Amanda's Gun

The little blonde cheerleader waved at me, then aimed the gun. She was about four inches away from me, her desk directly beside mine- but the barrel of the black handgun was about an inch from my nose. Several gasps arose around us in the small senior honors English classroom; I froze, my heart thudding as loudly and uncontrollably as an over stimulated clothes washer.

“Thought that might wake you all up a bit,” Amanda Partin smirked, her small hand not trembling in the slightest as she kept the gun trained on me. Not one of the sixteen others in the room, including the teacher, Mrs. Lerner, said a word, made a move- I don’t think we were capable of it, in those first shocked moments.

I, honestly, had two simultaneous and completely oppositional reactions. The first thing that popped into my head- after the initial dumbfounded staring- was that all of this had to be a joke. The gun must be a toy, or not loaded, or something- this had to be a senior prank. Surely this wasn’t really a real fully loaded gun- surely it wasn’t Amanda Partin of all people who was holding it.

Even as these doubts flickered in my mind, I believed Amanda and her gun entirely, and I was terrified, scared shitless. How can you help but be when a girl stands up in the middle of an analysis of Ophelia’s suicide in Hamlet, whips a handgun out of her oversized purse, and shoves it into your face? Especially a girl like Amanda Partin- about the last person you’d ever think capable of such a thing.

Before that day, that time- stopping moment where Amanda aimed the gun at me, she had been one of those girls in the school who fit in well enough, but did not really stand out in any way- not a leader or anyone that people automatically thought of when they gave out student superlatives. She was one of those girls who is smart enough to be in honors, but not enough to get the top grades; cute enough and talented enough to be on the cheerleader squad, but never as a captain, always in the back row; considered part of the in crowd, but on the fringes, not considered one of the most popular. She wasn’t especially talkative or especially quiet- just one of those people who seemed cheerful most of the time, but not so much it annoyed you. If anything, Amanda was almost bland- likeable, but forgettable. How could someone like that be angry enough or violent enough to bring a gun to school?

Yet here it was… directly in my face. I know I’ve repeated this a lot, but that’s not something you will ever get over, ever forget, if the intent was serious.

Even in the first twenty seconds or so, even with all the flitting through my head, one of the first things I thought was, why me? What does she possibly have against me? I barely knew Amanda- I mean, yeah, we were in the same honors classes, had been all through middle and high school- but still, I never spoke to her outside of class. I had never dated her, never called her, never e-mailed or danced with her. I was a soccer player- cheerleaders didn’t’ even come to our games. I had never been cruel to her, never even made fun of her- unless indirectly, through dumb blonde or cheerleader jokes. Surely that couldn’t be what this was all about.

“Damn, is this real?” I heard a guy breathe behind me, “is she for real…”

I myself couldn’t stop from saying, “Oh shit,” my voice much higher and tighter than usual.

Amanda smirked, still holding the gun steadily. I remember thinking disjointedly how small she was, how scary it was that someone five inches shorter than me and 30 pounds lighter could be holding my life so precariously in my hands.

“You scared, Rhys?” she asked me, her voice almost pleasant, conversational. “Afraid I’ll harm you- shoot you in your nice, smart-boy face?”

Obviously the thought had crossed my mind. But what are you supposed to say to that- what would make someone put down a gun?

“Amanda,” Mrs. Lerner spoke up then, apparently getting over her shock enough to attempt to exert authority over the situation. “Amanda, let’s not get excited or upset here… we don’t want anyone getting hurt.” Her voice shook, and her eyes were flitting between Amanda and the gun- the gun still pointed at my almost unblinking face.

“Amanda, you don’t’ need to do this. Just put the gun down, and we’ll listen to whatever it is you think you need to say to us so urgently. Just-“

“No, I don’t think so, authority figure,” Amanda sneered, barely shifting derisive blue eyes in her direction. “I think I can probably say whatever I want just as well with a gun in hand- if not better.”

I noticed from the corner of my eye that Mrs. Lerner had this strange, urgent look in her eyes, more than fear or shock… it was as if she was trying to convey a message, trying to signal to someone with her eyes. I didn’t dare turn my head, not with the gun in my face- but sure enough, as Mrs. Lerner spoke to Amanda again, I saw Calder Skannart stand up quietly, begin edging toward the back of the room- toward the silent call button, installed just for hostage situations like this.

“Amanda, we want to listen to whatever it is you have to say,” Mrs. Lerner was telling her, but her voice trembled, and her eyes kept darting toward the door, the call button, Calder… everyone else was still as the chairs they sat in, all too aware of the intensity of the situation unfolding. “If anything’s bothering you, we want to help, we want to hear you out-“

“Oh, you want to help now, do you, now that it’s too fucking late for me?” Amanda snarled, her eyes narrowing in sudden anger. “Well you know, there are time limits in life. It’s too late for you too.”

Suddenly she whipped around, her gun turning with her, away from me. I barely had time to feel relief- perhaps two seconds, at the most- for that was about how much time lapsed before she aimed her gun at Calder and shot him in the chest.

Almost immediately, pure panic and hysteria broke loose. Calder had not been more than three steps from reaching the call button… he had been popular, athletic, a pitcher for the baseball team. Now he was crumpled on the floor, his eyes rolling back in his head, his legs twitching as he bled…

Several people screamed, shrill shrieks of horror and shock. I couldn’t utter a word… my knees buckled, and I staggered, having to catch myself on my desk, for I had stood suddenly, thoughtlessly, when I saw Amanda aim her gun at him and shoot. She was still beside me, but no longer was she focused on me… for now that the first shot had been fired, she had a lot more to control. Mrs. Lerner was standing paralyzed, her eyes huge and glassy with shock- and all around the room people were yelling or crying… Two guys and a girl jumped up, were racing to the door-

Six, seven shots later- I could not tell you how many, it was too fast, too overwhelming, and all three would-be escapists were sprawled near Calder on the floor, near death… David Resnik, a chunky band kid, Gail Oswell, another cheerleader, and Fletcher Stewart, a basketball player. Our class of sixteen had just been reduced to twelve… and only two of the five guys in it remained. Me, and Darren Usher, a skinny guy with nowhere near enough strength to tackle Amanda to the floor with me- if I could have moved at all…

Still Amanda stood in the center of the room, pointing her gun at the doorway, a slight smile playing at her lips. It was almost as if she were daring the people dead and dying before us to move, so she could have an excuse to shoot them again… or else daring us to give her reason to make us join them.

Her next words confirmed this. “Anyone else thinking escape?” she asked, and the scariest thing to me then was how pleasant and ordinary- how Amanda Partin- her voice sounded. I think I could have reacted more effectively than I did, if only she had sounded more angry, more crazed- it would have seemed less horribly shocking, less surreal. But now as I stared at her, wordless, I found myself wondering with a kind of horror if she had always been like this, the whole time I had sat beside her all year, if her perky exterior had always hidden this violence- this disturbance…

She had to be insane. No sane person would do what she was doing, when she wasn’t even a Gothic loner or anything. But her eyes were clear, and she looked so happy- so normal… even as she held the gun in her hand, as I tried not to look at the four bodies at the doorway.

“Didn’t think so,” Amanda answered herself when only terrified silence and shuddering sobs greeted her. All of us were shaking in our seats, too afraid to move or speak. Della Drucker, Fletcher’s girlfriend, was hyperventilating, her breath coming in shallow gasps as tears streamed down her cheeks. Her best friend Kendall Gaton sat hunched and unmoving beside her, panting in short gasps as her eyes darted from the bodies to Amanda. That was the only noise in the room- a few other girls were crying, but silently, as if in a frantic attempt not to make noise, not to call attention to themselves.

Still smiling pleasantly, Amanda pointed her gun at Mrs. Lerner, who was ashen and silent before the class now, gulping rapidly, seeming incoherent with fear. I knew looking at her that she would not take charge- she would not be the one to take Amanda down. Nor would Darren or the girls… that left me. And I could not move… I wasn’t even sure if I could make myself speak. What if she got angry and shot me- or what if I tackled her and the gun went off and killed someone?

“Go to the door and lock it, Mrs. Authority Figure,” Amanda told Mrs. Lerner, “move aside those who wouldn’t listen before, and shove at least four desks up against it. We wouldn’t want other supposed authority figures to interrupt us now, would we? But anything clever like trying to run, or yelling something down the hall- if you open the door at all- well, you saw what happened.” She shrugged, as if to say that those things happen.

Mrs. Lerner swallowed, her eyes pleading full of unshed tears as she glanced between Amanda and the door- hoping, I thought suddenly, that someone would come by and help us. And why weren’t they coming? Surely they had heard Amanda shoot- surely someone knew what was going on. Maybe someone was coming to help us right now- a teacher, police- maybe if we stalled enough-

But then I realized, and my heart scrunched up in my chest. If they had even identified the noises as gunshots- which they might not have, they might think them firecrackers, like countless people from school shootings before us- even if they knew it was gun shots, no one would burst in to save us and risk themselves or us in a hostage situation. They’d get all the other kids in the school locked up, where Amanda couldn’t get to them, and they’d call the police- if they could even get a signal with our school’s crap cell phone service. In other words, there was definitely no way to tell how long we might- or might not- be in the classroom with Amanda and her gun.

I’m not sure if Mrs. Lerner stalled because she realized this or not- maybe she just was afraid to move, to seal our captive states by locking us in- to touch the dead bodies of the students who minutes ago had been sitting in her class. Whatever the case, she swallowed hard, her voice choking as she began, “Amanda, please, just listen to me. We don’t-“

“No, YOU listen to ME,” Amanda interrupted, and her eyes were no longer so calm, her voice had lost its pleasant tone. “You do like I told you to and you do it now. Set an example like a good little role model- you don’t want to mar that squeaky clean little image of working in the educational field, being the future and dreams of our youth,” she sneered, her lips twisting cruelly. She jerked her head toward the doorway. “Do it.”

Swallowing convulsively, Mrs. Lerner began to inch her way toward the door, her breathing rapid, noticeably blinking against tears. Della had managed to calm her breathing down somewhat, but she was horribly pale, shaking like a hypothermic victim. It was the most helpless feeling I had ever felt in my life… I was one of only two males there with my female teacher and classmates, and I just sat there. I just let a small girl with a gun continue in her campaign of intimidation.

I couldn’t look when Mrs. Lerner reached, the door, couldn’t watch her move the bodies, shove the desks in front of the door. It seemed to take forever… some of the girls must have watched, for they were crying harder, and I couldn’t stand to imagine how it must have felt for Mrs. Lerner to do what she was being forced to.

I didn’t look up again until I heard Amanda say, “Very good, what a good role model you are,” in a tone that seemed dangerous, if also pleased. Mrs. Lerner’s legs were shaking worse than ever now, and she was fighting to keep back tears more desperately than ever. She was not a young woman or a strong one- probably in her late forties- and for her to have to do what she- somehow I felt guilty, almost entirely responsible.

“Just one more lesson you need to demonstrate,” Amanda said casually- and then she shot Mrs. Lerner in the throat.

With the first death, panic had erupted… but this one was so shocking, so unexpected- so unfair, was the word popping into my mind- that only despair and grief, shock and hopelessness, were the results. There was only two short shrieks from Angie Argonott and Frankie Sardgas- even as Mrs. Lerner made horrible choking noises on the floor, choking on her blood, no one moved, no one jumped up and ran for the door. I think someone wet their pants, for the acidic smell of urine filled the air, and the sobbing of some grew wilder, intensified. Other than that, no one moved, no one said a word… me included. It was as if we were accepting our doom.

“Lesson is, boys and girls,” Amanda said calmly, as if there was absolutely nothing out of the ordinary about what she was doing, “don’t trust anyone. Especially authority. And now that there’s no authority… looks like I’m in command.”

She stroked the barrel of the gun almost lovingly… it made me shiver. How could she be so very different from the person I had thought I’d known? Was there really insanity lurking behind every person’s smile?

Della Drucker was hyperventilating again, sobbing so harshly her entire body heaved and shuddered in her desk. The loud gasps she made were all I could hear, all I could think of. There were other girls crying too- Kendall, Angie, Frankie, Dori Raiden, even Tali Swift, whom I had never thought of as quite capable of tears. But none of them were anything in comparison to Della; she sounded as though someone were torturing her to the brink of insanity, twisting her heart visciously inside her chest. It alarmed me to hear her- what if she had a heart attack, or brain stroke or something? Was that possible for teenagers?

I didn’t even enter my mind in the narrow, defensively unfocused way that it was functioning that heart attacks were far from a pressing concern when there was a girl with a gun- a girl who had already demonstrated she was only too happy to use it.

Amanda strode over the few steps to where Della was sitting, in between Kendall and Adrianna Houghton. No smile on her face this time, she pointed the gun straight in Della’s face, as she had done to me only a few minutes ago. Had it really been less than ten minutes ago- could so many people have died, so many of us scarred psychologically, in less than ten minutes?

Seeing the gun, Della’s eyes grew huge, and she cried harder, shaking horribly. From the way Kendall and Adrianna were looking at her- alarmed, almost angry- they feared for their own lives as well as hers, being in such close shooting range.

“Stop it right now!” Amanda yelled, shaking her gun at her for emphasis. “Shut up- you’re giving me a fucking headache! Just stop it!”

Della was trying, I knew… I could barely stand to watch her, see her struggling to stifle the cries and have them still break from her. Seeing Amanda so easily incited to acts of violence, standing over her, could not have helped.

“Shut up!” Amanda hissed fiercely. “Don’t make me repeat myself…”

It was then that Kendall did something so brave and selfless I was almost in awe. I envied her, in a way , for being in that moment what I could not even think to be, let alone actually pull off. She stood up in her seat, still snuffling back her own tears, and walked around behind Della in her desk.

Immediately Amanda’s gun was aimed at her, and she barked, “What are you doing, where the hell are you going? Sit down!”

But Kendall was behind Della then, and she knelt beside her, wrapping trembling arms around her, pulling her close to her. Della clung to her with panicky, grateful neediness, and Kendall drew Della’s head down hard against her chest, holding her face there, and so effectively muffling her sobs. Watching them, I was amazed by Kendall’s daring… her compassion.

Amanda, of course, continued to aim the gun, unmoved. “What the hell are you doing?” she repeated.

Kendall raised her eyes to Amanda’s, but there was no defiance or bravado in them. “I-I’m keeping her quiet for you,” she said, her voice unsteady. “Please… let me do this…”

Amanda stared at her, the expression on her face undeterminable, but then she laughed coldly, the hardness returning to her eyes.

“There’s no point to it. You’re all going to die anyway- you can’t fucking save her. That’s just a delusion.”

Nevertheless, she turned from them, the gun going with her. She raised her voice to address all the rest of us, almost yelling.

“Don’t you know that? It’s all a delusion! Everything they tell you in life is a fucking lie!”

The hand not holding her gun was clinched into a fist at her side, and Amanda’s voice was tight, as fierce as I’d ever heard it as she continued. “Everything all these so-called authority figures, the ones who are supposed to CARE about you, to look out for you- everything they tell you is a lie!” she repeated. “ ‘You can be whatever you want to be-‘ yeah, right. So all the people who kill themselves every day, is that what they wanted to be? Is that why they’re dead now? All the people who are poor and alone- is that what they want? You think this is what I fucking wanted to be?” she yelled, jabbing herself hard in the chest with the gun, as violently as she had held it up to others.

“ ‘You’re special’, they tell you as a little kid, ‘everyone’s special’. Well if we’re all so fucking special, why do we all treat each other like shit?! If everyone is so fucking special, why doesn’t anyone care about me? Why don’t I care about them? Why don’t I care if I shoot someone in the face and watch them fucking bleed to death, if we’re all so special?!”

Her voice dripped with sarcasm, but there was an odd look on her face- wild, desperate, almost poignant, if such a word could be attributed to someone who had done what Amanda had done. Something about her face made me think that her questions were not rhetorical, whether she realized it or not.

“Everyone who tries is a winner- that’s another good one. Because then we all can smirk when you fail, all us REAL winners. ‘What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger’- well maybe some of us are tired of being so damn strong all the time!”

No one was speaking as she paced up and down the aisles of the locked classroom, ranting… no one seemed to be coming to help us. Everyone was watching her nervously, flinching, waiting for the next explosion.

I was too, of course… but I was also trying to keep up with her train of thought. Why was she saying all that she was, about how horrible everyone was, especially when she herself had been well-liked, had everything going for her that she was denying? Why was she doing this- why? What was she even talking about?

It was from this mindset that I spoke, for the first time since Amanda had stood up with the gun. I don’t know what it was that made me say what I said- stupidity, naivity, a brain misfire, anger, frustration, or all of the above… or maybe somewhere, subconsciously, I was still so shamed by Kendall’s small act of courage that I felt I had to compete in some way.

Whatever it was, it caused me to catch Amanda’s eye and speak to her, in a voice far too confident and steady to be my own.

“What are you talking about, Amanda? You say all that stuff about other people- well, what about you? You’re saying how terrible other people are, but you just shot five people! What does that make you? You can’t blame what you’re doing on other people- you can’t say anyone is making you do this! You have everything, all that stuff you’re saying, it isn’t true for everyone, but it was true of you. What are you talking about?”

The words spilled out more easily than it had been for me to breathe, before. Everyone turned to stare at me, horrified- no doubt expecting Amanda’s wrath to pour out upon me. I couldn’t blame them- even with the rush of adrenaline that merely speaking had given me, I was still shocked at my own daring- my stupidity. What the hell had I just done?

Amanda turned to face me slowly, deliberately. Her mouth was pressed into a thin line, her blue eyes slitted; she came closer, closer, until she was standing right in front of me, her gun aimed once more at my face. I saw nothing but her and her gun; everything else was blocked from my narrowed vision. I heard a strange pounding in my ears; it took me a moment to realize it was my heartbeat.

“You have more balls than I thought, Rhys,” Amanda almost breathed, and her face was close to mine that I could almost smell the scent of her. “Show them off too much, and I’ll make sure you have nothing left to show.”

She backed up from me a little, began to resume her pacing, her monologue- only this time it was directed at me.

“You think you’re so smart, Rhys, so fucking wise and perfect, sitting there judging me- what do you know? I didn’t see you saving anyone- I didn’t see you offering yourself up as a sacrifice! I bet the first thing that went through your head with all the others was, glad that wasn’t me!” she sneered, her voice rising.

She was right, but I said nothing- what could I say? What wouldn’t be even more foolish than what I’d already done- more suicidally dangerous?

“You don’t know shit, Rhys Tiernan. About me, about life, about anything! You really think you now me, don’t’ you? You think you know who I am? You don’t know the first thing about me or my life!” she snarled. She sped up in her pacing, spitting the words out now in an angry fervor, waving her gun for emphasis at certain points. We all sat there, frozen to our seats, our eyes on Amanda’s rapidly moving lips, her hand on the gun. One twitch of her trigger finger, and one of us might be the next to die.

“Tell me, Rhys, why is it that a person can sit half a foot away from you all year, and still not know shit about you? Better yet, why is it that they are arrogant enough to believe they do- that close proximity means understanding?” she yelled, circling back around to stand before me again. “Tell me, because I don’t effing understand, Rhys!”

Yet again, I completely stunned myself by speaking out again, words coming from me before I could even formulate them in my mind. Even as I said them, there was no fear in me, only sudden and surprisingly detached anger. I was not angry at Amanda so much as the situation- including myself, as little sense as that made.

“I can’t, Amanda,” I said, and my voice was almost as loud and aggressive as hers. “I don’t know. I don’t get it either- I don’t get anything. You’re right, I don’t know you- I don’t know you, so I don’t know why the hell you would do this to us. Tell me- make me understand you! Why would you do this, why would you hurt people, kill people, when none of them ever did anything to hurt you?”

I heard Adrianna beside Kendall and Della, who was still burying her face in Kendall’s chest, still shaking, but not as badly as before. Adrianna was hissing at me, “Shut up, just shut up before she blows your head off!” I couldn’t deny her logic- but Amanda didn’t. She just stared at me with her eyes widening, her mouth open, as if she were truly shocked. But then she began to laugh. The sound was loud, cruel, but somehow terribly sad to listen to. I can’t explain it, but her laugh made me stare at her in mute surprise at what confusion I felt toward her.

“The hell you didn’t,” Amanda finally managed to say, and her laughter cut off abruptly. Her eyes narrowed once again, and she looked me in the eye, true disbelief on her face obvious. “Oh jesus, Rhys… you honestly believe that, don’t you?”

She looked around the room, at the others’ pale, silent faces, the eyes that skittered away from hers quickly.

“All of you believe that,” she muttered, shaking her head. “All of you honestly think that’s true, that none of you did anything to hurt me…”

Again, something made me speak up, challenge her- someone very unlike me. Or at least the me I had been fifteen minutes ago when Amanda had first pulled out her gun.

“Look, Amanda- talk to us. Let us help, if we can. You’re obviously troubled about something…”

(Was this me talking like a shrink to a girl my own age, a girl threatening me with a gun? Was this me, thinking I stood a chance of convincing her?)

“Maybe there’s something we can do to help, Amanda. Is there anything you want us to do for you? You don’t want to do this… maybe we can help. Just give us a chance.”

Amanda just looked at me, shaking her head rapidly. I noticed for the first time that the hand holding the gun was shaking. Was she weakening, losing her will- or was it merely growing heavy in her hand? Wasn’t anyone coming to help us- it had been at least fifteen minutes since the first shot was fired!

“I’ve already given you chances,” she said, and her voice was almost a whisper. “I’ve given you so many chances.”

“Give us one more,” I whispered back, making my voice- the voice of the person temporarily possessing my voice- intense. “Talk to me, Amanda. Let me try. You don’t have to do this.”

“You made me do this, you know,” she whispered, and then more loudly, “You think you didn’t make me do this?! All of you, shut up, just shut up, Rhys!”

She was breathing loudly now, raspily, her hand shaking, chest heaving… her face shivered, and I suspected suddenly that she was close to tears. What was going on in her head, I wondered- what could she be thinking- what had she thought that first moment that she stood up with her gun?

“Amanda-“ I tried again.

“No!” she shrieked, and then, softer, her voice breaking, “No, Rhys, stop it, shut up. You can’t do anything, you can’t help me. No one can fucking help me now.”

I opened my mouth, began to form her name on my lips, form the words I was convinced would save her… would save us…

But her name died on my lips, so bitter I could almost taste it, almost gagged… for before I could say another word, the gun in Amanda’s hand as pointed at her own head. One slight pressure at the trigger, and I could say nothing. Her name held my voice captive.

It’s been almost a month now, and the school has re opened for a week now. Still, there are several of us who were there that day, there with Amanda and her gun, who have yet to set foot in that classroom- or even the school. Several have transferred or simply not returned- and others, thought they have returned, still carry the emotional scars. Actually, I’m positive we all do.

I am one of the few who has returned, though I can’t say that sitting in that classroom, even with the blood and other bodily fluids scrubbed away, doesn’t make my stomach twist and my heart pound. I sit it out more to prove something to myself than because I think I’m over it.

None of us are over it- even years from now, when it’s not so fresh, so constantly a part of our lives, that day will still linger in the back of our minds, still have impacted a part of who we are. I don’t think any of us will be fully able to trust our impressions of another person and their capabilities… and for now, I am unable to look at small blonde girls, including my own cousins, without obsessively wondering what they’re thinking, whether they might be more than they appear.

The school has remodeled that classroom, opened up counseling for grieving students, had memorials for Mrs. Lerner, Calder, Fletcher, Gail, and David, had talks about school violence and safety, signs of depression. Most of us are seeing therapists now but still, none of this seems to do really much but to numb emotions. It doesn’t take away the repetitive thoughts that continue to circle in my mind…

The police had arrived less than three minutes after Amanda shot herself… some say that the timing didn’t matter, as long as the results of her death were the same, but I do not feel this way. I think the timing mattered- not with the police, for I doubt they could have done anything but agitate her further, but with me. It was me who could have done something- me who screwed his timing…

When Amanda first got out her gun, I froze, said and did nothing for far too long. Had I spoken sooner, taken control, maybe no one would be dead today. If I had not waited so long, everything might have been okay. Even if I had said nothing, not spoken until I did with Amanda, if I had said the right things, I may have at least been able to save her. No matter what anyone tells me, I will not be able to forgive myself for that.

Almost a month later, and still no one knows for sure why Amanda did what she did. The police searched her room and found no violent videos or music, no angry diaries or suicide notes, no shrines from Marilyn Manson or homemade bombs or dead kittens. In fact, according to rumor, if it can be trusted, the only evidence they found at all of Amanda’s dark side were self-inflicted scratches on her breasts and thighs.

There was no evidence of abuse in her home, or neglect- her parents seemed perfectly ordinary, grief-stricken and bewildered, as was to be expected. But then, Amanda herself had seemed normal, perfectly sweet and happy; she had never seemed disturbed to me, or even unhappy. I guess that’s why I no longer trust what people show of themselves anymore, for you can never really know for sure that it’s the truth.

I don’t think we’ll ever know why Amanda did what she did, how long her emotions built up inside her, festering… it chills me to think how long I might have sat next to her and not known the darkness behind her cheery smile. It chills me, and somehow depresses me…

It still bothers me, every time I remember the way her face looked as I fumbled for the right words… the way she seemed to break apart…. But most of all, her final words.

“You can’t do it, you can’t help me. No one can help me…”

What if she had been right- what if we had hurt her, though not in the way she implied? What if we had hurt her by ignoring her when she was drowning- by not noticing distress signals she might have subtly been giving off?

What if every day, she had tried to give us signs, ways to let us know that she hurt, that something was wrong deep inside her? What if she had given me signs- me specifically? What if she had, consciously or not, directly appealed to me for help? And why wouldn’t she- I had, as she’d repeated, sat beside her all year.

What if I had been so self-absorbed and blind, so uncaring, that I did not notice Amanda’s attempts to ask for my help?

I cannot remember what the last thing was that Amanda said before she drew her gun- nor can I remember if I said anything to her that day. Somehow I feel that this is vitally important…

What if her last words had been to me? What if they were a last effort to get help, to get my attention? What if I had completely ignored it- or completely misread her?

What if all the deaths that day had hinged on whether I really listened to Amanda- and what if I had failed them, failed her?

The end