Tracy Flick Can't Win (Tracy Flick #2) (61)

Oh God, Jack. I never knew there were so many.





Tracy Flick


I was shot twice, once in the shoulder and once in the hip. I’m still in a fair amount of pain. I have to use a cane to get around, and still can’t raise my left arm higher than my ear, but I’m working hard on my PT, and I’m getting stronger by the day. And believe me, I’m not complaining. I know how lucky I am. Luckier than Vito Falcone and Jack Weede, that’s for sure. They were both dead before they got to the hospital.

It was a long, arduous recovery. Three surgeries, a month in rehab, and a summer of bed rest, giving my traumatized body a chance to heal. I couldn’t have gotten through it without Marissa’s help. I stayed in her ground-floor guest room the whole time—the kids call it Tracy’s Room now—and she brought me food and read aloud to me, and at night we watched old movies, or sat out by the pool and listened to music. Sophia joined us for the month of August—she liked the twins and they liked her—and it was almost like we were a family. I’m back in my own house now, but I still spend a lot of time over there on the weekends. Marissa and I cook together, and we go for short walks—I’m trying to get my stamina back—but mainly we just talk and laugh and keep each other company. Life is so much better with a friend.

I wasn’t a hundred percent when September rolled around, but I went back to work anyway. I wouldn’t have missed that first day for the world. An honor guard of kids and teachers and custodians and cafeteria workers lined up outside the main entrance, and they all applauded as I limped into the building. The first thing I saw was a big, hand-lettered banner taped to the wall.

WE LOVE YOU, PRINCIPAL FLICK!

That’s right: Principal Flick.

Everything changed after I got shot. The Board passed a resolution commending me for my heroism and grace under pressure, Larry Holleran withdrew his candidacy, and that was that. It’s going pretty well. I’ve made it very clear that there’s a new sheriff in town, and that mediocrity won’t be tolerated, not on my watch. It helped that the football team had a great season, thanks to Marcus Turner. We won seven and only lost three, and even made it to the playoffs for the first time in years. Nobody’s complaining about Skippy Martino anymore.

Oh, and guess what else? I got elected to the Hall of Fame. They had to change the rules to include people who worked at the school, not just graduates, but that wasn’t a problem, because they wanted to make Jack Weede eligible as well. That was sad, Jack dying so suddenly, a massive heart attack just a couple of months before his retirement.

A big part of my job has been helping the kids to process their grief and move towards healing. We hired a full-time counselor, and the kids have come up with some rituals of their own. They’ve turned Vito’s old locker into a kind of shrine. They leave flowers for him sometimes, birthday cards, bags of candy on Halloween, a Christmas stocking with his name on it. In November, a woman named Paige Ellmann came to see it. She said she knew Vito from Florida, and that they’d dated for a little while before his death. I took a picture of her standing next to the plaque, and she took one of me. She hugged me before she left.

“Thank you so much,” she said. “That was so brave what you did that night. I’m glad he had someone to comfort him at the end. He was such a lovely man. I miss him every day.”

“I wish I could have done more,” I said. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

It’s always a little awkward when people tell me how brave I was, because I can’t remember much about what happened that night. The doctors say it’s traumatic amnesia, very common among victims of accidents and violent crimes.

A lot of people in the audience took videos, though. You can probably find some of them on the internet, not that I’d recommend it. I clicked on a few, but only because I wanted to fill the holes in my memory. Most of the footage was shaky and out of focus, but there was one video that held still and caught it all.

You can see the shooter moving down the aisle, shouting at Vito and raising his gun, and you can see Jack trying to stand up, his face contorted with pain. And then Vito gets shot—the first bullet knocks him right off his chair—and everyone panics. Diane and Lily flee to the left, Buzz and Kyle and Nate to the right. I don’t fault them for that. They did the sensible thing and tried to save themselves. Only Vito and Jack and I remained onstage—Vito on his back, still moving a little, and Jack flat on his face, utterly motionless. I don’t know why I didn’t try to help him; he was right next to me. I must have known he was dead, though I didn’t check for a pulse or anything. I didn’t even look at him. I just went straight to Vito.

You can see it on the video.

I get down on my hands and knees, and I crawl over to him, which also means I’m crawling towards the killer, who keeps yelling at me to get out of the way, because he doesn’t want to hurt me. But I keep going, and try to help Vito, but there’s not much I can do.

At this point, you can see our School Resource Officer, Allison Fitzpatrick, coming down the side aisle. When she gets near the stage, she draws her own weapon and takes a few precious seconds to position herself in a two-handed crouch. The killer takes advantage of that brief hesitation to fire again, and those are the shots that hit me, and a split second later, Allison pulls the trigger and he goes down. It’s over.