Gone, Gone, Gone(16)

At least that’s how I imagine it. It isn’t like I’ve visited him, and is that the part that’s important? That I haven’t visited him, even though he’s asked, he’s said f*ck you f*ck you Craig get up here goddamn it get here now, and is it important that I haven’t gone, or is it more important that that isn’t a real invitation? Is it more important that Cody is there or that he’s here in my head?

I think the part that’s important is we kissed in my parents’ attic when we were nine and ten.

That was great. And the summer before freshman year, the summer of 2001? That was a great summer. And then everything got so f*cked up. I guess what happened is that the terrorists won.

My city, Silver Spring, isn’t technically a city in the legal sense of the word, according to the internet. I’m not sure why. Downtown, where I almost, almost, am, looks like most small cities, in the way that it’s a pretty rundown place, but with some tall buildings, and it has a general feeling of blue and brown. The streets are beautiful at night because of all the fast food places and the little liquor and wine stores. It looks like Christmas every night here, with all the brake lights and streetlights, and even along the highways, because you can see the lights from the hotels and churches. But on the edges of all of it, where the light almost, almost, but doesn’t quite hit, the dark is very deep, darker than any of the places in the whole world that I’ve ever been.

These are the kinds of things you realize when you stare out your window all night, waiting for an email that doesn’t come, listening to Sandwich whine for food even though there’s still some in her bowl. I have this brutal headache, and I know I need to go to sleep, but right now sleep feels as impossible as holding my breath all night.

I wonder how many people are getting shot over these few hours. All over the world, how many people are getting shot tonight, in this weird time between October 3rd and October 4th?

It turns out, no one was shot, at least not in our area by a single long-range bullet, the news says this morning. But that’s not even important, because the front page of the newspaper has an article tying all the shootings together, and there is, guaranteed, a sniper.

I read the word “sniper” and it’s like a bell in my head, ringing and ringing with the realization that everything is about to get really weird.

My mom drops me off really close to the front door of my school, like I’m six or something. “Just to be safe,” she says, and she gives me an extra kiss on each cheek. “I love you.” She doesn’t roll down the windows, even though it’s not as cold outside as it has been and the leaves are falling and it already smells like Halloween. October has a smokier smell than September, like there are candles burning in pumpkins the whole month.

Before I get out of the car, she says, “Craig, maybe we should stop hunting for the animals for a while.”

I look at her.

And my brain stops CodyCodyCodying just long enough to think, two dogs, three cats, three rabbits, one guinea pig.

She says, “Okay, honey, I’m sorry. God, don’t ever make that face at me again.” She hugs me, but I don’t know what face I’m making, because I didn’t mean to make a face. Maybe my normal face is just a really sad face, and how shitty would that be?

But the point is that I’m not going to stop looking for the animals, because they are mine and they are counting on me.

When I get out of the car, all these teachers and parent volunteers sweep in and form a pod around me until I reach the building. It’s claustrophobic and annoying and I’m fifteen and I can take care of myself.



I’m doodling in American Civilizations when Mr. Spavich sets aside his lesson plan and says, “Okay. Do you want to talk about what’s going on?”

We all look at him like we don’t know what he’s talking about.

“Are your parents afraid to pump gas?” he asks. “All of a sudden, that seems like a risky activity, doesn’t it?”

We don’t look at each other.

Mr. Spavich says, “Guys. It’s okay to be scared.”

Marisabel says, “If we’re scared, the terrorists win. Isn’t that what everyone said after September eleventh?”

“This isn’t terrorists,” Lio says under his breath. He’s sitting next to me, wearing these fingerless gloves that make him look like a badass. After his email last night, I have no idea what to say to him. And I guess he’s forgiven for kissing me, but I guess I still have that headache.

Dennis says, “Well, my parents are paying my brother to pump gas for them, which is kind of disgusting. Like, it’s all well and good if he’s the one who gets shot, we get it.”

“There are articles online, now,” Marisabel says. “Like, ‘How Not To Get Shot While Pumping Gas.’ People are getting paid to tell us how to not get randomly shot.”

Lio writes AND HOW DO YOU FEEL ABOUT THAT in big letters on his notebook. Next to it is a scribble from his English class—f*cking Kafka climaxed too early—that makes me smile. I chew my knuckle so I don’t laugh, and he notices and gives me this fantastic grin, though I’m not sure he knows why I’m laughing, and I think that’s okay. I think it’s this thing that’s okay, here in the middle of everything.

“Craig?” Mr. Spavich says.