisha, I'm so sorry." Madison's hand made contact with Keisha at the elbow and Keisha heard six gunshots.

"Keisha, are you okay?" Madison was responding to the look on Keisha's face, but to Keisha the voice sounded muted and distant.

She was inside the head of Madison Perkins and overcome with a single emotion. That emotion was shame. Shame is heavy and constricting and slimy. Shame is like locking yourself in a dirty outhouse, unable to take even a single breath of clear, energizing air.

She heard the gunshots, but she didn't feel like she was hit. Madison was screaming. She was leaning over the body of her boyfriend, Michael Hudson, horrified. He was collapsed in the hallway on top of an ever-widening pool of blood. It was Michael Hudson who had been shot.

Madison and Michael had been together as long as Keisha could remember. They were both seniors, and after graduation they planned to marry. In the back of the yearbooks, they had been voted Cutest Couple and Most Likely to Get Married for three years straight. For their sophomore and junior years, they were even the king and queen of Homecoming.

They were possibly two of the best-looking people in the whole school, but none of the guys ever got a shot at Madison, and none of the girls ever got a shot at Michael, because the two of them stubbornly refused to ever break up. With their blond hair and blue eyes, it was hard not to look at them and think Barbie and Ken. Their beauty was clichéd, but irrefutable.

Their relationship did offer one surprise, however. They were both virgins—famously so. Michael had told Madison from the start he wanted to wait until marriage and even a beauty like Madison couldn't shake his resolve. When all their friends began having sexual encounters—random and isolated at first, but then an exercise in musical chairs—the two of them stuck to their commitment and to each other. Keisha had always admired that about them.

But as Keisha watched Michael dying through Madison's eyes, she didn't feel love and loss, but she very specifically felt shame, and secrecy, and... Keisha closed her eyes, hoping to get more information... passion.

She was suddenly overwhelmed with passion as she entered into Madison's memory mid-kiss. It was strange reliving one of Madison's private memories. Once as a freshman, Keisha wondered what it'd be like to kiss Michael Hudson and now she was finding out.

"Are you sure this is okay?" a boy asked as he pulled out of their passionate kiss. When he drew back far enough for Madison's eyes to focus, Keisha was able to get a good look at the boy. He was handsome. He had a kind smile, a smattering of freckles. And dark hair. And brown eyes. It wasn't Michael. It was a boy Keisha didn't know... wait. Keisha did recognize him; she thought his name was Randy Williams.

"Don't stop," Madison said breathlessly, passing by what apparently had been her last exit ramp to avoid this shame.

Making love with Randy Williams on one foolish night had been her final thought while holding her long-term boyfriend for the last time. The pain was more intense than she could imagine. The shame caused a pain in her body so white hot and so piercing that she felt she'd been...

Keisha looked down at Madison's blouse. She wore a green top which was now completely red. There was too much blood to just be Michael's. She was cold, and she was becoming dizzy and weak. She lowered herself down to the ground, next to the good man she'd betrayed. She wanted to kiss him one last time, but gravity was suddenly too demanding. She fell in right next to him, their lips inches apart. She wanted to whisper, "I love you." She wanted to whisper, "I'm sorry." But it was too late.

And then she felt elation. She was with Michael and there were no words left that needed to be said.
Chapter Eleven

It was Friday night and Keisha asked to borrow her mother's car.

"Where are you going?" her mom asked. It was three parts curiosity and only one part scrutiny.

"A party," said Keisha.

Her mother raised her eyebrows as she examined Keisha's choice of outfit: sweatpants and a SpongeBob t-shirt. Keisha usually never left the house without something bright and frilly.

"I'm not planning to stay long," Keisha offered.

Her mother handed Keisha the keys and told her to drive safe. Before she left, Keisha grabbed an apple and cut it into two halves. She wrapped both in separate paper towels.

When she arrived at Duke Thompson's house, she parked her car in about the same spot where she had the previous time. Before she got out, she checked her rearview mirror—zero makeup, hair in a hideous hot pink scrunchie—still she smiled and said to herself, "Looking good, girl!" She found it funny that last time she was there, she'd intentionally dressed to look like she wasn't trying. Apparently, she had since mastered the technique.

Keisha walked toward the house slowly, watching to make sure she didn't step in anything she'd regret. This time however, she didn't head to the front door. She curved to the left and found the gate to the backyard and let herself in. As she made her way to the stables, no one paid her any mind. She could hear the relentless music of the party. She looked over one time to see James Price laughing in drunken merriment. He was standing in a circle with Brody Tanner and Levi Young. Keisha shot a dirty look at him, but no one saw it.

When she reached the stables, she slowed her pace. The music was far enough away that Keisha was able to hear muffled sobs coming from the empty stable. Heck. Keisha had hoped she wouldn't be right. Molly had sworn to Keisha that she'd go nowhere near this party.

Keisha stepped into the space where she knew she'd be visible and waited for the crying to abruptly stop. Molly had seen her, obviously, but all Keisha could see was empty blackness. Keisha extended her hand toward that void and waited.

Finally she saw a sweet, pale hand extend upward to meet hers. Keisha gripped it tight and pulled Molly up unto her feet, out of the darkness and into the light.

Once on her feet, Molly collapsed again into Keisha's arms. She said, "Oh Keish! I'm sorry. You told me not to come."

"I understand why you had to come."

"I should have listened to you."

"That doesn't matter now." Keisha held her hurting friend for a long time and she just cried. When Molly had finished crying every tear, Keisha said, "You're beautiful and intelligent. You have so much to offer the world—"

Molly interrupted her. "Spare me."

Keisha nodded. She grabbed Molly's hand and began to lead her out of the stables when she remembered Dan. She clucked with her tongue, then pulled one of the apple halves out of her pocket. She unwrapped it and the horse snatched it right up. She noticed Molly watching intently and even cracking a bit of a smile. "Good boy," Keisha told the horse as she placed her palm gently on the front of his face.

"Do you have another one of those?" Molly asked.

Keisha smiled and handed the second half to her friend. As Molly unwrapped it, the horse turned toward her and pressed his nose against her neck, blowing into her chest. Molly bent her fingers back and the horse snatched the apple in a hurry. Molly laughed out loud. She reached her hand to stroke Dan's face and nose. The horse pressed into her again, anxious to receive her affection. While petting this beautiful animal, her high school problems didn't seem quite as big as they had the moment before.

Molly reached out and threw both her arms around the horse's strong neck. Keisha saw this and wrapped both her arms around Molly's shoulders. She said, "You're going to be okay."
Chapter Twelve

When Keisha walked over to sit by Shane at lunch the following Monday, she could see he wasn't gathering his stuff, but he didn't seem happy either.

He immediately started into her the second she sat down, "Why are you doing this?"

"Doing what?"

"Stop messing around. You've been nothing but nice to me when I've been nothing but mean to you. That makes no sense. You say you want to be friends, but if we're going to be friends, you've got to come clean. You owe me an explanation."

He wasn't being unreasonable. He'd asked her point blank. She couldn't see a way around it. She said, "Well, the truth is... The truth is... that you are the one who owes an explanation to me."

"What?"

"Yeah. Why are you acting the way you are acting? I have been nothing but nice to you and you've been nothing but mean to me. That is what makes no sense. You think it's so easy to be nice to someone? You think friendships just come along all the time? No! We need all the friends we can get in life. So, here you have someone who is trying so hard to be nice to you, trying to be your friend, and you treat her like crap. You explain that. Go ahead. Explain that to me."

Shane rolled his eyes. He grabbed his tray and stood up to leave.

"No!" she commanded forcefully. "You sit your butt down!" She shouted it with so much volume, people from other tables turned their heads to see what was going on.

She made the mistake of being loud. She shouldn't have attracted attention. Now Shane also had to factor male ego into his decision. Does he weakly obey her, or does he show the world no one talks to him that way?

"Sit down, now," she commanded again, slightly more quietly.

Shane put down his tray and he sat back down.

Keisha smiled.

"I'm sorry I've been rude to you," Shane mumbled.

"What?" snapped Keisha. Her adrenaline was still pumping. She didn't mean to snap at him, but she wasn't clear if she had just heard an actual apology. She dialed it back, "What did you say? I wasn't sure I—"

Shane didn't repeat himself, but said, "I think maybe you're trying to pull a prank on me."

"A prank?"

"I haven't figured out how. But basically, you pretend to be my friend, then you hurt me. Maybe you'll sneak me into the girls' showers, get me to take off all my clothes, then Brody will come along and steal my clothes, and—"

"You watch a lot of movies!" She was hoping he'd laugh, but he didn't. She said, "Shane, I have no intention of hurting you, or embarrassing you; and just so we're clear, I have no intention of showering with you."

Shane shook his head. "Something's up. Girls just don't pursue guys. At least not guys like me."

Keisha sighed. "First of all, you can't think like that. Just because someone draws the short stick in one area, doesn't mean they're forever destined to lose. It doesn't mean they're branded."

"Short stick?" Shane scoffed at her euphemism. "No, you don't get it."

"Oh, I get it."

Shane looked right at her. "Keisha, trust me, you don't get it."

Keisha looked at him, just as serious, just as stern. "Shane, trust me, I do get it."

"You couldn't possibly."

"I could, and I do."

"Not you."

"Why not?" Keisha was growing impatient.

"Because look at you."

Keisha was offended. What is he trying to say about my looks? She was confused. Or is it my race? She hadn't gotten that vibe from him, but she'd been wrong before. She ran over every possible way that his comment could make any sense in context. I couldn't possibly get it because... look at me? It makes no sense. The only way that could even make sense... Finally, Keisha arrived at the absurd notion that Shane thought she was beautiful. "You think I'm pretty?" At first the question was asked in breathless surprise. But she quickly amended it. "You think I'm one of the pretty girls?" The second one didn't sound like a question at all, just a challenge. She laughed harshly. "Let me tell you a story about the pretty girls, okay?"

He didn't say anything.

"Okay?" she pushed.

"Yeah, sure."

She took a deep breath. "There was this pretty girl once, named... Hot Girl. She was the prettiest girl in school and the head cheerleader, but what she didn't have was the best guy in the whole school. Believe it or not, he belonged to a girl named... Loser.

But one day the best guy found out that Hot Girl liked him, and even though he was happy with Loser, when he heard Hot Girl liked him, he immediately dumped Loser to get with her."

"Good riddance. He sounds like the one who's a loser."

Keisha shook her head. "No, he was a nice boy. He had substance to him and a really kind smile. But Hot Girl treated him terribly. He deserved better than her. He deserved someone who could appreciate his heart." She sighed. "Unfortunately, he was still a teenage boy, and he just couldn't see past the perfect butt and full round breasts.

"Loser was heartbroken, but she pressed on, until her sophomore year she decided she wanted to try to become a cheerleader. But Hot Girl didn't want her on the squad. Apparently, she saw Loser as a threat, just because Loser and her boyfriend had kissed a long time ago.

"So, although the coach actually seemed to like Loser, Hot Girl started a rumor that not only made sure Loser didn't make the cut but has also followed Loser ever since."

"What was the rumor?"

"That Loser had let the boy go all the way in order to steal him back. When in truth, they'd only shared one kiss, and he was the only boy she'd ever kissed her whole life." Keisha sighed.

She continued, "But none of that mattered after Loser discovered the one thing in her entire life she was truly good at: acting! So, when the school decided to put on an all-female version of Frankenstein, she was so excited and couldn't wait to try out for the part of Dr. Frankenstein."

"That's hilarious, by the way. I could totally see them actually doing an all-female Frankenstein, or something dumb like that."

She smiled. "Well, it's a dumb world we live in. Very dumb, because would you believe it, when she showed up for the audition, she discovered that Hot Girl was auditioning for the same part."

"And let me guess," Shane interrupted rather flippantly. "Hot Girl wanted the part more than anything! It was so important to her, even more important than cheerleading."

"That's right. She ached for that part, but she was nowhere near as good an actor as Loser, in fact she could hardly act at all." Keisha smiled.

"Okay, okay." Shane put up his hands to stop her. "So, Loser got the part and Hot Girl burned with jealousy. And every dog has its day, and even the beautiful and popular kids can't win all the time. I got it. It's a good story, and it kind of makes me feel better about being a loser, myself, but...

"No! No," Keisha said harshly. "That's not how it happened. Hot Girl got the part."

"What?"

Keisha shrugged. "Hot Girl got the part."

"But she couldn't act!"

Keisha's voice had a peculiar edge to it; it was abject resignation. She explained, "The director said he liked her smile."

Shane groaned.

"The prettiest girls always win," said Keisha. "Hot Girl was given the lead, and Loser was cast in the role of the lackey that Hot Girl got to order around all play."

"Wait, she had to play Igor? This is a terrible story."

Keisha lowered her eyes. "Yes, it's a terrible story."

"Why did you tell me such a depressing story?"

"Because I just wanted you to understand one thing," Keisha pointed a hard finger into his chest, "I get it."
Chapter Thirteen

Keisha came to school early. There were students already filtering in, but the hall was less crowded than usual. She made her way to the intersection in which she had been standing the time Madison Perkins bumped her.

She stood in the center again. She could go left, right, forward, or backward. She closed her eyes and again nothing happened. She waited. Suddenly she felt the urge to go right, toward the science labs. She passed the science labs and came to another option. She could go left or straight.

She closed her eyes and waited. She felt an urge to go left. She passed Mamma Bear Moore's classroom and headed toward the north entrance of the school. Suddenly the hallway was dark and Keisha felt a tearing pain through her heart. She stopped. This is where it happened. Or will happen. Right here! She looked into the faces of the students there, and it chilled her to the bone. She saw Susan Wright, Tabitha Miller, and Tony Gibson. Tony was walking right past her, so Keisha reached out and grabbed his hand into hers. "Good morning," she said as she vigorously shook it.

"Uh, good morning," Tony said. But it was too late; Keisha had already moved on.

"Good morning," Keisha said as she shook Susan's hand. Nothing.

"Good morning," she rang cheerfully, touching Todd Michael's hand, then Sue Hobbs. Nothing.

People began to stare. Peyton Hardy had a goofy grin on his face and reached out his hand just as enthusiastically as Keisha had been doing. Keisha couldn't tell if he was laughing at her or with her. She grabbed his hand and heard six gunshots. She was Peyton Hardy and the emotion she felt was duty. Duty is like carrying a cinder block while trying to swim. It is heavy and weighs you down, but when you get tired, you can place it on the bottom of the pool. On duty, you can stand tall enough to breathe. On duty, you can rest.

She was definitely shot, and she was slipping down a dark hole. She felt fear. It wasn't a mortal fear. It was a different type of fear than Keisha had ever experienced before.

She experienced his last thoughts before death and saw the face of Debbie Powell. Keisha heard they'd started dating.

Debbie looked as serious as the grave as she handed something to Peyton. Keisha looked down. Through Peyton's eyes she saw it was a pregnancy test. Neither of them—Keisha nor Peyton—had to bother reading the results. They'd already seen the results. The results of the test were written on Debbie's face.

The next thing Keisha felt was intoxication. She imagined it must be what alcohol feels like, though she herself had never taken a drink. She felt a night of binge drinking, then a hangover, and then another drunken bender. Peyton didn't love Debbie. At least, not at this point. Not yet. He'd only just begun to get to know her. He drank and he thought about his dream of going to college. He thought about his parents and what they would think. He thought about his options.

The next thing she saw was a diamond ring. Peyton was down on his knees looking up at Debbie, who looked so pretty. She was smiling, nodding. Yes, yes. But there was that same type of fear in her eyes.

Keisha understood the fear now. It was the fear only a parent can know. It was a fear that extended an entire lifetime into the future. What will the world be like in fifty years? Seventy? Ninety? Will it continue in the direction it's headed? How would their child find happiness? Who will be there to guide him? Keisha looked down and saw blood spilling out of his side. He was afraid his child would never get to meet him. He was afraid of Debbie having to go through all that alone. He was afraid he wouldn't be there to provide for them and protect them. He was afraid that he would disappoint his wife and child.

Then she felt elation. Not drunken elation. She felt warm and comforted. Surrounded. She felt a never-ending love which accepted Peyton just as he was and richly rewarded his duty.

Keisha shivered. She opened her eyes when she felt someone gently shaking her. It was Shane McCormick. She jumped from fright and pulled away from him. "What are you doing here?"

"Uh... going to class." Shane said. "Are you okay?"

"You always come this way?" she demanded.

"Um..." Shane couldn't understand the accusation he heard in her voice.

"You always walk by this spot? And at this time?" she pressed on.

"Um, Keisha, what's going on?" Shane asked, confused.

The bell rang before she had a chance to answer him. "I have to get to class," she said curtly as she walked off.
Chapter Fourteen

Shane fidgeted with the bubble in the Formica. He'd named it Wilson, despite the fact he'd never actually seen Cast Away. When he pushed down on one side of Wilson, it made the other side swell. There was actually air caught in there. When he pushed all ten fingers down on the edge of it, he could alter its location. Maybe one day he would try to set Wilson free.

He was nervous waiting for Keisha to arrive. She had been so adamant about the two of them becoming friends—in fact she'd been relentless—but yet he still worried that she might suddenly, inexplicably never try to sit near him at lunch again.

He looked out across the large room; it was covered with a heavy pall of aimlessness and angst. It was like high school was a strange ritual held over from a time when it made sense, was enjoyable, or benefited the participant in some way.

People at the table next to him would sometimes turn their heads back to look at him. Shane never understood why people did that. He imagined he made people nervous somehow. He wondered how much of Keisha's strange courtship they'd witnessed. Courtship? Was that what it was?

That's what it must've looked like to them. He wondered what they'd thought of such a cute girl pursuing a guy like him. Cute? Is that what she is?

Shane had never had an opportunity to think about Keisha all that much, but he had to admit she was a good-looking girl. Keisha had a neck that could rival Barbie. It might have only been a quarter-inch narrower in diameter than average, but the youth and femininity it conveyed were impossible to measure. She had kind eyes and cool hair, kinky and unique, but always bouncing. It was the bouncing hair which made her whole presence give off an aura of innocence and effortless joy. More often than not, she pulled it up into a ponytail, but not in the back of her head, right on top of her head. This would have looked ridiculous if not for the cartoon playfulness of her smile. She had the type of full lips, which were plump in the middle, but suddenly narrowed at both corners of her mouth, which were always angled up. When she smiled, and she always did, you could see her oversized front teeth and half her gums. No one would ever call her buck-toothed. It was actually her first four teeth which were more prominent than the others, out of proportion enough that they threatened to become homely at any second. Her smile, and her whole face for that matter, toed the line of unattractive, all the while remaining firmly planted in the no man's land between good-looking and bad, a narrow strip on the map marked "quirky-cute."

He felt a merciful calm cover him when he saw the quirky-cute girl walking his way.

He said, "Hi, Keisha."

She said, "Hi, Shane."

Conversation was sparse while they both finished their lunch.

Crushing her milk carton into a tiny cube, Keisha said, "So... Molly backed out of coming to watch the eclipse with me, but I'd still like you to come."

He didn't even consider it. "No. It's lame."

She laughed. "Totally lame. I agree, but..." she shrugged. "... but I don't know. Seems like so many kids in this school spend their life looking down, you know. I think it's wonderful that come Saturday, everyone here will be looking up."

He made a face.

She snorted a nervous laugh. "M'gosh, did that sound lame?"

"Yes, it did," he said sternly, offering no quarter to the vulnerability she bravely displayed.

"Well, what do you think? Will you come?"

Keisha seemed surprised he didn't object right away. "Who all's going to be there?" he asked.

"It's going to be just me and my mom, actually."

Shane was surprised. Am I the only one she invited, or had no one else agreed to come? Neither explanation made sense. He knew she had friends. He'd always seen her talking with people. He couldn't think of a reason she'd invite only him. But then he did. He asked, "What about your boyfriend?"

She laughed. "Don't have one."

"Really? I would have thought you would."

She laughed again. "Well, I'll just say it's no fun being the only black girl in the whole school. Let me rephrase that. It's no fun being a black girl in a school with only two black guys." She threw up her hands, exasperated. "And one of them's gay!"

He smiled.

"So, when I look around at my options on who to date..." she made a sad face "... I think to myself, at least I'm not the gay black guy."

Shane laughed. Her comedic timing rivaled Carson. He asked, "So then, did you ever go out with Darnell?"

"Nah. He asked me out sophomore year. I said no."

"Really?"

"Yeah, it was kind of strange, you know, him being the only available black guy and I being the only black girl...and had he also been a Capricorn, I might have said yes," she joked.

Shane laughed again. This girl was funny.

She added, "He'll be just fine though. I think Andre's trying to wear him down."

Shane laughed, and the last of his resistance to her just disappeared. He said, "I want to come."

"You do?"

"If you really still want me there."

"Yes. Of course. Give me your phone."

"What?"

"Give me your phone."

When Shane handed her his phone, their fingers touched, but Keisha received no vision. This didn't surprise her too much. She had been able to touch Penelope without receiving a vision every time.

She lifted Shane's phone and eagerly began to stab at it. She smiled, then stabbed at it some more.

When she tried to hand the phone back, Shane was distracted. She placed his phone down in front of him, then immediately pulled her own phone out of her pocket. She looked at her phone and said, "Hey why did you text me that? You're so weird!"

She laughed, but Shane hadn't heard a word of it.

"Why did you text that to me? I can't believe it."

Keisha still got no response. She turned to see what he was looking at. Brody was leaning against the frame of the double-doors and Jessica Keller was leaning into him. They were making out in front of everyone. Jessica had one arm around his neck and one hand running her fingers through his hair. He had both arms wrapped around her and both hands planted on her butt. Jessica reached back to pull his hands off, but he immediately put them back on.

Keisha turned back, disgusted, but Shane's eyes remained transfixed. They were hypnotized by the spectacle of Jessica's form beneath her yoga pants. His face contained a tragic amalgamation of lust, jealousy, bitterness, and hatred.

"You shouldn't stare," Keisha whispered.

Shane turned to look at her. He offered no apology for his eyes. He asked, "What did Brody write on me?"

"I thought you didn't remember that day."

"You're not the only person in the school willing to talk to me."

Shane turned back to admire Jessica's impressive physique one more time. From the look in his eyes, Keisha understood the pain of deeply hating someone but still wishing to be him.

"How is it you can't remember?" she asked naïvely.

"I had taken too many Enzopryn." He looked down. "Bethany filled me in, though."

"But she didn't tell you what was written?"

"She didn't want to."

"I don't want to either." She said it with a touch of humor, but he didn't laugh.

"I'm a big boy. I can take it."

She still hesitated.

"Just tell me," he insisted, irritated.

"Trash," she uttered quietly. "It was written in permanent marker, all caps. It read TRASH."

He looked down, then back to Jessica's tight pants. "Okay," he struggled to keep his voice flat. "Was that so hard?"

She was watching him when the bell rang to end lunch. She said, "You are not trash. You're intelligent and talented. You have so much to offer the world—"

He put up a hand to stop her. He looked drained; he said, "Spare me."
Chapter Fifteen

Shane was at home when he received a text. It read "I don't know anything about that. Why don't you check out Web MD?" Then there was actually a link. He was confused at first, but he scrolled up to see the text "he" had sent.

The outgoing text to Keisha read "Help! My hemorrhoids are flaring up!" and her number in Shane's phone was titled "The Most Amazing Girl I Know."

Shane texted back. "I do not have hemorrhoids."

Shane waited for a reply but she didn't send one. Half an hour later his phone pinged, but all it said was "11:00. Just come around back." It was followed by her address.

At 10:55, Shane pulled up to Keisha's home. It was obvious her neighborhood was much nicer than his. As soon as he got out of the car, he could smell a grill, and as he got even closer, he was surprised to hear splashing.

He pushed through the gate while knocking on its planks. A group of motley dogs were the first to greet him.

"George, Lorraine, get down," a woman called out to the dogs. "Don't worry, they don't bite," she informed Shane.

Shane managed to get through the gate and closed it behind him without letting any of the dogs out, then looked up to see the source of the voice. He saw a lovely black lady in her late thirties. Shane couldn't see any family resemblance, but he assumed her to be Keisha's mom. "Hello," he said uncomfortably.

"You must be Shane," she said. "I'm Keisha's mom."

Nailed it. "I'm Shane."

The dogs were continuing to jump up onto Shane's leg, despite the Mom's protestations. Then without warning, the entire history of the world came to an end. An entirely new universe appeared exactly where the old one had left off. This new existence appeared to be just like the old one in every way, only this one had Keisha wearing a tiny bikini and standing mere feet away from him.

The bikini was orange with a yellow sunflower pattern.

Shane had no idea what his face must've looked like. What he felt in that moment was a type of vertigo. The most absurd part of it all was that Keisha seemed unaware that all time and space had just ended and rebooted. She was collecting her hair in her right hand to squeeze water out of it, as if everything was just perfectly normal. Her wholesome, natural, and altogether innocent smile seemed to indicate she didn't understand the effects of lit matches on gasoline, microwaves on popcorn, or young women on young men.

In his moment of paralysis, Keisha's large golden retriever jumped up and put both paws high on Shane's body. Unfortunately, his brain had diverted all its resources away from functions like his equilibrium in order to fuel the needs of his visual cortex, and the small push was enough to send Shane to the ground.

Both ladies snapped into action, rushing to him and making an assortment of gasps and apologies. They hoisted him up by his arms, one on each side.

"I'm fine. I'm fine," Shane said as he dusted himself off. He couldn't help but get a good look at the dogs, still surrounding him. He saw a Pug with only three legs and a Boxer that was missing an eye. The Schnauzer was missing patches of fur, like it had just come back from surgery, and the Mutt was fine, just ugly.

The mom saw Shane examining this gnarly group of dogs and laughed. She said, "Yeah, Keisha's always bringing home the hard cases."

Ouch, thought Shane. He had no way to respond to that.

"Mam-ma," said Keisha, emphasizing both syllables as if embarrassed.

Shane, however, was happy for the dogs to have created so much commotion. It distracted everyone from his gawking. He said, "Uh... I didn't know you had a pool."

"I told you to bring your bathing suit," Keisha protested.

"No, you didn't."

"I sent you that message on Facebook."

"Oh," said Shane, flatly. "I haven't been on."

"Oh no, I'm so sorry. Well, we don't need to swim. We can—"

"No, no, you swim. It's okay. I can just..." Don't say watch. "um... sit."

Keisha smiled effortlessly. She shrugged. "Well, then I'll sit with you." This was followed by an awkward moment. For some reason, no one was moving to sit.

"Shane, can I get you a hot dog?" asked the mom in her accommodating hostess voice.

"No thank you," he answered in his antisocial malcontent voice.

"How about some lemonade?" she asked.

"No thanks."

"Well, do you want to..." The mom trailed off and looked at the daughter.

"I guess hotdogs, lemonade, and swimming was all we had planned," Keisha said with a tense laugh.

"I can go," Shane said. It wasn't a threat; he really believed in that moment that they wanted him to go.

"No," both ladies said in unison.

"Why don't you two come have a seat over here," said Keisha's mom as she led them to the patio furniture—a round table with an umbrella and four chairs.

"Thanks," said Shane. "And I think I changed my mind on the lemonade." Shane saw how happy this made her, and Keisha, and he told himself these were good people. He allowed himself to relax.

Shane tried to think of something to say, but he couldn't. Keisha wasn't offering up anything either. Was it just his imagination, or could he hear the lonesome ticking of a clock? Shane turned around and looked behind him. Wow, there actually is a clock out here.

"I got it at Pier One," the mom promptly told him. "Do you like it?"

"It's great," said Shane. It was that moment Shane realized how difficult it was for him to answer anything without sounding sarcastic.

She placed a lemonade down in front of Shane and pretended to have something to busy herself with at the other end of the yard.

"So, did you find the place okay?" Keisha asked just to fill the silence.

"Yeah," he gave a short answer.

That killed three seconds.

"Oh my gosh," exclaimed Keisha. "I almost forgot. We have a cushion for you if you need it."

"Why would I need a cushion?"

She leaned in and whispered, "You know, 'cuz of your hemorrhoids."

Shane made an irritated face. "I don't have hemorrhoids."

"Then why did you text me that?" laughed Keisha.

"That's not funny," Shane said sternly.

Keisha swiftly produced her phone. "Look! It says it right here. Oh, don't be embarrassed."

"No, I mean I literally don't find that funny. At all."

"Oh, you know what? My mom's a nurse... She'll know how to help. Hey, Mom!" Keisha pretended to wave her phone to get her mother's attention.

"Keisha, stop it!" Shane barked. It managed to sound more like a wild animal than any of her dogs.

He'd said it with so much fury that she froze. Her face and her shoulders and her entire countenance collapsed. She cast her eyes down.

"It's not funny," he continued to scold her.

"What, Baby?" the mom finally stepped closer to ask.

Keisha was crestfallen. She mumbled, "Oh... nothing, Mamma."

The air was thick. Everything felt tense.

Keisha took a deep breath and said, "You can't laugh at yourself, can you?"

"I'm already laughed at enough by others," Shane grunted.

Keisha looked down again, glumly. But then she took a chance. She laughed and said, "Wow, that was so dramatic!" She flashed an adorable smile.

A crack was struck in his armor, and Shane almost smiled, but he was able to keep his face hard, mean, and angry. He knew how badly she wanted just to see him smile in that moment, yet he intentionally tried his hardest not to. He wasn't even sure why.

Ten more minutes passed in painful silence, six hundred ticks of the clock.

"Okay," Keisha smiled and smacked her hand on the table, "so, if Marty McFly traveled back thirty years and wanted to rock-out the crowd in 1955, why did he choose a song from 1958? That's always bothered me."

"I don't know who that is," confessed Shane.

"Back to the Future," Keisha quickly clarified.

"Never seen it," said Shane.

"Oh," said Keisha, her shoulders slumped just a bit and she said, "You should totally check it out."

The silence returned as the conversation failed to launch. Keisha looked down at her fingernails for no apparent reason.

Another series of long moments passed. Keisha smiled and said, "You're not much for small talk, are you?"

"I guess not."

"Well, we could try big talk?" she laughed.

"I don't know what that is."

She laughed again. "I just coined the phrase."

However, there wasn't any big talk which ensued. Keisha noticed Shane hadn't even touched his lemonade.

With nothing to do, Shane reached into his pocket mechanically and pulled out his pack of cigarettes. He cupped his hand to light one, despite the wind, and took a long drag. When he looked up, he saw both ladies staring at him. He could see the family resemblance now. The two looked nearly identical while their faces were frozen in panic. Shane blew out the smoke from his lungs. He said, "Oh, I'm sorry. I guess you mind."

"No," they said in unison. "We don't mind," said the mom. "Go right ahead," said Keisha at the same time.

They sat in silence as Shane took another drag. Keisha reached her hands out reflexively to pull a book farther away from him, as if the smoke would deteriorate its pages. It was a book that Shane hadn't even noticed until she moved it.

He said, "You do mind."

"No... no," said Keisha.

Shane decided to put it out but discovered there was no ashtray. He couldn't believe he hadn't looked for one before he lit up, but the places where Shane usually found himself always had ashtrays. Not seeing a better solution, Shane flicked his cigarette into their yard.

That didn't improve the panicked look on their faces one bit. To help ease their tension, Shane said, "There."

Keisha's Pug—the one with only three legs—ran over to where it saw something fly.

"No, no, Emmett. Emmett, you stay away from that," called the mom.

The dog obeyed, but Keisha's eyes kept returning to that spot, worried the grass was about to catch fire.

"Did you name your dogs after the characters in Twilight?" asked Shane.

"No," she said quickly.

Shane took a longer look at the animals. "Why do they all have something wrong with them?"

Keisha shrugged. "I guess I just like..."

"Hard cases?" he challenged, still smarting from her mother's remark.

Keisha smirked, seeing that he was referencing himself. She offered, "I was going to say pathetic losers."

Shane laughed, finally.

"Yours sounds nicer," Keisha added.

"No, really?" Shane pressed, as he gently nudged the Golden Retriever away from his lap.

"Here, George," Keisha called to him and put both hands to the side of his head, scratching beneath his jaw and behind his ears. She said, "When I was eleven, Mamma took me to a shelter. I saw this beautiful Lakeland Terrier and fell instantly in love. They told me I was in luck; they just got him in today and he'd be gone by tomorrow."

Shane looked around. He didn't see any Lakeland Terrier.

Keisha smiled. "We were about to adopt him when I got a feeling..." Keisha shrugged. "Intuition. I asked the lady if there were more dogs around the corner. She said, 'None as beautiful as this one.' But I pushed anyway. That's where I found Emmett." Keisha pointed to the little Pug. "I just had a feeling that he needed me more."

"And had you seen a dog with only two legs, I guess you would've picked that one."

Keisha gasped. "Had I seen a two-legged dog that day, I would've gone to veterinarian school."

"You still can."

"I still might."

Shane smiled. "Intuition, huh?"

"Yeah." Keisha shrugged again, overselling the idea it was no big deal.

"Do you ever think you missed out on the Terrier?"

"No. I have five amazing dogs, and I can't imagine loving any pet more. Sometimes what you think you want doesn't end up being what you need."

Shane cleared his throat and finally took a sip of his lemonade. He asked, "What's the book?"

Keisha turned its cover to him. It read The Romantic Period and had a dramatic painting on the cover of a man standing before a sunset. She offered, "I know you like art. I thought you might like some of these painters."

Shane picked up the book and started to flip through it. "Why?"

"Because they're good," she said rather defensively. "And because their style is so similar to yours."

"Not really."

"I thought you could check them out and, you know, see if you like them. Do you paint?"

A needle pricked Shane's pride when he realized what she was doing. She hadn't left this book out as a conversation piece. She was trying to guide him—toward good art and away from art that made her stomach churn. "Yeah, I like to paint," he said, offering as little as possible.

"What kind of painting do you do?"

"Oils, acrylics, water colors..."

"No, I meant what kind of scenes?"

"More of the same," he said bluntly. "The same things I draw." And screw you if you don't like it.

"Snakes and skulls and dragons?" she asked obliquely.

"Sometimes naked girls."

She knew he said that just to get a reaction from her, so she made sure to disappoint him. She watched as he kept flipping pages, and when he came to a specific one, she said, "Oh, you should paint something like this!"

She said it with such enthusiasm that it prompted him to ask, "Are you just messing with me?"

"No, I mean it. You totally should. What's wrong with this painting? I like it."

"The painting's fine I guess, as far as sunsets go."

"What's wrong with sunsets?"

He made a disgusted face. "You might as well have told me to paint a bowl of fruit."

"Sunsets are beautiful," she protested.

"I guess. But they're meaningless. There's no drama, just a bunch of pretty colors. It's too shallow."

She sat up taller. She chose not to have her feelings hurt, despite him making no attempt to spare her feelings. But she didn't prattle on like this was still a light, casual conversation. She said sternly, "I disagree. There is a lot of depth and meaning in a sunset."

"Like what?"

"Well for one, it's a death. You like to draw death; there you go. But unlike the death you draw, this passing contains a promise—the promise that although something beautiful is coming to an end, something else beautiful is about to start."

"Yeah, darkness," he said sarcastically.

"I didn't mean darkness, but darkness plays a role. Sometimes it has to be dark for a while before we ever have a chance to see light again—in fact, all the time. It gives us the knowledge we can survive the darkness. We can be patient, because even the darkness has a promise of light. And therefore, even the darkness can be beautiful... here..." She pointed to a spot on the page. "The drama comes from the darkness next to the light. It's because this area here is so dark that makes this area here look so bright."

Shane pretended to study that section of the painting. It helped conceal the fact that he had nothing to add.

She continued, "And perhaps the most meaningful thing about sunsets is that they're fleeting. So, to capture a sunset is to try to freeze time. We have to fight to hang on to the beautiful things in life, which are always so fleeting. Isn't that what great art does? A sunset is short, just like life is short. It's the brevity that gives meaning to each and makes them both so bittersweet."

The gears in Shane's mind were freezing up. He wanted to say something mocking and sarcastic. He wanted to dismiss her, out of habit. He wanted her to be too shallow and simpleminded to ever understand him. But she wasn't. He was learning she had a depth that he could never have expected.

How could she, though? And why hadn't I seen one hint of it coming? Because she's beautiful? So she couldn't be deep?

No. Because she's happy. Shane rested comfortably inside the strong walls of a simple axiom: Happy people are fools and only the truly miserable are capable of any profundity. But here Keisha was throwing a wrench in that entire system. She was turning everything he thought he knew on its head, and doing so in a sunflower bikini.

He shook his head, attempting to retreat, and said, "I'm not going to change the work I do just to make people happy."

She nodded. "I know. I know. And I'm absolutely not suggesting you do. But sometimes I wonder if maybe you already change the work you do just to make people unhappy. And isn't that a different kind of selling out?"

Shane felt that one make contact. She'd left her statement open for him to object, but he had no defense.

She continued, "I would love to see you use your talents to speak for what's true in you—what's honestly and courageously true. And if you do that, you might find that that truth speaks to everyone. You might find what's true in you, is also true in me, and that truth will unite us all."

He didn't know what to say. He was torn between the embarrassment of being called out, and the joy of being so perfectly nailed. She pretty much had him figured out. His emotions were pulled chaotically between shut up and I love you, and all formulations of words in the middle were being torn asunder before they could escape his lips.

"I've left you speechless," she forced a nervous laugh. "Does that count as big talk?"

He watched her mannerisms, and he also understood something new about her. Remarkably, she was worried in that moment what he thought of her. She was worried she sounded stupid, or said too much, or tried too hard, or pushed too hard. The irony was off the charts. He wasted no time in correcting the injustice. He said, "You're very insightful." For reasons he was nowhere close to understanding, he added one word against his will, "Professor."

She looked down and away.

Shane was disgusted with himself when he realized he'd blown this whole thing. He opened his mouth to somehow undo what he'd done but was interrupted by Keisha's mom. "I think it's starting," she called over to them.

"Oooh," said Keisha excitedly as she reached to find her glasses. She found two pairs and handed one to Shane. She put hers on, and he took a second to appreciate how adorably dorky she looked in them. If he had thought for a million years, he never could have come up with a more perfect way to complete her quirky-cute look than paper glasses with plastic lenses. "Put them on, put them on," she instructed him.

He put them on and looked up at the sun. It was like a perfect orange circle that was missing a small part at the edge. Shane looked at it for a long time. While wearing the glasses, he couldn't see any of the actual world around him, not Keisha, not her mom, just the round orange disk. He couldn't take his eyes off it, despite the fact that it wasn't changing, at least not rapidly.

When he finally lowered his head and pulled his glasses off, he saw that Keisha had been looking at him, not the eclipse. She said, "Busted!"

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"You didn't know I was looking at you," she offered apologetically.

"So?"

"So... you were smiling!"

Was I smiling? "So?"

Keisha had never seen him smile like that. It made her face bloom into a magnificent smile of her own. She said, "So maybe I'm not so lame after all?"

"I never said you were lame," he corrected, then put an end to that topic by putting his glasses back on and looking back up at the sky.

For ten minutes they would, at intervals, put the glasses on and take the glasses off. They would watch the eclipse and then watch the world around them. It was getting darker and colder right there in her backyard. But the greatest change was not in the sun, moon, or the environment; the greatest change was in Shane. With every minute the eclipse continued, he became more and more animated. He said, "It's getting darker!"

"I told you it would," said Keisha.

"Well, yeah, but it's getting noticeably darker! I thought my eyes would just adjust. I didn't think it would actually be dark in the middle of the day. And it's colder."

"Yeah," she smiled.

"I mean it's noticeably colder." He watched the skin on her bare arms start to goose-pimple and it excited him. He rubbed his own arms to generate some heat. "It's actually colder, like I could feel it get colder in the span of a couple of minutes. That's amazing."

"It is amazing."

"Like, if we were to head down the street right now, and walk into one of your neighbor's backyards, it would be colder there too. Like, we're all in this together. If you were to watch this from space, you would see a giant shadow, creeping across the entire country. And every town that it reaches, they all begin to get dark and cold. It's like the sun is sending us a note, telling us to stop taking it for granted," he laughed. "Wow," he said as he put his glasses back on and looked back up.

Keisha had never seen him like this. First smiling, then actually laughing! "Wow," she said as well.

He pulled off his glasses again and added, "I said we're all in it together, but it's kind of like every single day, isn't it? Every single day it gets darker and colder. Every single day the sun reminds us we need it. Every day there's a line of darkness, a gradient, that comes and swallows us up. And at the same time it's happening for people in Texas, it's also happening for people in Oklahoma, and also happening for people in whatever state's above Oklahoma."

Keisha laughed. She pretended to shout out the side of her mouth. "Um, we love you, Kansas! Don't listen to him."

"Everyday!" Shane continued undaunted. "It's awesome. It's so big. You know."

She nodded. "It's awesome."

Then, as the moon continued on its journey, everything began to get warmer and brighter. Shane said, "Now it's getting warmer. I mean it's noticeably getting warmer." After a few minutes he added, "And it's getting brighter. Did you notice that? I didn't think it'd be so noticeable."

After only ten minutes it was over. Keisha said, "Well, I guess that's it. At least for another forty years, or something. It was pretty short."

"Eclipses are short." He smiled. "That's what makes them so bittersweet."

He thought she might be blushing, but her dark complexion—and the fact she was actually wearing blush—made it hard for him to tell.

She said, "Well, the important thing is, I was actually able to get you talking... and all it took was a cosmic event."

That night she anxiously signed on to Facebook but was disappointed. Shane still hadn't accepted her friend request.
Chapter Sixteen

It was 2:36 a.m. and Keisha was tired. She dreaded going to bed because recently her visions had been getting worse at night. It was new for her to receive visions so strong. The intensity of her visions seemed to match the intensity of the atrocity, but she hadn't received any clues about when it would happen. There must have been something about that moment between waking and sleep; in the very moment her mind would let go, the visions would take over.

The last few nights she had heard the six gunshots, seen the white sheets, smelled the blood, heard the sirens. It was becoming so disturbing for her that she had begun to put off bedtime for as long as she could. She would listen to audiobooks to distract her thoughts.

She had convinced herself she could will the visions away, yet as soon as she slipped through the waking plane, she had one. But this one was different.

She was Shane McCormick. He wasn't carrying a weapon. He was angry but not openly so. He was trying hard to hide his emotions. He was standing in front of one of his drawings. There were two boys to the right of him. They were both standing in front of works of art they had made.

Keisha wasn't sure if this moment was a vision of the future or the past. The drawing he was standing in front of made Keisha believe she was seeing the past. It was okay, but not as good as the recent work she'd seen. The drawing had a yellow ribbon on it that read "3rd Place."

She recognized another boy, Luke Foster. Luke must have received second-place because she couldn't see his painting really at all. In the center stood Bryant Walker. His painting had a blue ribbon that read "1st Place." She could see the painting clearly because she was witnessing this scene through the eyes of Shane. And Shane was obsessing over it.

The painting was what people would call "modern," smeared paint, dripped paint, and meaningless scribbles. Shane hated everything about it. He hated the ruse. He hated the dishonesty. He hated the judges who went along with the vacuous trend that lacked any substance or value. He hated people. And this third-place reinforced what he already believed to be true in life: I would be better received, not if I were better, but if people were better. If I were more talented and more intelligent, I can safely assume people would like me less. And doesn't Bryant Walker prove it? My only hope in this world is for them all to get a clue.

Bitterness burned within him. He thought of the scholarships that winning would have helped him get. He thought of the teachers he could have. And he pictured it all going to Bryant Walker. Wasted. What a disgrace. What a sham. Is there no one who can see? Is there no one who gets it?

Let me lose to someone worthy! He insisted. I will bow down on my knees. I will tear at my clothing and thump wildly at my chest screaming, "Why has God made this one talented and left me so mediocre?" Let me feel the burning brand of jealousy. Please offer me the mercy of sweet jealousy. Don't leave me wallowing in this dark, sour place, demanding justice. Let me lose to my superior and I will doubt my talent. Don't allow me to keep losing to my inferiors, where I must doubt all existence and all human life.

Keisha rose up out of bed, her own bed, back in her own mind. No one had died. Had she been inside Shane's head? Had she felt the thoughts of a murderer? She didn't think so. But she herself had said he wasn't a murderer yet. Was she in the mind of someone who could one day become a murderer? That question was much harder to answer.

She looked at the clock. It was almost three in the morning. She picked up her phone and called Shane anyway.

"It's three a.m.," Shane said in lieu of Hello.

"You sound like you're up," she asserted.

"I am."

"Why are you up? Don't you care about your circadian rhythms? I mean, no wonder you're depressed."

There was no answer and Keisha immediately reproached herself. She tried to sound cheery when she said, "Are you entering that competition this year?"

"What competition?"

"The Jefferson High art competition."

"You called me in the middle of the night to ask about that ridiculous competition?"

"I was excited. What's ridiculous about it?"

There was silence. Keisha checked her phone to see if he'd hung up on her. Finally, he said, "No. I'm not entering."

"Why not?"

"Tired of coming in third."

"Third is good; it's like getting the bronze."

No answer. Shane couldn't tell if Keisha was the fakest girl he knew, or if she herself believed this stuff.

"It's your senior year," she said. "I really think you should enter it."

"Why?"

"Because I think you can win."

"I can't win. I tried."

"But this year you will win!" she said excitedly.

"How? By painting a sunset? Don't be stupid."

She was silent. Neither of them said a word. Her voice was very steady and patient when she said, "That word isn't very nice and I'd prefer you never use it with me again."

She heard him sigh. He said, "It's late. I'd better get going."

"Yeah, okay," she whispered meekly.

"If I don't get my usual three hours in, I'm liable to start dressing all in black."

She could tell he was trying, and so she gave him a pity laugh. "Okay. Okay."

"Hey Keisha?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to say you were stupid."

"It's okay," she mumbled. He always ruined things with them.

"No, Keisha, wait..."

"Yeah?"

"It's just..." There was silence.

"Are you there?" Keisha checked her phone again but the call was still active.

She heard Shane groan. "It's just that I get so cranky when my hemorrhoids are flaring up."

Keisha laughed out loud. "Oh, you poor thing!"

Shane laughed, too—actually laughed at himself.

Keisha said, "I totally forgive you."

She could hear the perfect blend of sincerity and joy in his voice when he said, "I can't wait to see you tomorrow."

It wasn't a long hesitation before she said, just as sincere, "Yeah, that'll be nice."
Chapter Seventeen

At lunch, Keisha walked with her food tray in hand over to the corner of the cafeteria where Shane always sat. Of course Shane would like it in the corner. If they want to catch more school shootings before they happened, the FBI should screen guys who sit in the corner at lunch. With all the morbid visions she'd been receiving, Keisha was a little surprised to find herself joking about the subject. But she couldn't help it; she was in a fantastic mood for some reason.

When she reached Shane's table, she found only his stuff. She recognized his backpack and laptop. And not many students walk around with a 16x20 art pad. His tray was there, and none of the food was touched, so she concluded he couldn't have gone far. She did a quick scan over both shoulders but couldn't see him.

She was surprised to feel her heart sink. She was disappointed he wasn't there. Was that the source of her good mood? Had she actually been excited to see him? She set her tray down and noticed his art pad was brand new, not the one he'd shown her before. She checked over both shoulders for him again and decided he wouldn't mind if she just took a little peek. Still standing, she bent over the pad and flipped the cover.

The only drawing in the whole book was of a fantasy warrior. She wore only a bikini, but her bikini was constructed with hard leather and chain mail armor, to protect her from arrows. She carried a sword that was almost as tall as she was, and the floor beneath her feet was cluttered with broken bones and skull fragments. The warrior's face belonged to Keisha.

It was a photorealistic portrait of Keisha, but Keisha as a dragon slayer. Strange emotions brewed in her heart, the first of which came from the visual impact of the piece. As she watched it, it became alive. It was hard for her to shake the feeling that any second it would move. It was so realistic, she wondered if he had a photo of her somehow or if he was actually able to draw it all from memory. The drawing was beautiful and when she looked at herself in it, she felt something she didn't often feel: I am beautiful. The second realization was that he drew her as not just a hero, but as an object of desire. This set off alarm bells in a large section of her heart. It was the fearful section which still viewed him as a homicidal psychopath.

To complicate the issue, the drawing itself was changing the way she felt about him. She could see right away the influence of the romantic period. This work had more emotion and heart than anything she'd seen him create before. That meant he'd listened to her. She'd been able to get through to him.

She could feel her face flush. The mixed emotions were fading away and her insides were settling on one feeling to silence all the others: unbridled, nonsensical, girlish pride. She loved feeling beautiful. She loved the drawing. She even loved that he, Shane McCormick, drew it.

But one small dot put an end to that.

The dot was drawn on the inside of the warrior's right thigh... high on the inside of the warrior's right thigh! It was in the exact spot where very few people knew Keisha had a small mole. The exact spot. He's got a good memory, all right!

The alarm bells were sounding louder than ever, and the fearful part of her heart was starting a riot. She scrutinized the image again. The girl's arms were more muscular than hers, as you would expect from a warrior, but the rest of her actual body was spot on—the shape of her stomach, the size of her breasts, the taper of her legs. And that mole! Keisha's good mood left her. Her girlish pride left her. The words of her friend, Molly returned to her mind. "You have no idea what you're getting yourself into."

When Shane returned to the cafeteria he looked over to his spot in the corner and saw Keisha standing there. She was bent over the table looking at something, and her back was toward him. He took a second to admire the view. He couldn't believe a girl as hot as Keisha would want anything to do with him at all. Her hair was up again and he could see every inch of her swan neck. How could any man look upon that neck and not want to kiss it? As he approached, he realized she somehow didn't hear him walk up. She must have been deep in thought because he was able to walk right up behind her undetected.

She wore a baby blue top with a keyhole back, which Shane had seen her in before. But the jeans she wore were extra tight, far tighter than usual. He was surprised a girl like Keisha would permit herself to leave the house in them. She was leaning over the table and he simply couldn't take his eyes off her. He took another step closer.

With simple, reckless, boyish joy—as happy as he'd ever been in his entire life—he reached out both hands and placed them on her hips. Wasting no time, he passed them in one smooth motion over the sublime roundness of her hips and down onto the unparalleled softness of her butt cheeks.

She turned around.

Her face was full of fury, enough to put an instant grin on Shane's face. At the last nanosecond to do so, he got out the words which would indicate incontrovertibly just how wrong he'd read the situation: he said, "It's me."

Pain shot through his face and blood filled his mouth.

Shane staggered backward. He brought both hands up to where she'd punched him, and he said a variety of cuss words. Tears flooded his eyes, and through blurred vision he watched her run straight out the door. He found himself alone, confused, bleeding, in the corner, with two full trays of food.

The kids at the nearby tables had their necks torqued around to look at him, and they were laughing. Shane felt a feeling of déjà vu he couldn't quite make sense of.
Chapter Eighteen

Keisha was gently rubbing her bruised knuckles.

"I saw what he did to you." She heard a stern voice from behind her. She turned around to see Daryl Long. He said, "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, that... that wasn't anything."

"That Shane guy's a creep," Daryl said.

"No, no, it was..." Keisha sounded meek and weak. "It wasn't anything."

"Do you want me and my boys to take care of him for you?"

"No," Keisha's voice was now firm. "I definitely don't want that."

Daryl laughed and made a peculiar movement with his head and shoulders like he'd only been kidding. "Did you hurt your hand? Let me see?" Daryl was nice, even if he did hang out with Brody.

"No, it's okay," she said as he reached out and touched her hand.

Keisha heard six gunshots. She was Daryl Long, and she felt overcome with resentment. Resentment is a horrible emotion. You feel like the world has singled you out and is refusing to give you what you're due. You feel like you are the most worthy, and at the same time least rewarded. You feel out of control and that your fate rests firmly in the hands of someone else.

Keisha heard a door slam. She was Daryl Long, but he wasn't at school. He was in his home and he had just slammed his own bedroom door. Within a matter of seconds his mom's face appeared where the door had been.

"Daryl Christopher, that's not the type of behavior we accept in this house."

"I don't care!" he shouted.

"I know you're upset but—"

"It isn't fair!"

"I'm sorry, but I know the kind of things that go on at those parties."

"There isn't going to be any drinking," Daryl insisted. It was strange but Keisha could feel Daryl lie.

"Drinking is not the only way a young man can get into trouble."

"It's only going to be a few guys." Another lie. Keisha could feel the lust for Wendy Taylor brewing in him. It was tangy but spicy, chaotic but familiar. It was oppressive and crushing but at the same time utterly irresistible. It was overpowering, and Keisha was glad she wasn't a guy.

"I'm sorry, Daryl, but the answer is no."

Keisha noticed another strange thing. Even though he knew he was lying to his mother, he felt a deep resentment towards her for not trusting him. Neither of them believed the lie, but Daryl judged his mother's actions based not on the facts but the fiction. It made Keisha realize how many times she'd been guilty of the exact same phenomenon.

Daryl was no longer out of control. That was the worst part; he was calm. The worst part of it all was the way he kept his voice perfectly steady when he looked into his mother's eyes and said slowly, "I hate you."

Keisha felt pain. By now she knew what a round felt like entering the body. Daryl was shot and he crumbled to the ground. His thoughts were fading quickly and he remembered the last words he'd ever said to the woman who'd loved him his whole life.

When Keisha returned to the present, she was still with Daryl. His face was impassive. He was obviously struggling hard to keep his voice even when he said, monotone, "Keisha, you're hurting me."

"Oh!" She looked down. She hadn't realized she'd been squeezing his hand. She let go. "I'm so sorry."

Daryl shook his hand in pain. He chuckled, "Well, your grip still works."

She looked down at the bruises forming on her knuckles. She said, "Ya' know, I think I'll just have my mom take a look at it. She's a nurse." Keisha made a motion to leave but turned back to Daryl. She added, "Moms are just wonderful."

Daryl gave a tepid nod and kind of shrugged. "Yeah, moms are great."
Chapter Nineteen

Keisha knew she could find Shane at his locker after the last period of the day. It was out of her way, and they'd never before made it a point to meet there, but she wanted to apologize to him.

Her hand made a fist as the word apologize entered her head. She knew she had to apologize because she had violently struck another human being. She did that, and there was no way around it. Yes, he deserved it, but that reasoning never leads to anything good. Her mother had always taught her, Just because you have the right to hurt someone, that doesn't give you the right to hurt someone.

But she was mad. She was mad because he kept ruining things. They were just reaching the place where she could admit that she liked him, actually liked him. Two different Shanes were developing in her mind. There was the Shane that she could physically see and speak to; he was intelligent and talented and funny. He was almost charming, and almost kind. She was beginning to peel back the layers, and she liked that Shane.

Then there was the Shane of her visions. There were no words she could use to describe him. She was beginning to understand how a single action, even a single second, in a man's life could overshadow everything else he'd ever done from the moment he was born until the day he dies. It didn't matter if that Shane was smart or talented or funny. It just didn't matter.

This dividing line between the two Shanes marked the surface of the water. When she had her nose above water, and could convince herself that her visions weren't true, or that they would never happen, then she could breathe. But when she found herself with her nose below water, when she could look at him and imagine for a second he was capable of the horrors she'd seen, then she would panic and thrash wildly for something solid to hold onto.

Keisha was angry because she'd been treading water with all her might—and doing it for both their sakes—yet all he ever did was add more weight around her neck.

The crowd of students in the hallway parted and Shane came into view. But which Shane? Keisha saw he had just pushed his locker closed and was about to head home. He caught a glimpse of her and their eyes met. He was hideous. His lip was swollen and his eyes looked abhorrent. He didn't look like the boy who had made her laugh, the boy who had marveled at a solar eclipse, the talented artist. He looked like the unkempt degenerate who could shoot up a school full of her classmates.

Her head sank beneath the surface of the water and she panicked. She advanced into his space—right in his face—and lost control. She didn't see him as her friend, Shane McCormick, she only saw him as a killer of innocent life. She slapped his face.

He was shocked and began to speak, but she slapped his face again. His words stammered out in fragments as her attack morphed from a few slaps into a full-on assault.

Before he could articulate a single protest, she began to pound on him frantically. But she was only going half-female: rapid hammer fists, the side of her hands against his solid, muscular, and not-particularly vulnerable chest.

She beat him with all the anger and fury she felt for a murderer, a psychopath. She allowed it to burn white hot within her and it fueled her muscles and her violence. He was fully murderer, 100% school shooter and 0% Shane.

As she pounded him, her mind raced. She saw everything in a flash, and it was all so clear. She thought about the parents who put all the love and hard work and sacrifice into raising a child, just to watch it all cut short so abruptly. She imagined a mom at her office, gathering around a newscast. "Which school?" ... "Which school did they say it was?" ... "That's my kid's school. My God, that's my kid's school!" She thought about the numbers being dialed, and dialed, and dialed, and dialed, and dialed, with no answers and no news. She imagined a father who had to break the news to his wife, and a mother who had to break the news to her husband. And she pounded on him.

Her rage blinded her until all she could see—as clear as if it were right in front of her—was a tiny black girl of five years old, oversized backpack she can barely carry and bouncing hair, walking onto a schoolyard, away from her mother, stepping into the angry and broken world on her own. And her mother's tears. She pounded on him because he made that mother afraid. He made an entire nation afraid. He did that. He did that, and she must make him pay.

As she continued to beat on him, her lightning thoughts also touched on beautiful things. She thought about love, and babies being born, and music, and yes, sunsets. She thought of all the moments that filled a life, and all the beauty that murderers are blind to while trapped in their selfish misery. She thought about everything that ever inspired her: the art of Michelangelo, the movies of Spielberg, the voice of Elvis, the speeches of Rev. King. She thought about men signing their names openly to the Declaration of Independence and men storming the beaches at Normandy. She thought about a nation that went to war to end slavery and the man who signed the Emancipation Proclamation. She thought about Christ suffering on the cross. Life isn't just precious, it is incomprehensibly precious; it's sacred. A rejection of life is a rejection of all of it. And how dare he? How dare he?

She just kept pounding him, and Shane would not raise a hand to stop her. She saw it as a chance to hit Jerry David Foster, Derrick Alan Hayes, Stephen Andrew Butler, and Austin Lee Morton. All the cowards who killed innocent children. Her fists fell hard against his chest, and it only hurt her hands. She was a single citizen beating back the wickedness of a fallen world, the filth of a lost generation, and the sin of a godless society. And just like a single citizen, she raged hard but got nowhere. Shane was very strong and she simply wasn't hurting him. She was causing far more damage to her puny hands and dainty wrists.

But the rage wouldn't let her go. More names came to mind. Jack Kyle Russell, Brent Forrest Ross. Until finally, she went full-female and brought out the nails. In rage, she grabbed at his hair and clawed at his neck. She saw his hand jerk up in time with the blood. She had hurt him now and his automatic response was to defend himself. But his gallant mind stopped it, and his hands lowered again. He wasn't going to put up a defense, and, with her hand tight on his hair, he couldn't escape her.

She saw the blood flow down the side of his neck and it should have snapped her out of it—awoken her to the damage she was causing—but all it did was remind her of the blood that had been flowing in her visions. Six gunshots. Jessica, Madison, Michael, Peyton, Daryl, and one more. It could be any of them. It could be her. Molly was right. The people who do this are more monster than man. They're not human.

No one in the hall was coming to Shane's defense and Keisha had a rare opportunity to lash out against evil, against cruelty, against a callous indifference toward the sanctity of human life. And in that second, she truly believed she had a chance to strike a blow at Satan, himself. She drew back a fist—a man's fist, knuckles first—and made the most of it.
Chapter Twenty

Shane was used to people looking over at him for no apparent reason. He was used to girls snickering when he walked by. At least with his face this banged up, they had a reason to stare.

Shane imagined he would see Keisha during the passing period after second. He always did. She had found it necessary to beat the crap out of him in the hall after school, and he'd allowed her to do it. Fair is fair. Now it was time for both of them to forget it and call it even. Only, he wasn't sure she'd agree.

He wasn't sure he'd have the chance to talk to her at all. He thought she might walk by staring straight ahead, or perhaps find some scenic route to her next period, just to avoid seeing him. He walked slowly, keeping an eye out for her and trying to look as sad and pathetic as possible.

By the time he spotted her, she was already right next to him. "What the heck was that?" she asked. Her words were fierce, but her tone was low and somber. She no longer looked furious, but sad.

"What?" he asked while stepping back cautiously. He looked down to see if her hands were open or in fists. Open.

Good.

"In the cafeteria. Why the heck did you do that?"

Keisha was a special girl. She'll beat the crap out of me, but she won't say hell. Shane threw up a desperate hand. "I thought you'd like it."

"You thought I'd...? Are you really that dense?"

"I thought you liked me," he told her.

"We haven't even hugged yet."

"Well, I..."

"We've never even held hands. I mean, what were you thinking?"

"I was thinking... I... I thought you liked me!"

"We're friends."

"Yeah, whatever. Then why did you practically stalk me?"

"Stalk you?"

"Why'd you sit with me that day at lunch?"

She froze. It was the question Keisha couldn't answer, and she was discovering it wasn't going away.

"Why'd you invite me to watch the eclipse with you?"

"We had extra glasses."

"That's a lie. There were a million other people you could have invited. Why me?"

He waited for a response but there was none.

"Why would you come at me out of the blue like that if you didn't want sex?"

"Sex?" she practically shouted the word.

Shane looked nervously from side to side. "Okay, well answer me this, and tell the truth."

"What?"

"Tell the truth."

"What?"

"That day by your pool, was there a larger bikini you could have picked?"

Her face changed all sorts of colors. Her eyes looked like a deer in headlights. He stood patiently waiting for an answer. The hall was thinning out and they could both feel the seconds ticking away. The bell would ring and they would be late for class. Begrudgingly, she said, "Yes."

"And do you perhaps even own a one-piece you could have worn?"

"Yes."

He threw up both hands. "So, what is that? What am I supposed to do with that?"

"I don't know! I don't know why I picked that one... Because I just bought it."

"Did you buy it to wear in front of me?"

She didn't answer, just stuttered.

"Why?" he demanded.

"Because you're a guy. Because you have eyes."

"Because you knew you looked hot in it."

No answer.

"You knew you looked hot in it?"

"I'm okay," she said self-consciously. The hall was almost empty now. He was only a couple of feet away from his next class, but hers was around the corner. She moved to wrap it up, "I want us to be friends. That's why I invited you and stuff."

"Why?"

"Why what? Why do I want to be friends?"

"Yes. Why suddenly after four years at the same school, when we don't even have any classes together?"

"I..." She was a terrible liar.

"You're unbelievable."

He pushed past her and turned into his classroom, leaving her to wonder, How did I lose control of this one? Never in her life did she have a more clear-cut beef with another human being, yet somehow, she lost the argument. How did that happen?

The bell rang and she was tardy again.

# Chapter Twenty-One

When Keisha walked into Mamma Bear Moore's Government class, she saw two non-matching podiums set up in the front of the room. She could tell by the sight of them that Mrs. Moore had just borrowed them from the theater department, but she was shocked there'd even be this much pomp for their ridiculous debate. The board still read REPEAL THE SECOND AMENDMENT.

Keisha happened to catch Louis Blair's eye and discovered he'd been watching her evaluate the podiums. She nodded and he nodded back.

When the bell had rung and the class settled in, Mrs. Moore invited both Keisha and Louis to come to the front. She confirmed that both students were ready and explained to the class the rules they'd be following.

There were butterflies in Keisha's stomach. All the things that could go wrong were cycling through her head when she heard Mrs. Moore say, "Okay, so we'll get started. Of course, we start by asking our two participants to shake hands."

Keisha walked to the center and held out her hand. Louis Blair walked over and looked at it funny. He refused to shake it, drew his hands away, and said, "Oops, sorry, too much blood on your hands."

The students over-reacted and Mamma Bear stepped in harshly, "Louis, that's a warning. No rude theatrics. You need to shake her hand."

Louis reluctantly reached his hand out to shake hers, but at the last second, Keisha pulled hers away. She said, "No, no, I'd kind of rather not now."

The crowd reacted again. They were hungry for red meat. They'd come to watch a brawl, not a debate.

Mrs. Moore said, "Louis won the coin toss, so he should decide who goes first, but due to his unsportsmanlike conduct, Keisha, I believe I'll let you decide who goes first."

The crowd—that is to say classroom—responded again, laughing at Louis and taunting.

"I guess I'll go first," said Keisha.

"I wanted you to, anyway," Louis sassed and returned to his podium.

Keisha grabbed the notecards she'd made and stepped out past her podium into the center of the room. She took a deep breath and spoke, "Before we begin, I want to make something very clear. This is the debate before the debate. This is a plea I'd like to make to a confused society to move on from distraction.

"The discussion about school shootings is not a discussion about guns. The discussion about what's happening to our youth is a conversation we desperately need to have. But we can't because the gun debate has been placed as an obstacle in our way."

She read from her notes, "We have more guns in our society than we did twenty-five years ago, and all the while, the rate of gun-related crime has gone down. Clearly access to guns is not the problem.

"American cities with the highest homicide rates very often have the strictest gun laws. Clearly access to guns is not the problem.

"Blacks are seven times more likely to commit murder than whites, according to Bureau of Justice statistics. Do they have seven times more access to guns? No. Clearly access to guns is not the problem.

"In this Southern town, at this very school, just one generation ago, you could have seen gun racks in the backs of trucks. And kids kept guns in them, and they drove them to school. That's a real thing; ask your parents. But nobody shot anyone.

"We don't have a gun problem; we have a sin problem. We have a problem in our society, and we can't solve it if we are wasting time talking about guns. We're being duped!"

She turned to her notes again, "If a teenager shoots up a school, we have a nationwide conversation about guns, not our youth. If a boy commits suicide with a gun, we talk about guns, not suicide. If a schizophrenic shoots a Congresswoman, we talk about guns, not mental illness. If terrorists shoot up a Christmas party, we talk about guns, not terrorism.

"We're being played by people who care more about scoring political points than trying to solve the problem. If they honestly cared about solving the problem, they'd start where all clear-headed problem-solvers start: trying to discover what's causing it."

Keisha put her notes down and walked over to the whiteboard. She erased REPEAL THE SECOND AMENDMENT and wrote an all-caps debate topic of her own: HOW TO STOP A SCHOOL SHOOTING.

She turned back to the class. "Truth is, we're hurting. Something is missing from our lives. Something's happening with our boys, and we need to find out what.

"I know no one in this room cares about the school shooter—before or after—and I get that. But this isn't about one person. He's just the canary in the coal mine. He's just the one who's the weakest. But when the canary dies, the miners know to get the heck out. Because whatever took down the weakest, will surely take them down too, eventually. So, all teenagers are angry, and all boys are aggressive, and ten thousand boys can all suffer the same problems, but only one will shoot up a school. And damn him. But what about the other 9,999? They are breathing in the same toxins, aren't they? But they're stronger than the school shooter, so they won't shoot up a school. No, they will just turn to pornography. Or alcohol. Or prescription narcotics. Or maybe they'll just suffer silently and continue to sabotage their own lives at every opportunity. Maybe they'll learn to hate themselves and their failures.

"The pain of adolescence is like burning magma pressing up from the depths. It pushes up on the earth until it forms a new mountain. But the mountain in this analogy is underwater, so no one ever sees it. No one knows it's even there until it finally bursts forth, crests the surface of the water, and spews lava and destruction. There's an unspoken, intolerable pain in our boys and no one even knows. And no one even cares. Then when it finally overflows in the most dramatic, visible, and deadly fashion, the whole nation comes together, and they look real somber, and they say, 'It's time to admit there is a problem, but we can fix it if we all work together... We have to do something to get rid of these guns.' And our boys are still ignored.

"What a disgrace!" Keisha spat, as she abandoned what she had written in her notes. "You don't care about healing the illness, you just want to make headlines by treating the symptoms." She spoke as if she were standing before the phantom puppet master of the world-as-it-is, and this was her one shot to give him a piece of her mind. "It's no wonder these boys can't stand you! They can smell BS. Stop lying to them. Stop lying. Stop feeding them dog crap and calling it steak. Stop calling good evil and evil good. Stop twisting definitions of words. I mean, how much can we endure? How long do you expect us to put up with it?"

Keisha kept ranting, "We live in a stupid age. It is a stupid, stupid age.... It's an age where the rules of behavior change daily. The rules of the game change daily. The answer to the question 'what am I supposed to do?' changes daily. We're told not to seek answers from our parents. We're told not to seek answers from religion. We're told not to seek answers from outmoded traditions or institutions. But then where the heck do we get our answers? From the faceless mob? From the hateful voices on social media, fueled by resentment and hurt feelings of their own? If the blind lead the blind, both will fall into a pit."

Keisha took a deep breath. She wanted to reign herself in, or at least return to her notes. She looked down and read with passion, "We live in an era of experimental morality. New answers are preferred to effective answers; feeling good is preferred to doing good; and well-meaning intentions are preferred to observable results. Simple solutions are offered to complex problems. Human nature is sidelined for the sake of social progress. Solids are turned to liquids. White is called black. Up is called down. And masculinity is discouraged only in those born male.

"The heroes of the past are mocked, but no new heroes are offered in their stead. Those who ask the world for a fish, are given a snake; those who ask for knowledge, are given propaganda; and those who ask for excitement, are given safety. It is the type of safety which is dangerous for boys.

"It is a bad time to be a boy. So, Sha—" Keisha stopped herself just in time. On her notes, she'd actually written out the name Shane McCormick. She must have been up late when she wrote the notes. She must've been carried away. She cleared her throat and tried again, "It is a bad time to be a boy. So, his only hope is to become a man."

She looked up again. Preferring to not be restrained by what she'd prepared, she extemporized, "But who's going to teach them to be men? Stop discouraging aggression! Listen, I don't want to see boys out of control either, but a man that we can control is not a man who will change the world. A man that we can control is not a man who will live up to his role: to protect and provide. A man that we can control is not a man... he's not a man. Stop discouraging strength. Boys don't shoot up schools when they're strong, but when they're weak. All school shooters are weak, so stop discouraging strength. Aggression is totally neutral—much like a gun—it is deadly in the hands of a weak man, but world-changing in the hands of the strong. Learn to tell the difference! Because if you can't tell the difference between weak and strong, then you've got no business teaching the next generation, and you've got no business telling us what to think and say. So just stop it."

"Stop teaching people to be victims. It's ironic because..." She closed her eyes and pressed her finger to her temples in order to concentrate, desperate to convey a message the world needed to hear. She started over; she opened her eyes and said, "I know an antidote to school shootings. I know a truth so powerful that every boy who carries it is guaranteed to never commit homicide. It's simply this: You have the power to determine the success or failure of your own life." Her voice got slow and very grave. She said, "I also know a catalyst to accelerate school shootings. It's a lie so powerful it can be found in the pockets of every school shooter. It's the exact opposite: You are a victim.

"Now here's the irony: the great truth is taught in the pro-gun, Bible-thumping South. The great lie is taught by the very people who boast of their hatred of school shootings the loudest. They say, 'You're not responsible for your own protection. You're not responsible for your own life. You're not responsible for your own success and failure. You are a victim of the whites, of the rich, of the patriarchy, of cis-gendered, of racists, of sexists, of homophobes, of Islamophobes, of bigots, of the NRA.' Stop it. Just stop it."

Carried away, Keisha accidentally dropped the notes she'd been ignoring. Most the class laughed, but John Hodges was sitting in the front row, and shot out of his chair to help her pick them up.

Keisha smiled and when he handed the index cards to her, their fingers touched ever so slightly. Keisha heard six gunshots. When her mind had cycled through everything that could go wrong, she hadn't pictured this. Right there in front of everyone, all eyes on her, she began to tremble. John Hodges was the sixth victim. John Hodges had been shot and she could feel that pain.

She closed her eyes and desperately tried to block out the vision. It felt like her lungs weren't working properly, like they were damaged. She felt blood trickling down the left side of her torso.

It's not real, she told herself. My lungs are fine. There is no blood. I'm fine.

She opened her eyes and was happy to see she was still in Mamma Bear's class. She looked down. There was no blood on her bright orange blouse. The students were all staring, completely silent, waiting for her to continue.

"Keisha?" asked Mrs. Moore gently.

"I'm fine," mumbled Keisha.

Keisha looked down at her notes, which were now out of order, to see if there was anything left to say. She flipped a few cards, then with a heavy heart and a scratchy voice, she read, "So we must ask only one question: What's happening with our boys? These rooms, these halls, the media, the Internet, these are our mines. The canary is dead; we know we're all breathing in toxins. But what is the toxin? Where's it coming from? What started it? What valve have we opened in the last half a century that it may not be too late to close? What vent have we walled off that should have remained open? And what source is left for us to breathe pure oxygen?"

Keisha with her mind distracted, didn't use the proper intonation to indicate she was through. The class all still watched her, so she waved a quick hand and said, "That's it. He can go now." She staggered, one small step at a time, back behind her podium to hide.

Mrs. Moore looked toward Louis Blair, and therefore, so did the class. He tapped his notes hard against the podium pompously and shrugged. He said, "The simple truth is that if we're all miners and our school, or media, or our society is our mine, then we can't get the hell out, can we? So, if there is something, a toxin as you call it, that's causing our precious boys to become homicidal, then that's all we need to know to ban the sale of all guns tomorrow. Are you nuts? Hello! Our boys are becoming increasingly homicidal? Was that actually your point?

"You stole half of my speech, to be honest. It's so obvious, I'm not sure what I'm going to do with the rest of my time..."

Keisha was hearing a loud beeping noise, or John Hodges was. The peculiar feeling she felt was from inside John Hodges's mind. If she were to put it into words, it would simply be, "Go on." John wanted to go on. He couldn't stand for it to end here. It's the impulse one feels to finish the movie they're watching, even after discovering it's boring halfway through. Go on. Don't stop here. This is not the end. Don't stop; go on.

Louis kept talking, but the beeping made it hard to follow what he was saying. Finally, his voice faded out completely. All she could hear was the beeping noise. She could still see him talking, just on mute. She saw his wild hand gestures and knew he was saying something obnoxious. She saw his smug grin but could only hear a loud beeping.

As Keisha struggled to bring her brain back fully into reality, she watched Louis bring out a folder and walk to the whiteboard. He began to lay out a series of photographs, using the rail to prop them up. Louis had actually printed them 8x10 on firm stock.

The photos were of women in the range of forty to fifty years old, and half of them were crying. Keisha didn't need to hear Louis now, she could guess what manipulative ploy he was up to. She knew who these devastated women were.

Keisha focused on watching Louis's lips with all her might. The beeping began to quiet and she could hear him.

"... the mothers of victims of school shootings, and if we're going to have an honest debate, we need to have it in front of them. So, if you want to tell your cute little stories about volcanos and coal mines, you've got to tell it to them. If you want to maintain your position that this is a sin problem not a gun problem, and you actually find that distinction so important, you've got to say it to them. Because I guarantee you, they won't find it important. They don't care about your molten lava. No one does."

Keisha looked at the photos and she could feel them tearing her from reality, pulling her down into a dark place filled with pain and violence and loss. She closed her eyes in a foolish attempt to block them out. Darkness never helped though. Darkness is the imagination's playground. What she needed was light, real images from the real world that her mind couldn't discount and her visions couldn't overlay.

Louis stepped over to the first photo. "This is Stephanie Porter. Her son was shot by a Glock 9mm straight through the heart. The entry wound was the size of a pea, but the exit wound was the size of a lemon, because he was shot with a hollow point bullet." He reached into his folder and pulled out another photo, this time of a bullet. He said, "A hollow point is a bullet with a hollow shell. They are designed to mushroom when they hit the body in order to do the most damage to human organs. Imagine a quarter pressing flat against the chest, going seven hundred miles per hour, shredding everything in its path. And by the way, the hollow points were bought legally. Mrs. Porter surely will tell you this is a gun problem.

"This is Angelica Ortiz. She buried her daughter who was shot by a standard bullet, full metal jacket, through the third and fourth ribs on her right side," he stalled for effect, "And in her left kidney," he paused again. "And through the left ventricle of her fifteen-year-old heart. Mrs. Ortiz will surely tell you this is a gun problem."

Louis moved to the next photo. "This is..."

Keisha turned from him and the photos, toward the students. Some of them, even the ones who had nodded along with what she had said before, were now looking at Keisha like she was the guilty one. They looked at her like she had caused those deaths, and that by defending gun rights, she shared culpability with the murderer. Their accusing glances made it harder for Keisha to block out the vision that was trying to force its way in. She tried to listen to Louis, just to keep the darkness at bay.

"... sick bastards out there who want to continue to sell more guns, murder more children, and honestly just get re-elected. What type of person are you when you care more for money than children's lives?

"They're pathetic losers who want to keep killing our children. They could have blood from children spattered all over their faces and they wouldn't take action, because they all still see those dollar signs. But I will take action, because we have to do something. We can't stand by and watch more children die. We have to do something, and I will."

Keisha lost both her audio and video of the classroom. She put her hands to both temples, trying just to stay on her feet. The beeping grew louder and she finally determined it was a heart monitor. She had fully entered John Hodges now. His eyes were closed and he was crying. Keisha didn't feel the full weight of his tears, Keisha was clinging to a shred of possible good news: The beeping was a heart monitor! If John was connected to a heart monitor, then there's a chance he won't die. Hospitals don't hook up all those machines for someone who's dead on arrival. The sixth bullet must have only injured him, and the beeping confirmed it. She could feel John's need to go on.

But John opened his eyes. He wasn't lying in a hospital bed, he was sitting beside one. Keisha saw a woman—too young to be dying, but she was. It was John's mother, the mother he said it was his job and duty to protect. She had stage IV cancer and John couldn't protect her. The doctors told her she had only three or four weeks to live.

John wiped the tears away from his cheeks and, although she was unconscious, he grabbed his mom's hand—the hand that had always held him and wiped his tears. He lifted it to his face and gently kissed it. He closed his eyes again and Keisha could no longer hear the beeping.

Keisha began to sob, but she wasn't sure if she was sobbing out loud in the classroom, or just in her head. She cried, "It's all so terrible. For lives so sacred to be housed in bodies so fragile! For people to fight so hard for everything in life with no guarantee! How can we live with the knowledge tomorrow is never promised? How can we walk around so vulnerable every second of the day? The horrifying truth is that we're sitting ducks. To murder, to cancer, to car wrecks. We're exposed. It's sickening how delicate and exposed we are. How are we not nervous wrecks every second of the day? There is no law, no prevention, no defense that can protect us in America. Our society has no hope other than counting on over three-hundred million people to wake up each day and behave themselves. And that will never happen."

In the very next moment Keisha found herself inside John's mind as he lay in the hallway by the north entrance of the school. Keisha felt the bullet enter him, and it was a fatal blow. His mother would live to bury her son. His mother would die knowing she left nothing behind, knowing the life of her only child did not go on.

John Hodges died thinking only of his mother. The pain of the unfairness could not will him to stand. The love he felt for her could not heal his wound. His desperate need to just go on could not make it so.

The horrible injustice of reality was as impenetrable as a stone wall, and just as wise and just as intentional. Reality is not a despot, it's just a damn stone. John imagined bowing before a tyrant or king, and recounting his story. There's a chance they would grant him his wish. Just three or four more weeks! Take my life then. How easy is that? He pictured the worst of the worst: Hitler, Stalin, or Mao. Even one of those guys might have had some shred of compassion. Genghis Kahn, Attila the Hun, Nero... There's a tiny chance one of them would have been reasonable. But not reality. Reality has no reason, because reality's just a wall. And it has no mercy and it makes no sense.

Then Keisha felt elation. She felt John and his mother together, and she felt the story was finished—the entire story. It is finished.

It was entirely too much for Keisha who, while standing in front of the class, had experienced the full spectrum of life and love and loss. The images of the students, Louis Blair, and Mrs. Moore's classroom, returned to her vision. The room spun and the darkness closed in from the sides of her vision. Her head felt as if all the blood were draining from it, and she fell forward against the podium. Her hands fumbled feebly for something to grab ahold of on her way toward the hard floor but found nothing.
Chapter Twenty-Two

When Keisha finally came to, she was lying on a thin mattress on a metal cot. The sheets were white and freshly laundered. The blanket on top of her had to have been around since the 1970's. She was surrounded by cabinets of faded beige and a counter that contained jars of cotton balls and tongue depressors. There was a stethoscope coiled beside rolls of ACE bandages and gauze.

She wasn't alone. The school nurse was leaning over a laptop, periodically striking a few keys. Without looking at Keisha she asked, "How are you feeling? How's your head?"

Keisha's head hadn't felt strange at all until the nurse asked. "A little bit of a headache, maybe. Not too bad."

The nurse didn't respond.

The door hinge squeaked and both ladies looked over to see who it was. It was Mrs. Moore, and at first Keisha assumed she'd come to check in on her, which is why they call her Mamma Bear after all, but when she saw Principal Higgins follow close behind, Keisha immediately turned to Mrs. Moore and said, "Molly ratted me out?"

"Now Keisha, your friend Molly is simply worried about you and so are we."

Before Mrs. Moore could even finish her sentence, Molly walked into the room. Good for her, thought Keisha, At least she's not betraying me behind my back.

Behind Molly was the school vice principal and some guy in a suit she'd never seen before. Keisha tensed. Ms. Higgins turned to the nurse and said, "Mrs. Morales, would you please excuse us? We need the room."

Suddenly Keisha's head felt much worse.

The nurse was flustered. "Well, uh," she stuttered. "Uh, I guess..."

"Just go get some lunch and come back in twenty minutes," the principal said firmly.

The nurse saved a file on her laptop and closed the lid. Everyone in the room watched as she stood up, checked her pockets, and made her way slowly to the door. They were anxious to begin their interrogation but with one fewer set of ears.

The second the door closed behind the nurse, Principal Higgins turned to Keisha and asked, "So, what's this we're hearing about you and a school shooting?"

"How should I know what you're hearing?" Keisha fired back obstinately.

"I hope I don't have to explain to you the seriousness of this issue," said Ms. Higgins.

Keisha looked down. "Trust me, you don't."

"Molly tells us that you've been having dreams about a school shooting," Mamma Bear stepped in with a much more pleasant tone.

Keisha knew Molly understood her intuition and would never have referred to her visions as dreams. "That's not what she said," Keisha corrected her.

"She says you believe there will be a shooting at Jefferson High."

"I did," said Keisha. "Or do."

All the faces in the room turned to look at each other. The principal turned back to Keisha and said, "And you are seeing this in some sort of psychic vision?"

"That is correct."

"Other than these visions, do you have any reason to believe there will be a school shooting?" the principal asked.

"No," said Keisha, and she watched everyone in the room try to not look relieved. "But my visions are real. My visions end up coming true."

"What causes these visions?"

"I don't know. But I've always had the gift of intuition."

"And what exactly do you see?"

"Students hiding, screaming, praying. Dead bodies. Gunshots."

"How have you been feeling?" asked the principal. "Have you been under a lot of stress? Are you having any problems at home?"

"I'm fine. That's not it. I'm completely fine."

"Well, you have just fainted," Mamma Bear reasoned.

"Yes, but the fainting didn't make me see visions, seeing the visions made me faint."

"So then these episodes you have are pretty powerful?"

"They're not episodes."

"Do you hear voices?"

"No."

"But you said you heard screams and prayers."

"Yeah, okay, I see scenes, like a play. Like television. No one says they're hearing voices when they're watching TV, even though technically they are."

"Do these voices ever tell you to hurt yourself or others?"

"No. Stop it. I'm not schizophrenic and I'm not crazy."

The man in the suit stepped forward. He was carrying a pen and clipboard in front of him. He said, "Keisha, I'd like to ask you some basic, standard questions, if I may."

Keisha didn't reply; she knew he'd ask anyway.

He looked down at his sheet. "Do you own any handguns, rifles, shotguns, or firearms of any kind?"

"No."

"Have you ever owned any handguns, rifles, shotguns, or firearms of any kind?"

"No."

"Have you ever attempted to purchase any handguns, rifles, shot-"

"I don't have any guns!" snapped Keisha.

The man took a deep breath. His eyes traveled a few questions further down his list. "Does anyone in your house own a gun?"

Keisha sighed. "No."

"Have you ever been checked into any inpatient hospital care for depression or any medically—"

"No," Keisha was getting impatient with his questions.

"Have you ever been put under seventy-two-hour observation for—"

"No."

"Have you ever been involved in any type of physical altercation, including assault, abuse—"

"No," Keisha said too quickly. She saw Molly's eyebrow tick up slightly. "Well, yes, but..."

"What was the nature of this—"

"I stepped on some poor girl's foot. That's all."

"It was Penelope Page," Molly chimed in.

"The gymnast?" Mamma Bear asked.

"Keisha sprained her ankle," Molly offered.

"Intentionally?" the principal asked.

"Yes, but it was only because of my visions," said Keisha.

"Your visions told you to hurt her?"

"No. No. No," Keisha said quickly. "I had a vision of her falling and hitting her head on the balance beam. It looked like she died. So, I had to stop her from doing her routine. She wouldn't listen, so I sprained her ankle."

"I never heard of Penelope Page hitting her head," the vice principal spoke up.

"Because it never happened," said Keisha.

"So, your vision never actually happened?" probed the principal.

"Because I stopped it," insisted Keisha. "I had to. I saw her dying!"

"But Penelope is fine. I just saw her in an interview last month, still alive."

"That's because I attacked her!" Keisha shouted.

The whole room gasped. This wasn't going well at all.

"Were you charged for this?"

"Yes."

"What was the charge?"

"Aggravated assault."

There was another gasp from the room. The vice principal muttered, "She's a national hero."

Keisha smiled. She sat up a little taller. "I just did what I had to do."

"I meant Penelope," the VP said disdainfully.

The man in the suit wanted back in on the action. He said, "I'm going to show you a series of photos, I want you to tell me how each of them makes you feel."

"Why? What's the point in that?"

Ignoring her objection, he handed her the first photo. It was a photo of a gun.

Every eye in the room watched her and waited for her reaction. "I don't know. It's okay, I guess. Maybe if the handle were more pretty."

"More pretty?" the man in the suit asked sternly.

Keisha shrugged. "You know, they have the ones with those cool pearl handles."

"Cool pearl handles?" he asked, bewildered.

"I've seen one that was pink before. Like, the whole thing was pink." Keisha offered a suppliant smile.

"Keisha," Mrs. Moore said her name with impatience, but Keisha wasn't sure if she was annoyed with her or with the man in the suit. "Who is the shooter?"

Keisha froze. "I..."

"Is it Shane McCormick?" asked the principal.

Hearing the name Shane McCormick struck a peculiar note inside Keisha's mind. She looked over to Molly. Molly nodded for her to proceed. Keisha looked at Mamma Bear. She was the only one who actually appeared concerned. She looked at the man with the clipboard, his pen raised, primed to identify the next subject of interest.

Keisha said, "No." She could feel the condemnation from the room. She hated lying. The principal and the man in the suit wore the exact same scowl. Mamma Bear pursed her lips. Molly's face was stern, and Keisha had never seen her look haggard. Still she insisted, "I don't know. In my visions, I've never been able to see the shooter's face."

The principal looked to see Molly's reaction, as if wanting to verify Keisha's answer. With both the principal and Keisha looking at her, Molly looked down and away.

Keisha turned to the group and said with a voice of assertive finality, "Now if you don't mind, I'd like to get some more rest. I feel like if I have to stay awake another minute, I'm just going to lose it."

The room went completely silent. Mamma Bear's eyes contained disappointment over Keisha's last remark, and Molly just rubbed her face, exasperated. Everyone else looked afraid. It wasn't the wisest comment she could make in that moment, but it did work to clear the room.

After everyone left, Keisha checked the time on her phone. She had received many texts, but because they had to keep their ringers turned off while at school, she didn't know they were there.

She slid her phone on to see them. They were all from Shane:

I'm so sorry.

I didn't mean anything. I thought you liked me.

I thought you'd laugh it off and call me a pig or something. I didn't mean to upset you.

I'll let you beat me up again, if you want.

While she was reading those texts, another one popped up, a fresh one. It was from Molly Edwards. It read:

Why did you lie to them? Why didn't you tell them it was Shane McCormick?

Keisha quickly typed out:

My intuition told me not to say anything.

But she paused when she considered the permanent nature of a written text sent from her personal phone. She hit backspace until her entire message was gone, and in a moment that would change their friendship forever—or more accurately, signify that their friendship had changed—she typed a new text:

I don't know what you mean? Shane McCormick? I have no idea who the shooter is. I've never seen his face.

Keisha laid her head on her pillow, exhausted. Emotionally exhausted.

The next thing Keisha knew, the nurse was waking her up. She said, "That's the end of seventh period. Do you have a ride home, or do I need to call someone?"

"No, uh... I'm fine."

The nurse watched her every move as Keisha sat up in bed. "Are you feeling better, then?"

"Yes. All better. I feel just fine." She froze.

Beside her bed was a picture that hadn't been there before. Taped to the wall as if it were a hospital, not a school nurse's office, she saw a painting of a sunset done in watercolors.

"A boy came by to see you," said the nurse. "I told him you were out like a light. He wanted me to put that up for you."

The watercolor was simple; it no doubt had taken Shane no more than fifteen minutes of work. But the gesture was kind. There was a rock formation silhouetted in the foreground, which he painted black. The dark areas right next to the light really created drama and made the vibrant colors pop.

The painting was beautiful. She couldn't look away. But then like lightning from the blue, she heard a voice, "Help me, Keisha." She saw no vision, only audio—a distant voice repeating, "Help me, Keisha."

Two tears formed in her bottom lids, and the nurse asked, "Honey, are you sure you're all right?"
Chapter Twenty-Three

The next day during lunch, Keisha nervously approached his table in the cafeteria. "Is this seat taken?" she asked, hoping he'd remember the first words she ever said to him with nostalgia.

"What do you want?" he replied.

"Is your lip okay?"

"It's fine," he grunted.

"It looks terrible."

"Well, it hurts."

"No, I mean it looks really terrible. What an eyesore!"

"Did you just call my fat lip an eyesore?" he pretended to be actually ridiculing her while he said it. At this point she knew him better than to believe it.

She smiled and said, "No seriously, fat lips can hurt. I busted my lip last summer; it was a real pain in the neck."

Here, he couldn't help but laugh. His laughter betrayed his angry act, but laughing made his lip hurt, so his face returned to anger. "Go away."

"Just trying to cheer you up."

"What do you care?"

"I do care."

"Well, you got a funny way of showing it."

"Wait a minute," snapped Keisha. "Are you actually going to sit there and pretend like I was the one who wronged you?"

"You didn't answer my calls. You didn't return my texts... And that's not to mention... I dunno... the beating."

"You molested me!"

"Oh please!"

"Don't oh please me."

"Okay, listen. I'm sorry," he told her.

"Sorry about what?" She wanted him to say it.

"I'm so sorry I pinched your butt."

"You didn't 'pinch my butt.' Don't try to whitewash it."

"A grab," he offered.

"Worse than a grab! A grab lasts about a second."

"Okay but isn't the fact you let it last more than a second an indication you were kind of into it?"

She gasped with her mouth wide open. He did not just say that! She raised her pudding cup like she wanted to throw it at him. She really thought of doing it too but didn't. "I was in shock. My mind was in denial that it was even happening."

"That's kind of dramatic."

"I was violated! It was sexual assault."

"You're not going to hashtag about this, are you?"

He waited for her laugh, but there was none coming.

He smirked at her stubbornness. He said, "Let's call it a caress."

"Caress implies comfort and loving intimacy."

"It was a... It was..." He searched for a word.

She glowered at him.

"It was a mistake," he settled. "And I'm so sorry. I don't know anything about women, and you know how overly-sexualized our society is."

She looked at him baffled. Is he being serious?

He pressed on, "The truth is, for one stupid moment I couldn't help myself. You were right there in front of me and you just looked so..."

She waited.

"... lovely," he finally said.

"We're just friends," she said.

"Okay!" he groaned, throwing up his hands. He'd gotten that message already; she could have spared him from hearing the actual sounds again. "Fine. I get it. I get it, okay? I made a mistake. I mean... you told me I was smart. You said I was talented... You called me at three in the morning. I thought it all meant you liked me... in that way"

"Even if I did, you don't just reach out and..."

He put up his hand to hamper her. "I know. I know and I'm sorry. It was a mistake. I... violated you. I am so sorry. It won't happen again."

She took a deep breath. For a teenage boy, that was a decent apology. She said, "I didn't mean to lead you on."

"It's not your fault."

She leaned in and her voice got serious. "Are you okay with things going back to the way they were, us hanging out together, as friends, even though it will never go anywhere?"

He nodded and asked timidly, "Well, I mean... are you okay with it?"

She thought about this. Her head was a mess. The things she actually wanted to do, and the things she did because she felt duty-bound to obey her intuition were becoming increasingly jumbled in her mind. But there was one thing she did know: when she had attacked him with all her might, he had done nothing to stop her. He didn't run away crying and he didn't strike back. He took it like a man, and there was no denying that. It was an act of courage and character—and she really liked courage. It was a display of true masculinity that would be forever on his record in her book.

She nodded. "Yeah. I really like hanging out with you." She reached to squeeze his hand but paused. She wanted to touch it but didn't want to be unfair to him.

He saw what her hand did and reached out to grab hers instead. "Okay," he said.

"Okay," she said.

"So, like, does this mean we're a couple again?"

She snatched her hand back, "No," she stressed, "I just said—"

Shane smiled. "I'm kidding."

"Oh." She laughed.

He laughed too.

The moment of laughter they shared felt comfortable, like they already had a groove and they both just snapped right back into it. But she didn't want that. If they were going to move forward, she wanted to be crystal clear. She said, "You have to promise not to fall in love with me."

"Phhh! Quit flattering yourself. I just thought you had a great butt, all right?"

She said, "That's..." She didn't know what that was. She didn't know whether to laugh or blush or hit him again. The moments in which she was finding herself torn between those three options were becoming more frequent.

She wouldn't have a chance to finish her sentence, even if she knew how. She noticed him staring past her left shoulder, to the cafeteria wall. Something had definitely caught his attention and he had a confused look on his face.

She turned her head to see what it was. There was a new poster up, advertising the up and coming school play: the Jefferson High production of Frankenstein. Her heart sank. When she turned back around, he wasn't looking at the poster, but at her.

He said, "Wait a minute, they really are doing an all-girl Frankenstein?"

Keisha looked busted. "I wish you hadn't seen that."

He laughed. "What do the guys in drama get to do?"

"They're putting on Little Men."

"Oh jeez."

He couldn't figure out why she was acting so strange. "Wait a minute." His jaw swung open. "Are you Loser Girl?"

"Duh!" she said harshly. "You didn't understand the whole time I was talking about me?"

His mouth was still hanging open. He shook his head.

"I wasn't even trying to hide that the story was about me," she pushed.

He laughed. "No really, I didn't get that at all! Probably because you named her Loser, and to me you're... anything but a loser. So, does that mean you're playing Igor?"

She looked off, ashamed. Her face was starting to redden.

"There's no shame in it. Igor's cool. What an awesome part!"

"I'm not playing Igor. That part wasn't true."

"Then who do you play?"

"I play the lead, Dr. Frankenstein."

"I'm confused."

She pronounced the words slowly and somberly, "Dr. Victoria Frankenstein... understudy."

"That means that..."

"It means that if Aubrey Anderson cannot make her performance, I will step in just so the show can go on."

"Okay, so that's like... It sounds to me like you came in second." He tried to imitate her perkiness, "It's like winning the silver."

"I'm not on stage!" She blinked rapidly to beat back any tears. "I'm not even going to be on stage. Aubrey will show up in perfect health. She'll forget half her lines, butcher the performance, and everyone will love her smile."

"Keisha, I'm so sorry," Shane said. His voice was soft and sincere.

Keisha frowned and said nothing.

He frowned too, but he suddenly felt closer to her than ever. "Hey, I'm going out to my uncle's farm on Saturday. Want to come?"

"Where is it?"

"Out west, past Abilene. If you can't get your mom's car, I can drive you."

He saw the look on her face. He guessed she didn't want to be stranded out in the middle of nowhere, depending on him to get home. He saw it but pretended he didn't.

"I can get my mom's car," she said. "What are you doing there?"

"It's a surprise."

She was quiet and the entire table got heavy. He said slowly, "So, do you think you'd like to come?"

"Does he have horses? You know, for a city girl, I'm pretty good with horses."

Shane smiled slyly. "Why don't you come and find out."

"Okay," she said, apprehensively.

"Okay. Awesome. I'll text you the address."

"Okay," she agreed, but still wasn't too happy about it.

He added, "Oh, and do you own any of those riding pants?"

Her eyes sparkled, and she said, "Actually I do."

He took a moment to savor her change of attitude. His grin was joyful and mischievous when he said, "Wear them."

That night Keisha began to get excited about the chance to ride horses that weekend. She checked her Facebook to see if he had accepted her friend request. He hadn't.
Chapter Twenty-Four

When she followed the directions he gave her, she watched the signal of her cell phone go from five bars, to four, to three, to two, to one. She prayed that the single bar of connection to civilization—to her mom, to the highway patrol—would hang on, but with fifteen minutes of driving still left to do, it didn't. Until the moment her cell read No Signal, the idea of having to be afraid of Shane on this trip hadn't crossed her mind. Suddenly, with no lifeline to the outside world, that idea was all she could think about.

It's funny that when she contemplated her own death, her first thought was: Then how would my mom get her car back? Ever the people pleaser.

She had always imagined that should something bad ever happened to her, she'd have a premonition of it, right? But since no catastrophe had ever happened to her, she had no solid proof her gift worked like that.

She looked down at her purse. She had a can of mace in a leather carrying case right on top. How 80's retro!

Keisha loved Texas but couldn't help noticing the scenery had changed for the worse. The trees had become small and brown, what few trees there were. The recent flooding had covered the road with debris—washed up leaves, twigs, and all sorts of detritus, all of it brown. The sky maintained a dark and threatening overcast, without even the mercy of a rainbow.

With each mile she put behind her, she began to feel completely creeped out.

She checked the map on her GPS and used her fingers to zoom in. That was a mistake. When she did, the map refused to re-draw, and she remembered she had no signal. When she tried to get back to the wider view, it wouldn't reload any map at all. She opened up her spiral to see the directions Shane drew. Having spent most her life inside good cell areas, Keisha didn't understand at the time why he had bothered to draw a map. Luckily, she brought it with her.

She saw the barn he had described and pulled into the front drive. She could hear the sound of acorn caps crunching beneath her tires. She saw a man standing in the door of the main house, and she figured he must be the uncle.

He wore a sweat-stained white undershirt beneath a faded bathrobe, which draped limply down his body. His entire persona could best be described as dingy. Long wisps of gray, thinning hair fell from his head in all directions and only grew in patches. His lips wore a snarl and it showed off his rotting teeth. He was staring straight at her.

She stepped out of the car and shot him an energetic wave. He showed zero response to her wave as he continued to stare. This didn't help her discomfort one bit. She was about to call out a greeting to the man, but she heard her name.

"Keisha!" Shane was coming from the direction of the barn and striding right toward her. He wore a big smile on his face and she tried to remember if she'd ever seen him smile quite like that. His smile wasn't disappearing and there was a spring in his step. When he reached the spot she was in, he gave her a hug for the first time.

"C'mon, you gotta see this," he said as he grabbed hold of her hand and pulled her in the direction of the barn.

"Uh, are we going to go say hi to your uncle?"

"No, don't worry about him. He's fine. C'mon."

As they walked, the socially appropriate moment for him to let go of her hand came and went. While at first, he was leading her by the hand, they were eventually nothing more than two people walking side by side and holding hands. They walked past the door which she hoped would lead to a stable. She glanced down at the riding pants she was wearing with slight disappointment.

"Are there horses?" she asked with waning hope.

"No, 'course not."

She huffed. "Then why'd you tell me to wear riding pants?"

He smiled. "I told you, great butt."

She yanked her hand right out of his. His comedic timing was perfect, and in any other situation she might have laughed. But she had no bars on her phone, the woods were creepy, his uncle was creepy, and his joke was creepy. She was happy to see him smiling, but the wound on his face ruined it. His fat lip had only grown worse and it made him look totally creepy too. She wanted to be friends, but even that was changing by the second.

He shrugged off her objections to the joke, too excited to show her the surprise, which apparently was on the other side of the barn. When he rounded the corner, he sprinted ahead a few steps. She could see the edge of a ramshackle work bench. "It's right here," he said as he retrieved something off the top. Keisha rounded the corner in time with Shane turning to present to her his treasure.

He was holding a long black rifle, and she almost peed her riding pants.

He struck a pose for her to see. The rifle was in his left hand, pointed to the sky. His other hand was by his sternum, strangely holding up a folded newspaper.

"Who am I?"

Keisha looked dyspeptic.

"C'mon, who am I?" he giggled and struck a pose, remaining perfectly still like a photograph. After a pause, he broke the pose to look at her. He said, "C'mon, TIME magazine?" then returned to the pose.

Keisha couldn't speak. She felt like she was standing at the center of a frozen lake; it wasn't just that she was daring to stand on thin ice, it was that she had no idea why she had wandered out so far. She said, "Eh... um..."

"Nothing?" he laughed giddily. "Picture me in black and white."

She knew. She understood who he meant. She just didn't understand why? And why it had made him so giddy.

"Lee Harvey Oswald," he told her, disappointment in his voice. "This is his rifle."

"What?"

"Well, not his rifle. But it's a Carcano. That's the one he used to kill Kennedy. A Carcano. Isn't that cool? My uncle owns one."

Still she didn't know what to say.

"He won't let me fire it though." He frowned and shrugged. "He's pretty cool about letting me shoot all the rest."

"The rest?"

Shane's eyes lowered to the work bench on the side of the barn. She turned around to see what he was looking at and it chilled her blood. The entire bench was covered with at least a dozen rifles, handguns, and shotguns.

Shane laughed at the reaction on her face. "I didn't know which one you'd like, so I brought 'em all out. You want to see mine?" He stepped to the end of the table. "Well, not mine yet, but he said he's going to give it to me. Check this out." He picked up the most menacing gun Keisha had ever seen in real life. It was long and black and looked like a prop from a war movie. "It's an AR-15." He made a funny shaking motion with the hand that wasn't holding the weapon. "Ooooh, scary." He laughed.

Still she said nothing.

"Want to see me shoot it?"

"No."

"What? C'mon. You gotta see this." Shane walked over to a tree stump. He found a large chunk of dead wood that had been washed in by the rains and placed it on top of the stump. She noticed that the tree stump was covered in bullet wounds on the front, where Shane or his uncle had undershot whatever targets they'd aimed at over the years.

He walked back to where she stood and said, "Watch."

"Shane," said Keisha. "I think I want to go."

"What? You just got here. Hold on." Shane raised his rifle with such urgency, as if having a girl watch him shoot was a dream come true for him and nothing was going to deter him from it.

He lined up the shot, took a long deep breath, and squeezed the trigger.

Keisha screamed. She was completely unprepared for how loud it was. It sounded like a metal hammer swung full-force against a sheet of plywood, but louder. Her heart had been pounding, but she now felt it would leap from her chest. She didn't want to add more stress to their beleaguered friendship. She didn't want to blow her assignment. She tried to control her breathing and remain calm. "I want to go."

This was particularly stabbing to Shane, especially after he had just missed his shot. He said, "Just hold on a second, dammit!"

This small hint of anger from him at this moment exploded large in Keisha's mind. He shot again and missed again and cursed again. The sound of the discharge wouldn't let anything within Keisha's nerves settle. She thought she might cry.

Having missed twice, all the joy which was so rare and fleeting in his heart was gone. He took one glance over at Keisha's horrified face and felt lower than he had in weeks. "I can hit it," he shouted. "I guess I'm just nervous. Hold on..."

He raised the gun again and took a deep breath, convinced that this scene, the look on her face, and all the world could be set right if she could only see him blow something up. As he paused to concentrate, the entire woods were quiet. The shot rang out and jolted Keisha again.

This time Shane only looked over to see her for one second. He saw the intense displeasure on her face. His entire persona changed. His entire body shook with frustration. It was the type of frustration that results from an inability to bring the world around to his desires. It was the type of frustration for which the word frustration was not enough. It was the anger and hatred of the utterly powerless. With a raging determination, he raised his rifle to the target and fired, and then again, and again, and again, and again, and again.

Six shots right in a row. Jessica, Madison, Michael, Peyton, Daryl, and John. The hammers were pounding in Keisha's ears and pulverizing her sensitive heart. The entirety of her visions flooded her mind at once: Jessica, Madison, Michael, Peyton, Daryl, and John. She hadn't even seen when the piece of wood exploded, but it was gone.

Shane let out a whoop, then turned to her to receive his congratulations. "What the hell?" he snapped. "Why are you crying?"

"I'm sorry," she said, frantically wiping tears. "I'm sorry." At this point she was no longer concerned about preserving the friendship. Forget the mission. She didn't care if she hurt him; she just wanted to get out of there without him hurting her.

Shane looked confused. He forced a laugh, "Did I scare you?" It was a genuinely concerned question cloaked in an adolescent male tease.

She nodded, still wiping tears on the cuffs of her sleeves. "I got a little scared, yeah."

"Oh..." Many forces in his young heart were vying for supremacy. Mostly he had just wanted the moment to go how he had always imagined it—for her to think he's as badass and bulletproof as the weapon made him feel. But seeing her tears had a strange effect on him. "I'm... I'm sorry. I guess it's kind of loud."

She faked a laugh. Her tears were mostly under control. "I had no idea it'd be so loud. It's not at all like on TV."

He faked a laugh. "You get used to it. And I've got some earplugs for us. Once you're used to it, it's really not scary." He did his best to offer a gentle smile, then turned the weapon around. "Here, you try."

He held the gun out to her, and she could feel her heart pounding in her ears. She knew how her premonitions worked; physical contact brought the most severe visions and sensations. It's as if things connected to great tragedy were like sponges, soaking up the darkness and pain of things that have happened or are yet to come. She knew that for someone with her gift, that gun contained a type of darkness and suffering that would rival every vision of evil she'd ever experienced before. To touch it even for a moment would be like squeezing the sponge. To touch it would be like receiving six gunshot wounds all at once. She simply wasn't strong enough. She knew she was no hero. She never asked for this gift. She wasn't strong enough to endure the fear of a child seconds away from losing his life, or the pain of a mother who had lost her child, or the anger of an entire nation pointing fingers and tearing each other apart. She recoiled from it.

Seeing her reaction, he pushed the weapon closer to her.

She snapped her hands back. "I just don't like guns," she whined in a panic.

"Take it." He laughed and stepped closer as she stepped back. Something reflexive triggered in him and his actions came forth mechanically. He taunted her with it the way a boy would taunt a girl while holding a frog. The way she squealed, he couldn't help it.

Twice already the weapon had nearly brushed against her skin. She was forced to yell, "Stop it! Stop it! Stop it right now! I told you I don't want to touch it, now leave me alone."

His face showed panic, maybe even concern or regret. He also feared ruining their relationship, but he quickly converted it all into anger. "Well, now who can't laugh at herself? I was just kidding. I was just messing around, okay? What's wrong with you? It's just a gun anyway. It's just a damn gun."

"I have to go," she said and turned to leave. The second she had her back to him, the tears began to flow again. She walked as quickly as she could to her mom's car but didn't want Shane to see her run. She worried for a second about getting shot in the back but knew that was foolishness. Her face was completely wet. She didn't use her hands to wipe her tears because she didn't want to give Shane any more clues that she was still crying. She just wanted to get out of there.

She knew he was currently watching her butt as she retreated in her riding pants, and there was nothing she could do to stop it. It disgusted her. She was starting to hate him. When she passed by the main house again, she noticed Shane's uncle was still standing there, still in his bathrobe and still without expression. He was also staring at her.

She'd never gotten in a car and started the engine so fast in her life.
Chapter Twenty-Five

Keisha knew what would happen the next day. Shane would try to retreat like in the beginning, and she couldn't let that happen. After a night of relentless visions, she knew she'd have to be back at her mission.

Their paths always crossed in the hall after second period. She saw him walking past her locker with his head down. She couldn't let him get away with that, so she walked over and stood in his way, "What are you doing?"

"Going to class," he sassed.

"You're not going to come talk to me?"

He shrugged. "Got nothing to say."

"Don't be a jerk."

"Great, so now I'm a jerk?"

"I didn't say that. Are you mad at me?"

He groaned and threw up both his hands, "Listen, I don't do are you mad at me? I don't do it. I don't want it. That ain't me. I never asked you to be my friend. I never said I needed a friend, so whatever you're doing, just stop it okay?"

"No."

"What?"

"Just... Just... stop walking. Can we just talk?" Keisha could feel the corner of her eyes starting to sting, and she feared she would start to cry again—like she'd cried at his uncle's farm and like she'd been crying all night about the visions keeping her up. She could feel herself failing and she had seen the fate awaiting the school, and the nation, if she failed.

"Talk about what?" Shane snapped.

"I don't know," she said exasperated, not wanting him to leave. All night she couldn't get the image of him rapid firing out of her mind. She was haunted by his look of bitter frustration and angry helplessness. She was seeing the same expressions on his face again. "The shadow," she offered.

"What about it?"

"You said it was life. Did you mean it was your life, or all life?"

"All life," he spat.

This wasn't the answer she hoped for. "But..." she meekly protested.

"Life is a joke played on the living."

"You don't believe that." She grabbed his arm just above the elbow, wishing to keep him there with her, wishing to keep him tethered to planet Earth, rather than float adrift in the cold hatred of space.

He shook his arm free and said, "People always talk about how life is pain. People go on and on and on about their suffering, but no one ever talks about who's to blame. No one ever talks about who needs to pay for it."

Keisha stood there with tears in her eyes.

Shane looked at the cross that hung on her neck. "God," he spat. "The shadow is God." He turned to leave, but she grabbed his shoulder one more time.

She said, "And the man who hates a politician, but can't get to him... You were also talking about God then, weren't you?"

His eyes were devoid of all grace. He said, "There is a way to hurt God." He left it there.

Keisha completed it for him. "Go after His children instead." Keisha trembled. If a suicide is the product of hating your own life, a school shooting is a product of hating all life. It's casting a resounding no-vote on all of existence.

Shane narrowed his eyes. "Just get away from me." He yanked his muscular arm free from her small hand.
Chapter Twenty-Six

Shane always went through the lunch line first. He watched attentively for Keisha to show up but told himself he didn't care.

Why'd I have to show her the guns? He just wanted her to think they were cool. Why'd I have to push her? Why'd I tease her with it, like an eight-year-old boy who'd just caught a frog?

And why'd I have to act that way in the hall? Why did I act so tough, like I didn't care if she ever spoke to me again, when in fact she's all I think about? He hated himself.

He checked his watch. She was usually here by now. He knew she wouldn't show. He knew she was avoiding him. He didn't blame her. His eyes studied the whole crowd. He didn't see Keisha, but he saw Brody. He was walking with his usual flock of geese, flying south in their standard formation—Brody in front with his arm around Jessica and half a dozen guys lagging behind.

The second that Shane's eyes rested on Brody's face, Brody happened to turn to look at him. Shane immediately looked away. Dammit. Not now Brody. Not today. Shane had enough going on already; he didn't want to worry about dealing with Brody on top of everything.

He held his breath as they got closer, hoping they would just leave him alone. He stared straight ahead, pretending to ignore them completely. When he felt it had been enough time for Brody to get past him and through the door, he was tempted to look over, but he didn't. He didn't want to share another look with the idiot. Not today.

Then suddenly there was a voice from behind talking very loudly, "Hey does anyone know where I can find the trash?" Shane turned his head in time to see it was Brody. And Brody was in the process of turning to face Shane. He said, "Oh, there he is," then flung his crumpled juice box straight at Shane's head. It hit its target and Brody's sycophants all laughed, even Jessica.

The sadness Shane should have been feeling over Keisha had already been channeled to anger. But when the crumpled juice box hit him, it escalated. When the beautiful girl laughed, it broke loose. Before Shane even knew what was happening, he found himself on his feet. His right hand was already in a fist, and it was being beckoned straight toward Brody's face.

Brody saw Shane coming and squared his shoulders in his direction. Brody's goons formed a predictable half circle around him. Shane didn't have time to count the guys and wouldn't have allowed himself to consider it anyway. He threw it. It hit me. That's all there is to consider.

The eyes of everyone in that area were on Shane and reality dawned on him slowly. This was a fight he couldn't win. Oh well. It was too late now. He'd already stood up from his chair and there was no going back. He reached out his furious hand to grab Brody by the collar, but he never even made contact.

A small dark figure burst through the crowd and placed two firm hands on both Shane's shoulders. "No!" shouted Keisha. Her unexpected intervention thwarted the momentum on both sides. She put her hands up in both directions and extended them until she had exhausted her limited arm span. The fighters in both corners seemed to respect the unlikely ref. She turned and took one step toward Brody. She had to tilt her head up to look him in the eyes. She shouted, "You don't know what you're doing!"

Brody was taken aback by her words. He looked at Shane's pint-sized bodyguard and laughed, "The dude's got to have a girl fight his battles!" The crowd laughed again at his joke, although it didn't matter what he'd said; mocking was the only way out of the situation, short of hitting a girl. "C'mon, y'all." Brody instructed his lackeys, and it was over.

Keisha turned to Shane. Her voice was desperate and pleading when she said, "You have to find another way."

Shane wasn't ready to hear anything from her. He barked, "Why did you do that?"

"Because there were seven of them," she answered. "You can't take on seven guys, idiot."

Shane turned to head back to his chair, and Keisha followed. When Shane sat down he eyed all the people who were rubbernecking the whole situation. All the heads turned back to their trays and the cafeteria returned to normal.

Keisha sat down, but only on the edge of her chair. She had both arms folded over her chest. Shane leveled with himself that all he wanted was for her to stay, and so he tried to calm down. The surge of adrenalin that had entered into his body was beginning to wane. He took a long deep breath and his nerves took a step down, and then another, and another.

He finally felt steady, so he looked up into her face and smiled. He could tell she was about to leave, so he blurted out, "I had a dream last night."

"About what?" she asked guardedly.

"About a girl who stepped in-between."

She looked irritated and even more anxious to leave.

Shane spoke quickly, "I dreamed that I was here at this table, surrounded by people laughing at me. Everyone in the entire cafeteria was laughing at me. Then this girl, a total stranger, stepped forward and stood in-between me and the mockers. There was so much pain and ridicule and hate. And they were hurling it all at me like daggers. I could feel it, and I know the girl could feel it as well, but that didn't stop her. This girl—and to me she seemed like an angel—stepped forward and stood in-between."

Keisha turned her head to eye the spot where he had lain on the floor. She said, "That's a crazy dream."

"Yeah. But the thing is, I woke up and checked my shoelaces."

Keisha's eyebrows ticked up when Shane said shoelaces.

He continued, "I tie my shoes with the simple bunny ear method..." He motioned to his shoes with his eyes. "But these knots are different." Shane wasn't trying to be dramatic. He stared into space. With genuine disbelief, even awe, he said solemnly, "You tied my shoelaces!"

Keisha refused to respond.

Shane looked over to the door through which Brody had just exited. "And now, I guess you've done it again; once again you've stepped in-between."

She didn't blush. Shane was trying to thank her. He was trying to appeal to her pride. But she just looked morose. Her eyes were bloodshot and she looked older than she had just last week. She wouldn't look Shane in the eye. She shook her head somberly and got up to leave.
Chapter Twenty-Seven

After the last period of the day things were always crazy. All the students were making their way home, and Keisha knew this was her last chance. Ever since lunch, she'd been searching for Brody and hadn't seen him yet. Finally, she spotted him as he was walking out the door.

Unfortunately, she was nowhere near the door and had a hallway full of students to navigate. She weaved through Margret Bell and Jamie Cook. She ducked under a poster board Jeremy Allen was carrying. She narrowly avoided crashing right into Mark Wood, only to have her backpack strike Mark hard in the shoulder. "Sorry!" Keisha called back but didn't slow down.

When she broke through the doors, she looked in every direction and couldn't see Brody. Toby Smith, the nice boy in her Trig class walked up to her to talk. "Not now," she said as kindly and as quickly as she could. She ran closer to the street to get a better view of the parking lot and tried to see down the rows of cars. By the time she saw him in the third row, he was halfway through the parking lot.

She had no idea how close he was parked so she ran with all her might. She took off in a full sprint. She had to cross Enderly Road, so she just did. A Hyundai Sonata slammed on its brakes and then its horn. Keisha offered nothing more than a quick wave as an apology.

She watched in panic as Brody turned in-between two parked cars. Keisha recognized his Land Rover, and she had a long way left to go. Still running, she called his name, "Brody!"

She didn't know what she would have said to him even if he had heard her. Brody walked to his driver's side door. Keisha heard someone else call his name. Brody looked up and shouted something back at that person, but Keisha couldn't hear. Both boys laughed, and Keisha hoped that would buy her enough time.

Unfortunately, Brody turned his attention right back to his car and tried his door. It was locked, and when he pulled his key fob out to unlock it, he dropped it. If it fell under the car, Keisha thought, this is my chance.

But it didn't. As the muscles in Keisha's legs were telling her to give up, she watched Brody open the door and climb inside. He started the engine and put his car in reverse. He backed out and angled toward the aisle Keisha was in.

Brody put the car into drive and was startled by Keisha slamming her hands against his hood. She stood with her kneecaps against his bumper, blocking his path. She made her way over to his window and made the hand motion to roll down the window, as if Brody had ever seen a window with a hand crank.

She could see from his eyes he was recalling their encounter in the cafeteria. He rolled down his window and shouted, "What do you think you're doing?"

She tried to speak but was completely out of breath. His face grew annoyed and his car lurched forward. She slammed her hands back on his door frame and he hit the brakes again. She had planned on being able to reach for his hand, but one was on his gearshift and the other was gripping the steering wheel at the bottom, out of her reach.

He turned to shoot her one more look of irritation, and she reached out and put her hands on both sides of his cheeks. Brody pulled his head back as far as he could and used his left hand to pull her hands off him. His expression was as appalled as if she'd just spit on him. He shouted a litany of swear words and hit the gas.

She received no vision. The collection of offensive sounds assembled in her brain, and she realized what he'd said to her and about her as he drove off. There was just the smallest hint of irony in her heart as she told herself, honestly, I'm sure glad this miserable person is not going to die soon in a puddle of his own blood.
Chapter Twenty-Eight

Shane couldn't decide if he wanted to draw Brody with blood dripping from both eyes and both nostrils, or maybe with the skin melting off one side of his face, or maybe just dead. That would be subtle, and maybe subtle would be more powerful. He could draw him freshly dead, no wounds on his face, no cartoonish croaking face. Just Brody Tanner as he appears today, but with all his muscles slack and a vague look of emptiness in the eyes, which Shane wasn't sure he was talented enough to capture.

As he worked, the drawing didn't end up being of Brody dead at all, but very handsome. His eyes were very alive and seemed to sparkle. Shane didn't understand what his hands were doing, but couldn't stop, as if some hidden catharsis could be found by simply embracing the virtues of his rival. Or something. Shane didn't know.

But as he worked, a dramatic image took shape. Brody's high cheek bones. Brody's perfect teeth and thousand-watt smile. Brody's thick, luxuriant hair. And eyes that, had he never met the man, looked kind. The guy was perfect. Good-looking, popular, beautiful girlfriend, star quarterback, what could provoke a man so clearly gifted by life's lottery to become such a jerk?

When I finally decide to take my revenge on the world, the world will take one look at me and say, "That makes sense." But Brody Tanner? Why is he so cruel? Where does his cruelty come from? That makes no sense to me at all. If I had his life, I'd just be happy. I'd leave people alone and just be happy.

When Shane finished the drawing, he had a piece of powerful portraiture. He was certain his pencil had given Brody humanity that the man himself did not possess. If Brody's mother had a chance to see this, she'd likely pay five hundred dollars for it. It was a shame what he was about to do with it.

When he got to his uncle's barn, he found a post to bury in the ground. He found a piece of plywood to nail to the post. He found some tacks to attach the new portrait to the plywood.

Then he went to retrieve his AR-15.

When he framed the shot on Brody's face he could feel the excitement tingling his insides. He began to breathe harder and his heart pounded a sweet voracious rhythm. He savored the moment of anticipation. What Shane wanted more than anything in life was to set the record straight. Shane had been on bottom and Brody had been on top, but a single bullet sure can change things.

He waited for his breathing to calm down and wasn't sure it would. He couldn't bear a repeat of when Keisha was there. He couldn't stand it if he were to miss now. He considered walking closer, but he found the idea shameful.

When he looked through the sight, the drawing filled his vision. The edges of the paper were cropped out, leaving nothing to remind his brain it was just a drawing. Shane remained still, watching it, anticipating. He was waiting for that moment when great art can trick the brain completely, that second in time when it ceases being a drawing and becomes alive, when the mind believes any second it is liable to move.

Shane witnessed that moment and he pulled the trigger to put a round straight through Brody's face. To Shane's surprise, an entire chunk of plywood was blown away. Dang. The whole center area was gone, missing, just like that. There was literally nothing left of Brody's face. Just a massive hole where a great drawing had been.

Shane didn't let out a whoop from his destruction. He was irritated. He'd worked all day. All that work and all that planning and it was over so fast. Shane found it wasn't even worth it. Oh well, too bad for Brody's drawing. Too bad for Brody's mother; she'll have to live on without it. Oh well. Just a drawing.

When Shane walked over to the table and put his weapon down, he saw a small brown rabbit trying to cross the road. He picked his rifle back up. He was too far away, so he had to move closer. He had to advance quickly because the rabbit would not leave itself exposed to hawks and owls for long. He had to move quietly because the slightest noise would—

Some acorns crunched beneath Shane's feet. The rabbit turned its head to look at Shane, then immediately bolted toward the tall grass.

Shane sprinted two more steps to get a clear shot and planted his feet. He was too far away. The rabbit was moving too fast. He was too rushed. There were countless reasons he should not have bothered to take the shot, but he just had to shake this feeling of disappointment. He had to have some sort of victory. He didn't want to be let down again.

All these thoughts flew through his brain in a flash and he decided to go for it. He raised the rifle to his chest, looked through the scope, found the rabbit just in time and pulled the trigger.

He didn't even see where its body had gone, just a bright red streak of blood leading toward the tall grass where the rabbit had never arrived.

This time Shane did rejoice. He raised his rifle into the air, bounced like an excited four-year-old, and let out a joyful whoop!
Chapter Twenty-Nine

Keisha had been doing her best to avoid Shane all week, even though it meant hiding in Mrs. Moore's room during lunch. Keisha didn't want to see him and she didn't want to think about it. The only problem was that the more she avoided him, the more she became plagued by visions of mass homicide.

She heard the six gunshots. She saw people crouching beneath their desks. And she saw one vision that confused her most of all: two boys carrying guns in a school. Two boys. Neither of them looked like Shane, but it wasn't clear. Could she have possibly been wrong this whole time about him being the shooter? The idea was absurd. The most confusing thing of all about the two-man vision is that it came to her in black and white. She had no clue what that could mean.

She didn't know what to do. Was it too late to give his name to the school? Would it make any difference? She thought about how she felt when Molly walked in the room behind the principal. She felt betrayed. What would Shane do if his only friend in the world had just betrayed him? Would it become a self-fulfilling prophecy? She decided right then against trying to get any help from the school or the cops. It was just likely to make it happen sooner.

She re-read all the texts he had sent her:

Haven't seen you in a while. Are you sick or something?

I hope you're not avoiding me?

I'm sorry I was a jerk in the hallway.

She hadn't returned any of them, and her visions were getting more frequent and more intense. By this point she'd detected a pattern emerging: every time she connected with Shane, the visions receded; every time she pulled away, they came back with a vengeance.

Marty rested his chin on her leg and looked up at her. His eyes were filled with compassion and understanding. Without actually deciding to do so, Keisha opened her laptop to check Facebook. It wasn't about Shane at all really; Keisha's impulse to check Facebook could never actually be described as pre-meditated.

Keisha had pretty much given up on him accepting her friend request, but to her disbelief he had. She jerked in surprise and Marty got up just to lie down again in the same position one foot away.

She clicked on his profile with a trembling finger, anxious and frightened to discover what she might see. She actually clung to the hope she'd only find immature memes and funny pet videos on his wall. The first thing that caught her attention obviously was a video he'd posted of himself firing his uncle's AR-15. This wasn't really news; she knew he enjoyed shooting. Posting about it did seem to raise it closer to the level of obsession. But he was a teenage boy, and teenage boys are often obsessed with their hobbies. In fact, they should be. Keisha had always been more impressed with people who had passions. The alternative is too boring.

In the video, he fired six shots. Was this the six gunshots she'd been hearing in her visions? In this video, Shane was clearly at his uncle's farm, not at the school. The only vision she'd actually received of Shane's face was of him loading a rifle with a toothpick hanging out of his mouth. In this video, he did not have a toothpick.

The next video she saw on his timeline showed people hiding under their desks with the deafening sound of repeat gunfire in the background. The only thing visible in the clip was a closed door, but with the sound of distant—but unbearably loud—gunshots echoing through the whole school. It was the same frequency of gunshots she'd heard in her visions: one, then the next, then the next, then the next, each one of them, down a not-so-distant hallway, was a life of a child that was ending. Each one of them was followed by cries and cursing of the hiding students. This was Keisha's vision exactly. Keisha's intuition had shown her this exact scene, but it had already happened? It was recorded on someone's phone? She was so confused.

The next one she saw was a news report. It showed clips of officers guiding students out of the building, girls crying behind police tape, and bodies being wheeled out of the school on stretchers covered in white sheets. Keisha saw all these things in her visions, but they'd already happened?

She didn't know what to believe now. But there was one thing she knew for sure, because she was seeing it in front of her own eyes, not in a vision and not in a dream: Shane McCormick's entire Facebook page was dedicated to school shootings. And he had given her permission to see it. Wasn't he ashamed? Didn't he stop for one second and consider how she might respond to the things he chose to post, like, or share?

Keisha was sick to her stomach and wanted to stop clicking things on his godforsaken page, but she felt duty-bound to keep investigating. She told herself that people's lives were at stake.

Then she saw it: black and white footage of two boys walking around a school with guns. She looked at the title of the video. It was from Columbine. She hadn't even realized she was seeing footage when she saw it in her vision. She wrongly believed it was pointing her away from Shane. Now she realized it was pointing straight at him.

Keisha stopped the video, X-ed out Shane's Facebook page, and slammed her laptop closed. She began to sob uncontrollably. Molly was right. She was in over her head. She was in way over her head. She told herself she would give his name to the school. She would show his Facebook page to the FBI. Forget about her intuition to reach out to him. Her intuition got it wrong.

She heard gunshots, and actually glanced at her laptop to see if she'd somehow failed to shut it. Unfortunately, these were in her own head; there was no browser she could close. Her mind was flooded with visions in a way they had never assailed her before, one after another, like gunfire. Some of them even overlapped in a way for which her normal sight didn't have a counterpart.

She saw Jessica's father after the funeral. He was curled up on the floor by his bed crying, his bottle of opioids in his hand. He was thinking about swallowing enough to make the pain stop, or even swallowing enough to make it stop forever. He hated everything he ever did as a parent and would give anything to turn back time, not just to prevent her death, but to change their entire relationship. He wished he had just made time for her back when she still did try to talk to him. He wished he'd put down his phone and his work and just listened to her. He should have shown her that she was important, her thoughts were important, and her life mattered.

She saw Randy Williams, the man who Madison had slept with one time. He was standing over Michael Hudson's grave, begging his forgiveness. She experienced what he was feeling—the pain of not having been found out. He wished Madison had confessed, or he had. He wished Michael Hudson had been given the chance to punch him out.

She saw Peyton's baby being born. It was a boy. She saw the new mom nursing him in the middle of the night all alone, tears running down her cheeks.

She saw Mrs. Hodges's face, with only weeks left to live, hearing the news from her husband that their boy, John, was dead.

She saw Daryl's mom, whispering through the top of the casket, "Don't worry about what you said. I know you didn't mean it. It doesn't matter what you said to me."

She saw the students crying before cameras, behind police tape, and this time she recognized the faces; they were students from Jefferson High. She saw a nation made irrational by grief and tearing itself apart.

Molly was right. He was a psychopath. She could end this the same way she ended it with Penelope at gymnastics camp. She could crush Shane's hand in a door frame with all her might. Or figure out a way to blind him. She could go to prison, but she'd have saved six lives.

She thought about Brody. She couldn't understand why touching him had produced no visions. Daryl and John were good friends and teammates with Brody, and Jessica was his girlfriend, but she was starting to think those six were random. Shane had already told her he wasn't trying to hurt Brody; he was trying to hurt God. They were simply six people who could be found near the school's north entrance in the morning, but she still didn't know which morning.

May 22.

The date announced itself in her mind like an answer to trivia, as if her searching for it had been able to bring it forth. Her stomach tightened.

It was all too much for her. May 22. That was next month. She had to talk to someone. She picked up her phone and dialed Molly. She was worried Molly would hang up on her. Keisha hadn't talked to her since that day in the nurse's office.

Keisha could hear Molly picked up but didn't actually say anything. Keisha spoke quickly, "Listen, I don't care if you betrayed me, okay? I just need help right now."

"I betrayed you?"

"Listen, things are bad. I just need a friend right now. Can you just be my friend?"

Molly was silent.

"Okay?" Keisha pressed.

"Okay," Molly snapped.

"I've seen his Facebook page and it's terrifying. It's dedicated to school shootings and there's video of him firing a gun—"

"What gun? Does he own a gun?"

"I don't know," Keisha said. She hated feeling like she couldn't trust her oldest friend. "But the entire page is footage from school shootings. Most of it I've seen in my visions. I thought I was seeing the future, but I was just seeing images from this page. Either way it points to him. And he has it all right there, out in the open. He accepted my friend request; that means he knew I would see it. He's not ashamed." Keisha began to cry. She didn't want to burden Molly, but she couldn't help it. All the stress over the last month had built up in her and she released it all through tears.

"Well," said Molly. "I hate to say I told you so, but I told you so."

The jab hurt Keisha. It saddened her that Molly would kick her while she was down, but most of all, Keisha just wanted a sounding board—someone who would help her think this through without her own agenda.

"He's a psychopath," Molly continued. "I tried to tell you."

Keisha was still sobbing. "What do I do?"

"I think your premonitions are wrong on this one. Does he own any guns?"

"I don't know. I don't know. But Molly, listen to me. Every time I pull away from him, the visions increase. Every time we have a good time, they go away. What am I supposed to do? What am I supposed to do with that?"

"I don't know what that means, but you gotta get away from this guy. The gun he was firing on the video, does he still have access to that?"

Keisha knew deep down Molly wanted to see Keisha happy and safe. They both wanted the same things, both wanted to avoid a shooting at all costs. Keisha needed someone to help her think through all the new information, but Molly had already made up her mind a long time ago. Molly couldn't help her now.

Keisha took a deep breath and sighed. She spent one sweet moment reflecting on her friendship with Molly over the years, and all the times she actually had been there for her. She said, "I love you, Molly."

Molly didn't reply. Keisha heard the small intake of air and knew her old friend was taken off guard.

Keisha said, "Thank you, Molly."

"For what?"

Keisha hung up the phone. She put her head in both hands and she wished for her so-called gift to leave her. She stood up fiercely and turned on more lights in her room. She opened her curtains wide and let the afternoon sun spill in. Over the past few days, she had learned a bright room made it harder for more unwelcomed visions to come.

She waited. For a second there was nothing, and she felt relief. But it was short-lived. Her relief was shattered by the sound of six gunshots. She heard the pathetic voice, "Help me, Keisha." This time, unlike before, she could tell it was a man's voice. But whose? Michael's? Peyton's? Daryl's? John's? She pulled herself together. She stopped crying so she could really listen. "Help me, Keisha." The pull was so strong, stronger than she'd ever felt it before. She was so overcome she actually turned the lights back off. She ran to her curtains and pulled them closed. She cried out in the dark, "Yes, I want to help you. I want to help you. Tell me how."

Help me, Keisha.

"Yes. I will. Tell me who you are."

Help me, Keisha.

She froze. Terrified. She recognized the voice that time and it chilled her. It was Shane's voice, as clear as a bell. He was asking her for help and she heard it inside her heart. The call was so strong, but it was asking too much of her.

"No," she said aloud. "I can't help."

Help me, Keisha.

"No. I can't help. I don't know what to do."

She glanced back at the laptop she had slammed shut and opened it again. She navigated back to his Facebook page. There was a list of nine friends connected to his page. None of them were local, and all of them looked like the type who sit at the corner table. Keisha took a guess at which one was his mom. Their last names were not the same, but she was the only one it could've been.

She said a quick prayer that his mom's Facebook page would not be set to private and it wasn't. She began to scroll through her posts, looking for anything that would help. Unfortunately, Shane's mom did not spend a lot of time on Facebook. She saw a photo of Shane on her wall. The status update read "Throwback Thursday" and it was a photo of Shane when he was just six years old. He looked so beautiful and precious and innocent. It was the first time Keisha had ever really seen his face unhidden. While looking at it, she heard a child's voice, Shane's voice at six years old, Help me, Keisha. She steeled herself. "Yes, I want to help you. Show me how."

She turned back to his page and continued to scroll, just looking for something that she could use, something to help her to know what to do. Finally, two years back, she found it. She almost glanced right over it. It was a post from his mom on his wall. It read "Happy Birthday, Shane." She checked the date of that message: April 6. She checked the birthdate on his profile. There it was right there. April 6. She knew that was soon. She feared she had missed it. Or maybe it's today. She checked the date and time on her computer. It's tomorrow.

She knew what she had to do. She checked the time again. Her mom would be home in fifteen minutes with the car.
Chapter Thirty

Keisha hadn't run into Shane at all. She didn't see him in the hall after second period, and it was odd for her to reach the lunchroom first. She sat at their corner table with her tray in front of her and a rectangular gift box. Her eyes panned the cafeteria, anxiously searching the faces.

Who am I fooling? Shane skipped school for his birthday. Of course, he did. She saw a figure approaching the table out of the corner of her eye. Her uneasy heart thought for a second it might be Shane, but it wasn't.

Louis Blair sat down forcefully in the chair across from her. Wow, she thought. Is this what it was like for Shane all those times? I feel so trapped. She contemplated standing right up and walking away, just like he had taught her. "What do you want, Louis?"

He said, "Where's your boyfriend? Off somewhere loading his assault rifle?"

She frowned at him, then looked around. "Are you filming this?"

"Actually, I just came to apologize," he said. Before she could respond, he added, "Apologize for beating you so badly you fainted."

She leaned in. "It's a funny line. You know if you had said it with a smile, you might have gotten me to smile."

He made an indignant face.

She continued, "People say I have a sweet smile, see?" She smiled a perfect, kind, charming smile. "What do you think?"

He didn't respond.

She said, "Besides, I didn't actually get to hear much of your argument."

"That's what's so impressive," he said. "Just think what would've happened if you had!"

Keisha looked at him deadpan. She pointed to the absence of smile on her face to remind him of what she'd said before.

He said, "Yeah whatever, Keisha. Just try to keep Shane from shooting all of us." Louis stood up to leave.

Keisha returned to her smile, this time even bigger. She gave her head a slight, cheesy tilt. But as soon as he was gone, the smile disappeared. She said inside her head, Yeah, I'm working on it.

Halfway through lunch, Shane showed up after all. She watched him as he made his way to their table, and she felt a disconnect. She still couldn't quite associate the man she was beginning to know, and sometimes even like, with the visions she was seeing.

There wasn't enough time left in lunch for Shane to go through the line. All he had in his hands was his laptop and an apple.

"I thought you were skipping," Keisha said.

"I was," said Shane. "My mom woke up and made me come." He shrugged. "I shouldn't have let her find me. I thought she wouldn't care, but I can never predict what she'll do."

"I got you something," she said sheepishly.

"What for?"

"For your birthday, of course."

Shane eyed the box suspiciously. "I wasn't sure if you were even still talking to me."

Keisha just made a dismissive gesture with her hand and shrugged. She knew Shane would find this sufficient and would even prefer it to a long conversation about their feelings. She said, "Why don't you open it?"

He still didn't touch it. "How'd you know it was my birthday?"

"I saw your mom post about it."

Shane looked very confused.

"Two years ago," Keisha offered.

"Oh," he nodded his head. "Back when she knew or cared when my birthday was."

Keisha frowned. "She forgot to mention it?"

Shane shrugged. "She'll realize it in about a month."

Keisha slid the box toward him. She said, "This will make you feel better," but she worried if it was true.

"What is it?"

"Open it already and find out," she laughed.

"You shouldn't have gotten me anything," he said as he finally reached for it. His hands worked to get the snug-fitting lid off the box. When he finally opened it and discovered what she had brought him, he couldn't conceal his confusion. "These are clothes," he said. His tone sounded as if it were meant to inform her, as if he expected her to pull an identical box out from underneath the table, and say oh wait, not that box. Try this one.

She didn't. Her face revealed a feeling of suspense, waiting to see if he'd like them, no different than any girl giving a present to any boy.

He looked down. Having no choice but to accept she'd actually meant to give him clothes, he also had no choice but to evaluate them and react somehow. Within moments, they both realized that was beyond his ability. "Clothes?" he asked again. He looked back up to her vulnerable, waiting face. He said, "Do you think I can't afford my own clothes?"

Keisha never even considered he might think that. She hurriedly said, "No. I just thought you might like to try a new style."

He looked down at his own clothes. "What about me would make you think I care about style?"

"Wait." She knew she'd have to sell the idea to him, but she had kept hope alive that he might just receive them graciously. That easy door was closing to her. "Wait. I knew you wouldn't like them at first, but I want you to give them a chance."

"A chance?" She spoke to him like he was six years old. "I know what I like."

"It's very close to your style."

He looked at the clothes—black shirt with white embroidery and pearl snaps, and bootcut black denim jeans. "Cowboy?"

"No. It's not cowboy... It's kind of outlaw cowboy. I could totally see you in these. They're very close to what you like, just a little more..."

"Mainstream?"

"Not really."

"Publicly acceptable?"

Heck. She had nothing to say. She wasn't going to lie straight to his face when he had nailed her so precisely. She insisted, "What's the matter with publicly acceptable? So what if it makes you more..." She stalled for a less offensive word, but then let it slip out. "... likable?" She instantly regretted it and searched his face for any offense.

But he wasn't offended. "It's okay," he said. "I know I'm unlikable."

She groaned. "But you don't have to be. There's nothing wrong with putting forth the tiniest bit of effort."

"Yes, there is."

"There's nothing wrong with the worst-case scenario—God forbid! —people actually start to like you."

"Yes, there is."

"No. Everyone wants to be liked."

"Not me."

"Are you being honest?"

"Yes."

"You look me in the eye and tell me when they laugh at you it doesn't hurt."

His face changed. She just pushed it too far. His face looked both tense and intense, ironically. He said sternly, "I don't care."

She paused. She didn't want him angry. The voice in her head repeated, You're lying. You're lying. Come clean. She had to bite her tongue to keep from saying it.

"You're trying to change me. And you're starting to make me angry. You know what you're saying to me? You're saying you don't like me how I already am." With practiced outrage he repeated, "You don't like me how I already am."

She couldn't help her retort; he was the one who pitched the ball right over the plate. She said, "You can't insist you don't care whether people like you, then get mad at me for not liking you." She smiled at least, to try to take some of the edge off it.

"Whatever," he said artfully.

She added, "Actually, I do like you. And I'm not trying to change you. I'm not. I'm trying to reveal you."

"Well, maybe this is all there is. I don't—"

"I think there's more!"

"I don't do things for shock value. I'm not trying to be counter-culture. I basically don't care. If people like what I do, or don't like it, I don't care."

"I think you've embraced people not liking you."

"I have."

"That's what I'm talking about."

"No. I've..." He searched for the right word. "I've accepted it. Now..." Shane began to stand.

"Don't go. Just listen to this one analogy, and—"

"Another story?"

"Just listen to this one analogy and if I'm off the mark, then you don't have to listen to a thing I say, just say I was wrong about you and I'll accept it. But. But if I am right, then I want you to say just four words to me: 'You're on to me.' Then take the clothes home and try them on."

"Go for it." He settled back in with mock patience.

"Okay," she breathed deep and tried to gather her thoughts. "Ridicule from your peers, it's like a bull. It's like a bull's horns. It can tear through your flesh and break your bones. It can trample you. No one can withstand it. No one can. No one can stand, unflinching, and allow the bull's horns to skewer them. And those who claim they can are just..." Her face tightened. "They're just lying. Well... they're just wrong. Maybe they think they can and, after all, they get hit with the horns every day. They wear clothes they know won't be liked, draw stuff that won't be liked, and say trippy things that only the truly enlightened could understand. They stand their ground, take the blows for it, then get up and do it again the next day. So, from an outsider's perspective, it looks like they've withstood the bull's horns, but they haven't. All they've done is hold up a red cape. They've said to the bull, 'Hit this. Hate this. Mock this. Laugh at this. Ridicule this. Because when you attack this with all your might, you can be sure none of me will be behind it. And when you judge this, be sure, you will not be judging me.' I believe you see the bulls coming, and so you've created a persona just for them to hate. And they do hate it. And they're so mean. But in the corner of your mouth, you are smiling, because you know what they don't know: that silly misfit they dole out all that hate onto, that's not you. All you ever let them see is the cape; you never let them see one bit of you." She watched for his response but couldn't read him. She continued, "And the worst part is, you've been playing this game for so long, and fooling the bulls for so long, that you've begun to fool yourself. You once knew there was more to you than the one-sided identity you've created only to be hated, but you've forgotten."

Shane was silent. There was no more irritation on his face, no hint of indignation. In fact, he looked calm. He stood up slowly and folded the clothes back into the box. "No. You're not on to me at all," he said. "You're a clever girl, and it was great imagery. But you're wrong about me."

Keisha leaned in and emphasized both words slowly, "Which part?"

Shane slid the box back over to her. "I gotta go. Hope you kept the receipt," he said curtly as he walked out of the cafeteria.
Chapter Thirty-One

Keisha stood on Shane's doorstep and rang his bell.

Shane opened the door with exaggerated impatience, as if she needed a reminder he was brooding and cynical. "What do you want?"

"You forgot this," she said as she held up a small printout.

"What is it?"

"The receipt. You told me you hoped I kept the receipt."

He smirked a little bit. "Yeah so?"

"Well, it's yours. It's your birthday present and it's good for about $87, as you can see."

Shane reached for the receipt, but Keisha drew it away. "I'm sorry I tried to dress you. I respect that you're such a man you won't let a girl dress you... which, by the way, is so outlaw cowboy! But I don't want that to ruin your birthday. I still want to get you something. So, first I think we should return those awful clothes, then take the money to a store you like, and buy only clothes you like."

Shane thought about this. He said, "I don't need any clothes," and began to close the door.

"Who said anything about you?"

He pulled the door back open again. "Huh?"

"I know you don't like my clothes. You can't possibly. So why don't we go out and get me some new clothes?"

"You want me to go shopping with you?" He delivered it with deadpan perfection, and the smell of smoke on his clothes, his unkempt beard, and the old broken washing machine beside his front porch with weeds growing out of it, all added to the line's comedic brilliance.

She laughed and then he really messed up because he couldn't help but laugh, too.

He added, "Like I'm one of your girlfriends?"

"No. I don't want us to go shopping. I want you to dress me. Just to see how you'll like me."

"So, you're getting new clothes?"

"Yes."

"For my birthday?"

She shrugged. "Well, if you don't want to..." she feigned. "I guess it was a dumb idea." She took two manipulative steps backward, away from the door.

"Wait!" he called out. He huffed. He looked back toward the room his mom was in and looked at Keisha. He said, "Okay, let's go."
Chapter Thirty-Two

In order to return the clothes, the two of them had to drive all the way out to the Fort Worth Stockyards. It was actually their first time in a car together, and the first time Keisha had been brave enough to trust him as her only ride home.

It was a long drive but the time flew. They laughed and joked and the feeling she had from watching him fire his rifle left her completely. Keisha found it almost impossible to connect who he was inside—if anyone could finally get him to relax and be himself—and the image he projected to his nine Facebook friends. Now ten actually. She figured one persona was him, and the other just a red cape. She was sure of it.

They returned the clothes, and Shane revealed to her that he did all his shopping at thrift shops. No big surprise. He pulled out his phone and found one that was more or less on their way home. He slipped his phone back in his pocket and took a long drag off his electronic cigarette.

"What's that?" she asked

He shrugged. "I quit smoking."

"You did?" She was trying to sound surprised, not overjoyed; she didn't quite hit the mark. "When?"

"The day of the eclipse," he said as he took a long drag of vape. "That was the last cigarette I ever smoked."

Keisha ran through his news slowly in her brain. Had he quit because she didn't like it? If so why didn't he tell her? Why hadn't she noticed before? He didn't smoke at school obviously, and the only other time she saw him outside of school, she hadn't stayed long. He still wore his same black trench coat, and not surprisingly, it still smelled like smoke two weeks later. "Did you quit because of me?" curiosity finally compelled her to ask.

"Don't be stupid," he shot back.

The car was silent for the rest of the way.

When they got to the thrift shop, he wasted no time finding a variety of different outfits he thought she would look amazing in. The man knew what he liked. Unfortunately, there was only one combination that ended up being about her size: a black corset and a skirt. On the way to the dressing room, he snagged one more prize off the shelf, a black lace choker.

She stepped into the dressing room and drew the curtain. And he waited.

And waited.

About fifteen minutes later, he called through the curtain. "You know they close in twenty minutes." The drive to Fort Worth had really cut into their evening.

"Just hold your horses," she called back. She playfully added, "Cowboy."

He waited another seven minutes. He had no idea what was going on. There was no one left in the store but the two of them, and a few employees who were already beginning to clean.

Finally, she yelled through the curtain, "Come lace me up."

"What?"

"Come lace me."

"You... you want me to open the curtain?"

"Yeah."

"Okay... you sure you're..."

"Dude."

He opened the curtain. Inside the small room, she had her back to him. He couldn't see her face, but he could tell she was holding up the corset in the front with both hands. He could see most of her back and shoulders and it made his breathing become audible. Her corset was half laced, so he tried his best to pull it in tighter like it was no big deal. His hands were shaking, but he was somehow able to get the job done.

"There," he told her.

"Okay," she said slowly. And he got to see her pretty shoulders rise as she took a deep breath.

He stepped out of the dressing room to give her room to exit. When she turned around, he discovered what had taken her so long. She had done her entire face. She wore more makeup than he'd ever seen her wear before, by far, and it was done in elaborate counter-culture Zoë Parker fashion. Her eyelashes were long and tarantula-ed. Her eyeshadow was black and it filled in every inch beneath her brows. And there were sparkles, actual glitter she miraculously applied to her face. Her red lips played fast and loose between the dark of her skin and the white of her teeth. She had drawn her hair up to the top of her head. A few strategic pins made it look like it contained no strategy at all—completely unintentional, putting the sex appeal into reckless apathy.

The black corset did a rather nice job of pushing up her breasts and the black lace choker completed the look. The shabby skirt they found was plaid. It didn't quite have the blatant private school girl look; it was more like nerdy librarian. On her feet she had nothing at all.

She stepped out of the waiting room with the same timid, anticipating look as before. She looked up at him and said, "So, do you like your gift?"

There was a new light in his shopworn eyes. She thought she saw his lip quiver, but it was too well hidden for her to be sure. He said, "I love it."

And in that moment, she saw his red cape fall. Standing before her, and before the bull, he dropped his protection and showed himself to her completely unprotected. His real self, vulnerable and fragile.

He said, "You're so pretty. I did quit smoking because of you."

She smiled. "I figured."

"I'm sorry I called you stupid, I..."

She waited for him to finish the sentence, but he didn't.

He said, "It's just that, no one like you has ever wanted to hang out with me before. I don't know how to respond to it. I keep thinking that you'll realize your mistake. You'll discover that whatever sort of man you were expecting, I'm not him. And the man I am... is nothing you'll want anything to do with."

She sighed. "You shouldn't talk that way."

"I have something I need to tell you," Shane said plowing forward with his new-found honesty and vulnerability.

Keisha looked around. "You don't need to."

"Yes, I do. It's about how I feel."

"Not right now," she said.

"This is important for you to know," he insisted.

She didn't say another word but looked down at her bare feet.

He stood taller, squared his shoulders, and enunciated like he was preforming Shakespeare. He said, "French kiss Ms. Higgins, raven, black, invisibility, African or European, 42, to get to the other side, Elephino, three, and Ghostbusters."

It took her a second to figure out what he was saying and why. She looked up and smiled—surprised, pleasantly surprised. He had noticed her. He had taken note. "Are those in order?" she marveled.

He nodded, "Some of them I had to Google. Oh yeah, and the sound of one hand clapping?" He performed a singlehanded clap a la Bart Simpson.

She laughed. "Well, bravo." She also executed a singlehanded clap.

She hesitated for a second, but then hugged him. "Really? French kiss the principal?" she teased.

He laughed the lamest, goofiest laugh she'd ever heard. He couldn't help it. He said with pitch-perfect dryness, "I've been alone for a really long time."

She laughed again and hugged him again. Turning to look at her ensemble in the mirror, she said, "I'm guessing I would pair all this with tall black boots if they'd had any."

He smiled and started to blush. He said, "You're on to me."

She smiled at the double meaning of his words, the words he refused to surrender to her before. She reached out to take his hand in hers.

He said, "What if there isn't more to me. What if you scratch the surface and realize I have no underneath. What if this is really all I am?"

She smiled sweetly. "We decide who we are."

"How?"

She hated that she didn't have a ready answer right then. She couldn't think of anything that didn't sound pat and clichéd. She respected him more than to try to sell him on that. She said, "I... I don't know."
Chapter Thirty-Three

When Shane came home that night it was late. He turned the knob on the front door and closed it as gently as possible. He took off both his shoes by the door and tiptoed down the hallway in his socks.

He rounded the corner and almost ran straight into his mom. She was standing in the dim hallway in her nightgown.

"I'm sorry I woke you," he said to his mom.

"No. No, I'm up," said his mom. She did not ask where he'd been. She never did. "I couldn't sleep, so I took some Volpitasol. But you know that makes me queasy, so I took some Lysamane to help with my stomach. Now the Lysamane's keeping me up. Come talk to me."

"We should go to bed."

"Don't be stupid," she said mechanically. "I'm gonna be up for days."

"Well then, I should get to bed, anyway—"

"Do you have a cigarette?" she interrupted.

He handed her his e-cig. She regarded it with contempt, twisting it in her hand like some alien object, then handed it back.

Shane smiled. It was the third time that exact same exchange had played out between them.

She said, "Come tell me a Sir Galladen story."

"Don't have one."

"You always have one."

"No, I—"

"I'm bor-ored! C'mon. You've been gone all day, like all day."

"Okay."

Shane entered her bedroom and found there was a strange lump in her bed. The lump was completely covered by blankets, except for some short blond hairs.

"Don't mind him, honey," Shane's mom said as she pulled the strap of her nightgown back over her shoulder. "He's out."

Shane grabbed a small potted plant—long dead—from off a stool and moved it to the floor. He sat uncomfortably by the foot of the bed. His mom smiled contentedly and stretched her legs out across her covers.

She rummaged through a pair of men's jeans from among the sheets and found a pack of cigarettes. She pulled one out and settled back against the headboard of her bed.

He began, "Well, it was Sir Galladen's birthday. And he was certain that no one would even remember."

"That's terrible."

"Even his own mom failed to remember."

"Oh, I hate the mom in these stories," she mumbled with her cigarette between her teeth, then flicked her lighter.

"But surprisingly one person remembered... the princess."

"That wicked blonde?"

Shane froze. He looked sad. Slowly he said, "No. This is someone new. This is a whole different type of princess."

She took a long drag and sank a little lower into her bed.

"This princess bought him a brand-new suit of armor. It was a kind gesture, but he couldn't see it that way. He chose to let his feelings get hurt." He frowned. "Sir Galladen was afraid the princess wasn't as she seemed. He didn't think he could trust her. She showed up into the kingdom one day out of the blue. What prompted it? She started being nice to him for no reason. Why? She continued to be nice to him, even after he was rude to her. Who does that?"

His mom's body slid down a little more reclined. She lowered her head and closed her eyes.

"'She can't be trusted!' Sir Galladen said as he polished the broad side of Oracle. He held the mystical sword up parallel with is eyes so he could see their troubled reflection. 'If you can't tell me who she is and what she's up to, I'll be forced to walk away.' But Oracle didn't answer. Galladen insisted, 'I must cut myself free from her, unless you can answer me one question: What is it she wants from me?' But the sword still didn't answer. Galladen cried out, 'Who is she, really? Some sort of angel, or some sort of witch? Do I show her my mortal body to be hurt, or do I offer her only the cape to find dissatisfaction with?'"

His story was interrupted by the sound of his mother's gentle snoring. Shane looked at her and sighed.

He said softly, "Finally Oracle answered. It said, 'You are too late asking these questions.' Sir Galladen was indignant. He demanded, 'Why? Tell me why.' But Galladen already knew why. 'Because you are already under her spell,' said the sword."

Shane stood up and walked over to the bed. He eased the cigarette from her fingers and pressed it out in her ashtray. Very gently, he pulled the covers up over his mother and kissed her forehead.
Chapter Thirty-Four

"Keisha, this really isn't a good time," Shane said when he answered the phone. It was Sunday night.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I was just really hoping to talk to you."

"What's going on?" Shane asked.

"Nothing, just I can't stop thinking about what you asked me?"

"What did I ask you?"

"You asked me how we can change ourselves—" Keisha heard a woman screaming in the background. She couldn't make out anything that was being said, but the voice was obviously angry and it made Keisha feel uneasy. "Is that your mom?" she asked.

"It's fine," Shane mumbled. His voice was low and weak.

Keisha heard a man's voice responding to the yelling but not nearly so loud. She said, "Are you okay? Is everything okay?"

"We're fine," Shane maintained. "Now, what'd you call to tell me?"

Keisha was mute for a moment, distracted by the rhythm of the voices: Loud female, loud female, quiet male, quiet male. Loud, loud, loud, quiet, quiet. Repeat.

"It's... just... that... I didn't have a good answer ready, and I thought it was too important a question to answer half-heartedly..." She heard the sound of shattering glass.

"Keisha, I'm sorry. This just isn't a good time. Can we talk at school tomorrow?"

"Uh... Yeah, of course—are you okay? Can I do something? Do I need to call the police?"

"Keisha, don't be stupid," he said, but immediately amended it. "I mean, don't be dramatic."

"Okay," she said, "Well, I guess, good night."

Shane was already gone.

Keisha sat still, staring at the phone. Her own house was quiet. Her mom was sound asleep because she had to get up to work in the morning. The ceiling fan caused the pink lace curtains on her window to dance. There was nothing that Keisha went without. She took a moment to thank God for everything in her life.

Keisha stared back at the phone, feeling so powerless to help. She ran through their entire conversation in her head.

She opened the phone and navigated to her text messages. She raised the device close to her mouth, pressed the microphone icon, and narrated a text:

"There is only one way we can change who we are period. We must impress ourselves period. We work hard and do the things we didn't know we were capable of period. We change our own shape by stretching ourselves to the limit period. It's the only way we become bigger exclamation point. Never by staying balled—" She had to pause and wait for the phone to process that.

She hit the microphone icon again. "up period. We have to get ourselves off the bottom but we can't do it by resenting the top period. We can't call the top a horrible place to be and we can't pretend the bottom is actually the top period. We can only do it by climbing strong comma pushing the people at the top out of our way comma and claiming that spot—" She had to wait again.

"for ourselves period. And it matters period. The things that we do in life are incredibly powerful semi-colon don't ever believe they don't matter period. And in the end we will make this a better place to live period. You and I have the power to change the world comma isn't that wonderful question mark. For the better period. Or for the worse period. It's a choice we make every day period."

When she had to pause the third time, she realized she'd been performing. She had recited the entire soliloquy as if she'd been on stage, as if her voice-to-text program could actually appreciate or convey the sincerity with which it was delivered.

She wrapped it up, "It's the only way to win in life period. We win by doing the hard work and making the hard choices period."

Keisha read the whole thing over. It was pretty long for a text, so she tried to condense it a little. Finally, she took a long deep breath, and hit send.

It was much later before Shane finally made it to bed. He'd been leaning up against his door for hours, listening to his mother sob uncontrollably. It had finally stopped and he was pretty certain she was unconscious at last. Shane stood up and double-checked the lock on his door. He had installed it for nights like this. He turned off his lights and crawled into bed with his clothes still on. He pulled his covers up over his face and hoped for unconsciousness himself.

At the last minute, he remembered to plug in his phone and noticed Keisha's text for the first time. With his heart weighed down with trouble and desperate for hope, he read the words every adolescent, misanthrope, and potential school shooter needs to hear:

There is only one way we can change who we are. We must impress ourselves. We work hard and do the things we didn't know we were capable of. We change our own shape by stretching ourselves to the limit. It's the only way we become bigger! Never by staying balled up. We have to get ourselves off the bottom but we can't do it by resenting the top. We can't call the top a horrible place to be and we can't pretend the bottom is actually the top. We can only do it by climbing strong, pushing the people at the top out of our way, and claiming that spot for ourselves. And it matters. By working hard and making the tough choices, we have the power to change the world for the better, isn't that wonderful? It is the only way to win in life.

He read the whole thing, then he read it all over again. The number she sent it from was still labeled, "The Most Amazing Girl I Know." He didn't know what to do. How could he possibly respond to that? He thought of a million replies, but only one of them was fitting. He typed out, I love you.

But he knew he wouldn't send it. He dared himself to. He imagined a scenario where in a foolish moment like this he accidentally hit send. Finally, he—rather carefully—deleted every letter. Without typing anything more, he clicked on her number and hit edit. He changed her name in his phone to "The Most Amazing Girl I Have EVER Known." He clicked off the screen and set his phone down on the nightstand.

He knew how he had to reply to her, and words were just not going to be enough. Unexpectedly, he had forgotten all about the night and his mother, and his thoughts were quite pleasantly on Keisha Adams. He was empowered. He had the perfect response for her and he knew exactly what he'd have to do.

Chapter Thirty-Five

The next day was Monday and Keisha sat down across from Shane at their table.

"So, who's the girl?" she teased.

"What girl?"

"The one who gave you that hickey."

Shane's face collapsed.

Keisha saw his reaction and said, "Busted."

"It's not a hickey. Wait, are you jealous?"

"Uh... no."

"I think you look jealous."

"C'mon. Let me see it." She reached across the table for his shirt collar.

"No," he said quite seriously.

Keisha didn't pick up on his serious tone and made the mistake of trying again. She actually got her hand all the way to his collar. It forced his hand to shoot up and his voice to explode in anger, "No!"

His grip was so firm on her wrist, that it hurt her. His voice was so harsh, it caused Keisha to go cold, remembering his temper.

He saw her face and immediately apologized. "I'm sorry. I just didn't want you to see." He reluctantly pulled his collar down far enough for her to see. There was a burn on his collarbone the size of a cigarette. "It's just embarrassing, that's all."

"Oh my God, what happened? Who hurt you?"

"See? And I didn't want you to make a big deal about it."

"Who burned you?"

"It was my mom. But she... she didn't mean to."

"Does she hit you?"

"No," he insisted, a little too firmly. "No. She's nice. For the most part. She just takes a lot of drugs all the time. Usually she's fine."

"Drugs?" Keisha said the word like she was Nancy Reagan.

"Prescription drugs," he asserted, although her face didn't relax. "OxyContin, Codeine, Fentanyl, Damitol, Premocyl, Enzopryn, whatever."

"Oh God, I'm so sorry."

He shrugged. "She's not violent. They don't make her violent. Most the time, they make her happy. Most the time, she's far more loving on them than while sober. When she's sober..." Shane joked, "... that's when you really have to stay away from her."

"Was she sober when she gave you that?"

He slumped his shoulders. "Sometimes she just has a bad reaction. Or she combines them. I tell her not to combine them."

"You should be telling her not to take them in the first place."

"Hadn't thought of that," he said flatly.

She dipped her head. That sarcasm was well-earned. "Do you take them?"

"Never," he said too quickly.

"That's a lie," she said very pleasantly. She reminded him. "You already told me you were on Enzopryn that day that... that first day."

"Almost never," he amended. She gave him a motherly look, so he insisted, "Just Enzopryn. Not very often."

She frowned. "Are you in danger living there?"

"Luckily, I have a hundred pounds on her. She is literally half my size."

"That doesn't mean you're not in danger. What about all her boyfriends?"

"They're okay. She seems to like guys who are pretty mellow. There was this one guy about three years ago who started getting rough with her, until I stepped in."

"What'd you do?" She leaned forward.

"I stepped in."

"Like, you beat him up?"

Shane's eyes looked away. He sank lower in his chair. "No, he cleaned my clock." His eyes turned back to her. "He stopped coming around though. He moved on to somewhere he wouldn't get any pushback."

Keisha smiled. God, I like courage in a man! She was duly impressed by the story he'd pretended to be ashamed of.

"She's been more careful since then," Shane added.

"But couldn't even the mellow guys have a bad reaction?"

He shook his head. "I don't think Marcus takes any pills. He likes weed."

"But what about the others, and—"

"Stop." He put up a hand. "Can we talk about something else?"

"This is very serious."

He shrugged. "Eight more weeks and I'm gone."

"When you move out, are you going to keep using the Enzopryn?"

Shane sighed, unaware how to sidestep all her care and concern. He said, "I don't use. Besides, you knew I was a hard case."

She looked confused.

"Hard case. That's the term your mother used about me."

"That's the term she used about my dogs!" laughed Keisha.

"Yeah well, the message was clear. That's what y'all think of me: a hard case, like that of a social worker."

Keisha smiled. "Maybe. Or maybe just a hard case like that of a violin."

He looked up, into her eyes.

She said, "Like the case of a violin, hard on the outside, but soft, smooth, and gentle on the inside."

"Is that the lie you've been telling yourself?"

"Yes," she smiled. "It makes you more tolerable."

He laughed. "Who's the violin, you?"

"Maybe your mom. Didn't you step in to protect her? Protecting things is what hard cases do."

Shane had no response. He was trying not to blush.

"If I asked you to never take the Enzopryn again, would you?"

"No."

"If I tell you a story I heard, will you promise you'll quit?"

Shane rolled his eyes. The concern was back. He said, "I'll promise to quit if you spare me the story."

She narrowed her brow, not believing him. She proceeded despite the look on his face, "I heard of this guy who took too many Enzopryn one night. He woke up in the morning and dialed 911. He said, 'Someone has stabbed my wife to death.' The operator said, 'Who?' He said, 'I don't know.' The operator continued to ask him questions. Turns out she had been stabbed in the bed right next to him. She was alive when they went to sleep and she was dead when he woke up. Their house had an active alarm system but it never went off and there was no indication of a break in. Finally, the operator picks up on the funny way he's talking. She said, 'Sir, look down at your hands.' There was silence on his end of the phone. She asks, 'Is there any blood on your hands?'" Keisha stopped her own story to make a cartoon shocked face. "Completely confused, he mumbled, 'There's blood on my hands. Why is there blood on my hands?' The terrible part of the story is that they weren't fighting. Their relationship had trouble before, but they had worked it all out. He really loved her."

She studied Shane's eyes trying to decode them as she waited for a response to her horrific story.

He frowned demonstrably and said, "You left out the part where he didn't get the lead in the school play." He looked over her shoulder to his left.

Her mouth shot open. "You're such a jerk!"

Still looking out to his left, he said, "Actually I gotta go right now."

Lunch was nowhere near close to over. Keisha called out, "Wait. I didn't upset you, did I?"

"No, no, I just gotta go right now." He grabbed his laptop and his juice box and left his tray—most of his food still untouched. He said hastily, "Hey, uh, can you just throw this out for me?" He took off before she could answer.

While weaving quickly through the crowd in the cafeteria he came to an abrupt halt when he crashed into someone's lunch tray, and the whole thing tipped. A juice box fell to the ground, tater tots pressed grease stains on the front of a cheerleading uniform, and a turkey sandwich collided with a more-than-ample bosom. It was Aubrey Anderson, and she didn't look happy at all.

"Oh my God. I'm so sorry," Shane called out.

"Idiot!" she howled at him. "Why can't you watch where you're going?"

"I'm... I'm so sorry. Let me help you with it." He extended a napkin toward her uniform.

She deftly slapped his hand while still keeping what was left on her tray horizontal with one hand. She cried, "Get back, perv."

"No, I... I just wanted to help."

"Honey," The guy she was with, Levi Young, flashed a charming and pacifying smile. "It was an accident. He's not trying to..."

"Look at him! He's a creep. You should be hitting him in the face right now."

Levi blushed. He held up a hand to calm, and repel, Shane. "It's okay, man. Don't worry about this, but I think you should probably..." he trailed off but tilted his head quickly in a way that said scram.

Shane still sputtered. "Yeah... Uh, yeah. My bad. Look..." he bent over to pick up her juice box. "I can help you with your juice box," he said as he placed it on her tray.

"Thank you," Levi said.

Aubrey scoffed at Levi for having the temerity to actually use manners.

"Hey, we drink the same brand," Shane joked as he held up his own apple juice and flashed a goofy grin.

Aubrey shot him a screwed-up face and actually pushed him out of the way with her arm.

"Oh, Aubrey," Shane called after her, "I heard you have the lead in the school play. I can't wait to see it."

She didn't answer.
Chapter Thirty-Six

"Put this on," Shane said as he extended a black sash to Keisha. There was a toothpick hanging from his lips.

Keisha felt a cold rock in her gut. "What is it?" she asked, although she already knew. Shane had called her and informed her he would pick her up after school. He said he had a surprise.

"It's a blindfold," he said slyly.

Keisha looked out through the window of his car. He had pulled his car over a few blocks from her house by the old church. It was the windiest day Keisha had seen in recent memory. Scraps of paper and plastic grocery bags flew through the air and collected on the chain link fence around the church's playground. There was no one around, the parking lot was empty, and the swings were swinging by themselves. The haze in the sky was more dust than smog or fog. The dirt of the whole town was being swept up by an out of control wind. The yellow of the dirt canceled the blue of the sky. The horizon was bright but completely unsaturated. Harsh and stark.

Shane saw the forlorn expression on her face and laughed nervously. "I mean, you trust me, right?"

"I thought so."

He turned his head sharply.

"I think so," she reiterated casually, as if the tense hadn't just changed.

"Okay, so—"

"Why are you chewing on a toothpick?" she asked abruptly.

Her tone was 100% accusation, and Shane couldn't figure out which moral code he could have violated. "I quit smoking, remember? It helps."

That made sense. She couldn't object, because it made sense. "Well, what the heck is wrong with carrot sticks?"

Shane shrugged, unable to make sense of her harsh tone.

She'd never received a menacing vision with him chewing a carrot stick.

"C'mon," Shane pushed. "This is meant to be fun. I've planned it all out just for you. I promise you'll like the surprise."

Keisha knew she was being manipulated, but he was quite good at it. She reluctantly put the blindfold on, making doubly sure their fingers touched as much as possible during the handoff. She didn't receive any visions when their skin touched, at least.

She heard Shane start the car again, and her hand slid subconsciously into her purse and touched her mace. Even though it felt like forever ago, she could still remember that his last surprise led her to a dead cell zone with him grinning like one of history's most notorious killers.

Fortunately, the ride was only around ten minutes long. He parked and came around to escort her. When she stood up out of the car, she was relieved to hear traffic from a nearby intersection. She took a deep breath and thought she smelled a scent being carried by the gale-force winds. It was tacos. Definitely tacos—if she made it through this alive, that could surely be a valuable clue she could give to the police.

He led her forward though what sounded like a heavy set of double doors leading to some type of abandoned warehouse or haunted airplane hangar. The heavy doors slammed shut hard behind her and she couldn't help but let out a scream.

At that exact moment, Shane pulled her blindfold off.

Keisha was surprised. "The school? We're in the auditorium?" She scanned the place quickly. The light from the harsh sky came in through just a few small windows. The place was mostly dark. "How did you— Who knows we're here?"

"No one," Shane smiled. "The place is empty."

She turned back to the door. "How did you..."

"I rigged the door. It's so easy."

"But..." she tilted her head at the door, unbelieving.

"It's literally no one's job to check that door at night. Why would they? The doors lock automatically..." He smiled proudly. "Usually."

Keisha's heart relaxed. She couldn't believe she had made a mental note about tacos. How absurd. And why would the airplane hangar be haunted? She smiled and asked, "You brought me to the school auditorium?"

"Not the school auditorium," he mimicked. "A stage!"

She still looked puzzled.

"Besides, this isn't your surprise; your surprise is sitting in the front row."

Keisha quickly walked down the center aisle. All the seats in the front row were folded up except one, which was lowered and seemed to have some papers on it. Keisha snatched up the papers to investigate them. "How did you get these?" she asked.

"I know people," he smiled.

She was holding two printed copies of the script. The Jefferson High production of Frankenstein, all female cast. Keisha was starting to understand the nature of her surprise now.

"You said you would never get to be on stage," Shane said with contagious enthusiasm. "Now is your chance. Forget about tomorrow. Tonight is your opening night!"

Keisha looked at the stage longingly. She looked at the empty seats, then she looked at the doors through which someone was likely to walk in and bust them at any second. She said, "I don't know."

"Keisha, no one's here."

"It's not that..."

"C'mon. I will read the other lines to cue you. You said you wouldn't get to be on stage. Now you can. Now you can play the part that should've been yours!"

"But just for you!" Keisha objected too quickly and too harshly.

The hurt was immediate on his face. She shouldn't have said that. She thought about the trouble he'd gone through. It was a very thoughtful surprise. It showed that he cared about her and that he listened. He knew her. And rigging the door? He's so bad! She looked around. She was literally trespassing. She was literally breaking the law in that moment. She was a little surprised by how good it felt.

"Wait," he said. "Wait, it took me twenty minutes to figure this one out." He jumped up onto the stage and headed to the wing out of sight. Suddenly she heard a thud and some of the stage lights came on. The entire set of the play had already been erected in preparation for the next day. She heard another thud and some more came on, then some more, then some more. Keisha watched in ecstasy as the set slowly came to life.

With all the stage lights on, Shane walked out to the center of it with both hands spread wide, presenting to her his gift, the gift of the stage.

It glowed like a campfire in a dark wood, filling her brown eyes. She looked upon the stage as a sailor, after months at sea, looks upon the first sight of land. Its bright lights roused her passion and its emptiness beckoned her talent.

She had to push back tears, but she was able to play it cool and say, "Yes! Okay. You're right. Let's do it."

Shane read the lines of all the parts that didn't belong to Victoria Frankenstein, who was in every scene. At first, it took Keisha a while to warm up, but before long, Shane began to see a side of her he'd never seen before. He got to witness with his own eyes everything he had already suspected. Keisha loved to act. She loved the theater. And, although she hadn't let on before, she really loved this play.

"But what about a name?" Shane was reading lines from Igora, Dr. Frankenstein's female assistant.

"What about a name?" Victoria Frankenstein replied.

"Have you picked out a name?" read Shane.

Keisha broke character. "This is funny, you see, because Igora is pregnant, and that's also a question you'd ask a pregnant lady."

"She's pregnant?"

Keisha laughed. "Because you know, Igor was a hunchback. A bump on the back, get it? But Igora... she's like the opposite. A bump in the front."

Shane nodded. "No, it's cute."

"Have you picked out a name?" Shane read again.

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because it's not a child. It's not a... person. It's just an experiment. It... It doesn't have a soul. Do you want to know who the monster is?"

Shane blinked for a second and tried to find that spot in the script. It took him a moment to realize she had broken character again.

"You want to know who plays the monster?" she was asking Shane, not Igora. "We're not supposed to tell."

"Then don't tell."

"Right. I shouldn't tell." She looked down at her feet. "We keep her covered for the first half, all the while we keep referring to how disgusting she looks. Over and over we describe her as hideous. Do you want to know who she is? I shouldn't tell."

Shane laughed. "Go ahead."

She stood frozen with her eyes wide and mouth pressed tight with a look like she would explode any second. But she didn't make a sound; it would take one more go ahead.

"Go ahead," Shane repeated, knowingly.

"It's Mrs. Moore!" she blurted. "It's so funny. We finally pull the cover off and it's Mrs. Moore. I mean, she only grunts the whole play; she doesn't need to be able to act. We asked Principal Higgins first, but she can't laugh at herself."

Shane chuckled. Keisha was the bubbliest person he knew, so to see her in a really good mood was simply life-changing. He said, "Yeah, Mrs. Moore's great. Should we get back to the script?"

Keisha smiled. "Right, where were we?"

"Let's pick it up at, 'What about the brain, Doctor?'"

Keisha took a second to get into character. She said, "Yes, of course, the brain. It's important we find the right kind of brain. That's the most important part."

"Find, ma'am? You haven't yet procured a brain?" read Shane.

"This is where I pick up a knife," broke Keisha.

"I see that here," Shane said, motioning to his copy of the script.

"Well, it's supposed to be funny. Aubrey doesn't draw it out. She doesn't let the scene build. It's such a shame."

"Total shame."

"Stop."

"Stop what?"

"You're patronizing me."

"I wasn't."

"You weren't?"

"No. I promise." Shane held up both hands in a don't shoot gesture. He pleaded, "C'mon. We've got to get through this. Why don't we take it from the top?"

"From the top?" she asked surprised.

Shane stuttered. "Uh... I don't know what that actually means. I just thought it was a thing that theater people say."

She laughed.

"Let's start at the thunder," he said.

"Yeah," she said excitedly. "There's going to be thunder, too. Man, Aubrey runs through it too fast! Let's see, Victoria says, 'The brain must be from someone loyal. Someone dedicated. Someone who's not afraid to take orders. Someone who can step back and let someone else take the lead.' That's where I pick up the knife. Igora is making a funny face. Shelly does that really well. Then Victoria says, 'And it has to be fresh!' That's when the lightning strikes!"

Shane was giving up on just getting her to perform the play, but he loved to see her excited.

She went on, "Igora takes a huge step back. Shelly plays it so funny. Then Aubrey says, 'Just kidding!' And the audience is supposed to laugh but mark my words they won't. The line isn't funny by itself. It has to be served to them. There's something magical about a play; laughs are cumulative. It doesn't happen with a movie, it doesn't happen with a novel, but it happens with a play. There's a connection with the audience. Laughs snowball. The audience feels like they're being carried by the actors and the dialog, and every laugh or every tug at the heartstrings adds a new layer of trust, until they're in the palm of your hand." She sighed. Her shoulders slumped. "That's what's supposed to happen anyway."

"So, you do have a brain?" Shane continued to read.

Keisha looked back at her script, although she knew the line. "I found the perfect brain. She was a politician."

"A politician?" read Shane.

She held up a hand—back in character—to hamper Igora's protest.

"But whatever for?" read Shane.

"It's what this experiment requires, don't you see?" Keisha huffed. She frowned and cast her eyes to the empty seats. "I had to find a brain that could live without a soul."

Keisha kept her eyes on the empty seats, but Shane doubted she was seeing anything. Her superior good mood was gone in a flash. Her typical bubbly self was even gone. She only looked up when she realized Shane hadn't said anything.

This time he was the one who broke character. He said, "Um, Keisha, I think that line was supposed to be a joke."

"I just don't feel like joking, okay?" she said somberly.

"Okay, it's just..." he trailed off.

"I'm never going to have to deliver these lines, either way," she spat.

"You're delivering them tonight. That's what the surprise was supposed to be about."

She was torn. Her mood had been growing increasingly sour as the actual play approached, and his kindness had been almost enough to lift it, but not quite. "It's not my part," she insisted. "It's Aubrey's."

"It's her part tomorrow," Shane corrected. He held up the printout in his hand with pleading eyes. "But listen to me, it's your part tonight."

"No, you listen." Her voice was so firm it echoed through the seats in the back. "I think I'm done. I'm done. I'm done! What's the point?" She made spastic hand motions, as if every I'm done was a small volcanic eruption of estrogen, or progesterone, or whichever hormone she had too much or little of this week. She threw down her script and jumped off the stage. "Take me home."

Keisha had already made it out the back door before Shane moved a muscle. The heavy doors slammed shut, and it jolted his heart. Alone on a stage he had no business being on—in more ways than one—he finally let out a sad huff. He trudged to the wing and switched off the lights, one by one. And section by section, the stage disappeared.
Chapter Thirty-Seven

Shane had just settled down in the front row of the school's auditorium. It was the day of the play. He couldn't believe how nervous he felt, secondhand. He checked the time to see how soon the show would start and saw he'd missed a text from Keisha.

Where are you? I need you backstage.

Shane panicked. He took off nearly running toward the stage. This text was sent almost fifteen minutes ago. Why hadn't he checked? He knew she'd probably text him; why wasn't he watching for it?

"Backstage" for their high school auditorium actually meant the drama teacher's classroom behind the auditorium and the hallway between the two. Shane knew he was heading the right way when he began to see people in costumes.

When he walked into the classroom, he got a few dirty looks from other members of the cast just for having the audacity to be Shane McCormick. He couldn't spot Keisha right away because she was in full costume for Victoria Frankenstein. Plus, she had her back to him. She was standing next to the full-length mirror along the wall, presumably checking her stage makeup.

"Keisha," he said gently as he made his way over to her.

When Keisha turned around, he saw she had tears running down both cheeks.

"What is it?" Shane reached out to her. "What happened?"

"It's Aubrey. She's in the hospital."

"She's in the... what?"

"She apparently spent the night throwing up, until her parents finally decided to take her to the hospital in the morning. No one knows what it is."

"Oh no, is she okay?"

"Well, she's—"

"Wait," Shane interrupted. "Keisha, why are you upset? Isn't this actually good news? It means you get to play the lead, doesn't it?"

"It means I have to play the lead. There's no other choice."

"And there never was," Shane insisted. "There never was. This is your part. No one can act this role as well as you can."

He said it with so much sincerity it was already beginning to lift her spirits.

He looked her dead in the eye, gave the slightest hint of a smirk, and said, "Keisha, you were born to play Dr. Frankenstein."

Keisha laughed.

Shane wasn't fully understanding why she was upset, but he reached up to her wet face and lifted her chin. He said, "Now I want you to listen to me because here's what's going to happen. I already have a seat in the front row. You're going to knock 'em dead. So, when it's time for you to do that little curtain call thing, I want you to hit pause in your mind. Take a mental snapshot. I want you to stop and take it all in. For the both of us. For the both of us. I want you to know in that moment that those five words you said to me were true."

Keisha nodded and began to count the words off on her fingers, starting with her thumb. "We must impress our selves." She smiled. "Wait! Shouldn't ourselves be one word?" She pressed her pinky and ring finger together and wiggled them.

"Not those words," she was surprised to hear him say. He grabbed her by both shoulders and stressed all five of the words she once told him, "The prettiest girls always win."

She looked confused. "What?" she scoffed. He totally had her on the line, she was receiving every word, and now she worried he was messing with her.

With much attitude, he grabbed a hand mirror straight from the grip of one of the other cast members and shoved it right in Keisha's face. With zero understanding, she mechanically looked into it. Keisha actually worried that something was wrong with her makeup. But he explained, "Tonight you are the prettiest girl."

Tears had just begun to dry in her eyes and now they were welling up again.

"And after your bow, I want you to jump off the stage so I can give you a big friendly hug."

She laughed. "We're not supposed to jump off the stage."

"What, like, that's a rule?"

She shrugged. "I imagine it'd be frowned upon."

"Well, then, blow me a kiss anyway."

She checked the clock on the wall. Shane saw her eyes bulge wide and knew he needed to hurry back. They quickly exchanged a theater hug—shoulders touching but faces angled away, protecting the makeup.

He added, "I'll be the one clapping the hardest... with both hands."

"Both hands, huh?"

"Yeah." He held up both hands and made two separate singlehanded Bart-claps as he walked away backward.

She laughed joyously. She was ready.
Chapter Thirty-Eight

Keisha did not start off stiff and stilted like she had with Shane. She took off running out the chute like a champion greyhound. From the moment she first stepped foot on the stage, she transformed it.

"What about the brain, Doctor?" Igora asked in Act One.

"Yes, of course, the brain. I had to find the right brain. That was the most important part." Keisha picked up the smallest knife and held it up to evaluate it. She was able to draw a laugh from her expressions and mannerisms alone. Her eyes were still bloodshot from crying, but it did not hurt at all for Dr. Frankenstein to look unhinged. "The brain must be from someone loyal..." She drew it out slowly, giving even the stragglers time to get in on the joke. "... Someone dedicated..." Keisha put down the small knife and brought up a larger one. It drew another solid laugh from the audience. It was the epitome of melodramatic stagecraft mastery. "... Someone who's not afraid to take orders... Someone who can step back and let someone else take the lead."

Igora did make a funny face. Shelly did it well. She built on the layers of laughter setup by Keisha, then added to it.

"And it has to be fresh!" Keisha hit the word perfectly. She turned her neck sharply toward Igora in sync with the thunder.

This small, menacing gesture alone made Igora jump back more than she ever had during rehearsal with Aubrey, which ended up knocking over a tray full of surgical tools off the table behind her. It wasn't in the script, but it drew the most laughs of the whole night.

And the laughter drove Keisha forward. It filled up her heart and inspired her very best.

She was stretching herself to the very limit. She was changing her own shape, growing larger, and much larger by the moment. She stopped being herself and became the role. Her mind phased into that transcendental state where power, truth, and beauty flowed through her. The place where control is released and art happens. She stretched and stretched until she left the atmosphere. Out of reach. Larger than all her problems, larger than her worries, larger than envy, bitterness, and resentment. She loved Aubrey and the director who gave Aubrey the lead. She loved Levi and Molly.

She was able to do what few people in the world can do. She was able to create and that was enough. She could inspire emotions in others. She could invite them to take part in her joy. That was enough. She would lose and win parts again, but tonight she pushed beyond what she thought she was capable of. Tonight, she had impressed herself.

"It's alive!" she cried out, "Alive!"

Scene after scene, she won the audience's trust, line after line, until she held them, until she stepped forward as Victoria Frankenstein, knife in hand, slowly approaching her own creation—the wretch in chains. The monster was chained to the wall, defenseless. With every step Victoria took, the wretch grunted louder.

She had orders to kill her, the murderer. The mob outside with torches and pitchforks demanded it be so. They would not let her leave otherwise. They would burn down the whole laboratory. The wretch would still die, and Victoria as well.

Victoria kept stepping. But as she took the final step—close enough to stab the monster, close enough presumably for the monster to even grab her—the monster stopped howling. And Victoria lowered her knife.

The spotlight was only on Keisha. The only light to fall on Mrs. Moore was light that reflected off Keisha's white lab coat.

Victoria reached her hand up and placed her fingers on the monster's cheek. And in that moment, the audience understood the reason behind wanting to make an all-female Frankenstein. Victoria's face reflected everything beautiful contained in femininity: compassion, empathy, mercy, and love. She had the face of a mother, of every mother. She whispered to her monster, "You need a name."

The monster's eyebrows raised.

"Would you like a name, wretch?"

The monster grunted.

"No," laughed Victoria. "We can't call you Wretch."

The monster grunted again. And in that grunt, the audience heard joy. It was Mrs. Moore's finest performance.

Victoria looked down, dismayed. Keisha did such a good job, scooping the audience up into her hand, that at this point they could read her every thought through her eyes. She had callously referred to her as wretch for the whole play; how could she inform her of its actual meaning now?

Victoria smiled. "Yes, yes, my sweet Wretch. So be it! You look like a Wretch. My sweet, sweet Wretch!" she whispered as she raised the knife.

Shane had tears streaming down both cheeks, because he knew he was her wretch. Every time she touched the monster's cheek, he could feel her loving fingertips against his face. And when she stabbed her, he could feel it in his heart.

There was not a dry eye in the place, but the audience wasn't sad. They knew the story was sad, and they made all the appropriate affectations of sorrow. But from Keisha's performance, they had learned what love is, what sacrifice is, and what life is worth. They learned everything that was wonderful and wicked in women... and in men... and in themselves.

And they loved her.

When the cast returned for their curtain call, the entire crowd was on its feet. Men were blinking away the tears in their eyes and women were wiping them from their cheeks. The entire cast entered one at a time to bow. The last one to run out onto the stage was Keisha Adams, holding the hand of her monster, Mrs. Moore. The audience laughed and applauded so hard their hands were all hurting. The stage lights along the proscenium arch were dreamlike, red, blue, and green. The flash bulb of the yearbook photographer burst like celebratory fireworks. There was literally a spotlight—right on Keisha.

And Keisha hit pause in her mind.

The prettiest girls don't always win. There're all kinds of chances to win in life. Sometimes we all can get breaks—some fewer than others, sure—but what really matters is what we make of the moments we get. Tonight was her break, and she made the most of it.

The director came out and brought Keisha a large bouquet of red roses. She thought her heart would burst with joy. She locked eyes with Shane and saw her joy reflected in his face. He seemed to be clapping in slow motion. She couldn't believe they'd come this far together.

She ran to the front of the stage and jumped right off it. Shane immediately stepped forward and grabbed her in his strong arms. They were completely carried away. Inside each other's embrace, there was a bubble surrounding the moment they were in, disconnecting it from the continuum of time and reality. The present was all there was, and tomorrow didn't matter. Safe inside that bubble, Shane told her, "I love you." In an act of damage control, he quickly added, "Right now."

Keisha smiled because she understood. She felt the parenthetical nature of the embrace. "I love you too," she said. "Right now." Then they both laughed... at the moment... at the absurdity of the play they'd both just performed... and at the leeway they were currently granting life to be absurd.

The photographer stepped over to them, motioned to get their attention, and framed them in a shot. They both turned their faces to him and smiled. His cheek was pressed into her cheek. Her arms were wrapped around him, and her flowers were almost blocking the view of his face. The flashbulb fired on a perfectly blissful moment in time.
Chapter Thirty-Nine

Shane had one class with a guy named Jeremy Cook. That Monday, he approached Jeremy before class.

"Hey, Jeremy." Shane tried his best to sound amiable.

"Hey." Jeremy didn't try at all.

"So, I saw you taking pictures at that play. What was that for?"

"The yearbook."

"Oh cool. Hey, remember that picture you shot of Keisha and me..."

"Yeah."

"Do you think I could get a copy of that?"

"Sorry, man, I don't have those files. I had to turn those in for a grade."

"Well, you still have them on your memory card, right?"

"You mean Mrs. Wagner's memory card?" Jeremy corrected.

"What?"

"The memory card belongs to the school. The whole camera does."

Shane sank a little in his already bad posture. "So... uh... do you still have it?"

"No dude, I turned it all in."

"Well... are you going to get them back?"

"Um... I don't know. I kind of doubt it. I mean, you know Mrs. Wagner."

"Yeah." Shane didn't know Mrs. Wagner. He never had her. "Do you think... can you think of any way I could get a copy of that photo?"

"Oh yeah, dude. Nothing to worry about. It's going to be in the yearbook."

Shane's shoulders collapsed. "I didn't order a yearbook."

"You didn't order a yearbook?"

"Why would I?"

"Uh, 'cuz it's a yearbook."

"Is it too late?"

"I think so. You need to ask Mr. Hicks. I mean, they couldn't have sent it all to the printers yet, we're still adding pictures. Uh... but uh... he definitely won't let you order late."

"No?"

"Well, you know Coach Hicks."

"Yeah." Shane didn't.

Jeremy snapped his fingers and said, "Oh, you know what, though? Mr. Hicks doesn't pay that much attention. He basically assigns all the work he should be doing to the head of the yearbook committee. The yearbooks are created by students every year without him lifting a dang finger. He says it's to build our sense of independence. I say it's just him being lazy."

"Okay, so?"

"So, they could probably get your order in late without Hicks even knowing."

Shane liked the sound of that. "Great. Who?"

"Who what?"

"Who's the head of the committee?"

"Oh man, I thought you knew. It's Brody Tanner."

Shane headed straight to Coach Hicks's classroom. There were a few students still lingering in the class who eyed him as he walked past. Shane found Mr. Hicks behind his desk, gathering his things. He had gotten there just in time. He said, "Um, excuse me, Mr. Hicks?"

"How can I help you?"

"My name's Shane McCormick, and I was hoping I could order a yearbook."

"Well, Mr. McCormick, that depends. Did you get the order form we sent out to all students?"

"Um, I don't still have access to that, but I got the money."

Mr. Hicks sighed. He grabbed a copy of the order form from off his desk and handed it to Shane. He said, "Well if you hadn't thrown it out, you might have noticed it had a deadline on it."

"Okay."

"And has that deadline passed?"

"Well, you don't have to condescend to me." Shane looked at the printout in his hand. "It was just last Friday."

"A missed deadline is a missed deadline. The line is not in terminal condition; it's dead."

"That's really funny," Shane said with perfect monotone dryness. "So, what can I do? Is there like a late fee?"

Mr. Hicks looked Shane in the face for the first time. He said, "Well, sans a time machine, there's not much you can do."

Shane's shoulders slumped. He shoved the order form into his bag and said, "Thanks. You've been really kind and helpful... sans kind and helpful." He turned on his heels and left empty handed.
Chapter Forty

The only place Shane knew where and when to actually find Brody was in the cafeteria during lunch. He couldn't believe what he was about to do. He knew it would be intolerable so he wanted to get it out of the way before Keisha showed up.

Brody was already sitting at a table, which was unfortunate. Shane would have rather spoken to him alone, but it seemed like Brody Tanner was never actually alone. He was sitting next to his girlfriend, Jessica. Gary Watson, Daryl Long, Tim Perry, and John Hodges were all there—most the people Keisha had saved him from having to fight all at once.

Shane walked up to the table and gave Brody time to notice he was there and was about to speak. Shane took a deep breath. He said, "Hey Brody, I was wondering if you could help me out with something."

Everyone at the table besides Jessica laughed. "You've got to be joking," said Brody.

Shane laid out the yearbook order form on the table in front of Brody. "It's about the yearbook. I want to buy one."

"Too late. Deadline's past."

"But they're not supposed to be delivered for another month."

"They still have to print them," Brody said mockingly.

Everyone at the table laughed, including Jessica.

Shane could feel the anger welling within him. He hoped his face didn't look as red as it felt. "Jeremy Cook said you might be able to help. He said you were still adding the photos he turned in just this morning. I know you haven't sent them to be printed, yet."

"Go to Hicks."

"I did; he wouldn't help. You know Coach Hicks," Shane tried to sound pleasant and he instantly hated himself for it.

"Why would I help you if Hicks wouldn't?"

"Can you do it or not?"

"Yeah, I can do it."

"You can?"

"But I won't."

The entire table laughed again. Shane felt something hit him in the chest. It was the crumpled paper wrapper from a straw. Shane wasn't sure exactly who threw it, and his pulse started to pound, but he had to let it go.

He tried to keep his voice relaxed as he focused on his mission. "C'mon. I got the money." He pulled out some twenties. "Here, take the money."

"No," Brody said firmly. "Why do you want one so bad?"

"Something to remember you by." He probably shouldn't have said that, he tried to smile like it was all in good humor.

Brody scowled at him.

"C'mon," Shane nudged.

"I said no. Now move on. You're making this whole area stink."

Everyone at the table laughed. A few of the other guys started coughing.

Shane's pulse beat harder, but he stayed calm. "C'mon. Please. I need help. I'm asking you please."

The table laughed harder, but this time Jessica didn't.

Shane saw an angle; he had one lifeline. He reiterated, "I'm begging you."

"Whoa, you're begging me. That's pathetic."

"Please? I'm asking you please?" Shane was trying to sound as pathetic as possible.

The guys all laughed again. Not Jessica.

Shane could feel his hope waning. If he couldn't get the yearbook, this would end badly for him. Shane's anger was building, and the second he would find out this embarrassment was for nothing, he would have to unleash it.

"C'mon, guys," Jessica finally said.

"It's important," Shane said with renewed hope. "Please."

Brody looked at Jessica, then back to Shane. He said, "Well, I could use a laptop."

Shane looked down at his laptop, no longer in the mood to act pathetic. His voice was strong when he said, "You must be crazy."

Brody shrugged.

"It took me three months to save for this laptop. It cost me nine hundred."

Brody whistled. "Must be fast."

Shane suddenly wished he had lied in the other direction. He'd only paid five hundred. "That's not fair," he said.

"Life isn't fair."

Shane's eyes jumped over to his lifeline. Surely, Jessica won't stand for this. If Shane ever treated anyone the way Brody was treating him, Keisha would never put up with it. He was able to catch Jessica's eye for just a second before she shamefully looked away. And Shane knew his last hope was gone.

"Fine," he said.

"Fine?" Brody asked.

"I'll do it," confirmed Shane.

Brody looked skeptical. He reached out his hand to receive the laptop.

"Well, I can't just hand it to you. I need a day to back up my files, obviously."

"You have until the end of seventh period."

"That's not enough time."

"The end of sixth," Brody amended.

The table laughed. Shane snatched the order form from the table and stormed off.
Chapter Forty-One

Shane hadn't spotted Brody in the halls and sixth period had just ended. Shane rushed with laptop in hand to get a look around as many different corners as possible. He finally saw Brody walking toward the men's room. "Brody!" Shane called to him, but Brody couldn't—or wouldn't—hear. He ran as fast as he could and was able to catch Brody by the elbow in the nick of time.

Brody looked annoyed.

Shane said quickly, "Okay, Brody. You win. Here's the laptop." He extended his laptop as well as the order form.

"I said by the end of sixth," huffed Brody.

"Just take the laptop. Don't be a jerk."

"You didn't put a virus on it, did you?"

"Listen. I just want a yearbook, all right? You asked a price; I'm paying it. I actually appreciate you helping me out." Shane was being extra nice. He really wanted that picture of Keisha. The idea that Brody could keep the laptop, but still fail to deliver the yearbook never left his mind. He was at Brody's mercy and they both knew it.

"What was that?" Brody's lips curled.

"I said I appreciate you helping me out," Shane dutifully repeated.

Brody looked straight at him. "Well, I appreciate the laptop."

"Okay." It killed him to do it, but Shane reached out his hand to shake Brody's.

Brody hesitated for just a second, then Brody Tanner and Shane McCormick actually shook hands.

Shane turned to leave but he heard a forceful voice call out behind him.

"Oh wait," said Brody. He held open Shane's order form, which had been folded in half. "Looks like you forgot something."

"What? What did I forget?"

Brody pointed to the spot on the order form. "Well, the $85 yearbook cost, of course."

"But I just gave you a laptop!"

"The laptop goes to me. The $85 is for the printer. They don't care if I got a laptop. They're not going to print you a book if they don't get paid."

Shane stood there fuming. Powerless. He stared at Brody's chest. He couldn't stomach seeing his smug face in that moment. He pulled out his wallet and wordlessly extracted five twenties. "Do you have change?" he asked meekly.

"Nope."

Shane groaned.

Brody snatched the money from Shane's hands and said, "Pleasure doing business with you."

Shane turned again to leave and slunk off, defeated before his rival. He tried to remind himself that it'd be worth it.
Chapter Forty-Two

Keisha had finished eating her lunch. She was across from Shane at their table. It'd been a week since her show-stealing performance and the glow surrounding her still hadn't left her. She blurted, "Did you see me on stage?"

He smiled. They'd had this exchange before. "Yes, you were incredible," Shane dutifully answered the same way each time.

Keisha smiled. "I was incredible, wasn't I?"

He laughed. "How long are you going to be like this?"

"I should be done by tomorrow."

"I hope not," he assured her.

She took a long, deep, satisfied breath. It was wonderful to be alive. It was wonderful to be Keisha Adams. The two of them sat together in complete comfort.

"So, I watched Back to the Future," he said.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, I liked it. You're right about the song. I spent the rest of the night looking up 80's music; seems like there's a lot of stuff they could have chosen." He watched her eyes watching him, patiently. "Did you have a song you think they should have used?"

"'You shook me all night long.'"

Shane laughed twice. The first laugh was because of how quickly she blurted it out. This was the second half of the conversation she wanted to have at her house before the eclipse. The second laugh was from him picturing Michael J. Fox preforming AC/DC in that scene.

"Did you find a song you think would have worked?" Keisha asked with a smile.

"I was thinking '99 Red Balloons.'"

Keisha laughed from her gut, also picturing how the classic scene might have ended up quite different. She said, "I'd like to change my answer. I think I want to go with '99 Red Balloons' also."

"And if McFly really wanted to do something unexpected, he could have sung it in the original German, '99 Luftballons.'"

Keisha laughed again. "Yes, that would have been unexpected."

"It's a missed opportunity, really."

Keisha shrugged satirically. "It could've been a classic. I've always said you were a visionary." She smiled. "Speaking of which, how come you never showed me that drawing you did of me?"

Shane's eyebrows perked up. There was uncertainty, even fear in his face. "Drawing of you?"

"Yeah."

"When did you see the..." he trailed off.

"I peeked in your sketchbook and saw the drawing of me."

"Drawing?" Shane stressed the end of the word in a peculiar fashion.

"Yeah. How come you never showed me?"

"How long ago was that?" he asked.

"I don't know. The day you grabbed my butt."

He nodded and smiled. "Three weeks, one day, and 25 minutes ago."

"Can you at least try not to be creepy?"

He smiled again. "I was trying. That's what I'm like when I'm actually trying. You don't want to be around me when I stop trying."

She laughed out loud, and Shane reached down to pull out his drawing pad. She'd been prepared to pressure and cajole him into showing her, but apparently the sound of her laughter was all it took to break him down.

He laid the large pad on the table and turned it around toward her. She reached to lift the cover, but he placed a firm hand with splayed fingers on top, preventing her.

She smiled jovially, "You know, I've already seen it."

Shane nodded solemnly. He sounded peculiar when he said, "I'm not responsible for what I draw."

She laughed. "Then who is?"

"Not me." He smiled. "I try to stay hands off. I just let it happen. If I think too much, I mess it up. Do you understand?"

"No, because you're talking pure nonsense. Now let me see." She playfully knocked his hand away. His shoulders hung a bit lower and he struggled to fill his chest with air.

She evaluated the drawing again, the same armored bikini, the same uncanny mole placement. This time it didn't bother her. She had actually thought about this drawing from time to time and she'd been looking forward to the moment she could see it again. She said, "I love it."

"Take it," he said. "Tear it out right now. It's yours to keep."

She smiled. "I couldn't do that."

"Why not?"

"Because it's so good. You obviously worked hard on it. I couldn't take it from you. And besides, I kind of like the idea of you looking at me."

She saw the corners of his mouth go up, and she immediately reproached herself. She shouldn't have said that. They were just friends. She wasn't sure why she'd said it.

But a part of her did know; she said it because it was true. She understood now. Not knowing if it would make matters better or worse, she blushed and said, "I'm not responsible for the things I say."

She didn't look up for his response. She took a moment to think. She said, "You know what, I am going to take this drawing." She checked his reaction. "If you're still offering."

He made an upward-palmed go right ahead motion.

"Yeah? I can just tear it out?"

"Of course."

She put her left hand on the pad's spiral binding and used her right hand to gently tug the drawing. She did this slowly and methodically, not wanting to rip it, using far more care than was required. Finally, she pulled it free from the rest of the pad and saw what was underneath it.

She made a small sweet gasp when she saw the next drawing was also of her. In this one she was riding a beautiful white horse. She carried a simple spear and a leather shield. There were two moons in the sky. Again, she was in a bikini, and this drawing took all the attention and skill as the one she'd just torn out.

She said, "Oh wow. This one's amazing."

Her praise made him sit up taller, at least four feet taller.

"Why didn't you tell me you drew a new one?" She moved her hand quickly to the bottom corner, as if she had just thought of something. She raised her eyes questioningly to meet his but was answered with an unyielding poker face.

She flipped the page and discovered another drawing of her. This one was just her face, totally realistic, no fantasy. The drawing stopped at her collar, but she could tell by just a few simple lines that she was meant to be wearing her favorite pink shirt with the Peter Pan collar. The drawing was impressive, and looking at it moved her. She was overcome with more discoveries—that she was beautiful, and that he knew it. She saw the care that went into each stroke of his accomplished pencil and a single, unexpected, word popped into her head: devotion.

She wanted to say something, but she was speechless. She felt the rush of blood to her face, but she didn't care. It felt good to her to be so flushed. She was flushed with emotion, and flushed with a sweet, reckless vanity. Her heart was so overcome with emotion that it affected her from head to toe. She couldn't remember the last time that had happened. Her hand instinctively reached for the bottom corner again. She flipped the page and found another drawing of her.

This time she did not wear a bikini. This time she was wearing nothing at all. Strategically placed arms, as well as a sword, kept everything covered. She was actually less exposed than she had been in the two with bikinis, but still. She was glad she was already blushing at full saturation. She quickly flipped the page simply to no longer have that image in front of them—or anyone else around for that matter.

There was another drawing of her. She could feel her face change. Hesitantly, she reached to the corner and flipped again.

There was another drawing of her, but this was the first one her face wasn't in. It was her neck, shoulders, and back. Her elbows were bent and her hands were holding up the front of a black corset, which remained loose in the back, waiting to be laced.

She flipped again.

There was another drawing of her. Wearing a long flowing skirt, walking in a garden.

She flipped again.

A head and shoulders portrait of her with her hair in clips.

She flipped again.

A high-contrast study of her eyes.

She flipped again.

Her reclining on the edge of a stone wishing well.

She flipped again.

Her with her arm outstretched in a leather glove, a large hawk perched on top.

She flipped again.

Another bikini warrior with Keisha's face and body.

She flipped again.

Another drawing of her. This time with angel wings.

She stopped. She didn't want to see any more. Both her hands grasped the table to brace herself. She breathed in deep, then quickly flipped the whole thing shut. Then, the worst thing she could do, she grabbed the one she'd torn out and placed it back with the rest beneath the cover.

He was silent, watching her, waiting.

She knew her face had to look like her favorite dog just died. She couldn't help that. When she looked up at him, she saw he was still trying to maintain his poker face but failing. His eyes were hard as stone, but a stone with a volatile crack. He held her gaze, his eyes begging, begging that she not call his bluff.

She said, "That night after the play—we were just carried away, right?"

"Yes, we were carried away."

She looked back down at the drawing pad. "And are you still carried away?"

Shane didn't answer.

She asked, "Shane, are you in love with me? Like actually in love with me?"

He exhaled. "Yes," he said. His tone was that of a somber confession. "I'm sorry, Keisha. I guess I broke my promise."

The bell to end lunch rang but Keisha stayed seated, thunderstruck. Shane grabbed his sketch pad from her, including the drawing he'd told her to take, and got up to gather the rest of his stuff.

"I—" she began.

He held up a hand, "Don't. Don't. You don't have to say anything, okay?"

She gave the slightest hint of a nod.

He threw all his lunch trash onto his tray, then began to pick up her trash as well. He slid her tray under his and asked, "You done with this milk?"

The words hardly reached her ears. She was thinking about the joy his drawings had brought her. She was thinking about the night of the play. She was thinking about their every moment together from the beginning, and how lonely her young heart had been for too long.

"Yo, Keisha." She looked up at him. "Done with the milk?"

"Um... yeah. Yeah."

She was still in her seat when he lifted both their trays off the table and said, "I'll see you after fifth."

"Yeah," she said again.

As he walked off, she commanded her body to stand up, lest she be tardy. She'd only made it a couple of steps from the lunch table when Molly grabbed her by the arm. "I have to talk to you away from Shane."

Keisha was confused. She didn't want to hear any more news about Shane. She didn't want to hear Molly's opinion again. She'd heard it. "What is it?" she demanded.

"It's about Aubrey."

Good. "What about her?"

"The hospital came back with the results from her tests. They found Enzopryn in her system."

"Enzopryn?" It wasn't a literal question, just shock.

"It's a drug."

Keisha stalled, not ready to let the news in. "So, do you think... was she trying to kill herself?"

Molly looked at her friend disappointed. "Wow, you're really wearing blinders for this guy."

"What guy?"

"Aubrey didn't take the drug, Keisha. The police believe someone was trying to kill her." Molly checked the clock on the wall and hurried along.

Keisha could feel her heart contract. Her skin went to gooseflesh once she finally comprehended what her friend had been saying. An onslaught of thoughts and emotions flooded her mind. This was the worst possible news she could have heard about Shane. Keisha had done exactly what Molly warned her not to do: she'd forgotten he was a psychopath. Her heart had been fighting a PR battle against her rational mind. Her mind knew Shane was murderous—Keisha had actually experienced the murders—but her heart could never fully believe it. Her heart had been building a case, buttressed by every moment they spent face to face, that Shane was redeemable. The one thing that could destroy that case was anything that gave off even the slightest whiff of homicide.

She turned her head slowly to look out across the cafeteria. The crowd was thinning as students hurried to class, and she was able to spot Shane by the trashcans, dumping their trays and returning them. He already looked different. The illusion she had built up around him, painstakingly, layer by layer, was shattered. After this news, she could no longer fool herself. After this news, she could no longer be with him.

She could feel her eyes starting to sting and she rapidly blinked away tears for her loss. Why'd you do it, Shane? What were you thinking? Why'd you have to ruin things again?

He happened to look up to see her. With no reason to believe her mind was pondering anything deeper than his recent confession of love for her, he gave a meek little wave. His face was grim, and she thought she saw him mouth the word, "Sorry."
Chapter Forty-Three

After Shane told Keisha he loved her, he worried things wouldn't be the same between them. He became so worried about it that he pulled out his phone surreptitiously during fifth period and sent her a text:

Please forget about what I said. It's no big deal. I don't want anything to change between us. I want everything to stay how it is.

By the end of the period, she hadn't answered, so he sent her another one. He didn't end up seeing her in the hall after fifth, but he didn't always. He even waited for her but couldn't spot her. She still hadn't returned his text by the end of sixth period, and he was starting to get a little worried. He knew it was stupid, but he sent her another one.

He told himself that she probably didn't see it. He knew her phone would be silenced inside the school building, but he'd texted her during school before and she'd eventually seen it and replied.

By the end of the day, he knew something was wrong. She's such a kind girl. She will argue that she can't keep hanging out if she's just going to lead me on. Then I will beg her: No, be unfair to me. I'll decide for myself how much pain I can take. Just stay.

But it won't work. She won't want to be the source of his unhappiness and she'll leave him alone, insisting it's for the best. Why'd she have to be so considerate? It's very rude. He slammed his locker shut and turned to head home—and almost ran right into her. She was standing directly behind him.

"Whoa," he said laughing about their near collision. He stopped laughing when he saw the look on her face.

"Did you poison Aubrey?" she asked curtly.

Shane was taken off guard and tried to keep his face from revealing too much. His first reaction to the question was pure guilt, mixed with a little pride. It was her tone, however, that caused all the gears in his brain to grind to a halt.

Her eyes grew wide and her face went from stern to outraged. She'd been holding onto a tiny piece of hope that she'd been wrong. She could tell by his reaction that she wasn't.

"No," he stumbled the word out desperately. "I- I didn't."

"Don't lie to me."

Her eyes were drilling into him, and it was torture. He'd say anything to get her face to switch back to quirky-cute. "I'm... I'm sorry."

"You're sorry?" she spat.

"I'm sorry." He summoned all the courage her piercing eyes would allow. "I thought you'd like it." Same excuse as before.

She was at a loss. She stood there staring at him in disbelief. "You thought I'd like it if you poisoned my friend?"

"She's not your friend."

"She's... She's a human being! She could have died. Were you trying to kill her?"

"What? No. I just gave her enough to make her sick."

"But she could have died!"

"Not likely."

Her face only got worse. "This is a serious crime. What is wrong with you? Don't you care that you hurt her? Don't you care that you risked her life? Is this all some kind of joke to you?"

"No. I wanted to see you act. You deserved the part, not her. All I did was set things right. Haven't you ever wanted to just set things right?"

"You could go to prison for this. Don't you even care about yourself?"

"I—" He had nothing.

"I cannot believe you. How could you be so stupid? Why can't you go one week without ruining everything?"

There was nothing he could say. Her tone was withering, and he stood as straight as he could beneath the lashes. He looked broken and defeated when he mumbled, "Please don't tell anyone."
Chapter Forty-Four

The next day at lunch, Shane sat at his corner table in the cafeteria by himself. He pulled out his phone in hopes he had missed a text from Keisha since the last time he checked—five minutes ago. He looked over the long line of unanswered texts he'd sent her since she confronted him.

I'm sorry. It was a mistake.

I was only thinking about you.

I just wanted to see you happy.

I will never do anything like that again as long as I live.

You can beat me up again if you want.

He sighed.

As always, he was first to make it through the line and to his seat. He hadn't seen Keisha yet. Finally, he spotted her. She was at the head of the line, so he watched her as she stood waiting, then moved forward, then paid for her food.

He trembled because he didn't know what to say to her. He didn't know if she would yell at him some more, or maybe cry, or just stare at him again with that horrible look of contempt and disgust.

She stepped from the line and walked straight forward. Forward. She wasn't heading in his direction. In fact, Shane noticed she hadn't turned her head once. There was a lack of ease in her gait; she knew he'd be watching her, of course.

Shane noticed she wasn't heading over to sit with her friend, Molly, either. He wondered what that was about and hoped he would get the chance to ask her about it.

After a circuitous walk around to the outside of the tables, she wound her way over to the opposite corner and sat down at an empty table by herself.

Shane took a deep breath. He gathered his things up and walked his tray over to the table where she sat. He put on the most breezy, winsome smile he could summon, sat down across from her and asked, "Is this seat taken?"

She immediately got up and walked away.

"Wait," he called out. But she didn't wait.

The second day, he waited in his spot until she got out of the line. Again, she headed to the distant corner. He walked over to her, sat down and asked, "How is a raven like a writing desk?"

He was doing his best to sound light and charming, but it wasn't working at all. He saw no fondness, no nostalgia on her face. She stomped off without a word.

Shane could barely handle the pain, but he remembered how persistent she had once been. On the third day, he sat down with his tray across the table from her, eight chairs down. She looked too irritated to even properly roll her eyes.

With the type of comedic presence that rivaled Charlie Chaplin, he slowly slid his tray over just one seat closer, then coyly scooched his bum over. She got up and left immediately, cutting the entire scene short, not even allowing the humor a chance to build.

Once out of her sight, he dropped the breezy façade and let his face fall miserably in both his hands.

On the fourth day, he gave up. He stayed seated alone at his own table. For four years he'd sat there alone, without anyone even at the table next to him. Empty chair after empty chair after empty chair. He looked to find Wilson, but even he was gone. They must've rearranged the tables when they used the room to host the science fair. No one stays. All alone again, Shane could hear the animated conversation and laughter from the rest of his classmates. He hated all of them.

He bent over his drawing pad as his pencil worked languidly on a new sketch: a wicked man, dressed in rags, covered in rubbish. He was crouching in toward a buxom blonde. She was clean and beautiful, and with him hunched over so painfully, she was taller than he. The wicked man had a wicked glint in his eye, and he was offering the girl what he wanted her to believe was just an ordinary apple.

Across the forehead of the man in the drawing, Shane had written out a word in all-caps: TRASH.
Chapter Forty-Five

The students had to meet in their assigned homerooms to pick up their yearbooks. It had been so long since they had to meet in homeroom, Shane could barely remember which room he'd been assigned this year.

When Shane walked into Mrs. Schneider's room, 203, he was shocked to see Keisha. He hadn't remembered they had homeroom together. The last time they'd met in homeroom had been a full three months ago, and at that time, Keisha meant absolutely nothing to Shane, and Shane meant nothing to Keisha.

He was also shocked to see Zoë Parker. He was so excited when he first learned they shared homeroom, now he couldn't care less, and hadn't even remembered. It all served to remind him how much his life had changed and how fast.

As he watched the back of Keisha's head, he knew she wouldn't speak to him. He found a spot in the back of the class without her even knowing he had walked in. Whatever wonderful thing had changed in his life, it had apparently changed back just as fast. He was back wallowing in his old life, only this time with full knowledge of what he was missing.

He watched her. He couldn't help it. The idea of her turning around to catch him staring sickened him, but he couldn't help it. She had her hair pulled up on top of her head and he wistfully admired the slope of her long, thin neck and the delicate perfection of her earlobes.

He remembered the reason he'd fought so hard to buy a yearbook in the first place: he wanted photographic evidence of their happiest moment together. When he had handed his laptop over to Brody that day, he thought the photo would come to him under different circumstances. But his current estrangement from Keisha didn't make him want the photo less; in fact, he wanted it ten times more. The photo was the consolation prize for a man who had lost everything else. He hungered for that photo the way a starving man hungers for the smallest scrap of food.

But he knew he wouldn't get it. He sat in the back of homeroom, sweating. Shane knew that Brody had failed to turn in his money. He couldn't figure out why he had trusted him. He knew that he would never get a yearbook. "It was just a simple mistake," Brody would say. "After all, it was ordered far too late. I was just trying to do the guy a favor in the first place." Brody probably wouldn't even get in any trouble for it. And the money? "I never received any money." And the laptop? "What laptop?"

Of course he never ordered it. Of course he didn't. How stupid I was!

"And just why were you giving money to a student anyway," Coach Hicks would side with Brody, "when you had already tried to order through me and I refused?"

How could I be so stupid? I just wanted it so bad. I let my love for her blind me.

"Dale Abner," the teacher began to call out names.

Shane stewed. He thought about how badly he wanted that photo of Keisha with her arms wrapped around him.

"Jennifer Abrams." The teacher was going in alphabetical order. Shane's mind quickly filed Adams in the appropriate spot and he knew that—

"Keisha Adams."

Yup, there it is. A glutton for punishment, Shane watched as she raised her adorable body up from her chair and walked to the front. He knew there was no way for her not to be surprised by his presence when she returned to her chair. In the final seconds to do so, he tried on many faces that would portray quiet strength, or longsuffering, or cool indifference. When she finally turned, he had botched it and undoubtedly portrayed trying too hard.

He watched the unavoidable hiccup in her own demeanor; the brief moment between first discovering him and playing it cool, sure looked like panic. That he would cause her distress simply by being in the room stabbed him like a knife.

"Christopher Lucas."

Shane had tuned the teacher out until she got to his part of the alphabet, but he wasn't sure why he should bother to tune her back in. His name wouldn't be called.

"Thomas Mabry."

Okay, there it is. His name would definitely be next.

"Trudy MacDowell"

Okay, hold on... Does Trudy spell it with a Mc or Mac? There was still a chance he could be next.

"Janet McCormick"

Wow. Okay. He'd forgotten about Janet. No relation. He still could be next. Shane was actually getting a little anxious. He noticed his leg was bouncing.

"Shane McCormick."

His heart leapt with surprise, but he didn't show it. He lumbered up to the front like it was an intolerable chore to do so. He grabbed the book from Mrs. Schneider with his usual condescending apathy and yet couldn't help but draw it into his chest like a loving embrace as he walked back to his seat. He couldn't believe the head of the yearbook committee had come through for him after all. He actually considered the idea that Brody wasn't so bad.

When he opened it, his nostrils were filled with that sweet new-book smell. He quickly flipped past all the head shots and searched the miscellaneous sections in the back. He couldn't find the photo.

"Todd Michael."

Shane could barely hear Mrs. Schneider continue to call out names in the background, while his focus lasered in on the hunt for that photo.

He couldn't help but look up when two girls in the room spontaneously burst out laughing. They both turned their heads toward him and snickered with their mouths covered. Stupid girls. Let them laugh. This wasn't an altogether uncommon occurrence with him. He never did know what it was about and this time was no different.

"Zoë Parker."

A cluster of girls gathered around the desks of the two laughing girls, and a wave of whispering traveled across the room. The commotion and Shane's curiosity over it had just about halted his search for the photo. Individual heads kept stealing covert glances back toward Shane.

But what did Shane care? He just found the photo. It was one perfect embrace frozen in time. It was a moment in which he had been loved—a momentary love, but very real nonetheless. It was also a moment that had cost him that love, a moment for which an innocent girl ended up in the hospital. But it didn't taste bittersweet. When Shane looked at it, he could only see Keisha's beauty and her unadulterated joy.

The announcement speaker clicked on abruptly, and a hard-as-nails female voice blared through. "All teachers who are handing out yearbooks, please desist immediately. Do not continue to handout any yearbooks. All teachers will be responsible to collect any yearbook which has already been handed out. All students who have received yearbooks are to return them to their teachers at once. Any student caught in possession of a yearbook today will face disciplinary action."

At this point the wail of the students' protests had come to a boil, and they shouted back angrily at the speaker.

"New yearbooks will be issued to you as soon as possible, date to be determined."

The speaker clicked off.

There was commotion in the room, but Shane kept his eyes glued to his embrace with the only true friend he'd ever had. Through the corner of his eye, he could see the real-life Keisha also turn to look at him. He raised his eyes to meet hers and saw deep compassion on her face. At this point he knew it was time to panic. Something was very wrong. Enough people had wrenched their heads around to look at Shane before, during, and after the announcement, that Shane could no longer convince himself these things were unrelated. The yearbooks from the whole school were being recalled and it seemed to revolve around him somehow.

With a heavy heart, he searched out his own image in the headshot section. He found it, practically snarling at the camera. No problem there. He kept flipping until he came again to his sweet friend. He stopped on her image for courage and flipped again.

At the top of the page he saw a picture of Brody Tanner and Sue Hobbs. The caption underneath it read "Most Likely to Succeed." Next, he saw a photo of Brody Tanner and Aubrey Anderson. The caption below it read "Most Popular." Shane thought he'd be sick. Scanning the page, he noticed Brody also won "Best Hair."

Then at the very bottom, underneath all the ridiculous honorifics, he saw his own photo. It was labeled on top with his first, middle, and last name. Shane Marshal McCormick. The caption below it read "Most Likely to Become a School Shooter."

He only saw the photo for one second before the activity in the room demanded his attention once more. Apparently, the teacher deemed this situation severe enough for her to not wait for students to walk to the front and return their books on their own volition and began walking from student to student, snatching them from their hands.

Shane felt a wave of primal teenage anger. He took a deep breath for clarity, because he had to think. There was only one thing he knew in that moment: There was no way he would give that book back. Despite everything, he had the photo. That was what mattered to him, nothing else.

Shane watched as dear Keisha handed her book back to Mrs. Schneider, then one more student did the same, then Mrs. Schneider reached out to grab Shane's, but it wouldn't budge. Shane was holding onto the book for dear life.

His teacher let go, stood over him, and stretched out her palm. She said sternly, "Shane, I need to take your yearbook back." Everyone in the class had given their books back. He didn't want to make a scene, especially with Keisha there. Of course, he wanted to tell the teacher where to stick it, but he didn't want to give Keisha one more reason to believe he was a troublemaker. He considered the chances of getting out of that room with the yearbook still in hand, and he imagined they were slim. He didn't know what to do.

He had an epiphany. The solution should have been so simple, but he discovered the memory he wanted to keep and the offense he wanted to forget were on the same page—double-sided, much like life. He realized to forfeit the one, he'd need to forfeit the other and to remember the one, he'd forever need to remember the other.

The teacher said his name again, in as serious a voice as she could muster. "Shane." She moved her hand closer to his book.

Shane looked up to see Keisha watching intently. He frowned at the future misery his action was about to cause. He grabbed the page and—while the teacher looked on dumbly—he slowly and carefully tore it right out. Shane handed the yearbook back to Mrs. Schneider. He folded the torn page and slid it into his backpack, then got up and walked out of the room.

It was past midnight before Shane went home that night. He recognized the old Ford Ranger parked in front of his house. All the lights were off in the house except for the small bulb above the kitchen stove. Shane headed that direction to say hi to his mother, but instead he found a man standing in the middle of the kitchen. He was holding a cereal bowl in one hand and shoveling cereal in his mouth with the other. Over on the counter was the gallon of milk and an open box of Cap'n Crunch the man had left out. The milk was missing its cap. The man saw Shane and gave a grunt and a nod. He was wearing a robe that belonged to Shane's mom, and nothing else.

Shane was glad the room was so dark.

Upon seeing Shane, the man began to shuffle back to the bedroom.

"Marcus," Shane called out.

"Jarome," Jarome said.

Shane didn't forget his name; he just always got Jarome and Marcus confused. He asked, "Hey, were you the one who paid our water bill?"

Jarome hesitated, but nodded.

"Thanks," Shane said sincerely.

"'ight," Jarome said.

"Hey, you wouldn't happen to know where I can buy an unregistered handgun?"

"Because I'm black?" Jarome shot reflexively.

"Because you're ugly," Shane shot back just as fast.

Jarome didn't laugh. "What 'chew need a gun fo'?"

"Shooting tin cans."

Jarome made a forget you motion and turned to leave.

"For protection," Shane amended, trying to put a little fear in his voice.

Jarome turned back to look at him. He nodded, "'ight."
Chapter Forty-Six

Shane followed the directions Jarome had given him. All the streets he needed to turn down were dark, and Shane suddenly wished Jarome had set this up mid-afternoon-ish. There were also far more people walking along the side of the road than he was used to.

He pulled into an apartment complex and found a door with a blue porch light. He was happy they were meeting in an apartment complex, because he figured that he could scream loud enough for many neighbors to hear. But he also figured that cries for help in this building were frequently heard but seldom answered. When Shane killed his engine, it let out a grumbling protest. Although he was out of place in this neighborhood, his car fit in just fine.

There was a group of men drinking and smoking in the parking lot, not far from Shane. They all eyed him as he made his way to the door, but no one said anything to him. Shane took a deep breath for courage and knocked on the door. No one answered, and he could not help but look back at the group of men in the parking lot. Yup, still staring at me.

Shane raised his hand again to pound out a harder knock, but the door opened. He saw a middle-aged man in dreadlocks, wearing a pair of suspenders without a shirt. The suspenders read "Thank God It's Friday." He looked blankly at Shane.

Shane spoke first. "Um, Jarome sent me. Are you Malik?"

When Malik heard he was the guy Jarome had sent, his face actually looked more confused, not less. He took a good long evaluating look at Shane.

Shane was uncomfortable with the way he was being stared at, and it worried him because he knew he often said stupid things when uncomfortable. He held up a hand underneath his pale face and said, "Guess who's coming to dinner?" Yeah, that was stupid.

Malik didn't get the reference or care. He said, "Man, get inside."

When Shane walked in he saw a variety of handguns laid out on the coffee table. There was only one other person in the room, and he was actually white. So, now I feel just totally at ease. The white man was bald and he wore dark sunglasses while inside. His head was cocked sideways, resting on his hand. His elbow was propped on the arm of the couch, and there was an enormous bong leaning up against him.

Shane nodded him a cool salutation, "S'up."

The bald man didn't respond. He didn't even move.

The black man sat down on the opposite couch, and Shane sat down next to him, where he could check out the weapons on the table. There was one which particularly caught his eye. He picked it up and said, "You got a .357 Magnum? Nice. This gun's got a lot of stopping power." He looked at the black guy, then back over to the white. "How much for this one?" he asked Malik.

Shane ejected the magazine. He was happy to see it was empty. He checked the chamber. It was empty too. A bunch of guns with no bullets and even a witness. He actually did start to calm down. He grabbed another gun at random and pretended to consider it, checking the mag. Also empty.

"How much for the Magnum?" Shane asked again.

"Eight hundred."

Shane deflated a bit. "Would you give it to me for seven hundred? I only brought seven," Shane immediately chastised himself for telling the guy how much he brought.

"Man, we ain't negotiatin'."

Shane realized his excitement over the gun had made him forget why he was there. He simply didn't need stopping power. He said, "You know I really only need the cheapest gun you've got."

"Ah'ight. I got an old Six Hour I can sell you fo' fo' hundred."

Shane put the 357 back on the coffee table. He looked at the remaining guns confused. "Which one?"

"It's a Six Hour."

"Six Hour?"

"Aww yeah, you don't know about 'dem Six Hours. Dem Six Hours is tight."

Shane looked at him amazed. Are you from the 1990's? He said, "No, I've never heard of them."

"Ah'ight, bet."

The man got up and left the room. All alone with the bald white guy, Shane asked, "Have you ever heard of a Six Hour?"

The man didn't respond.

"I thought I knew about guns. Is that some new slang term I haven't heard of?"

The man didn't move. Shane leaned in closer, trying to see his eyes through the dark glasses. He couldn't. He thought about poking him just to make sure he was alive but thought better of it. He stood up to get closer and waved his hand one inch from the man's eyes, up and down, then back and forth. Nothing. The man didn't move a muscle. Maybe he's dead. Maybe Malik killed him. Looks like I'm the only white guy here after all.

Malik came back into the room with a gun and handed it to Shane. Shane evaluated the gun and looked confused at first. Finally, Shane laughed. "Dude this is a Sig Sauer."

"Yeah, S'what I said."

"No, you said Six Hour." Shane said the name very slowly. "But the gun is called a Sig Sauer. That's the name of the gun."

"No, it ain't."

"Yes, it is."

"No, it ain't."

"Dude, this is a Sig Sauer double action P365. It's a gun, not an allergy pill. Do you even know anything about the guns you sell?"

The man shot him a cold look, and aggressively grabbed the gun out of Shane's hand. Shane almost peed his pants. He got this gun from the back, so it probably is loaded. He's going to shoot me with the gun I came to buy and take the money I brought to buy it. Shane always knew his mouth would get him in trouble one day. He looked at the bald man. And I have no witness.

But Malik didn't aim it at him, he aimed it up, then all around, trying to find a name printed on the gun itself. He must've concluded Shane was right, because he laughed and said, "Foo', this ain't Cabela's. You want the gun or not?"

"Yes."

"Okay. Seven hundred."

"You told me four hundred," Shane smiled tensely.

"That sale's over," he snipped.

"Sales over?" questioned Shane.

"Yeah, dat's right, sales over," said Malik, his chest puffed out. "It ended six hours ago."

"Ah, ha ha ha ha hah," the bald white man let out a long mocking laugh.
Chapter Forty-Seven

Recalling all the yearbooks wasn't done to protect Shane from ridicule, but to protect the school from legal action. As far as ridicule, the recall drew far more attention to Brody's prank and gave all the students more to talk about. Shane wasn't sure if he would return to school the next day, or ever.

Finally, he decided to face the music. Hiding away was a fantasy; it would be too cowardly, and a victory for Brody. So Shane spent the day enduring the stares from everyone in the hallway, many of them tripping over themselves to get out of his way. Their reactions ran the gamut from laughing, mocking, and taunting, to legitimately fearing him. He'd finally made it to lunch and was happy to have the chance to hide over in his corner when Nina Gardner walked up.

She sat down without invitation. "Hey, I just wanted to let you know it was terrible what Brody did to you."

Shane looked out over her shoulder; as Nina was speaking to him, all her friends back at her table where glancing over to them and giggling.

"Gee thanks, Nina," Shane said dryly.

"I mean it. I also think it's terrible they only gave him a four-day suspension. I think they wanted to pin most of it on Mr. Hicks, you know, 'cause he had the greater responsibility, or something."

Shane sighed, "Well this school has a time-honored tradition of letting Brody have his way."

Nina laughed too hard, almost like she was flirting with him. "Your girlfriend stood up for you, at least."

"I don't have a girlfriend."

"Laquisha," Nina said. The mistake wasn't meant to be mocking—revealing yes—but not intentionally rude.

"Keisha?"

"Yeah. Black girl with kinky hair?"

"Her hair's awesome," Shane corrected.

"She marched straight up to him when it happened. I saw the whole thing. She said a few words I couldn't make out and then punched him right in the face."

Shane tried with all his might not to grin but couldn't help it. He said, "She likes to hit people."

"It didn't hurt Brody, really. In fact, I think she hurt her wrist. But I've never seen a girl that mad before." Nina leaned in. She may or may not have been aware she was twirling her hair.

Shane felt déjà vu. It reminded him of the peculiar way in which Keisha started randomly trying to talk to him. He said, "Nina, I think this is the first time you've ever been nice to me."

She smiled and said, "Yeah. I'm actually a very nice person. I'm just hoping you'll remember that... you know... if the day ever comes."

Shane cleared his throat. He wasn't sure if she was joking. And it appeared she wasn't sure either. "Yeah," he said slowly, "Thanks, Nina."

Keisha's mind was racing as she walked slowly through the lunch line to get her food. She was so angry. At Brody. At teenagers. At the world.

He was doing better! Her visions were gone, and they hadn't even been speaking. Before when she would pull away from Shane, her visions would increase, but after she found out he poisoned Aubrey, she was surprised the visions had not returned. May 22 was just eleven days away and Keisha's intuition was silent. He was doing better just because someone reached out and treated him kindly. He in turn started treating other people more kindly. She saw it with her own eyes.

Keisha was gaining in understanding of it all—the perpetual cycles of both kindness and cruelty. It spreads like a virus. Whole regions of the country can be inexorably altered by it, both positive and negative. Whole decades can be infected by it, positive and negative. Once cruelty gets a hold of a certain place and time, it can be so hard to recover. Only an equal and opposite cycle of love can turn things around.

And Shane was turning around.

Now she feared this juvenile yearbook prank had hindered all that progress. Shane was fine. He was fine. Why couldn't Brody have just left it alone? Now Shane would have to get revenge, then Brody would get revenge. Their friends would suffer. Their families would suffer. The school would suffer. And it would never end. Then Shane would get revenge in a way that couldn't be confined to one region or even one decade. Keisha feared that Shane would exact revenge in the kind of way that makes national news, makes history.

He was fine. Why do people have to inject such evil into the world? Why do people start these fires and think they won't also get burned?

Keisha walked away from the line and to the center of the cafeteria, and she decided to turn left. Heading toward Shane's table, Keisha was surprised to see Nina there, but she seemed to be leaving.

When Keisha reached the table and set her tray down, she simply said, "Hi."

"Hey," he said cautiously.

"What did Nina want?" she asked, not yet actually sitting down.

"My autograph."

Keisha winced.

"I'm famous now. Didn't you see?"

"I did, and I'm so sorry it happened."

"Are you?"

Keisha lowered herself into the seat. Shane noticed her right wrist was wrapped in an ACE bandage. She said, "I think you know that I am. But I'm also concerned."

"About what?" Although her voice was gentle, his was still defensive and hostile.

"About Brody."

"What about him?"

"I need to know if you're planning revenge."

Shane leaned in with mock excitement. "Like, you have some ideas?"

"No." She didn't even crack a hint of a smile. "I wanted to make sure you're not getting revenge."

Shane looked deflated. This wasn't the type of reunion between the two of them that he had spent his nights thinking about. He considered lying to her but didn't. He said gravely, "Yes, I will get revenge."

"Can I talk you out of it?"

"No."

"What are you planning? Can you just tell me what you're planning?"

"The less you know the better."

She reached for his hand.

He pulled it away too quickly.

"We're friends, right?" she asked.

He looked irritated. "Yes. Friends. Got it."

"I thought we could always tell each other stuff."

"I can't this time."

"Are you going to hurt him?"

He looked away. He didn't like this line of questioning. He hated that this was so important to her, when all he wanted was the two of them back together, the way things were. He sassed, "Are you here because you care about me, or do you just care about what I'll do to him?"

"I don't want you to get in trouble."

"That's why the less you know the better."

"Shane, please listen to me. It never ends, okay? It—"

"It will end."

"No. That's what I'm trying to tell you. It doesn't end. It doesn't end. If you get revenge on him, he's just going to come back and get more revenge on you."

"He can't get revenge on me if he's not around."

Keisha looked straight at him. Her voice was solid and forceful and flat. "Do you mean kill him?"

Shane laughed. "Death for him would be a mercy. Just look at what he's done with life." Shane stood up and lifted his tray.

She reached out with both hands and grabbed his hand. When she did, it caused his hand to come off the edge of the tray and the tray to tip over. When the people turned to see what caused the sound, they saw her stretched out across the table holding his hand with her head beneath his, like she was begging.

She was. She said, "Don't go. Don't go." There were tears in her eyes. She held onto his hand so tight. She was focusing all her energy on both her hands, hoping to receive a vision through his touch. But her intuition was silent, and it was filling her heart with putrid frustration.

Her tears were streaming down both cheeks now. She wasn't getting anything from Shane's touch and while Brody was still suspended from school she wouldn't have a chance to get near him. She feared she wouldn't have a chance to touch Brody until it was too late. She feared she would never see him alive again.

She had an epiphany: she needed another chance to touch the weapon. Then she would know. She looked up at him from her submissive position and said, "I want you to take me shooting again."

"What?" It was the last thing in the world he expected her to say. "Why?"

She had to think fast. She said, "Because I want to nail Brody's picture to a tree and put a bullet straight through his face."

Shane didn't smile. His voice was flat when he said, "Okay."

Later that night, Keisha realized she hadn't turned off the light. She had one, two, three, four dogs total already on her bed. She looked for Biff but couldn't find him. She was wondering how well she would sleep with the light still on, when her phone pinged with a text. It read "I'm not going to let you do it."

"Do what?" she texted back.

"Put a bullet through his picture," Shane texted.

"Why not?"

"Because that's not who you are."

Keisha felt her heart swell. A dozen profound emotions filled her up. She simply typed, "Thank you."

"I'd still like to hang out," he replied.

"Me too. We could still just go shooting?"

"Targets," he both confirmed and insisted.

"Targets."

"I'd like that."
Chapter Forty-Eight

When Shane stepped foot on Keisha's porch to pick her up, he was wearing the clothes she'd bought him for his birthday, all $87 worth. The sale on the jeans was over, so Shane actually ended up spending $95. He also shaved his entire beard and had his long hair chopped off. His hair was shorter than it'd been in years, and he even bought the bottle of product the stylist lady recommended.

Shane pressed her doorbell and immediately struck the pose he'd practiced at home. He stuck both hands in both front pockets with his thumbs hanging out. He put 90% of his weight on one leg and shifted his shoulders dramatically. It wasn't the pose of a male model; it was a sarcastic parody of a male model.

Keisha opened the door and gasped out loud. Shane put on the cool airs of a rockstar.

"Wow," Keisha exclaimed. "You look amazing. I can't believe it."

Shane shrugged, unable to contain his grin.

"No really, you look good. You look really good." She looked up at him, "And, have you always been this tall?"

He shot her a peculiar look. He didn't expect her to ask that. He said, "No. I was born at like seven pounds."

Keisha laughed and put her hand on his arm. It was harder and longer than she'd ever laughed at a single one of his jokes before.

He thought, If this is what new clothes gets me, I'm heading back to Fort Worth to buy more.

It was his moment. This was a far greater thrill for him than when he had touched her butt. Every kind word of compliment and tweenie-style swoon was like a drop of sweet honey on his tongue. This is my moment, and nothing can ruin it—

"Hey Mamma!" Keisha cried out.

What? Shane panicked.

"Mamma, you've got to come look at Shane."

"No..." Shane whispered awkwardly.

Her mom wasted no time rounding the corner, "Oh my God, who is this handsome man?"

Shane's face began to change colors. "Hello, Ms. Adams."

"Is that Shane?"

"Yes, Ms. Adams." Shane could feel his blush spreading to his ears. He kept his eyes cast downward toward their feet.

"You look so good in those new clothes."

"Thank you, Ms. Adams."

"And your haircut looks so nice!"

"Thank you, Ms. Adams."

"Did you do this all to impress my daughter?"

"Mam-ma," cried Keisha, emphasizing both syllables, embarrassed.

Shane smiled. Keisha's plan to embarrass him had backfired. He cleared his throat. Raising his eyes to look at her mom, he said, "She's a special girl, ma'am."

Shane walked Keisha to his car but Keisha didn't follow. She stayed behind and gave her mother a hug. It was a strange hug. It wasn't like a typical goodbye hug but more like she was about to step onto a bus bound for four years of college, or like she was going off to war.

Her mom hugged back and put both hands on the sides of Keisha's face. She said, "Oh, Keisha."

Heading to Shane's car, Keisha asked herself, Why did my mom do that? She didn't understand—but maybe she did a little.

When Shane finally got Keisha alone in the car, he said, "Are you sure you want to try shooting again?"

"Absolutely. I don't know why I freaked out the first time. I think I was just tired."

"You know you don't have to do this to impress me?"

Says the guy with the whole new wardrobe! she teased in her head. "Why would I try to impress you?" she teased out loud.

He smirked.

On their way to his uncle's farm, Keisha stared out the window. The drive wasn't nearly so dreary in the bright sunlight. The streets were clear, the breeze was blowing, and she was watching the tall grass sway. Even some of the short Texas trees looked verdant and lovely.

She turned her head to take in a glance of his tan hands on the steering wheel. They were nice hands, broad but lean. They were the kind of hands a sculptor would sculpt. They were the kind of hands a sculptor would have.

When they arrived, the weird uncle was not out staring at her. She didn't see him at all. Shane had to go inside to get the guns. He said, "I forgot to warn my uncle I was coming. Maybe you better wait here."

Keisha noticed a series of plywood targets Shane had setup at some point. When Shane returned, he brought all the guns out to the same spot as before, and asked, "So, which one do you want to shoot?"

Keisha wasn't looking at the guns; she was watching him. Amazingly, she had never actually seen his whole face before. His scraggly beard had done such an effective job covering it that she'd had no idea what she was missing. She didn't know his jaw was so square. There was a part toward the back where other people's jaws begin to curve up, but Shane's curved down slightly. It gave his face an extra dose of rugged masculinity. She also didn't know his lips were so full and chiseled. And she had seen his eyes before, but she couldn't remember when they had stopped looking bloodshot. It must've happened so gradually she didn't notice. She was definitely noticing them now. They no longer looked tired, and they certainly no longer looked ugly.

Shane looked up for an answer and noticed the way she was watching him. "What?" he smiled beneath her gaze.

"You look really good." She smiled. "I mean really, really good."

She said the words with so much conviction that Shane began to blush again.

"But, one more thing..." She reached one arm behind Shane's back. To do this she had to get very close to him. She pulled the base of his spine forward with her left hand. Shane had no idea what she was doing, but he liked the feeling of her against him. With her other hand, she pressed back on his shoulder. She said, "Stand up straight with your shoulders back," then withdrew to evaluate him. "That's rule one."

Shane's face showed a dramatic sense of letdown. What he first thought was an exciting and intimate gesture, ended up rather emasculating. He said, "Did you just tell me how I'm supposed to stand? That kind of ruins the outlaw cowboy vibe, don't you think?"

Keisha tilted her head, admiring her handiwork. She said, "We won't tell anyone." She turned her head away from Shane to evaluate the array of weapons.

Shane cleared his throat. Still blushing, he shuffled his feet back toward the table with the guns. He began to list them one by one, and as he did this, he stood very tall, "You got the Ruger, you got the Smith and Wesson, the Glock, the 30 ought 6, the Mossberg, the—"

"And you have bullets for all of these?"

"My uncle does. Some of these I haven't shot in years."

"Which ones are your favorites?"

"I like the Glock."

When he said that, she reached out her hand and touched the Glock. She felt nothing.

"My uncle customized it with a faster trigger. But I also like the Ruger Vaquero. There's outlaw cowboy for you."

She touched that gun too, and also felt nothing. No visions. No crying. No dead students.

"Sometimes I shoot the Springfield, I guess."

She touched the 30 ought 6 he pointed to, and then immediately proceeded to touch all the other guns on the table. She didn't feel anything from any of them, other than cold steel. It was slightly strange behavior, but Shane didn't give it a second thought.

"I'd like to use the one you used last time," she told him.

"The AR? I got it over here." Shane reached over to the side and revealed it.

Just seeing that gun again filled her with trepidation. She pushed those thoughts out of her mind. His hair was short, his clothes were new, his lips were sexy, the uncle wasn't staring at her. She felt nothing like she had felt the first time. The sun was even out. And the lips! Last time they were swollen and scabbed. This time they were sculpted and full, and the top edges curled up like a cat. Seriously. No murderer has lips that nice.

He smiled in time with her already watching his mouth, and it was a nice smile. She knew everything would be okay. Things had changed.

He held the gun out to her. She took a deep breath. She actually looked at the ground behind her, just in case. There was nothing jagged there for her to fall on if she fainted, but nothing soft either.

She touched the gun. Nothing happened. She grabbed it with both hands and received it from him.

"Let me show you how to—"

"Just give me a moment." She held the gun for one sweet moment, and she actually closed her eyes. There was nothing there, blessed nothingness. No visions. A peace washed over her. She held the storied weapon in her hands and she knew. This gun will not be the weapon to destroy so many. She would see to it. It was never about the gun. The gun has no agency. We have control, not the gun. He will have control. He will take control. He will learn to make things happen in his life. He will stretch himself out and change his shape. He already has. He makes the choices, not this gun.

He said, "Now, obviously bring it up like this." He showed her and she mimicked him. "How's that feel?"

"Good. Surprisingly good." Keisha had touched not just the AR, but every gun that Shane had access to, and none of them produced any visions. It did feel good. Surprisingly good. It was over. Everything was going to be okay.

"Keep your finger off the trigger until you're ready to destroy something," He instructed her. "And, you don't want to stick it in your armpit. Bring it more inboard, so you can get a good sight picture. And seriously, stop with the chicken wings," he smiled, pushing her elbows back down to her sides. "You can also put your support hand here, if you like. Now, you want both your hands to essentially be pulling the weapon back toward you. Then you gotta look through here and lean your head in like this." He stepped in even closer. They both leaned their heads in tight. Her brown eyes were only inches from his, as she looked sideways at him through her long lashes. Their cheeks were practically touching, separated only by an AR-15. The air they breathed smelled of perfume and gunpowder.

She laughed at the absurdity of life, that she would be here with him, doing this; that she would touch the rifle and feel nothing; that everything with Shane, and possibly just everything was going to be all right.

He laughed because she laughed. He said. "Okay, all right, just two kids giggling over an evil assault rifle! C'mon. Time to focus."

This time, Shane didn't skip any steps. He told her he'd be right back. When he returned, he was carrying some shooting glasses and ear protection for the both of them. He handed a set out for her and noticed that she had put the AR down and was holding the Springfield. "You want to use that one?"

"You'll be shooting with yours, won't you?"

He shrugged. "You'll be shooting some serious rounds."

She blinked.

"Believe it or not, the AR has less recoil," he added as he held out his hand for them to switch rifles.

She merely drew hers back, saying, "What? You don't think I can handle it?"

He smirked at her tough talk. "Suit yourself, but that thing kicks like a mule."

Shane proceeded to load the gun for her, and he showed her how to work the bolt. After a few last-minute adjustments to her stance, they both put their earmuffs on, and Shane announced a bit too loudly, "Okay. That's it. Squeeze, don't pull the trigger, and fire when ready."

She aimed her rifle at the first target and squeezed the trigger. The gun exploded with noise and her shoulder was nearly kicked clean off her body. Her face grimaced and she looked down, her expression saying to the gun, What the heck did you just do to me?

Shane could see her body was racked with pain and he quickly reached in to take control of the weapon. She used her left hand to reach up and massage her shoulder, while she exploded into many expletives, some louder than the gun had been. She looked like she was going to fall to the ground. Shane reached out to grab her arm to keep her on her feet. The moment he made contact with her body, she shot out and punched him as hard as she could in the arm. She had to use her left arm to punch him, since it was her right shoulder in pain.

He was as solid as always. She growled over both the pain in her shoulder, and now her hand, and yelled to Shane, "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I just did! I told you it kicked like a mule."

"I didn't know it would be like that."

"And just how do you think mules kick?"

Her face continued to contort with pain. She said a few more words Shane had never before heard from her mouth. "Did I at least hit the stupid thing?" she finally asked.

"No," he said, investigating his targets. "I can't see where you hit anything, actually."

"No way. You mean I missed the whole board?"

"Yeah."

Her eyes were searching as she evaluated the unharmed plywood. She held out her hand and said, "Okay, give it."

"You mean the gun?"

"Give it now."

He laughed. "You don't have to use this one. Seriously, take the AR."

"Quit talking and give it."

He laughed and handed it over. He positioned her shoulder in the right place and instructed her again to bring the gun toward her. On her second attempt she missed again, but her pain in her shoulder was bearable. At least this time she was expecting it.

She lowered the gun completely and made a disgruntled face.

Shane smiled patiently. He doled out some simple, elegant, eternal wisdom. He said, "If you miss, just try again."

"Okay..." She raised the gun. "Okay." This time she hit the target, bull's eye. A mischievous smile crossed her lips.

"Nice shot!" he cried out, "You hit it exa—"

But no one heard the end of his sentence because Keisha fired again. Shane looked up to see the result just in time. The second target was destroyed. Then Keisha fired again at the third target. And she hit it. She reciprocated the bolt as swiftly as a pro, without taking the rifle off her shoulder. She aimed her gun at the fourth and hit it. Then at the fifth. Hit it. Then at the sixth and missed. Then she hit the seventh and it exploded. Finally, she turned back to the sixth. And hit it.

Neither of them could believe it. She reached up to yank off her glasses and earmuffs, and let them fall to the ground. She cried, "Woo-hoo! Did you see that? Did you see that?"

"That was unbelievable!" he cried. "You are a natural at this."

"I hit them all. I only missed once!"

"That was awes—"

"I want to do it again. Can I do it again?"

The two of them shot until they ran out of ammo. He ran inside to raid his uncle's stockpile, then came back out with both arms full. The two of them reloaded and kept shooting. They were having so much fun, neither of them realized how much time had gone by, until Keisha raised her rifle to the target and could barely see it. In disbelief, she looked up to check for the sun. She found it hiding lazily behind a stand of trees. "When did it get dark?" she asked him.

Before he had a chance to answer, she asked, "Hey what was that?"

"What was what?"

"I saw something over in those trees."

Shane was concerned for a short second. I saw something in those trees is usually only uttered in horror films.

"There it is again."

"What? The fireflies?"

"You have fireflies?" she asked, phrasing it as if Shane and his uncle raised them. "I've never seen fireflies."

He gave her another peculiar look. "You're joking."

"I told you I'm a city girl."

"Well, come on," he grabbed her hand and pulled her into the barn. Among the old junk there, he found a single Mason jar. He used a rusty nail to put holes in the top.

"What are we doing?" she asked.

He gave her another peculiar look. "We're going to catch one."

They made it back outside and he took off in a quick trot. "C'mon," he insisted, and she gave chase. He led them both into the tall grass, then crouched down his shoulders like a hunter.

"There," she called when she spotted one.

Shane raised his mason jar and stepped slowly closer. The firefly disappeared.

"Where'd it go?" called Keisha. It reminded her of turning off a car's headlights to evade the police—not that she'd ever done that.

They waited until they saw another one, and the whole process began again with the same results. Then again and again. At one point the firefly did not go dark and he was able to chase it until it flew higher into the air than Shane could reach. Keisha laughed at him as he jumped into the air and swore.

Another time he pounced his Mason jar down to the ground, certain he had captured one. By the time he got the punctured lid on, all he had in the jar was some blades of grass and some twigs. And again, Keisha laughed.

Shane finally laughed too. He couldn't figure out why they were having such a hard time, and why something he was able to do at six years old was now somehow eluding him.

This time she grabbed him by the hand and led him out to a clearing. She flopped down right in the dirt, exhausted. She patted the dirt beside her and motioned him to sit down. Shane smiled like a child. She had brought them to the perfect clearing for them to sit and watch the stars.

It was a beautiful night, and Keisha could not believe how extremely dark the country night was becoming. The crescent moon provided barely enough light for them to see each other. A cool breeze was blowing and the cicadas were serenading them. Shane sat down close beside her, leaving a respectable distance between them.

"They're so beautiful," she said. "I forget there are so many."

He laughed. "Stars?"

"You know what I mean, right? At my house, you can see a couple of stars here and there. You look up at that sky often enough and you begin to think that's it; that's the sky. But now, I'm out here and, wow, that's the sky."

He nodded. His voice was low and gruff at the end of the day, perhaps from too much talking and too much laughing—neither of which his vocal cords were used to. He said, "It's good to be reminded."

"Yes, it is," she said as they both looked up at the staggering beauty of the night. Shane straightened his leg so he could pull his e-cig out of his pocket. Keisha grabbed a small stick just to fidget with. She said, "I have something I want to talk to you about. Remember that story I told you about the pretty girls?"

"Yeah," Shane was nervous because he didn't want the conversation to get back to Aubrey Anderson and what he did to her.

"Well, I think I had it all wrong," said Keisha.

"Really?"

"Yeah, I heard some rumors about some people—"

"Aubrey?" Shane asked apprehensively.

"No," she assured him. "Jessica Keller, Madison Perkins, and some guys. I think you need to hear about them."

"You've never been much for gossip."

"Well, I think these stories are kind of important. Can I tell them to you?"

He smiled at her, then looked back at the stars. "I got nowhere to go."

"Okay, I heard Jessica's dad had a back injury, and when he wasn't looking Jessica stole some of his Oxycodone. Her dad found out, and he thought he was just busting her for trying to get high. He had no idea of the secret pain she was masking. And he had no idea how to help her, because she wouldn't talk to him.

"Then Madison cheated on Michael Hudson, despite the fact they both had been saving themselves for marriage. They still plan to get married in the fall because he doesn't know about what she did. He's still a virgin, but thanks to one shameful night of drinking, she's not anymore.

"Peyton Hardy got Debbie Powell pregnant. He doesn't know if he loves her but decided to marry her because it's the right thing to do. He even bought a ring.

"Daryl Long told his mom he hated her. And it was... just the wrong time for it.

"And John Hodges's mom has only weeks to live, and he's trying to figure out how to take care of her, while still going to school and functioning like a normal teenager at the same time.

"What struck me about these stories, is how almost all of them seem to be doing something bad." At some point, Keisha had begun pushing the tip of her stick into the dirt. She continued, "But then I realized, they're not bad. They're just incomplete. Like Jessica needs to stop pushing her father out of her life. She needs to go to him and learn to lean on him. Madison and Michael need a chance to put mistakes behind them and flourish in love. Peyton's baby needs a chance to meet him. Daryl just needs to say I'm sorry, and John needs to say goodbye. These stories need a chance to be complete, just like morning needs a chance to fade from darkness into light. If the night were to end abruptly before all that could happen, it would be a shame."

As she spoke from the heart, Keisha hadn't been looking at Shane. She continued, "We're all floundering in darkness now; the whole school. But there's a dawn coming, and if we never have a chance to get there, it would be such a shame."

When Keisha finally looked over at Shane, his eyes were wet. She looked at them and could see every star in the sky. He said with conviction, "Yeah, it'd be a shame. It would be a damn, dirty shame for these stories to be cut short." Shane blinked a few times and looked up at the stars. He said, "It's funny I always would have said it's impossible for people like them to have so many problems."

She nodded. "I guess people are more alike than we think."

"We're all equally miserable?" he challenged.

"That's it, I'm afraid. But we're all in this misery together." She dropped the stick and scooted closer to him. Their bodies were now touching. She said, "Tell you what, you pick the guys and I'll pick the girls."

"Pick the guys?"

"Stars. You pick four stars for the guys, and I'll pick two for the girls."

He hesitated. "That's silly."

She smiled her full-throttle smile, not attempting to deny his charge, but pressing on boldly with her silliness. She said, "Okay then, I can pick all of them. Let's see..." She pointed. "That one there is for Jessica Keller. And that one's for Madison Perkins." Each time she pointed to a different star. "That's Michael Hudson, Peyton Hardy, Daryl Long... And that bright one over there is John Hodges."

"Actually, that's Venus," he corrected.

"Excellent," she said, sticking to her choice.

He grinned at her. "Okay, now what?"

"And now let's just focus our thoughts and send positive energy up towards them and wish for all of them to have love and peace and happiness."

"Okay." He grinned again.

She reached out and took his hand. They sat there in silence for a long time. She watched his eyes as he looked from star to star. They weren't the eyes of a heartless killer. She believed he was pondering their individual souls. A damn, dirty shame, he had said, for these stories to be cut short.

Keisha was the first to break the silence. She lowered her head, and with a voice that was heartfelt and gentle and honest, she said, "Dear God, I want to hand these six lights over to you. I'm asking you to comfort them and steady them. Let them shine. Give them long, long lives and help them find happiness. In Jesus' name, Amen."

He studied her face, blinking.

She laid her head against her knee and flashed him her quirky-cute smile.

He smiled back and mumbled, "Okay... Amen."

He didn't say anything more, so she began to sit up taller, "Should we get back?"

Shane put his hand on her shoulder just to keep her beside him. "Wait," he said gently. He took a long draw from his e-cig, but then just stared straight forward without saying anything at all. Finally, he blew out a long puff and said, "Can you pick one for my mom, too?"

The smile on Keisha's face was bittersweet. It brought her joy to see that Shane, having experienced so much bitterness, could still hang onto his sweetness. "I'd love to," she said, the admiration evident in her tone. "What's her name?"

"Eleanor Jensen."

Keisha took a long moment to respectfully evaluate all the stars. Finally, she pointed and said, "That one. Definitely that one. Eleanor Jensen."

"Which one?" he said.

"Right there," she pointed.

There were so many stars in the sky, he had to lean his face in extremely close to hers in order to follow the trajectory of her finger.

He stayed very close to her and whispered, "You picked one of the dimmest stars in the whole sky."

"Yes," she also whispered, "but it's still celestial. It's still achingly beautiful. It's the type of star conditions have to be just right for you to see clearly, and it can so quickly disappear from sight."

"But she's still there," he added. "Even when she's not there."

"Yes," she breathed, "Always still there."

She could hear him take in a long cleansing breath. They spent a moment in silence, feeling connected to the entire universe. He sat back up straight and said in his normal sweet voice, "Yes, definitely that one."
Chapter Forty-Nine

When they finally headed back to the car, the country night was so dark, and the path so uneven that they had to pull out their cell phones and turn on their flashlight apps.

After five minutes of walking, she aimed her flashlight in the direction they were headed, hoping to see how much further they had do go. It didn't work, the beam fell off long before it hit anything besides grass, dirt, and sticker bushes.

She felt tingly. There was something primitive about this type of dark. She was lost at sea; every direction looked the same, there was nothing to give her any clues, and if not for Shane, she wouldn't know which direction to take. Her mind knew not to be frightened, but her heart produced enough fear to be spicy. She was completely dependent on him.

The night had that perfect humidity again. Long after sunset, the heat just hung in the air, surrounding them.

As if reading her thoughts, he reached out and grabbed her hand. He had nice hands. They were large, masculine, and strong. Keisha was so tired from all the shooting and hiking, and her hand felt so nice being led by his, she wanted to be carried. She wanted to be lifted up in his arms so she could throw her arm around his neck, lay her head down on his shoulder, and let him do the walking.

This need in her became so strong that she didn't wait for him to read her mind. She told him, "I want you to carry me." He stopped and turned around to see her. Their faces were dim, only illuminated by the ambient light from their flashlights reflecting off the ground. But still she could see understanding in his eyes.

Without warning, he hoisted her up over his shoulder, and she screamed. He was carrying her not as a groom carries his bride, but as a caveman carries his conquest. His only response to her screaming was to start running. He ran the entire length back to his car, which was closer than she thought. Keisha was screaming, laughing, and kicking her feet wildly the whole time.

When he finally set her down by the car, she hit him on his solid, muscular arm. He opened the door for her, and she collapsed into her seat. When he got into the driver's side, the door light was on, and it was her first chance to see his face fully lit. He just smirked.

Out on the road, it was just as dark. They were many miles to the nearest streetlamp. Shane was silent. The distinction between road and off-road wasn't very pronounced most the way, and Shane was keeping a good eye out to discern what little pavement there was.

Keisha couldn't believe how easily he'd lifted her up like that and carried her all that way. Curiosity compelled her—and the dark night permitted her—to reach over with both hands and grab his bicep. A man's stimulus response to a girl touching his muscles is to flex, and he did. Boy, did he. "Oh my God!" she exclaimed. "I had no idea."

People think differently at night. People act differently in the dark. His bicep felt so good in her hands, she pulled his shirt sleeve up to evaluate it skin-to-skin. With both hands, she proceeded to evaluate his shoulder muscle too—equally impressive. The shirt sleeve got too tight, so she was forced to return her hands above his shirt to feel his chest. He flexed both pecs as she ran her hands across them. She didn't stop to ask herself if this behavior was strange, or even advisable. She just explored his hard muscles simply because she wanted to—and because she knew he wouldn't stop her.

After what was only about one minute, but felt to both of them like something much more, she fell back into her seat and released one final "Wow" from her mouth.

"And I'm a Capricorn," he said slyly.

The next thing she was aware of was him gently pulling the seatbelt off her. It was no longer pitch black, there was a streetlamp shining light in through the windshield. It was a familiar streetlamp. She sat up enough to look around. They'd made it home at some point while she'd been sleeping.

Shane leaned his head inside the frame of the car's door, and she was still too groggy to figure out what he was doing. She felt his strong arms underneath her, pulling her out of the car. Suddenly, he was carrying her. Correctly. Like a bride. Her heart was overcome with a sweet, comfortable serenity, and she laid her head on his powerful shoulder.

When they reached her front door, he asked gently, "You awake? Ready for me to put you down?"

No, said her heart. "Yes," said her lips.

He put her down and she wrapped her arms around his torso. He hugged her back.

She pulled out of the hug and said, "I had a good time." It was 100% true, but it was an inadequate tribute. She wanted to tell him how she was experiencing a new feeling in her young heart, a feeling of limitless courage and carelessness. It was a feeling of undiluted youth. And he had inspired it in her. Simply being with him had called it forth. Together they had produced a moment. It was something wonderful and far too rare. But the problem with moments is they only last a moment. She wanted to tell him all this which stirred in her heart and she wished he could just intuit from her meek words, I had a good time.

"So did I," he said.

She chose to believe he was seconding every emotion she was feeling, and not just her empty sentence. But is he?

Without his beard, she could see his neck better. She saw long lines down the left side—raised skin where the wounds her nails had given him had just about healed. She reached up and ran her finger tips along their course. Her voice got serious and she said, "I never apologized for that time I attacked you."

She was surprised to see his eyes look up and to the right, like he hadn't initially remembered the incident.

She said, "You didn't deserve that. My mind was on something else that day. I was looking at you but seeing someone else."

His full lips parted to display his bright teeth.

Keisha felt his smile inside her heart.

He said, "I like a girl who's a little bit feisty."

Little bit feisty, she laughed.

Not far from the lines on his neck, peeking out from his collar, she could still see the cigarette burn his mother had given him. It filled her with a sad confusion. Was this why he'd never been too mad about the attack? Was Shane McCormick just destined to be hurt by the women who love him?

"You don't deserve it, you know?" She asked gently. "You don't deserve any of it; you know that right?"

Shane shrugged. "Yeah, but I can take it."

"Must be the Capricorn in you." She smirked because she knew he was an Aries.

Shane tilted his head to the side, playing it totally cool. "Maybe."

She stepped in closer to him. She could smell his cologne but didn't recognize it. It was a new scent for her. Neither of them spoke, but he wasn't leaving. She didn't know if he was waiting around for a chance at a kiss. She didn't know what she wanted. She was the one who said they should just stay friends. She didn't know what all this was anymore. She suddenly wished she was wearing her riding pants.

She wanted him to take charge, but she had specifically instructed him not to. What she punched him for before, she wanted now. Her curves were there for his taking, but he had to take them. She wanted him to make it happen, so he could bear all the blame. That's what men do, they bear the responsibility for the reckless things they both—he and she—truly want to happen.

In that moment, she cursed any social movement that further discouraged men. What's wrong with you women? We want our men emboldened, not enfeebled. If you have a national microphone, teach men about timing. Teach them about signals, and hints, and yes absolutely, about respect. But don't punish them for being men and stop conditioning them to be weak.

Keisha's dogs started barking inside and her face switched to utter frustration.

"I had a good time," she repeated clumsily. It was in fact the only thing she was really sure about in that moment. She reached out and hugged him again. His strong arms gave one last desperate squeeze.

"Good night," he said.

"Good night," she echoed, as she slid into the house to murder her dogs.
Chapter Fifty

That night when Keisha made it down the hall to her room, her mom was asleep. She was actually hoping the dogs had awakened her. She had so much on her mind, so much she would have a hard time keeping in: the way she hit all seven targets, the fireflies they weren't able to catch, the stars she chose for six precious souls, and the special one she chose for his mother. She smiled to herself. Oh yeah, and the fact she felt nothing from the weapon. The school shooting wouldn't happen. How could she forget that? It is the reason I'm doing all this, after all.

She was changing into her pajamas when she started to pull off her shirt and was surprised by pain. It was her shoulder; she'd been concentrating on moving it as little as possible. Turned out she had less mobility in it than she thought. With great struggle, she was able to get her shirt off and resigned herself to the idea she'd be sleeping in her bra. She happened to be in front of the mirror and happened to catch sight of herself. Her shoulder displayed a dark purple bruise already. She stood before the mirror, in just her bra, and admired the outlandish sight. With a strange sort of reverence, she reached up to touch it. It was so tender that even the slightest touch stung. She stroked it gently and felt the tingling follow behind her finger tips like electricity.

She was lost in this sweet revelry when she heard the tiniest noise from her doorway and looked up. Her mother was standing there in her nightgown, watching.

Keisha turned sharply to grab her pajamas. Although it hurt her to do so, she raised her top over her head and pulled it on without hesitation. She turned to see her mother, anxious to explain to her that she wasn't hurt—not badly—and that the rifle they were using had a powerful recoil, but before she could open her mouth, her mother spoke first.

She said, "You're in love with that boy."

Keisha couldn't tell if she had meant it as a statement or question. She blushed slightly, took a deep breath and answered, "Mam-ma!"
Chapter Fifty-One

It was raining the day Brody was scheduled to come back to school from his suspension. That caused Shane's wet shoes to squeak as he ran down the hall, and it drew too much attention to him. After Brody's yearbook stunt, none of the students had felt very safe around Shane McCormick. They hadn't really before, but things had definitely gotten worse. Seeing Shane run frantically down the hallway, shoes squeaking loudly, had everyone on edge whether he was clean-shaven or not.

Shane searched every face in the hall, looking for Brody. All the faces were looking at him, but like with a rabid dog, they all avoided eye contact. Shane tried to remember where Brody liked to park in order to determine which direction he'd be coming from.

In the distance, he saw Brody walking down the hall. It wasn't quite where Shane thought he would find him, but Shane noticed he was carrying an umbrella in his left hand. That meant Brody hadn't made it to his locker yet. Shane began to walk faster, hoping that Brody would turn right and head down the hall toward the cafeteria. Instead he went left, toward his locker.

Shane began to run as fast as he could, despite colliding into people on his left and right, drawing even more attention to himself. He watched as Brody got closer to his locker, and it forced Shane to run even faster. "Brody!" he finally had no choice but to cry out. "Brody!"

There was no more than seven yards between Shane and his rival, and he still hadn't caught his attention in the noisy hallway. Brody began to enter his combination into his locker. "Brody!" Shane screamed with all his might.

At last Brody looked up. "What the hell do you want, loser?"

"Don't you threaten me!" yelled Shane.

"What?"

"I said, don't you threaten me, coward!" Shane shouted as he grabbed the star quarterback by his jacket lapels. He looked completely crazed as he pressed right into Brody's face. Their eyes were inches apart and their noses were practically touching. Shane could smell the fresh rain still on him. He repeated, "Don't threaten me!"

Spittle landed on Brody's face. He shouted back, "What are you doing? Get off of me, weirdo." Shane did not retreat, so Brody wasted no time. He reared back his right hand in a fist and struck Shane solidly on his left eye.

The girls in the hall all let out a scream in response to such violence. Already there were three people filming on their phones.

Shane staggered backward, with his right hand reflexively covering his eye where he was hit. Everyone, including Brody, just stood and watched how the loose cannon would respond. Shane felt something warm and wet beneath his fingers, and he knew the blow had cut him. Through his one open eye, he saw the entire crowd watching him with trepidation. Shane drew his hand slowly down his cheek, smearing the red blood over his face. If he hadn't look deranged enough before, he did now.

The people in the hallway recoiled. An uneasy groan could be heard from the students, who all felt like they should be running but couldn't look away.

Brody took an aggressive step toward Shane. He was not afraid because he understood what everyone else could not: the "Most Likely to Become a School Shooter" title had come from his imagination. Brody was the only one in on the joke. He wasn't scared that Shane would actually draw on him.

A harrowing look of smug satisfaction crossed Shane's blood-smeared face, and he reached his right hand into the left side of his trench coat. It was the unmistakable gesture of drawing a pistol from a shoulder holster.

Everyone in the hall saw it. Some of the students began to scream in terror, some of the students began to run in fear. Brody's muscles were locked in panic, no longer certain of anything. He watched as Shane slowly pulled a firearm from his jacket. It was a level 2 look alike firearm.

A finger gun.

Shane pointed his already blood-stained finger gun at Brody and took a slow but commanding step toward him. He pressed his index finger—the barrel—into the center of Brody's chest with his thumb—the hammer—pointing up. Brody watched mutely. The absurdity of the gesture gave his panic no relief. Shane looked his tormentor in the eye and said the word, "BOOM."

With that single word, Shane dropped his thumb. Point blank. Center mass. Execution style.

"And just what exactly is going on here?" It was Benjamin Davis, the school custodian. "Someone tell me what's going on here?"

The satisfaction left Shane's face and he returned to squealing like a frighten child, "He threatened to kill me."

The custodian looked at Shane's face, then at Brody's knuckles. He never liked having to get involved. He asked, "Did you do this to him?"

Brody still hadn't found his tongue.

"I think you two need to come with me," Mr. Davis said.
Chapter Fifty-Two

Brody felt a sense of relief when he walked into the principal's office. He was anxious for things to start making sense. At age twelve or thirteen, Brody first started to notice the whole world was arranged to fit the man he was. Involving the school and the principal—for lack of a better word, the system—was a way to assure Brody's victory over Shane. Brody was a man of the system. He was completely at home inside of it and found every door open to him. Shane on the other hand, was an outsider to the system, and he found himself crashing into it like a brick wall more often than not.

The first thing Shane did upon entering the principal's office was to immediately start going on and on with the absurd notion that Brody had threatened him. He whined, "Brody has threatened me. He threatened to kill me."

Brody said nothing. He could've objected to it, but found it more advantageous to let Shane prattle on. The more insane Shane sounded in front of Principal Higgins, the sooner she would see the one blow he received was probably justified. Brody would likely not even get in trouble at all.

"Brody threatened to kill me. He's dangerous."

Brody recognized his opening. Shane was overselling it. Everyone in the room had known Brody since his freshman year; they all knew he wasn't dangerous. "Dangerous? C'mon," is all Brody had to say, and like a blanket thrown over a flame, the tension Shane was trying to add to the room was quelled.

The door opened and Officer Downs walked in. He was quickly followed by two more men in uniform who Brody didn't know. Again, Brody felt better. The more the merrier. As a man of the system, cops were his allies. One person in this room was a police officer's natural prey, and it wasn't him.

Shane badgered on, "Yes, he's dangerous. He threatened to kill me. To kill me!"

"What are you even talking about?" Brody asked casually. "I did no such thing."

"He did. He did. He said he would shoot me."

"This is ridiculous," the principal said, siding with Brody over Shane in accordance with the school's standard operating procedure.

Brody smiled. He took a quick glance at the principal and then the faces of the officers, and they all wore the same expression.

"Brody threatened to kill me," Shane continued to dig his own grave.

"I didn't even say a word to you until you ran up to me yelling. Ask anyone. There was a hallway full of witnesses. Someone's probably got it all on video."

Ms. Higgins turned to the custodian and said, "Go see if you can find out who was recording and bring the video clip to me." She turned to Shane and asked. "Is it true he didn't say a word to you?"

"Well... yeah... that's true," stumbled Shane.

Brody coolly leaned one elbow onto the back of the chair.

"But, but, he threatened me on Facebook."

Brody scrunched up his face. "No. That's a lie. That's an obvious lie." He casually pulled his right foot up on his left knee.

The cop turned to Shane and put up a hand to calm him. He said, "Son, do you have any proof?"

"Well, I mean... I guess you could see it for yourself..." Shane pulled out his cell phone and navigated to the appropriate page in surprising time.

"What? No. Let me see that," Brody protested as he reached out for Shane's phone.

Shane wouldn't let Brody see but leaned in, practically forcing it into the face of the principal. She took Shane's phone in her own hands, and the cops clustered around her to see for themselves. Brody didn't have to see the phone, he saw their faces. All three looked at the text briefly, then turned to him in unison, then back to the phone. Their faces changed.

Brody's insides went cold. His hands began to tremble. "No. This—" He quickly reached into his own pocket. "Hold on."

"Brody, does anyone else have access to your Facebook account?" Principal Higgins asked as she began to further investigate the page.

"Just hold on," Brody actually snapped at her as he brought up his own Facebook. He made a few stabs at his phone with his finger, then his face went white. "I didn't write that!" he demanded.

"Brody, does anyone else have access to your Facebook account?" The principal repeated.

"Well... uh... no. But I didn't type that. I didn't send it!"

Shane continued to whine, sounding unhinged, "Do you see? it says, 'School shooters deserve to be shot.' That's me. And he posted it on my page! He thinks I'm a school shooter. Well, I mean, you all saw the yearbook prank. This guy is out to get me. He wants to kill me."

"Have you ever shared your Facebook password with anyone?" asked the principal.

Brody looked bewildered and slowly shook his head.

Officer Downs rounded the principal's desk and stepped straight over to Brody. He said, "I'm going to need you to stand up and hold out your hands."

"This is ridiculous. I don't have a gun." Brody said as the officer began to frisk him.

Downs did not find any weapons on his person. "Have a seat," he instructed Brody solemnly, then reached for his backpack. "We're going to have to check the bag."

"There's nothing in the bag," Brody insisted.

"And he said, 'Today is the day.'" Shane continued to babble hysterically. "Did you see that? What does that mean? 'Today is the day.' Is he going to shoot me here at the school?"

"He's lying," shouted Brody. "He's acting."

The officer finished searching the bag without finding anything.

"See! See?" Brody was becoming increasingly gripped by fear.

"We're going to have to check his locker," said Downs.

"There's nothing in my locker," Brody assured them.

The radio on the cop's shoulder crackled something Brody couldn't make out. The cop pressed the button and mumbled very sternly, "Possible 317."

"No. No. It's not a 317. Not a 317," Brody insisted.

The principal interrupted Brody and demanded, "Brody, we need you to open your locker for us, now."

Brody was in a full-fledged panic. He could feel his eyes starting to sting, and he knew he needed to calm down. He couldn't break down right there in front of Shane. He wouldn't. There would be an explanation for all of this. The school district would listen. If not them, the media. Someone would listen to his story; people are still capable of reason, right? People still listen to both sides, don't they? The entire world hasn't gone mad... surely. The knot in his chest tightened a little more.

"C'mon, son, let's go," Officer Downs prodded him, but Brody didn't move.

"Wait. Wait. Let me think," said Brody. There had to be a way to think this out. He told himself that even if Shane had somehow hacked into his Facebook account, there was simply no way he could guess his locker combination. The idea made him feel better and he said, "Okay, okay, I'll open my locker, if just to disprove all this nonsense. I'd be happy to. Let's go." Brody began to stand.

Shane however was already on his feet. While standing over Brody, he looked into his misty eyes and said very softly, "C'mon, Twenty-Three."

Brody fell back into his chair again. He could sense that Shane had him in his crosshairs but had no way to stop it all from happening.

A strong hand grabbed Brody by his right arm, underneath the elbow. He looked to see it was Downs. He allowed the cop to pull him firmly to his feet, at which point, Downs let go. The people in the room made a clear path to the door for Brody to walk through, and he obediently led them out of the office.

Shane, Brody, the principal, and three police officers made their way to Brody's locker. The people in the hall must've been surprised to see that, as they walked, the police had formed a tight cluster around the football state champion, not the unhinged degenerate.

"Open it," the principal pointed and demanded.

Brody groaned.

The custodian approached the group with one of the male students in tow. He said to Ms. Higgins, "Charles here says he was able to film the whole thing."

Brody groaned again. He was no longer certain anything on that recording would help at all. In fact, he had punched Shane in the face.

"Open it," Downs demanded again.

At this point, Brody knew he was already over the falls; there was nothing left to do but the emotional equivalent of going limp. He mechanically reached for his combination lock and dialed in 2323. Brody remembered teasing Jessica for making her combination her birthday. God, I'm an idiot.

Brody opened the lock and swung the door open wide, presenting to the cops, the principal, and all the on-lookers a Sig Sauer handgun lying right on top. He couldn't even bring himself to look surprised. He cried out anyway, "That's not mine. I've never seen it before in my life." He wailed his protests even as the police officers were placing him in handcuffs and reading him is rights. "It's Shane's. He planted it there. He planted it."

Shane said nothing, just did his best to look terrified over the sight of a real-life gun.

The police officer behind him used the handcuffs like a rudder and angled Brody out of the building. At his last chance to do so, Shane made eye-contact with his former rival. Under the guise of scratching his nose, he made a finger gun with his right hand. With all eyes on Brody and only Brody's eyes on him, Shane dropped his thumb hammer again and mouthed the word, "BOOM."

Later that day, Molly approached Keisha in the hall with a distressing look on her face. "So, I guess you know what really happened with Brody."

Just hearing there was news about Brody the very day he returned to school made the hair stand up on the back of Keisha's neck. She tried to stay calm and reminded herself the visions had completely stopped. She said, "I don't even know what fake happened to Brody."

"They found a gun in his locker. He's been completely expelled from this school forever."

Keisha looked straight ahead. She nodded slightly. Yeah, I guess I do know what really happened to Brody. She thought about everything she'd seen and everything she feared. She thought about the night of the play, and how much her own life had changed since the day she tried to help Shane. She thought about what a bully Brody had always been. She even stopped to reflect on what she would have felt about Shane, or anyone, brutally sabotaging another student, even Brody, just one month ago.

There was no expression on her face. Her eyebrows ticked up ever-so-slightly. All she said was, "Oh."
Chapter Fifty-Three

On the evening of the Jefferson High School Art Contest, Shane understood something he'd never understood before: This was his first year entering. Keisha was right about the red cape and the bull. She may not have known she was talking about his art at the time, though maybe she did.

For the three years in which he won third place, he had never actually given it his all. He was operating under the subconscious maxim that if he never actually tried, he never actually failed.

Each of those years he would wait until the last minute to even start his project. This year, he was done two weeks ahead of time. Each of those years he would give half his attention to the work he created. Two out of the three years, he wasn't even sober when he'd drawn them. This year he'd closed himself off in his room, night after night, working harder than he'd worked on anything his entire life. Each of those years he'd had an excuse for not winning. So what? I didn't even try. Surely if I had... started sooner... stayed off Enzopryn... actually tried... then I could have won. This year Shane would have no excuse.

For the first time ever, Shane had actually entered the contest. The drawing, on which he worked probably about fifty hours total, was the greatest thing he'd ever done. He was laying himself out to be judged, saying, This is my best effort. It is the highest limit my talent is capable of. There was no escaping now. He was standing in front of the bull naked, fearlessly taunting the horns.

He thought he might be sick.

It had always been the same three artists at Jefferson High School who were recognized each year. Luke Foster was the most religious boy in school. He mostly liked to paint scenes from the Bible, and he was extremely good at it. Luke believed he was given a talent by God in order for Luke to use that talent to glorify Him. When Shane looked at his work, he had to admit, God made a good choice for this role. The boy could paint.

Shane McCormick was Shane. He liked fantasy art subjects, which had recently taken on themes and undertones from the Romantic Period.

Then there was Bryant Walker. Shane stood before Bryant's painting now—smeared paint, thoughtless scribbles, the high-minded pursuit of an adult to channel the artistry of a kindergartener. Shane had been staring at it for a long time. A man likes to know the dimensions of his own prison. This painting mocked him. It declared unequivocally, "You must be awfully weak, if I am your adversary." Shane knew that every second he allowed this painting and its artist to occupy his thoughts was a wasted second which moved him farther from his own dreams.

Finally, he concluded the painting was offensive, but not to worry; it's offensive in a socially acceptable way. Bryant's art was nothing more than an attempt to offend the narrow category of people society has collectively deemed it okay to offend. How predictable. Shane rolled his eyes at the poser. I was angry and misanthropic before it was cool.

Shane thought about the hours he spent working to improve his craft. For the drawing he entered, Shane had done over a dozen sketches before he even began on the final composition. He had literally drawn the faces in the exact expression to be used for this final product twelve times. And, incidentally, none were quite as good as the final. For the final image, line and value and composition and contrast came together and worked to create something greater than the parts. To look at the work was to see the moment in which technique and training disappear and all that's left is one heart speaking directly to another.

Standing with his own work displayed right next to Bryant's, Shane had an epiphany. He was truly blessed to have talent. But for years, Shane could never shake one haunting formulation in his mind: the idea that he'd worked twice as hard as Bryant, for three times as many hours a day, and with four times as much natural-born talent, and yet somehow, due to unseen forces inside of people, it was Bryant Walker who was recognized. This was the lowest form of bitter resentment, and worst of all, it didn't properly honor the joy Shane received daily from simply being lost in the thrill of creation. He understood now; it came down to one question: would he rather have the recognition or the talent? Would he step into Bryant's high level of acclaim if it meant he'd also have to step into his low level of talent? If his sorry excuse for a painting were the best Shane's hand could produce, could it even have sustained him all those years?

Shane's work had truly saved him. His art was the only area of life where he had any control. He called the shots. He could create great things from out of himself. He could make other people feel emotions. And just maybe, he could harness its power and alter the trajectory of his entire life. It was a gift which greatly contrasted the rest of his life, a glittering jewel which lay in a puddle of mud. My art and Keisha, he thought. I have two priceless jewels, when anyone would be called blessed with only one.

Shane made a promise in that moment, and although he didn't know to whom, he also made an apology. He felt an overwhelming need to make amends for all the time he'd wasted, consumed with rebellion and dedicated to selfish misery. He wouldn't allow the guilt to make him look down. He would look up. There is no way to do it other than hard work. There is no rhetoric, philosophy, change of attitude or feeling that can get it done. For this, courage and grit are required. He would draw a line in time and forget all the mistakes he had made before it. He would step free from the quicksand, calmly and gently, as if it had been merely a sandbox. He would go on with some scars but with two capable hands. He would love deeply. He would make each day a little better than the one before. He would impress himself, not just with his art, but with a change in life.

Shane scanned the hallway to see if Keisha had shown up yet. The contest was being held at the school. He couldn't see her, so he began to wander the hall to look at the other art displayed.

He saw a uniformed officer and the sight caught his attention. He looked over and recognized Officer Downs. Shane knew the school must've been his beat, but Shane was surprised to see him there after hours. And he was surprised to see him heading in Shane's direction.

"So, they've been looking into the Brody Tanner case," the officer said to Shane without preliminaries. "Did you know they found something strange on that laptop you sold him?"

Shane made a face, but it was only in reaction to the word sold. He said, "Strange, you say?"

"It turns out there was software that was granting remote access to a certain IP address. Do you care to guess who that IP address led us to?"

"Well, sure, I always run that software on my laptop, so I can access my files remotely from my desktop. I must've forgotten to delete it when I gave him the laptop."

"People typically use their laptops to remote access their desktops. Not the other way around."

Shane shrugged. "What's it matter, anyway?"

"Facebook shows the threat posted from Brody's account originated from his laptop."

Shane shook his head. "Just terrible. He used the laptop I gave him to threaten my life. That's gratitude for you."

"But if you had access to the laptop, you could have made it look like Brody had posted it."

"Fascinating theory."

"You know it's illegal to make false reports to the police."

"I reported nothing to the police. I saw a threatening message from Brody's account, and I described what I saw in the principal's office at my school."

"Brody was expelled because of that message. He's out on a twenty-thousand-dollar bond because of what you told us."

Shane shook his head slowly. "No. All those things happened because there was a gun in his locker. I never pressed any charges with the police. I never filed any reports."

"You wouldn't know anything about that gun?"

"I've never seen it before in my life. Who is it registered to?"

Officer Downs shot him a sideways glance. "We're still looking into the matter," he said threateningly.

Shane pretended not to pick up on the menacing tone. "Did it have any finger prints?"

Downs shook his head. "Wiped clean."

"Whoa. That's even scarier than I thought. Why would he wipe it clean unless he... well... what do you think he was about to do?"

The cop's brow lowered over the tops of his eyes. He said, "People do all kinds of careless things."

Shane simply couldn't help himself. He shook his head, tut-tutted, and said, "It's a shame because, you know, he just had so much going for him."

Just then Shane spotted Keisha. She was standing in front of Shane's drawing. He had no idea how long she'd been there. He smiled; apparently when she entered the room she had sought out his art even before seeking out him.

Shane turned his back on the cop and made his way over to embrace her. Shane noticed Downs did not pursue him. Maybe the cop didn't actually believe Shane was guilty, or maybe Keisha's infectious beauty works to absolve anyone she's with, but when the cop saw the two of them hugging, he decided to let them have their night.

Keisha turned briefly to greet Shane but couldn't take her eyes off the drawing. "It's beautiful," she said.

Shane's drawing was a sweeping portrait of a hero and his princess—Shane and Keisha. They were standing atop a dramatic summit. Her arms were around his neck and his arm was supporting her back. It was, in fact, the exact scene that was captured in the yearbook photo he tore out. Their expressions were the same. Their relief and their joy were the same. Instead of a huge bouquet of flowers, however, the princess had shackles around her wrists and feet, with chains hanging from them. But the chains were broken.

Behind them lay a vast valley, which was strewn with the bodies of dead dragons and the damage those dragons had caused. There lay the remains of a village, mostly burnt, with fires still burning along the hillside.

The hero's body also bore damage from the dragons. His impressive physique was covered by gashes and cuts and burns. The battle was arduous, but they had survived. Others perished, but they survived. Everything they had was gone. Everything they loved was gone. But the dragons were gone too. They had nothing left but each other.

The moment inspired him, but he knew the drawing was a lie. In the image her chains were broken, but in real-life she was the one who broke his chains. The dragons were slain alright, but it was his body covered with scars, and it should have been hers. She was the one who waged the real battle. It was she who put up such a fierce and persistent fight. Shane had muscles, both in the image and real life, but it was Keisha who was the strongest person he'd ever met. Simply put, she saved him.

"It's not a drawing; it's a promise," he told her. His voice was low and stirring. His words longed to connect with her on the deepest levels, but his eyes remained only on the drawing, evasively. "I will work to become the man who can pay you back. Courage and grit are required. For you, I have to stop being a boy and become a man. And I long for the chance. I long for the day that the proper roles are restored, that I can properly honor your precious body by protecting it.

"And when people see the pristine condition of your skin, they will know somewhere is another body slashed and broken, bearing the brunt. They will know the blows your flesh has been spared by counting the scars on mine. I want to be your hard case. I want to cradle your exquisite curves and protect your delicate neck. I give you full credit and gratitude for being my hero, but that is over at last. At last, it is my turn."

Keisha didn't know what to say. Her face turned red and she put a hand over her heart to steady it. She looked relieved when a third person showed up. It was Luke Foster.

Luke stood beside Shane and they looked on Shane's drawing together. Neither of them said a word. In his peripheral vision, Shane could see Keisha wiping away tears.

Finally, Luke spoke. He said, "It may be the greatest drawing I've ever seen."

Shane was taken by surprise. Luke had never really talked to him before, and Shane was never anxious to talk to him. Shane figured Jesus would never let Luke accept him or something. Or perhaps Luke feared anger and misery were contagious. They are. "Thanks," Shane finally said. "I really like your work as well."

Mr. Carney, the art teacher, walked in and made an announcement for everyone to head into the auditorium.

Luke gave a quick nod. "Good luck," he said walking away.

"Good luck," Shane called back.

Keisha reached out and threw Shane into a straitjacket hug.

When the crowd made their way to their seats in the auditorium, Shane made sure to snatch a place for himself along the aisle. When they called his name for either the winner or one of the runners up he would have to walk to the stage. He was certain they would call his name for one of them. He explained to Keisha, "There's Bryant, Luke and me. It's usually Bryant first, Luke second, and me third. One year Luke got first, and Bryant got second. The highest I ever got was third—three years in a row, actually. I'm kind of hoping to hear one of their names when they call third place. It's funny, because third place means I beat like fifty kids, but I don't want to hear my name when they call third place, not this year."

Shane looked around and spotted Luke behind them. He pointed, "That's Luke, who comes in second. He's pretty cool." Shane marveled at how he'd just described Luke as pretty cool and he couldn't believe how far a little kindness can take a person. He sat up taller, "I don't quite see the guy who comes in first."

"Maybe he won't show," Keisha smiled.

"No wait, there he is," said Shane. "Looks like Bryant Walker was able to make it after all." Shane sighed. "I'm a little disappointed in you."

"In me? For what?"

Shane feigned irritation, "I mean, you could have poisoned the guy. I came through for you, you know."

She threw up one hand appalled, vigorously shaking her head. "That's... That's nowhere even close to being appropriate."

Shane smirked. "Shhh, shhh, I think it's starting."

Mr. Carney walked up to the podium. Shane was pretty sure he was still the art teacher, but Shane had never once taken his class. Four years ago, he took one look at the work hanging in Mr. Carney's class—work that looked more like Bryant's, than Luke's or his own—and decided Mr. Carney had nothing to teach him.

Mr. Carney thanked everyone for coming out and complimented the talent of each student who entered. He also took the audience through a slideshow of every piece entered, but Shane wasn't listening to any of it. He was too nervous.

Keisha sat beside him and took his hand in hers. Her nails were painted light pink. Shane had never once stopped to notice a girl's fingernails before in his life, but suddenly her adorable pink nails were the most alluring thing he'd ever laid eyes upon. He whispered, "What would I do without you here?"

Keisha smiled at him.

They finally reached the part of the night when they were to announce the winners. Mr. Carney said he would step down and hand the stage over to Mrs. Wells to announce it. How dramatic. Shane wasn't quite sure what role Mrs. Wells played in any of this.

She said, "We will start by announcing our third-place winner." She tore open an envelope and everything.

Shane squeezed Keisha's lovely pink-nailed hand. Keisha squeezed back. He whispered in his heart, Don't say my name.

Mrs. Wells opened the oversized envelope. "Our third-place winner for tonight goes to Valery Baker."

Shane's face showed confusion, and even abject panic. He looked at Keisha. "What's going on? Valery Baker... she's okay, I guess. How could she actually beat me?"

Keisha was amazed by how far from clear thinking his mind had strayed, and it gave her an indication how much he really wanted this. She said, "You don't know that. You could be called next."

Shane trembled. He'd shown up tonight wondering how he could endure a small disappointment; a big disappointment would be intolerable. Never mind his art, how could he feel this certain about something and have it wind up being untrue? Wishful thinking? Total delusion? For him to have put in ten times the effort as usual, and walk away with less glory... where could he go from there? What could his next step be after that?

These thoughts were running through Shane's head as Valery walked up to the stage and received her ribbon. A few of the volunteers grabbed Valery's art and brought it up to the stage on an easel.

The whole room applauded, except Shane. He wasn't being rude; his mind was just distracted.

The lady pulled out another large envelope and Shane's mind returned to reality. She announced, "And the second-place winner of the Jefferson High art contest is..."

Just say my name, his heart whispered. Put me out of this misery and just say my name.

"Luke Foster."

It was more than he could stand. With a face full of dejection, he stood up from his chair and said, "I can't stay. I need to leave."

Keisha stood up quickly, without question or objection and said, "Okay, let's go."

As Shane stood up to walk out, he crossed paths with Luke on his way to the stage. Luke saw Shane there in the aisle and slowed his pace. Shane saw him slow down and the two of them stood, very briefly facing each other. Shane nodded and reached out his hand to clasp Luke's shoulder. Luke quickly responded with the same thing and the two of them were locked in what Shane had always pictured as a warrior's handshake.

After a nice moment, the two boys let each other go—one to victory, the other to defeat.

Shane was almost to the door when he felt Keisha beside him. She reached down to hold his hand once more. They could hear the lady on the stage wrapping up. "And now for tonight's first place winner..." Shane felt Keisha slow down. She was now behind him, but their hands were still connected.

"The first-place winner of the Jefferson High School art competition is..."

Shane's left hand was already on the door. He had already compressed the handle, when he felt resistance from his right. Keisha had stopped completely, unwilling to go any farther. He tugged harder, but she restrained him. Shane breathed in a deep breath for strength, with his head hanging down.

"... Shane McCormick," the lady said.

There was a moment of confusion. Shane's head bobbed up, but he didn't move. He looked at Keisha. She smiled at him. "Go on," she told him. He didn't move. "Shane, you won. You've got to go up there."

Shane released the door and turned around. Keisha linked her arm around his at the elbow and proudly walked with him down the aisle. They got to what had been their seats, and Keisha hugged him. She whispered, "I'm so proud of you," and then turned his shoulders so he could head off to the stage without her.

A volunteer carried his drawing to the stage and placed it front and center. Shane took his place in the middle, between Luke and Valery.

Keisha was still on her feet, delivering a one-woman standing ovation. She felt someone step in close beside her, a little too far into her space. It was her debate opponent, Louis Blair. She noted that he always seems to show up when Shane was not around.

Louis watched Shane on stage, saw the look in Keisha's eyes, and said, "Why don't you just admit you're in love with him?"

She smiled. "I think I am."

"Eww, gross. Are you serious?"

She turned and looked straight at Louis and said in a tone that was serious and stern, but 100% devoid of anger. "Shane McCormick is no worse a man than any other. In fact, you two have a lot in common."

"What could you possibly think we have in common?"

She turned back to watch the stage and spoke without looking at Louis. "Both of you are talented. Both highly intelligent. And both of you are in the process of discovering just how painful life is." Her words, though firm, were spoken soft and tender. She thought about leaving it there, but she added, "Both of you created an enemy to blame."

Louis didn't respond, so she turned to see his face.

He looked more lost than she'd ever seen him. Every cell on his face expressed pain, and yet he protested, "I never said life is painful."

Keisha frowned and turned her face away. She thought about the lurking black shadow Louis had created in his own life, a phantom enemy just for him to hate. An idea can inhabit a man like a demon possession. It can take over his whole life. What a waste.

She remembered hanging out with Louis freshman year. He used to be nice, before he had a cause. He spent all his time being angry ever since. It was like he just stepped in a bear trap, that's all—wrong place, wrong time. At the time in his life when he carried a desperate emptiness, he found the wrong people with the wrong propaganda offering to fill it.

She wanted to offer him some encouraging words, but when she turned, he was already gone.

Chapter Fifty-Four

When Keisha got home from school on Monday, her mom wasn't home yet. She threw her backpack on the floor in her room and flopped down on her bed. She was thinking about Shane and his victory. After the art show, they had gone out to celebrate. They shared a bench at a Waffle House and Keisha had a steak and eggs and some hash browns and a waffle and some of Shane's pancakes. It was the best meal she'd ever tasted. She got to look into his contented eyes all night. Winning looked good on him.

Her reminiscing was interrupted when her phone pinged. It was Shane:

I have amazing news. Can we meet face to face?

She smiled wide. Yes. She wanted to see him. She wanted to see him right now. She typed:

Where?

Her phone buzzed again:

I'm outside.

"Lol," she said out loud.

Keisha tried to step quietly to the door without her dogs barking, but as soon as she got six feet away they all jumped to their feet and sounded the alarm. She forced her way through wagging tails to get the door open and then closed it back immediately behind her.

She saw Shane walking up the path and ran to him. The two collided in an embrace. She could smell his cologne again, and she liked it. After he quit smoking the smell had stayed in his clothes, but recently Shane had been buying himself all new clothes.

A new man stood in the place where the old had been. He was strong and confident. She could feel the good news in his arms. He was standing up straight with his shoulders back. "Good news?" she said. "What is it?"

"I sold the drawing!"

Her face changed. "The drawing of us?"

He saw her reaction, but it simply couldn't bring him down. He was too happy—a deep down happy that can only come with impressing oneself. "Yes! Can you believe it? I'm a professional artist now. Someone is actually paying for something I created. It's going to hang in their home. They're going to look at it every day."

"Who?"

"This couple," He pulled out his phone. "I got all their info. They're like grown up and stuff. He said he was some sort of accountant or something, but they both read fantasy novels."

"How much?"

"A hundred dollars. But it's not about the money—"

"A hundred is good," she interjected.

"It's really just about the fact someone wants it. Someone values it."

"I value it." She smiled.

"Someone who isn't actually starring in it."

She laughed. "I understand."

"I'm going to frame it for them. He didn't ask me to, but I just want to give them something ready to hang. The idea that it would hang on someone's wall, and that they'd pack it up and take it with them when they move... It's awesome."

Keisha smiled in admiration.

Shane laughed in victory. "I'm heading up there right now to use the shop and cut this frame."

"Where? The school?"

"Yeah, Mr. Ramos said I could use the tools."

"This late?"

"It has to be now. I'm meeting the buyer tonight. Mr. Ramos works detention, so he's there. He's great, you know. He's always looked out for me."

"I'm so proud of you," she insisted. "I didn't even know you knew how to frame."

He gave a not-so-humble shrug.

"You're going to forget all about me now that you're a professional artist," she teased.

"I'll never forget about you," he assured her.

She pulled him in for a long hug and when she released him, she placed the palm of her hand gently on his cheek. And for the first time in a long time she received a vision from his touch. It was the only positive premonition she had ever received in her life so far.

She was inside Shane's mind. She could feel him. She knew him. He was reaching out toward a veil. The veil was white and lacy and beautiful. He lifted it to reveal a bride. Her own face. She had ivory clips all through her hair. She looked so good in love. Keisha could feel his heart and he found her more beautiful than ever.

Keisha was surprised to see she looked more than ten years older, far older than she had ever imagined herself as a bride, but good things take time. And happiness is worth getting right.

Her mom was there sitting in the front, crying. His mom was also there looking healthy and beautiful. She sat on the groom's side with her new husband. There were very few attendants but Shane felt surrounded by love. He felt like a rich man. He had everything he wanted in life. Who could have predicted? He had everything he'd ever wanted.

She pulled her hand down from his cheek, back in her own body. Her expressions changed dramatically, but he was too excited for himself in that moment to notice any change in her face. She trembled with joy. It's all over. It's all over, she repeated in her mind. May 22 is tomorrow, and it's just not going to happen.

Of all the stories she'd received in her visions, all the lives she'd wanted desperately to go on, she hadn't fully added Shane's story to that list. He was in the process of becoming. He was on the edge of darkness, heading toward the light. His greatest days were ahead of him, and he too would go on.

She hadn't received any of her violent visions in a while. And now, for the first time, she saw a beautiful future. It was her future. It was theirs. He was alive and free. They were together and they were happy. There wasn't any lethal injection in his future. There certainly wasn't a murder-suicide. There was only a little white church.

Her kindness had changed the future. Reaching out a hand in friendship had changed the whole world. Six students' lives were saved. Actually, seven. The good things we do matter. Our every word and deed goes out into the world, bounces around and comes back to us. Love had changed him. Love went out from her heart and, on one glorious day, dressed all in white, love would return to her.

Her eyes filled with tears, but he didn't see. He looked at his watch and said, "I gotta hurry. I'm so excited. I'll call you later to let you know how it went."

She couldn't speak, but she watched him as he absolutely skipped his way back to his car.
Chapter Fifty-Five

Shane found the perfect molding for the frame. He was surprised to see some non-glare glass in the materials closet. He offered to pay Mr. Ramos full price for it but Mr. Ramos refused.

"Dude, it's yours," said Ramos.

"Sir, I would rather pay you something for it."

"No, I mean, it's literally yours. You left it here at the beginning of last year, you don't remember?"

Mr. Ramos was a good teacher and a great man. He'd told Shane the door would lock behind him on the way out, and it'd be fine because he always had the key on him. "But don't worry about that, because I'll be back before you get done."

Shane must have worked faster than Mr. Ramos had expected, because he finished the frame and the shop teacher still hadn't returned. Shane wanted to hang around and thank him, so he took a moment to admire the job he'd done on the frame. It fit the art perfectly and gave it a professional presentation which properly honored the drawing and the work he put into it.

He looked around at the shop. He liked the spartan layout of the room. He liked the smell of the sawdust. Shane knew that more works of real beauty were created in this room than in Mr. Carney's art class. That should not be the case, but with the sad state of things, and what passed for art, Shane wondered for how many high schools across America this was true.

Mr. Ramos still wasn't back, and Shane had to go if he was going to keep the appointment he'd made with the buyers. The last thing he wanted to do was to keep them waiting, so he scribbled out a note that said everything he had to say: Thank you.

Shane paused to search his memory and smiled; he'd never left any glass in the materials closet.

With the framed drawing tucked under his arm, he pulled the shop door closed and checked it to make sure it was locked. He looked both ways down the hallway and took in a surreal sight: his school building empty. He turned the corner heading to his car and found that stretch of hallway empty too.

He'd never noticed how reflective the floors were. The light from the north entrance illuminated the full length of the hall. There was also a loud echo. Every step he took bounced off the hard lockers and emphasized the fact that he was there all alone.

He remembered he'd left his backpack in his locker and decided to swing by and get it. He wouldn't have time to do any homework, but he had left his e-cig in there. He hadn't used it at all since lunch and didn't even notice.

As he reached the exit doors of the school with his backpack, he worried they might be locked. When he pushed one and it opened, he figured they probably were locked, just from the outside. He knew that when it closed behind him he wouldn't be able to get back in, so he checked to make sure he had everything. He looked at the drawing under his arm and smiled. It was everything. It was all he needed. He let the door swing shut behind him.

When Shane stepped out past the building's awning, he could feel the heat of the sun. There had been warm days in Texas, but somehow he'd just never noticed. It felt to him like the first time the sunshine had ever been on his face.

The weather was perfect, warm but with a strong breeze blowing. It vibrated his short hair.

A bird landed on a low hanging branch nearby. Its movements were energetic and caffeinated. It exemplified effortless joy as it hopped a few times for a better footing. It swiveled its head to look straight at Shane, then flew away.

Shane noticed more than the sun and the bird; he noticed the tree. The tree had not grown there by accident but was placed there by someone whose job it was to design the school. Shane's mind must have been racing, but the simple tree gave him much to think about. Was it placed there to be seen and enjoyed? Enjoyed by a bunch of teenagers? Shane wondered if whoever first drew the tree on some architectural mock-up understood what went on in high schools these days. Perhaps he was a hundred years old and imagined a bunch of high school students in ties and tweed blazers, smiling to each other—and to the world—and discussing the beauty and quiet strength of such a delightful tree.

Or maybe that man did know. Maybe he understood the frustration and emotional turmoil produced by hundreds of lives coming of age, disparate and desperate, each one under the other's microscope. Maybe a tree was all he could come up with to help.

Either way, Shane regretted how many of his fellow students would attend four years of school here and never really notice it. He regretted that he, himself, did not take note of it before this glorious moment in time. Maybe these things just take an artist to truly see, he thought. A professional artist, like me.

And for the first time in a long time, Shane McCormick smiled at the world. He was ready to submit his answers to the questions which had always plagued him. The answer to People? was Keisha. It was that simple. Is there value to human existence? There's more value than Shane ever could have guessed.

And his answer to Life? He stopped walking to truly consider this. He could feel the drawing beneath his arm. He could feel the sunlight on his face. He could hear the birds singing. Shane had won. He'd defeated the dragons of pain, resentment, and hatred. He'd won and he got the girl. He happened to look over—

Suddenly, Shane's world got noticeably darker. And noticeably colder.

Waiting in the parking lot, leaning up against Shane's car like they owned it, were Brody and his henchmen. They were a goon-squad-moon, blocking him from his Keisha-sun.

Shane looked to his left and right. At this hour, there was hardly even another car in the parking lot. No teachers. No adults. No cops. He considered what his options were. He needed his car in order to leave, and there was somewhere he desperately had to go. Plus, they had seen that he'd seen them. He couldn't walk away now and surrender a victory to them and their egos, could he?

As his mind raced, Shane continued to walk until he was a mere fifteen feet away. He stopped to face off with them. His fingers felt for the outside pocket of his bag and removed his e-cig. He took a deep drag from it and blew a dramatic amount of vapor into the air. A strong wind stole it away as soon as it left his lips. None of the men quite knew what Shane was doing. Not one of them moved to close the gap between them. Shane remembered what Keisha had once insisted, "You can't take on seven guys, idiot." He stalled, enjoying the last bit of control he might ever have. He took another long drag of vape, conscious of the fact it'd be the last time his lungs would work without use of a hospital ventilator. He blew it out slowly, keeping his eyes locked on Brody.

Shane slipped the e-cig into his pocket, tightened his grip on the drawing, then took the final steps forward that would no doubt seal his fate.

Shane's face was hard, trying to portray annoyance rather than fear. But he oversold it, "You're not supposed to be here, Brody."

Brody laughed. He said, "I'm not here. My boys and I are all hanging out at my place."

Shane made a screwed-up face. "Whatever, dude."

Brody held up his phone and looked at it just long enough to press one button. He said, "I just posted a photo of us playing pool, using my laptop from my home IP address."

Shane's brave face disappeared and he swallowed hard. He said, "What do you want, Brody? I have to get to my car."

There was no response, other than a slight tightening of their circle around him.

Shane tried to act tough. "I have somewhere to be. You need to move out of my way."

Brody laughed and smiled his ultra-bright smile. His confidence was so blatant, it only served to make Shane's blood boil, and it made it harder for him to breathe. He knew he wouldn't be able to steady his voice, so he put off speaking any more than he had to.

"You want me to move," said Brody, "you gotta pay the toll."

"What toll?" Shane hissed through gritted teeth.

"Twenty-thousand dollars."

"I don't have it."

Brody laughed. "Okay... well, Gary here needs a laptop."

"Out of my way," insisted Shane.

"I'll leave. Make it worth my while."

"No."

Brody looked at his bag. "What's in the bookbag?"

"Books, moron."

Brody made a peculiar face and said, "Ooow." He looked down at Shane's watch. "Hey, is that a smart-watch?"

"No."

"Liar."

Reflexively, Shane looked at his watch just because it'd been mentioned. He was horrified to see it was 5:45. "Dammit, Brody, I need to go."

"Dammit, Brody, I need to go," Brody mimicked him. "Hand over the watch."

"What? No."

The circle of goons drew in even closer.

"I'm going to be late," Shane hissed. His heart was pounding in his chest. He could feel a sick feeling in his gut, a headache was coming on, and he desperately had to pee.

"Then give me the watch."

"Go to hell!" the words came out fierce and desperate.

Shane had just cursed them with so much venom he knew it would be the spark to ignite the violence. Instead, the men just laughed. One punk from behind him shouted, "Make him give you his phone."

This caused Shane's boiling blood to turn cold. Fear washed through his body in a wave from top to bottom in a bitter freeze. He could feel it in his toes. His skin prickled and his hair stood up. The buyer's number and address are in this phone. It was the only place he had the number, the only way he'd ever be able to find him; he didn't even know his last name. Shane immediately blurted. "Okay! Okay, I'll give you the watch."

To unclasp the watch, Shane had to use both hands. He placed his drawing back underneath his left armpit. When he did this, he inadvertently angled the face of it in Brody's direction.

"What's this?" Brody's eyebrows shot up and malevolence passed over his face.

"No!" Shane shouted too loudly and too immediately. It was a major misstep. He pulled one foot back, angling the drawing away from Brody, while continuing to fumble with his watchband. He got it undone and extended it quickly in Brody's direction, under his nose, almost pushing it right in his face. "Take it take it. Take it take it take it."

Brody smiled, eyeing the drawing, witnessing the panic, which was impossible to misinterpret and hard to miss. "Now, I think I've changed my mi—"

"No. Take it. It's valuable. It's expensive. So, take it."

Shane felt a swift downward shift. It was a piece of his soul being torn away, the air pulled from his lungs, and the blood drained from his heart. It took his mind a full second to realize what he'd actually felt. His drawing was no longer in his possession but in the hands of one of Brody's goons. The boy behind him had yanked it straight down from where it had been pressed close to Shane's body.

By the time he turned around, the punk who yanked the frame away from him had passed it to his right. The boy on his right held it out for Shane to receive in predictable fashion. He wasn't convincing when he said, "Here you go."

Shane had no other choice than to try and take it back. As soon as he did, the boy drew it back and launched it high in the air.

"You'll break it," screamed Shane, as he lunged forward to prevent it from crashing to the ground. The second before he grasped it, two hands snatched it straight out of the air. The hands belonged to Brody, and he drew it far from Shane's reach.

Holding the large framed drawing behind him in his right hand, Brody held up a finger with his left. He smiled and said, "Well, look who's—"

Shane's fist condensed Brody's nose, and a shocking amount of red blood rushed down his face. Before Brody knew what was happening, Shane had run past him and grabbed his drawing out from Brody's fingers. This was also tactically advantageous because he was no longer surrounded by thugs. If the goons were going to attack him—and he knew it was coming—they would have to do it one by one.

Daryl Long advanced on him. It killed Shane to do it, but he placed the drawing down on his car's hood. He needed both hands free if he were to have any chance against the coming assault. Daryl had closed the distance faster than Shane had predicted.

While Shane was leaning forward to put his drawing as far away from the melee as possible, Daryl moved in behind him and grabbed the back of Shane's head. With astonishing force, Shane's head was pushed down toward the hood.

Shane managed to return his hand in front of his face just in time. Pressing back against the hood, he was able to prevent the impact. He tossed his right arm back, which knocked both Daryl's arms out of the way and clamped Daryl's neck at the same time. In one swift movement, he pressed his right leg against Daryl's left—locking the knee—and grabbed his elbow with his left hand. He actually hesitated for a split second to consider the boy he and Keisha had prayed for, but then he brought Daryl's face down hard on his hood.

The impact from Daryl's head made the hood shake, which caused the drawing to begin to slide down its gradual slope. Shane rushed to catch it but was grabbed by both arms.

Gary Watson had a good hold of both Shane's elbows and turned him around to face the rest of the thugs. Shane kept his neck twisted back, concerned only for the fate of his drawing. He watched in horror as it slid right to the edge of the hood, then slowed to a stop.

Pain suddenly coursed through his face, head, neck, and shoulders. It was Tim Perry who'd struck him dead in the jaw as Shane had been watching his drawing. Arms pinioned, he wouldn't have been able to stop it anyway.

Tim punched him one more time before Shane was able to land a kick in his gut. Shane slammed his own head back into the nose of the boy who restrained him and pulled both arms free. He had a narrow opportunity to grab his drawing and he took it. This time he grabbed it and ran.

He ran away from the whole group, around the far side of his car. He'd have to abandon the car—and he'd already dropped his watch at some point—but it was his only hope.

The hope was short-lived. Doug Carter rounded the corner of Shane's rear bumper, circling around the opposite way, and doing it just in time. Shane stopped short. Wanting no part of tangling with Doug, Shane spun a 180, only to find Brody right behind him.

Before Shane had a chance to stop it, Brody snatched the drawing from his hands. At the same time, a hard blow landed on Shane's back. Doug had sucker-punched him right between his liver and kidney.

Shane's movements halted as pain shot through him and every muscle clenched. He turned to defend against Doug, but John Hodges suddenly came out of nowhere. Venus. He pounded Shane with a fist to the gut, an elbow to the face, then a hard boot on his heel, skillfully taking him to the ground. What just happened? That felt more like Mars.

Shane quivered in pain. It was a pain of the darkest sort: no power, no control, a man at the mercy of his hated rival. It was the amount of darkness required for a boy to go on a killing spree. It was more than what was required. Shane had no idea how many of his enemies surrounded him, probably all of them by now. But only one mattered in his mind: Brody Tanner, the one who had his drawing.

Shane couldn't think more than one move ahead. He hoped they weren't ready for this. He hoped they thought he'd go after John Hodges, the one who'd actually taken him down. He hoped they thought he was too injured to spring back into the fight like a cobra. He made a fist with his right hand. Brody was behind him. He'd have only one shot at this.

His body ached but he commanded his legs to act. His body shot upward and spun around. His fist wound up and was released in a furious swing. His head turned just enough to lay eyes on Brody Tanner, his target, his prey. But Brody had been ready for him after all.

Before his body was even all the way up, or all the way turned, Brody was over him. He had both hands clutching the top and bottom of the frame. He'd already drawn it back, and like a man hitting a baseball, Brody swung Shane's drawing as hard as he could right into Shane's face.

His forehead collided with the glass which instantly shattered. Shane felt burning pain across his face where the glass pierced his skin. He fell straight back to the ground, this time all the way to the ground, flat on his stomach, prostrate and defenseless.

He could feel the goons pile on him. One boy kneeled directly on his back, with both hands forcing down his skull. Two others placed both their hands, and all their body weight, on each of Shane's arms. Another boy pinned his legs. They held his defeated body down in an act of massive overkill.

Brody held the smashed artwork gingerly and shook it so the loose pieces of glass would all fall. There was a corner of the actual drawing which was bent up. He grabbed it and used it to pull the full drawing out of the frame. The opposite corner tore when he removed it, and there were a few dents in the paper as well as some of Shane's blood, but for the most part, the drawing was okay.

"Turn him to face me," Shane heard Brody say.

Shane tried to resist, but there was no point. In seconds they had his head turned to his left side, which Brody was on. Three separate hands from two different boys pressed his cheek and ear down into the asphalt, beside the broken glass.

Shane wanted to curse him, but he knew it would only make things worse. He struggled to move his arms but the guys pressed them harder to the ground. Shane took a second to rest, making them believe he'd just given up, then burst forth with all his might in a last-ditch attempt to shake his arms loose. It was no use. He wasn't even able to move a single inch. The knees pressed to his back were making it difficult to suck in air.

Brody kicked some shards of glass out of the way and took a knee beside Shane, so that Shane could see him better. It galled Shane to be so close to him but unable to grab a hold of him. Brody held the drawing up, mockingly, like he was admiring it. He said, "Well, now look at that. Hey, that's a pretty good drawing right there."

Blood from the largest cut on Shane's face was creeping down his skin and into his left eye. He struggled to blink quickly enough to make a difference, but the burning became too intense and he had to shut that eye tight. He felt the blood pool on the bridge of his nose and then drip to the ground by his other eye.

Shane could only see through his right eye and he used it to search the parking lot. Brody must have seen this because he also took a second to look over both shoulders.

Confident there was no one coming to help, he turned back to Shane and slowed his pace. Like a cat toying with a mouse, Brody took his time to savor the predicament. He said, "Is this what you were so afraid of? Me doing something to this drawing?"

Shane wanted to curse him, but he knew when he'd been beat. His best play was to just stay silent.

Brody didn't like that. He heckled more, "What do you think, I would tear it to shreds right in front of you?"

Shane still didn't answer.

"I'm not going to do that, buddy. It's too precious. I'm an art lover," he laughed. A second too late to be natural, his thugs laughed as well. Brody looked back at the drawing, then back at Shane. "Wait a minute. This is that girl, right? Your bodyguard. Are you two an item now? That's pathetic. That's so pathetic. What's her name? I think it's—"

"Shut up!" yelled Shane with all the force his compressed lungs could still muster.

Brody turned back toward Shane abruptly, happy to have produced a response. "It's Keisha," he said firmly. "I know it. Her name is Keisha. Keisha." As he repeated her name, Brody leaned his face in closer to Shane's. He waited for another outburst, but Shane wouldn't satisfy him.

Brody turned his attention back to the drawing. He said, "You know I heard she was a little slut, but this is pathetic." Shane held his tongue but Brody saw the change in his eyes. He knew Keisha was the button he'd been looking for. He taunted, "Keisha the slut. Keisha the slut. You know she is kind of cute; maybe I should hit that."

Brody's thugs laughed.

Shane summoned all the energy he had, all the strength in his powerful muscles, and all the fury in his homicidal heart, and released it all at once. But again it accomplished nothing. He kept trying. He wouldn't give up. But he got nowhere. You can't take on seven guys, idiot.

Brody saw his struggle and laughed. He said, "You know I saw her at Duke's party recently. I hate to tell you, but she totally came onto me."

The thugs laughed.

Brody took another long look at the girl in the drawing. He said, "I don't know, maybe I shouldn't have shot her down. I bet she could be pretty sexy... if I were drunk and she was naked."

The thugs laughed.

"Or better yet, maybe if she were drunk and I was naked. Maybe next time I'll take her out behind the stables."

The blood dripping from the bridge of Shane's nose had formed a large puddle on the ground. He could feel the lashes of his right eye stroke it when he blinked.

Brody laughed again. He took a long look at the drawing and said, "No, buddy, I wouldn't do that. The last thing I'd want to do is tear you two apart." Brody laughed at his own phrasing. He stood up tall and squared his feet, as if to add drama to what he was about to do. He brought his left hand up next to where his right hand held the drawing, he pinched it with both hands between his fingers and thumb. His voice became venomous as he said, "I said, the last thing I'd want to do would be to—"

"I'm going to kill you!" Shane shouted, before Brody had a chance to tear it.

The sound of Shane's voice made Brody freeze in his tracks.

Shane couldn't fight the darkness any longer. "You think you're in control right now, but you're not!" he barked at him.

Brody looked at him quizzically, both his hands still primed to tear right through the drawing.

"You're not in control because you won't kill me," Shane continued. "You won't kill me because you have too much to lose. You don't want to go to prison. It would hurt your football career. It would get in the way of all your scholarships. It would disappoint your parents."

Brody rolled his eyes. "I never said I would kill you." Brody turned his face back to the drawing, but Shane shouted again before he could hurt it.

"I said I will kill you. If you hurt that drawing, I will kill you. I will put a Remington hollow-point through your brain with my AR-15. If you hurt that drawing, you will spend the rest of your life—which won't be long—living in fear, looking over your shoulder, watching your back. If you hurt that drawing, you'll also have to kill me, because it will be your only chance to stay alive. I will kill the people you care about and let you hear the news. Then I will come for you. I will kill each of you, then kill myself. I won't stop until we're all dead. I have the power because I have nothing to lose."

Every single word rang true, and every boy there, including Brody, including Shane, believed them in that moment. The force that held Shane's arms down began to retreat as some of the boys grew faint of heart. But not Brody.

Brody believed every word Shane said, believed it but couldn't accept it. Shane McCormick did not have power over Brody Tanner. Brody Tanner was in control. It was a proposition he—in that moment of anger—was willing to die for. "I am going to kill you," Brody protested loudly.

But those words did not ring true, and no one believed him. Brody was no longer a cat toying with its victim. He was the mouse. He was the vulnerable, pathetic mouse. But he couldn't accept it. He was on top, as always. If it meant giving up his life, he would be the one on top. Brody could feel Shane's gun pointing right at him. He knew it was loaded, and he knew Shane would fire it. He felt a phantom pressure on his chest where Shane had once pressed his finger gun. He knew Shane would probably kill him, but he just didn't care.

There was a bubble surrounding the moment they were in, disconnecting it from the continuum of time and reality. The present was all there was, and tomorrow didn't matter.

Brody had the presence of mind to turn the drawing toward Shane's face so he could see it one last time. He held it up in the distance between them. His face was impassive as he tore straight through it.

The sound it produced in Shane's mind was as loud as any gunshot. He saw Keisha's face torn from his, literally. He saw every moment spent with Keisha flash before his eyes, and he knew everything was over. He would kill Brody Tanner in his home, then head to the school. He would kill the people Brody cared for. He would take a stab at God, and that meant losing his only friend. She would hate him for the rest of her life. Keisha Adams had just been torn from him; of this he had no doubt.

Brody pinched the two halves of the drawing together and tore through them again. Then he did it again, then again, then again, and again. Six times. A breeze swept through the parking lot and Brody took the remaining pieces of Shane's old life—of him and Keisha together and in love—and scattered them into the wind.
Chapter Fifty-Six

Keisha heard six gunshots. She heard the cries of panic and terror. She saw the police tape, the cameras, the helicopters, and the white sheets over dead bodies. She saw Jessica crouched on the ground in fear, Peyton lying on the ground, Daryl and John hiding, and Madison holding Michael in a terrified embrace. She felt their fear. She felt the pain of their parents when they heard the news. She felt the pain of six bullet wounds at the same time.

She felt everything she knew and loved about Shane, meticulously superglued to her young heart, then ripped from her all at once.

"No!" Keisha jerked from her bed, screaming in terror. Her arms flailed wildly and something even flew from her hands. The dogs which had settled in around her, all jumped up and started barking.

Keisha pressed her hand to her heart. It was pounding. She needed a second to get her bearings. She was wearing her normal clothes. The sun had gone down. She checked to see what had flown from her hands. It was the novel she'd been reading.

Apparently, she'd fallen asleep while reading because one moment she was in a charming love story and the next moment, she was assailed by images of carnage and death.

The visions were back and they were stronger than ever.

Her mom walked into the room. She was already in her nightgown but hadn't gone to bed. She took a moment to evaluate her daughter. "Honey, what is it? Are you okay?"

Keisha used her hands to wipe her face. She wanted to answer but feared her voice wouldn't be steady.

Her mom picked up the book which had landed on the floor and wondered what her daughter could possibly be reading to terrify her so much. She looked at the cover and asked, confused, "Jane Austen?"

Keisha shook her head and continued to rub her face. "No, Mom. I wasn't reading. I'd fallen asleep. It wasn't the book, it was just... it was just a nightmare."

"A nightmare?" asked the mom. She'd never seen Keisha wake up screaming from a simple nightmare, even when she was little. She asked, "Keisha, was this a vision?"

Keisha closed her eyes slowly. The moment for her to tell her mother about this particular set of visions had come and gone over two months ago. She'd almost told her mom at the start, but for some reason decided against it. But not telling her and lying to her face were two different things. Keisha opened her eyes but still couldn't look at her. She said, "No Mom. Just a nightmare."

"Honey, is something bad going to happen?"

Keisha hated this. "No Mother. It was just a dream."

"Are you in danger?"

"No."

"Is somebody else in danger?"

"No."

Her mom took a good long look at her. "Keisha, darling, are you okay?"

With this, Keisha began to sob. The things she'd just seen were so horrible. The fear she had experienced, the horror and the loss, it was unbearable. She said, "I don't know," then her body fell forward into her mother's embrace.

Her mother held her for a long time. Keisha cried until she had no tears left. She pulled away and wiped her cheeks. Trying to compose herself, she took a deep breath and finally looked her mother in the eye. She said, "I have to call Shane."

Her mother frowned because the days of her daughter needing her more than anyone else in the whole world were gone, and apparently the days of her sharing everything with her were gone too. But she'd raised Keisha the best she could. Keisha was, in fact, the finest person she knew. If she couldn't help, she'd just have to count on her daughter to make the right decisions based on the values she'd taught her. She nodded, hugged Keisha one more time, and left the room so she could listen through her door.

When Keisha dialed Shane's number, it rang three times, then was disconnected. This made her heart sink, so she immediately dialed the number again. The same thing happened the second time, only this time, it rang twice before disconnecting. She dialed it a third time.

It reached the third ring, then the fourth. She heard Shane say, "Hey Keisha," and her heart swelled with relief. But it was short-lived. His entire outgoing message was, "Hey Keisha, you're the only one who ever calls me, so leave a message, all right?" She'd never heard it before.

She hung up and immediately dialed again. As it rang, Keisha eyed the door her mom had just closed behind her, and she turned on her rickety old fan for white noise. Finally, she could hear someone pick up, but no one said anything.

"Shane?" she asked, desperately.

No reply.

"Shane?" she pleaded.

Still no reply.

"Shane, it's Keisha, are you there?"

"Yeah," he finally said. His voice sounded strange, protracted and deep.

"Are you okay? What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong," he laughed, but his laugh was odd; there was no joy in it.

"Are you okay? Where are you? What's... You sound strange."

"I'm fine. I'm just tired."

"Shane, did something happen?"

"What do mean? What could have happened?" His voice almost sounded alert, as if the conversation had only just interested him.

"I don't know. I just got a bad feeling. Are you upset? I mean... You're not going to do anything, are you?"

"Do anything?" said Shane. His voice was so drawn out, it sounded like an old tape played in slow-motion. It wasn't anything that could be explained by being tired.

"Who are you talking to?" A voice said in the background. Keisha was alarmed to hear it was female. "Hang up the phone already," said the woman's voice. It had the same strange protracted quality as Shane's. Keisha wasn't sure if she felt better or worse to conclude it was Shane's mom.

"Listen, I gotta go," Shane said, uncharacteristically listening to his mother.

"No. Don't go. I need you."

"Need me for what?" he snapped, clearly irritated.

"I need to know you're okay."

There was silence. He had already tried to answer that question three times, but it wasn't the real question Keisha wanted to ask.

"Are you going to school tomorrow?" she pressed.

"Of course."

"Are you only going to school?"

"What are you getting at Keisha? I gotta go."

"Skip school with me tomorrow," insisted Keisha.

"What?"

"Pick me up at Taco Bueno."

"Why?" his words were so short, and his tone so harsh. She found it difficult to not let herself get diverted. She could have hurt feelings after the 22nd.

She said, "So, we can play hooky, I don't know. So, we can drive fast and shoot guns and make out."

There was a huff. "Yeah, okay."

"Meet me there at eight. Eight o'clock. Don't go to the school. Just come straight to me."

"Sure, whatever."

"Promise me you won't go to the school."

"I'm done," he said coldly.

"Wait, Shane, Taco Bueno. Eight o'clock."

He said nothing.

"Taco Bueno. Pick me up at eight."

"I said yes."

Keisha didn't know what was going on. She didn't know what had changed but could tell something had. She wanted so badly to tell him she loved him, but she'd never said it to him before—or any guy. He had basically confessed it to her and had been waiting ever since. She couldn't bring herself to do it now. She didn't want the first time she spoke those precious words to him to be while he was on Enzopryn. She didn't want the first time to be while she was trying to manipulate him not to shoot up the school. Feebly, she said, "You're valuable."

"What?" he barked, more irritated.

"What I mean is... I lo—"

He hung up on her.
Chapter Fifty-Seven

The first conscious thought that entered into Keisha's brain upon waking up, the first one that always did, was that she was Keisha Adams, and that there was no other person in the world she'd rather be than Keisha Adams.

The next thought was about Shane McCormick, but not their history, not the lost soul she reached out to that day in the cafeteria, only a small slice of Shane McCormick: the curl of his lips, the brilliance of his smile, the smell of his cologne, and the man he was so quickly becoming.

She opened her eyes and saw the morning light, God's mercy, which filled her room. Too much light! Everything else came flooding back now, and she shot up straight in her bed. She remembered the conversation they had last night and that sickening emptiness of his voice. She remembered that the visions were back; that's what had kept her from sleeping last night, awake and worried all night.

Too much light! What time is it?

She'd overslept. She grabbed her phone. It read "7:56 Tuesday, May 22". It was the day of all her visions, and she was supposed to meet Shane at Taco Bueno in four minutes. She frantically dialed his number. As she listened to the phone ring, her heart began to pound. Pick up. Pick up! she pleaded.

"Hey Keisha," she heard him say.

"Shane! It's me. I'm on my way. Please, don't—"

But she was interrupted. "... you're the only one who ever calls me, so leave a message, all right?"

His voicemail. Keisha said a swear word. The voicemail beeped and she shouted frantically, "Shane, Shane, stay there. I'm on my way!" and threw the phone down on her bed in a panic.

It's okay. It's okay. I still have time to make it if... She jumped to her feet and ran out the room. In desperation, she opened the door to the garage, hoping to see her mother's car but knowing it shouldn't still be there. Yes! She somehow hasn't left to work yet.

Keisha turned to see her mother entering the kitchen. She could tell by her tightly controlled expressions and manic movements that her mother was running late. She opened up her purse and tossed a few items around. She looked at the kitchen counter, then the kitchen table. Keisha knew she was looking for her keys. At the exact same time, Keisha and her mother turned their faces toward the set of car keys, hanging on the hook where they belonged.

Her mother was closer, but Keisha was faster. She snatched the keys up, nearly right out of her mother's hands. Keisha didn't even have time to see her reaction to this before turning and bolting out the door.

Keisha hit the button for the garage door and slipped into the driver's seat with her PJ's still on, and no shoes. If she could stop this shooting from happening, she'd have to explain her actions to her mom. If she couldn't stop it, she'd have to explain them to God. She made the call.

Keisha put the stick in reverse, and her foot on the gas, but she had to wait for the stupid automatic door. Her mom burst through the garage door and yelled through the windshield, "Baby, what on earth are you doing?" Her mom stepped closer to the driver-side door, no doubt wanting to open it and order her out of the car. Keisha's eyes jumped from the progress of her mom, to the progress of the door. Mom, door, mom, door. Finally, she hit the gas. The car squealed backward out the driveway and into the street.

Her mom ran out after her, shouting her name, but in another second, Keisha was gone.

Keisha drove so fast that she feared for her own life, then drove even faster. Keisha was not accustomed to this type of recklessness. She doubted she could maintain her speed and dial 911 at the same time, but she had to try. She reached mechanically down to grab her phone off the console. It wasn't there. Without thinking, she patted both her pockets. Pajamas don't have pockets. She cussed and pounded the steering wheel with her fist.

When she realized she didn't have her phone, she hit the gas even harder.

The first two intersections she passed had green lights, but the third stoplight was red, and she didn't know what to do. The car in front of her was slowing down and she couldn't get around him. Finally, she brought her car to a complete stop. She hit the steering wheel again. Her car was standing still, but her adrenaline was still speeding forward.

There wasn't enough space between the car in front of her and the curb, but she tried anyway. Both her passenger-side tires popped the curb and she almost took out a street sign.

The light was still red so she waited for a safe moment to pass, but there wasn't one. There with her car tilted to the left, she received a premonition. Not a vision, just a voice: it said, "Blood on your hands." These words chilled her and she shot her mom's car straight into the traffic. She rolled through the first half without a problem, but a car coming at her from her right almost killed her. She had to torque the wheel hard to the left to avoid death, but this careened her car into the oncoming lane, facing down a Ford F350. Luckily the driver of the truck saw her in time, slammed on his brakes, and slammed on his horn.

By the time she reached the Taco Bueno parking lot, her heart was pounding and she thanked God she was alive. As she bailed out of the car, she heard the words again, "Blood on your hands."

She burst through the doors of the Taco Bueno and received dirty looks from a young couple exiting. She panned the room but didn't see Shane. She ran to the men's room and pushed right in. A man there at the sink looked surprised to see her. He mumbled a few words of objection but Keisha didn't hear. She pushed open both the stalls and received louder cries of objection but couldn't find Shane.

Then she was running again, out of the restroom and out the front door. In the parking lot, she was able to get a look at the school. Everything seemed normal. There were no sirens, no first responders on the scene. Keisha believed she was close enough to be able to hear gunshots—and she hadn't yet.

Taco Bueno was catty-corner the school. Keisha made the quick decision to abandon the car. There was no time to navigate the stoplights. The fastest way was on foot, diagonally through the intersection.

As she ran toward Jefferson High School, the phrase, "blood on your hands," echoed through her head. She tried to remember where she'd heard the phrase blood on your hands, and then she did. It was the 911 operator. The man who murdered his wife had taken too much Enzopryn the night before. The operator had asked him if he had blood on his hands. That was his first moment of realization. "Blood on my hands. Why do I have blood on my hands?"

She remembered the sound of Shane's voice last night. She remembered the vacant look in his eyes the very first time she'd touched his hand, like his body was awake but his soul was asleep. Was this why she'd only ever received a vision from touching him once? Because it was the only time she'd ever touched him while high on Enzopryn, and the atrocity was to be committed while high on Enzopryn? Were there really two Shanes?

Tearing through the parking lot, another car had to slam on its brakes to avoid hitting her. This one came so close, she actually had to place one hand on its hood to catch herself, but she kept running.

"Blood on your hands," the words echoed in her head again. She remembered the details of the story. They used to have a bad marriage, but they made up. That didn't matter when he was out of his mind on a bad Enzopryn trip.

Her pulse was racing out of control, her bare feet were racked with pain, and she feared she'd reached the end of her physical endurance.

The couple had made up, just like how Shane had made up with the world. She knew it. He'd made up with the stalking shadow of life. He'd made up with God. But if he had taken too much Enzopryn last night, would it even matter?

"Blood on your hands." Perhaps the voice was talking to, or about her. She, Keisha, was the one with blood on her hands. She didn't listen to Molly. She didn't tell the school his name. She thought she could do it on her own, something this big and important! She didn't press him hard enough to give up the Enzopryn. Truly she was the one who'd failed to stop it. Keisha had blood on her hands.
Chapter Fifty-Eight

When she reached the school from the south entrance, first period had not yet begun. She still hadn't heard gunshots. Everything in the school looked normal—everything except her. Keisha ran barefoot through the hallway at top speed, knocking over several students. "No running," she heard some teacher say from too far behind her.

She reached the intersection where she'd once stood before. She knew to go right. She began to shout. "Shane! Shane! Wait! I'm coming! Just wait!"

She passed the science labs and turned left. She reached the door to Mamma Bear's room. Mrs. Moore was right there and she almost crashed into her. She could see the north entrance. She could see Jessica, and–

"Oh Shane!" She finally found him. It was right there where everything was supposed to happen. He turned to look at her and she ran to him. She threw both arms around him and he could feel her heart pounding. She was visibly shaking.

"What's going on?" he said, alarmed, toothpick hanging from his lips.

She grabbed both his hands to inspect them. There was no blood on them.

Her behavior was just getting weirder—he noticed she was in her jammies with no shoes, and her toenails were painted baby blue—so he asked, "Are you okay?"

"Y- Yeah," she struggled to say, out of breath. She saw a variety of serious wounds, cuts, and bruises on his face but there was no time to ask about it. She began to pat his body, and what started as a hug turned into a frisking. Shane recoiled slightly because his ribcage was bruised so badly. She looked at his bookbag suspiciously and demanded, "What are you doing? Wha— What are you doing right now?"

"Going to class?" he answered in the tone of a question, as she continued her bizarre TSA routine.

She snatched the toothpick straight from his mouth and threw it to the ground. She grabbed his bookbag right off his shoulder, and when she did, it clanked against the locker. Clanked, not bonked, or banged. There was obviously something hard in it—something metal.

"What's in here?" she demanded as she tore open the zipper, permanently ruining the bag. Her hand shot in and she pulled out a Mason jar with a metal lid. The lid had several small holes in the top. The jar contained some grass and some leaves, and seven fire flies. Her jaw fell open, surprised.

"They're for you," Shane said meekly. "I caught them for you."

Keisha looked up at him, mouth agape. "What's going on? Where were you? Why didn't you come?"

His face looked confused, then dropped. He lowered his eyes with shame and said, "Did we talk last night?"

She leaned in closer and whispered sternly, "Did you bring any guns to school?" It was the first time the subject of guns at school had ever come up between them.

He didn't answer.

In the most urgent voice that could still be considered a whisper she demanded, "Shane, did you bring any guns?"

The strange part was that he didn't think the question was strange. He shook his head, but there was terrible pain in his eyes. He was afraid that she could somehow see too much of him. And she got the first indication outside of her horrible visions of the true darkness that had been, and still was, inside of him.

Her eyes looked into him and he stood exposed before her. He didn't want to tell her, but he was convinced she already knew. He said vaguely, "I had a choice to make, and I thought of you. I thought I had the power because I had nothing to lose, but that's no longer true. So, I chose. I turned my back on power and relinquished my claim on revenge." He stood up taller with his shoulders back, a new strength straightening his spine. He said, "And I chose you."

Tears sprang from her eyes. Her body was overcome with a release and a relief that he couldn't fully understand. She threw both arms around him and pulled him so close to her, as if she were trying to make their bodies one.

She pulled out of the hug, just for long enough to marvel at the hallway. This was the moment she had seen. She saw Jessica Keller and Peyton Hardy talking. They were right here. Keisha watched them laughing as they spoke without a care in the world. Keisha just thought, how marvelous! Daryl Long was getting books from his locker and John Hodges was talking to Mamma Bear about her trip to France—right there in the hallway. It was the moment she had seen. It was where it would have happened. How precious their lives were! She couldn't see Madison and Michael. She spun around on the balls of her feet to look for them. They had just ducked behind Mamma Bear's door to make-out a little. Perfect! Life should be celebrated every chance we get. Passion, intimacy, and romance should be sought after with all our might.

She turned to look at Shane, took one second to watch the fireflies he had captured for her, and then stood up on her tippy toes so she could kiss him on his stunning lips, right there in the hallway, right there in her pajamas. But he was too tall for her to reach them. She wanted to connect with him and she saw it as a pure, sacred celebration of life and love and peace and adolescence.

Once he realized what she was doing he leaned in slightly toward her. Their lips were almost touching when he abruptly turned his head away, and yelled, "Louis."

Louis?

Keisha turned her body completely to look behind her and saw Louis Francis Blair standing in the hallway by the north entrance. Just the sight of him caused her to drop the mason jar she was holding. He wore a long black trench coat he didn't usually wear, and his face looked satanic. Blood on your hands, the dark realization descended on her mind. It was Louis, the guy whose hand I hadn't touched. He reached his right hand into the left side of his coat—the unmistakable gesture—and pulled out a gun, pointing the barrel straight at Keisha.

Keisha was gripped by mortal fear, paralyzed. She couldn't move. She couldn't duck. She couldn't dive out of the way. Keisha never felt the bullet enter her body, and she was scarcely sure she even heard the gunshot. The sound definitely entered her brain, but in a perplexing way. She didn't hear it as something that just happened, but as something that was happening. Present progressive tense. Eternally. It was the sound of Abel's blood crying out from the ground.

The next thing she was actually aware of was Shane suddenly standing in front of her with his back to Louis. There was blood dripping from his lips and he was falling. She tried to catch him but could not hold him. The weight of his larger body—his hard case—was too heavy and she could only help to lower him to the ground. She saw his eyes roll back in his head and start to close shut.

Shane had stepped in-between.

"Shane!" She called out his name, but there was no indication that he'd even heard it. "Shane," she cried again.

His head began to roll and his eyes seemed to drift. For a moment, they settled on her and then stilled. He could see her. She could tell he was seeing her. She could see a soul in there, but it was crying out in fear and pain. He spit up some blood and cried, "Help me, Keisha."

Keisha began to cry. "Shane," she said. "Shane, Shane, I love you. Did you hear that? I love you."

Shane forced his eyes open once more to witness her beauty for what he knew might be the last time. He drank in the majesty of the moment he was in. And smiled.

It was that smile that took Keisha out of her body. She was standing beside Shane in front of his drawing. He took her hand knowingly and he smiled. He said, "Don't worry for me, Keisha. Remember that this drawing was a promise." He somberly turned to study the drawing, stepping out of the present and back into the past. He said as he had said that day, "I will work to become the man who can pay you back. Courage and grit are required. For you, I have to stop being a boy and become a man. And I long for the chance. I long for the day that the proper roles are restored, that I can properly honor your precious body by protecting it.

"And when people see the pristine condition of your skin, they will know somewhere is another body slashed and broken, bearing the brunt. They will know the blows your flesh has been spared by counting the scars on mine. I want to be your hard case. I want to cradle your exquisite curves and protect your delicate neck. I give you full credit and gratitude for being my hero, but that is over at last. At last it is my turn."

"No!" She protested. She tugged at his arm, but he barely moved, as if she were talking to a memory; the communication was one-way. She cried anyway, "You may want that but I don't! I just want you here with me. I don't need you to be a hero, I just want you with me. Stay. I love you, and I just want you to stay."

She was bent over his body in the hallway again. She pleaded, "Please God. Just let me keep him. I need him with me. We've only just begun. Please, let us go on."

To her horror, she heard more gunshots, and they were happening in real-life. One after the next. Rapid fire. The sound was bone-shaking, especially in a narrow hall, echoing off the hard metal lockers. One, two, three, four, five, six. Six shots fired. That fast. She hadn't prevented it from ever happening. She'd gotten it all wrong. She hadn't stopped anything at all.

"Nooo!" she shrieked in agony. She wailed at the absurdity of it all. She remembered the lives cut short. Jessica. Madison. Michael. Peyton. Daryl. John. "No. No. No. No." All she could do was repeat the same objection—a repudiation of an unreasoning stone-wall reality. No. No. No!

The final thought in her mind was for her own safety, that Louis Francis Blair could be standing right behind her and that his gun might be in that very moment aimed at the back of her head.

She turned around to survey the scene. No gun was aimed at her. She couldn't see the gunman at all, at least not right away. She found Jessica crouched down by the lockers to her right, but she hadn't been shot. Keisha was so confused. Jessica was uninjured.

Peyton was lying flat on the floor. He was trembling and scared, but there wasn't a single bullet hole in him. There was no blood on his body.

Daryl and John were hiding around the corner with their eyes closed. They hadn't gained the courage to open them yet. But they will and they'll be fine. They weren't shot. Keisha couldn't believe it, but they weren't hit.

Last, she saw Madison and Michael, they held each other trembling in a desperate embrace. Unharmed. None of the six were harmed. All of them were still alive and well.

Keisha searched for the shooter and saw an area on the locker smeared in red blood. The north-facing doors of the school gave the scene a gentle light. And in that light, he saw Louis Francis Blair lying dead on the floor, in a puddle of his blood. Before him stood Mother Bear Moore, who still had her Colt .45 aimed toward the spot where the gunman had last been standing.

No one knew their government teacher was packing. She had not only subdued the threat but had emptied all six rounds in him before he even hit the ground. All six rounds. It was the first time the students had seen Mrs. Moore take an unequivocal position on anything.

Keisha turned back to Shane. Red blood was trickling out of his body. Keisha gathered his shirt and used her hand to apply pressure to the wound. As soon as her skin touched Shane's blood, she received another message from her intuition: beeping. A heart monitor!

Keisha smiled and drew Shane closer to her. "You will live," she told him. "I know you're going to live." Her tears of anguish quickly turned to tears of joy. "You're going to live, Shane. I can feel it!"

The carnage she'd witnessed over the last three months had been thwarted. She had not saved six lives, but she could certainly take credit for one.

In sweet relief, Keisha observed the hallway one last time. The entire scene was quiet now, but she could still hear ringing in her ears. It hung like a final drawn-out note at the end of a dramatic, dark opera. Not a single thing moved in the hallway, except for seven fireflies which flittered aimlessly and joyfully through the air. She watched them with wonder. Seven lights, free at last. Seven precious lives who were saved that morning. Seven stories—Jessica, Madison, Michael, Peyton, Daryl, John, and Shane—that will go on.

ELEASHA POSTSCRIPT

Keisha and her mother arrived at the hospital to check in on Shane and to give him a special present. They found Molly in the hallway waiting outside his door.

Keisha was surprised to see her old friend. She offered her a hug and Molly accepted it. It was a meek and timid hug. "Are you here to see Shane?" Keisha asked, confused.

"Actually, I've been waiting here for you. I just wanted to make sure you're okay."

"She's a bit shaken," Keisha's mother answered for her.

Keisha folded her arms in front of her. She said softly, "I've been so worried about Shane, I haven't thought much about what happened. What did happen? Why would Louis want to kill me?"

Molly placed a caring hand on Keisha's shoulder. "I guess you haven't heard." Molly looked at Keisha, then at her mother. "I take it you haven't seen his rant?"

"What rant?"

"He posted one last video to his YouTube channel."

"Oh God," cried Keisha.

"Does it mention Keisha?" asked her mother.

"No. It wasn't about Keisha at all. He wanted to shoot up the whole school. He wanted to kill as many people as possible, because he thought it would rally his audience. He thought it would rally his side and lead to greater gun control. I think he must've really gone mad; he said on his video that he was doing it to save lives."

Keisha was speechless. She couldn't hide the pain from her face.

"It's really upsetting. I don't recommend you watch it, actually. It's like he thought he was special even in death. He thought that his violence and his death would be the event to finally tip the gun debate in his favor. He wanted to be the guy to get the Second Amendment repealed."

Keisha shook her head. "He wasn't trying to make news, he was trying to make history." She stared off. "It reminds me of a quote: People don't have ideas. Ideas have people."

"You mean, have their way with people," offered Molly. "That should be the quote. His ideas sure had their way with him."

The three were quiet.

"I'm just glad Mrs. Moore was there," said Molly. "She's a real hero."

"And so are you," said Keisha.

"How's that?"

Keisha smiled. "Now this time you haven't heard."

Molly tilted her head inquisitively.

Keisha said, "Mamma Bear tried to congratulate me. She told me she only decided to purchase that gun after I had pushed the issue of a possible school shooting. But I didn't push the issue, did I? You did. And you were right to. You were right and I was wrong. All this time I was trying to help stop a school shooting, but you're the one who did. That sounds like a hero to me. You tried to warn me and you tried to protect me. That sounds like a friend to me. That sounds like a friend I need to try my hardest to hold onto, if you'll let me."

Molly threw her arms around Keisha, and they embraced. It wasn't a meek, timid hug. It was two girlfriends who loved each other.

When they pulled free from the hug, Molly turned to look at the door to Shane's room. She knew it was time for her to make her exit. She made one last head tilt in the direction of the hospital room and said, "So... Shane... he's pretty sexy without a beard, huh?"

Keisha laughed. "I know right! Who knew?"

Molly shrugged, "It's either that or... perhaps love really can change a man."

Keisha blushed. "Well, we'll see. I got the feeling things are just getting started."

They hugged again and Keisha's mom opened the door for Keisha to enter Shane's room. When Keisha walked into the room, she could hear Shane talking from behind the curtain. It wasn't the tone of casual conversation; he seemed to be telling a story. Keisha instantly put her finger to her mouth to instruct her mother to stay quiet. The two of them paused there for a moment to eavesdrop.

"... and although it meant taking a lance straight through his spleen, brave Sir Galladen protected the princess, restored her honor, as well as his own. And restored them to their proper roles: he as the strong protector and she as the sacred beauty. Then he closed his eyes and fell into her arms.

"Suddenly, he who spent his whole life cursing the light, found himself at last, surrounded completely in darkness."

There was a long pause here. Keisha wondered if Shane had heard them enter and had stopped telling the story, then they heard Shane sniffle softly.

He continued with a voice slightly less stable, "But at long last, the light pierced the darkness. And Sir Galladen did comprehend it. He understood for the first time exactly what life is. It is glorious and precious and joyful. It is ugly and brutish and intolerable. It is heartache and loneliness and adolescence. It's one chamber of the heart filled ever-so-sweetly and three chambers left painfully empty. It is one desire satisfied and ten unsatisfied. It's Heaven and Hell, and God and the devil. It's a princess with bouncy hair and a dorky smile. And it is love.

"Sir Galladen no longer just saw one side. He saw all of it there in the light, and its beauty forced him to squint. He saw all of it and it was beckoning him. The light entered his mind and his heart, followed by a question mark—a meek, humble, powerful question mark—allowing him to decide for himself if he wanted to enter.

"He was ready. He knew he could answer the questions that had never let him rest. He already knew the answer to People? was Keisha, but what was his answer to Life? He knew that his answer in that moment would be his final answer for all time. And he said 'Yes!'" Shane paused again, but the pause wasn't as long. "No, that's not it. It was like Sir Galladen had abused life. He whipped life, and beat life, and spit on life repeatedly. But yet, somehow life not only came back to him but was asking for his hand in marriage! It wouldn't be a storybook marriage but a real marriage that is rife with pain and doubt and sacrifice and friction and betrayal and forgiveness.

"So, his once-and-for-all answer to Life? was I do. In that moment, he said, 'I do,' and immediately the darkness left him. He felt his body being pulled back into the light. He thought he might have the strength to open his eyes and he did. The first thing he saw was the princess standing there beside him as the medicine man checked him over. And now remember they had never kissed before. But this moment was so powerful. This was the moment they finally shared their first kiss."

"Sir Galladen kissed the medicine man?" The voice was Shane's mom.

Shane laughed. "No, actually, the princess, Mom. He kissed the princess."

Shane's mom laughed. "Then what happened?"

"That's the end. They kissed." Keisha could hear the smile in his voice. It made her smile as well. She couldn't stay away any longer and she drew back the curtain and burst into his room.

Upon Shane seeing Keisha, his heart monitor sped up.

Keisha hugged Shane and his mother, then Keisha's mother did the same. Keisha pushed him over so she could sit on the edge of his bed, then brought his hand into hers.

"That's it?" asked Shane's mom, turning back to her son, despite the new arrivals. "That's all?"

"Well, yeah," said Shane. "That's where the story ends."

"Hmmm." His mom looked at him blankly. She was obviously disappointed. She had not been enjoying the story like she always had. On another day, when Shane was on a roll like that, he used to be able to bring his mother to tears.

"You didn't like that one?" he asked his mom, surprised.

She frowned and gently whispered, "Do you think... maybe... you're losing your edge?"

Shane laughed out loud; there was too much joy in the room for him just to grin. He said, "It's because you're sober, Mom!"

She smiled and retorted, "Three days sober!"

Shane reached out his other hand to her. "I'm so proud of you, Mom."

Keisha's mom placed the palm of her hand lovingly on Shane's mom's shoulder.

Keisha turned back to Shane and extended the gift-wrapped package she'd been holding. She said, "I got you something."

Shane grinned at the gift which so obviously was the size and shape of a picture frame. He said, "A bowling ball? How'd you know?"

Keisha shook her head. "It's a puppy."

Shane laughed out loud again. He had been in the best mood ever since he'd been shot. It was either the heroism or the meds.

Keisha smiled and said, "Actually, it's something for you to hang in your jail cell."

Shane's face panicked. His head spun instantly toward his mother.

"Jail cell?" snapped his mom. "What jail cell?"

Shane looked back over to Keisha. Keisha's eyes looked down.

"What jail cell?" the mom repeated impatiently.

Shane cleared his throat. He said, "Hospital beds give you a lot of time to evaluate your life. And I've come to a decision. As soon as I am well, I will speak to Officer Downs from our school and confess. You see, Mom, I did something terrible and an innocent man is currently paying the price for it."

"You mean Brody? Why?" sassed Shane's mom. "The Enchanted Troll? He's not innocent. He's despicable!"

Shane stammered, totally blindsided. "But... see, I did something terri—"

His mom interrupted, "You planted a gun in his locker, big deal! He had it coming. He deserved it."

Shane's face flushed with a strange delight. Shane had been "making up" stories about Sir Galladen for over three years, and this was the first time his mom ever let on she'd been following them, the real stories. She had always played along, but she hadn't been too high to decode them after all. Shane's delight came with the fact that his mother, who had raised him so irresponsibly, actually knew everything about him and his life. It meant every time she'd asked for a Sir Galladen story, she was actually asking about her baby boy. Amazingly, she knew more about her son's life than the moms of most teenagers. Shane smiled. She was still there, even when she wasn't there.

No one had answered her, so she pressed again, "Why? Why would you feel the need to save Brody? He's despicable. He deserved it. Brody would never do that for you."

Shane nodded. His face showed compassion for her. He said, "Because it's not about the man Brody is; it's about the man I am. It's about the man I want to be. Besides..." He squeezed Keisha's hand. "When I was despicable, when I didn't deserve it, someone was there to save me."

Keisha nodded back to the picture frame. She said, "I think you should open it now."

Shane could tell what it was from the first tear into the wrapping paper, but he couldn't believe it. He quickly removed it and held it up with both hands. He tilted it back and forth, strangely, as if he were somehow confirming it was real.

It was the drawing, the first-place drawing. All sixty-four pieces of it, taped together. Keisha had heard what happened and was able to gather it all from the chain-link fence in the parking lot. She reassembled them like Victoria Frankenstein. She taped them as carefully as possible with the tape on the back, but it didn't matter. The power of the piece as a work of art was long gone, but it's power as a symbol was far greater.

Keisha had done it again. She had once found Shane in pieces, random lines that didn't connect, meaningless shapes that made no sense. But somehow she was able to fit it all together. Somehow, she was able to restore something beautiful.

There is no point of no return. There's no depth from which you can't rise. There's no dragon that can't be slain, demon vanquished, obstacle overcome, no relationship that once torn apart can't be taped back together. Shane had once called the drawing a promise. It was a promise he kept. And it was a promise that saved both their lives.

Note to Reader:

I hope you have enjoyed reading my third novel. If you haven't read Mead Mountain, please check it out.

It was the AMAZING REVIEWS that made Mead Mountain a success, so please:

Love this book? Please leave a five-star review on Amazon.

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***COMING VERY SOON FROM B.K. DELL: (Subject to change)***

January 2019

Don't Ask—the Story of America's First Openly Gay Marine and the Political Firestorm he Never Meant to Start (Novel)

May 2019

The Shroud of Turing—the Clash of New Age Tech with Old Time Religion (Novel)

September 2019

Bullies—the Continuing Saga of a Child Activist (Novel)

Acknowledgement: "Stand up straight with your shoulders back" is rule one in Jordan Peterson's 12 Rules for Life

This book was published by Authoritative, a small start-up from Texas, without the assistance of the large New York firms. You can help support this novel, and those to follow, by spreading the word about the work we are doing. Those of you on Facebook, please join my fan page: Facebook.com/AuthorBKDell, and invite your friends to join. Mention this book on your wall and share a link to BKDell.com. If you run a blog, please mention me on your blog. Come find me on  Goodreads.com; friend me and click to become a fan. Amazon and Goodreads are the best places to leave a five-star review.

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