Teen Angst
“Where is my goddamn wig!”
Amy heard the silvery voice full of entitlement sail through the hallway. She knew what was next.
“Ameeeee!”
Releasing the trigger from the electric drill, Amy looked at the half-finished set piece with concern. An empty doorframe interrupted the otherwise flawless 17th century bourgeois living room. She looked toward the dressing rooms, then back at her work. Her heart started to race. Which need was more pressing?
Just then, three bright-eyed freshmen, dressed all in black, marched onto the stage.
“What do you want us to do?” the bravest one asked. All three looked poised for action, almost incapable of waiting for Amy’s command before they dashed off to fulfill it.
“Could one of you please go help Erin find her wig?” The brave one nodded and set off at a jog toward the dressing rooms. The two remaining stared at her.
Before Amy could assign them a task, the director/drama teacher entered stage right. She seemed to bring an enormous gust of wind with her; the stress radiated from her body and kicked up nearby objects in a whirlwind. Her short hair was a bird’s nest atop a greasy unwashed face. The middle-aged woman could hardly keep her glasses from slipping down her slick nose.
“Amy! Have you gone through the lighting cues with the techs yet?”
The aura of panic seeped in through Amy’s skin and crawled up her spine. “I was going to after –“
“Amy! Tech rehearsal is in one hour! I need you up in that lighting booth checking the cues, now.” The director stalked off and Amy turned her attention back to the now frightened freshmen.
“Do either of you know how to work this?” She held up the electric drill and buzzed it once for effect. Both of them nodded timidly.
“Ok, I need one of you to work on this flat here. We need to fit a hinge on it for the new door. I’ve marked the places in pencil where you need to drill.” Amy handed the drill off to the nearest black-clad figure, a girl barely tall enough to reach the highest pencil marking.
“You, come with me.” The remaining kid plodded after her toward the shop.
Amy sifted through a large wooden bin and removed a heavy piece of metal. “Have you ever seen a C-clamp before?” The frosh shook his blonde head. “Ok, it’s very simple. I need you to go around the back of the set, slide under the raised platforms, and clamp them together. The C should be straddling where the two platforms meet. Do you understand?” He nodded uncertainly.
“These clamps need to be as tight as possible. If these are loose the actors could fall. You need to do this right!” Amy knew raising her voice wouldn’t give confidence to the terrified techie, but goddamn it, it had to be done right! It was her ass on the line.
“In fact, when you think you’re finished come find me so I can check it.”
*
Chris, a sophomore at Helix High School, was doodling some sort of alien dog in the margin of his algebra homework when it started.
The balding old man pointing to chalky equations froze in mid-sentence. Bored, chattering students ceased their whispering. After what sounded like an indoor car crash, the silence was terrifying.
An eager learner in the first row, a beautiful girl with long brown hair that cascaded over the back of her seat, raised her hand. She didn’t wait to be acknowledged.
“Um…what was that?”
Chris felt annoyed at the verbalization of such of a question, though he too wondered. The algebra teacher, old enough to distrust his hearing, looked at her with utter confusion. “I have no idea, Rachel.”
Another explosive echo resounded, this time louder, closer. OK, Chris thought, one could be anything. But two? What’s going on out there?
The room was still, each person had his or her ears pricked, heads tilted, like some animal instinct had kicked in. The next sound was not a boom, but a soul-shattering scream.
As if it were some sort of horrific school bell, the sound got everyone to their feet. Students pressed themselves against the door, trying to see through the tiny window. Chris wiggled his way to the front, imagining the scream sounded distinctly familiar. Didn’t it sound a bit like Anna when he used to pull her hair on long car rides? The students behind him on tiptoe kept pressing those with a front row view, “what is it? What do you see?”
Pushing the students out of the way, the algebra teacher reached for the handle. He pulled the door open and looked up and down the hallway. It was empty.
The telephone on the teacher’s desk startled the class so badly a few females, who were huddled together, squeaked out a small scream. The teacher shut the door and went to pick it up. As soon as he abandoned his post, Chris edged the door open again and tried his luck. Would she be out there by her locker, screaming, hurt? The hall was still empty.
“Chris, shut the door, now!”
The command was accompanied by another sound that Chris suddenly recognized as gunfire. It was a sound he had never heard before, but something told him he was not mistaken.
“Chris! Now!” The teacher’s voice was unrecognizable, squealing with a basal fear that made the students freeze in their tracks.
“Chris, please shut the door and lock it.” His new tone was full of false, creepy calm, like someone telling a friend he was standing in a snake pit while trying to keep him from making any sudden movements.
Chris did as he was told. Bang! Louder. Closer.
“Ok, everyone under their desks, like an earthquake drill, ok?”
By instinct, Rachel raised her hand before she began to speak. “What’s going on?”
Faraway a chorus of sirens was underway. Everyone moved in perfunctory silence. Chris couldn’t remember telling his body what to do. As he inched under his desk, he noted that everyone seemed to know what was going on, but, like within his own shattered world, it was knowledge without comprehension.
*
Amy speed-walked out of the shop and across the stage. She jumped off the end into the house and made her way up to the lighting booth.
Inside, the two lighting techs and the sound tech were spinning on their swivel chairs eating burritos.
“What the hell are you doing?” Amy demanded of them, two of whom were a year older than her.
“Uh…we’re eating. We’ve been here for six hours.”
“And you think I haven’t? I haven’t eaten all day but we open tonight. You can eat when you get your job done.”
The trio looked angry, but said nothing. They wrapped up the remainder of their burritos and stacked them in the corner.
“Now show me the lighting cues.” Amy seethed.
Without the help of the actors on stage, Amy could only verify that a handful of lights were properly focused. Every cue overlooked labored her breath. From the perch, the freshman female was visible, straining on her tippy-toes to reach the highest pencil marks. They had almost reached the last of the cues when the tornado spun into view center stage.
“Ok, everyone on stage now!” The director’s voice was booming. She turned to look up at the light booth, shielding her eyes. “Amy, I need you down here.”
Amy sighed. Outside the light booth she stopped a moment, for what felt like the first time in hours. Rubbing her temples she took two deep breaths. They didn’t do a thing for her.
The cast, some half-dressed, assembled on stage. As she walked toward them, Amy noticed the glaring omission and her heart nearly stopped.
“Where’s Justin?”
The actors looked to one another, mumbling I don’t knows and Haven’t seen hims.
“He isn’t here!?” The shriek was so high-pitched it was a marvel it came out so deafening. The director wheeled on Amy once again.
“How could you not have known Justin wasn’t even here!? Go call him now and be prepared to do his role if he doesn’t show up.”
Amy lurched, trying to control the gag reflex the director had sparked. The very thought of taking the stage made her so nauseous she was afraid she might actually throw up right there in the aisle. She took off at a run toward the classroom to grab the cast list and phone numbers. After a moment of deliberation, Amy decided to use the phone in the shop so she could be alone.
Perched on a stool, she dialed. After a half-ring she slammed the receiver down. Without lifting her shaking grip from the handset, Amy felt heat seep into her eyes and cloud her vision. I’m not going to cry, she told herself without commitment, this is so fucked up, but I’m not going to cry.
*
Chris looked around at his bewildered peers huddled beneath their desks. Bang! Scream. Bang, bang! He felt an insuppressible need to move; suddenly the den beneath his desk was suffocating.
“Chris, get under your desk!”
Chris headed for the door and peered out the little window once again. He expected the same nothingness, but was startled by a figure, no taller than him, looking back. Instinctively, he hit the floor as the next bang shattered the tiny window, raining glass on his back.
Rachel and a few other students began to cry. Some shut their eyes tightly as if they could make it go away as long as they didn’t believe, like some nightmarish monster. Chris saw their terrified faces, but it was something on television, something in a movie. Even in his crouched position, so close to the firearm that elicited such screams, Chris couldn’t grasp the reality.
The figure kicked at the door, but the lock held. His face was now visible through the window; he leaned his head in and looked down to see what might be blocking his entry. Chris looked back up at him.
It was the face of insanity, but wild it was not. The figure’s gaze was stony, set, apathetic. He was neither smiling nor scowling. He looked like someone who was somewhat relieved after what was perhaps many days, weeks, or months of stress. It still crept along the corners of his eyes and tightened jaw, but the overall look was one of resolution.
The figure stepped back from the door and Chris flattened himself against the adjacent wall. He felt stupid, like he was imitating Law and Order without realizing this was real life. What the fuck was he supposed to do?
Bang, crrrrack! The wood of the door splintered as a bullet nearly blew it apart. The projectile, level with Chris’ knee, continued on its path. A wide-eyed Latino boy was struck in the shoulder. He hit his head on the plastic chair as he fell backward in pain. Instead of rushing to his aid, students scattered as far as possible, as if they could catch the bullet like a disease.
Chris made a move to go to him.
“Don’t. Wait.” The balding man crouched behind the teacher’s desk held up an unsteady hand. “Wait and see if he does it again.”
The Latino was howling, but even so, the muffled cry from the hallway rang out clearly. Footsteps. The figure turned away from them. Bang! No scream.
No scream? No scream! What the --? Chris reached for the knob over his teacher’s objections. Unlocking it he inched it open in time to see the figure disappear around the corner.
“He’s gone, let’s get the fuck out of here.” Students headed for the door.
“Wait! We’ll hear from the police what we need to do. They said to stay in lock-down.”
“Fuck lock down!” a usually prim and proper girl responded, “I’m getting the fuck out of here!”
This sentiment appeared to be shared by all as they crowded the doorway. Chris led a squad of jogging refugees, or were they hostages?, down the hallway. He was keeping a keen eye on the end of the tunnel, unprepared for, but needing to know if someone came around the corner.
He was feeling the bravado of an army sergeant when he slipped and fell. The impact on the linoleum was more painful than he expected. His hip hit first with an explosion of pain and in his new, horizontal position Chris finally saw what he had failed to avoid.
He had slipped and fallen in a pool of his schoolmate’s blood. The one who never had a chance to scream.
*
Onstage, the cast meeting was wrapping up and people were being excused to go back to their mad dashing. Nick entered the shop looking for Amy.
“Hey, Amy,” he said slowly. Amy’s back was to him. “Um… I ripped my pants.”
Amy released the phone and put her hands on her face. She rubbed her eyes but didn’t trust herself to turn around.
“Go into the costume shop and find another pair that’s similar.” The deadpan, apathetic quality of her voice scared her. Nick backed away without argument. Amy buried her head in her hands.
I can’t do this, she thought, this is too fucking hard. I feel like my world is collapsing in around me.
The tears were just gaining strength at this last thought, when she heard Erin yelling from the classroom.
“Oh my G-d. Oh my G-d, oh my G-d. Everyone get in here!”
Amy grabbed a paper towel by the sink to dry her face and headed to the classroom.
The cast, some still only half-dressed, were forming a crowd around the TV used to watch rehearsal tapes. A live news broadcast lit up the screen. Erin leaned in to turn up the volume as Amy took a seat front and center.
“We are here live at Helix High School where a gunman is holding students and teachers hostage…”
Amy blinked. She wasn’t sure what she was seeing.
“Students being evacuated have claimed that at least five to ten of their peers are already dead.”
Groups of people were being led out by SWAT teams, gunfire and screaming filled out a chilling soundtrack. Faces of those no different from Amy, no different from anyone she saw around her; fifteen, sixteen, seventeen; kids who were doing nothing more than partaking in the education they had a right to – their faces were twisted, an image of ghostly terror, irreversible. An attractive boy, about her age, was using a policeman as a crutch during his escape, due to what appeared to be a leg injury. He was covered in blood.
A shockwave pulsed through Amy’s body. She looked from the screen to her peers and suddenly found the two images indistinguishable.
She watched in silent horror with her classmates as it played out in front of her. She heard more evacuees talk of people next to them being gunned down. The standoff between the SWAT and the gunman held the entire room captive. It held Amy in its crossfire.
Reality spread through her like a slow IV drip. Looking to Erin, who was crying quietly, Amy no longer saw the snobby primadonna. She saw a potential victim. They were all potential victims, victims of something bigger than stress, bigger than failure, bigger than humiliation.
Amy looked at the damp paper towel in her hands and felt sick. Looking back to the screen, watching tearful reunions between traumatized students and petrified parents, Amy could no longer maintain her pretense.
She had never felt real pain a day in her life.