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Graduation Day

Bill Tope

    Hi, my name is Rachel—and no, I’m not Jewish, though it wouldnt bother me; people make that mistake all the time, because of my physical features and my name. But there is one real Jewish student in my class, and that’s Ruth. She’s cool. I’m a student at St. Mary’s Catholic School on the west side of the city. I’m 10 and graduated two weeks ago from the 5th Grade, which means that next term I’ll be in Middle School, which for the Diocese is 6th through 8th grades. The Bishop thinks that 5th Grade is far enough to take Elementary School, and am I ever glad.
    Allie—that’s my best friend—and I were co-Valedictorians and were supposed to give a short speech at graduation that evening at the church. We were gathered in our school that day to attend a special lunch that the cafeteria workers were preparing to mark the occasion. The lunch was at eleven and it was just eight thirty when Sister Catherine started talking to us about how to act at graduation that night. Like we don’t already know how to behave: don’t whisper, don’t pass notes, don’t pick your nose, and on and on. I mean, we’re not stupid. But Allie is crazy about Sister Catherine, thinks maybe she’ll become a nun when she grows up.
    Everyone was dressed up for the special lunch. The food is pretty good at St. Mary’s—for a grade school. When we get into Middle School, then we can have burgers and fries, but for now we’re stuck with mashed potatoes and roast beef and, of course, green beans. If you ask me, I’m not looking forward to the change. I’m sitting there checking everybody out, then remember to check my cell in with Sister. Despite all the shooter drills and stuff at the public schools, violent incidents almost never happen at parochial schools and we aren’t allowed to hold onto our cells during class, except during recess and at lunch. Just then Allie walks into class and plumps down next to me. I ask her if she wrote her speech yet, for tonight.
    “Piece of cake,” she replies. She is so smart. Even though we are co-valedictorians, she is way smarter than me. I’m good at Math and Science, but Allie is an absolute genius and writing and speaking in public. My Dad says Allie is going to be a U.S. Senator when she grows up, but my Mom says Allie can do way better than that! She was still excited from the week before: to celebrate finishing first in our class, her parents bought her a puppy! A full blooded Basset Hound, with papers and everything. I am so jealous. My follks said we can’t afford one right now; we don’t have much money and receive a special parish subsidy to pay for my tuition. Mom says to keep my grades up, else I’ll lose the subsidy and then have to go to public school. Ugh! I suppose that Allie’s family is well off; besides, she’s an only child and my folks have three other kids besides me.
    “You got your speech written yet, Rach?” ask Allie. I frown, twist my lips.
    “I’m working on it,” I tell her. She looks knowingly at me.
    “You want I should come over to your house after lunch and help out?” I dissolve into a big smile. Like I said, Allie is my best friend.
    Out in the hallway there is a weird sound, like a cap gun exploding:
    Pop!
    Pop!
    Pop!
    It sounds just like the toy pistol my brother Franklin plays with. Mom won’t let him take it outside the house because she’s afraid it will make other people nervous. People in here are nervous now. I look at Allie and then we stare at Sister, who looks really upset.
    “Stay where you’re at, children,” she commands, then advances to the exit and turns the lock over. Even through the locked door we can hear students running through the halls and shouting. “Follow me!” she says calmly, but there is an edge to her voice. She leads us back through the cloak closet and to a room that’s used to store overhead projectors and DVDs and other AV stuff. She reaches inside and fumbles for a second with the light switch, then stands aside and we precede her into the room.
    She pushes the door shut, locks it and says, “Don’t make a sound!” We stand around until Sister tells us to sit along the walls that are out of the line of sight of the door, so bullets won’t get us. Hurriedly, we comply. God, what’s going on? I wonder. Suddenly a girl starts sobbing loudly, but Sister silences her with a hand on her shoulder. Through the closed door we hear more gunfire, closer now than before. Sister Catherine extinguishes the overhead light. Moments later there is a loud crash against the door and someone is shouting. This is too much: some of the other kids begin to whimper. It doesn’t matter now, he knows we’re in here. We can’t hide.
    Bullets rip through the wooden door, exploding into the opposite wall. A calendar on the wall flutters to the floor. Allie reaches out and grips my hand. I hold on tight. But the door holds; that is, until the shooter unleashes a cluster of shots around the lock, splintering the wood. With a crash the door flies open. We sit, breathlessly, in the darkness, afraid to make a sound. The light from the other room illuminates the shooter, first his arm as he reaches in to grope for the light switch, and then his face and torso as he calmly enters our hiding place. Clutched in his hands is an assault rifle.
    I recognize him! I don’t know his name, but I’ve seen him before, on the campus of the High School. And he looks so calm. I thought he would be a seething, snorting dragon of a creature, but he’s only a kid. And I can tell that Sister is reacting the same way. Almost as if she wants to ask to see his hall pass. Sister speaks first.
    “Bradley....? The shooter grins and winks at Sister and then shoots her in the chest. Sister Catherine folds up like a toy balloon and crumples to the floor. Allie lets go of my hand, jumps to her feet.
    “Sister!” she shouts, after which the shooter fires into Allie’s body—twice. Like Sister, she tumbles to the floor. I feel dizzy, as if nothing is real anymore, and am about to pass out when Delmar, the class dweeb, rises to his feet. He’s out of the shooter’s line of sight and so the killer can’t see Delmar as he draws a pistol from his jacket, points it at the shooter, and squeezes the trigger. The shooter’s whole head is vaporized and for an insane moment he continues standing there, gun in hand. Then, like Sister Catherine and Allie, he slips to the floor and drops straight to hell.

Epilogue

    That was two weeks ago. Everyone skipped graduation; we got our diplomas in the mail. The Diocese said that all the schools must begin active shooter drills as soon as classes resume. It still doesn’t seem real that Allie is forever gone. Every day I think to text her but then I remember. Everyone is like walking on egg shells around me and I hope that ends soon. The shooter was a 17-year-old student from the High School, who had been expelled the week before. According to his parents, he had been “acting out” ever since. Some local political guy said Delmar is a hero and that it only proves that arming teachers and school staff is a good idea. Allie’s parents are beside themselves; they were on the news on TV. They gave me her puppy, said they worked, couldn’t take care of it, or give it the love it needs. They said it was what Allie would have wanted. I think it was too personal a reminder of the daughter they lost. I named her Allie.

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