A Different Blue(44)

me, and I teetered, grabbing for a desk to lower myself into.

And then the room was swarming with police shouting instructions and asking questions. Wilson

answered them all in rapid succession, pointing out the weapon and relaying what had transpired

in his classroom. Wilson and I were pushed aside as Manny was surrounded, restrained, and led

from the school. And then Wilson's arms were around me, holding me fiercely as I clung to him in

return. The front of his shirt was damp with Manny's tears, and I could feel his heart pounding

wildly against my cheek. The smell of spicy soap and peppermints that was uniquely Wilson was

accompanied by the sharp scent of his fear, and for several minutes neither of us were capable

of speech. When he finally spoke, his voice was hoarse with feeling.

“Are you daft?” he scolded, his lips against my hair, his words clipped and his accent

pronounced. “You've got more bottle than any girl I've ever met. Why in God's name didn't you

hide like every other student with half a brain!”

I clung to him, shaking. The adrenaline that had been keeping me upright had abandoned me.

“He's my friend. And friends don't let friends . . . shoot . . . other friends,” I quipped, my

voice quavering in spite of my bravado. Wilson laughed, the sound almost giddy and full of

relief. I joined him, laughing because we had looked death in the face and lived to tell about

it, laughing because I didn't want to cry.





Wilson and I answered questions together, and then we were questioned again separately, as was

every student present in the classroom and in the hallways from the time Manny entered the

school. I'm sure Manny was also questioned extensively, though rumors abounded that he was

unresponsive and currently on suicide watch. I found out later that SWAT had been called and

ambulances and emergency personnel were already gathering around the school by the time the

seventh-hour European History class had erupted through the main doors of the high school.

Most of the student body had been swiftly evacuated by teachers and administrators as the drama

unfolded in Mr. Wilson's classroom, and when his students had run from the building, carrying

with them the news that Manny had been disarmed, the police just arriving on the scene promptly

entered the building. From that first gunshot into a fluorescent light, to the moment Manny was

taken into custody, only fifteen minutes had elapsed. It had felt like an eternity.

People said Wilson and I were heroes. There were local cameras everywhere as well as some

national coverage of the school shooting that had ended without bloodshed. I was commended by

Principal Beckstead personally, which was surreal for both of us, I'm sure. The few times I had

been in his crosshairs in the past weren't because of heroic behavior, to say the least. Mr.

Wilson and I were hounded for weeks by the media. But I didn't want to talk to anyone about

Manny, and I refused all interviews. I just wanted my friend back, and all the police and the

interviews just made me think of Jimmy and the last time I had lost someone I cared about. I

even thought I saw Officer Bowles, the officer who had pulled me over in Jimmy's truck once upon

a lifetime ago. He was talking with a group of parents when I walked out of the school that

terrible day. I told myself it couldn't be him. And so what if it was? It wasn't like I had