I WASN’T THERE
* * *
… when Blake went to the john,
washing pretzel mustard off his hands
before returning to English class.
… when the group of policemen
in Kevlar vests and helmets surrounded
Jefferson High, their rifle safeties off.
… when the SWAT team began
emptying rooms, front of the school
to the back, shuttling out streams
of terrified kids as everyone asked,
Is it World War III? What the hell’s up?
… when Lieutenant Duncan of Ocala, Florida
—having realized Blake was in the bathroom,
not L103—ordered the snipers to surround
the east wing and draw a bead on Blake’s forehead
as he yelled, Hands up! Let me see your damn hands!
… as Blake ducked behind the water fountain
and took out the pistol—he had it in his jacket,
the fool, as he did so often then. Gun! someone screamed.
Gun! Gun! Gun!
… when Sue—who no one realized
was in the girl’s bathroom—came out. The door
banged shut so loudly, it sounded like a gunshot.
Everywhere, screams.
… when someone fired. Blake, terrified, accidentally
fired twice into the ceiling, spraying mineral fibers
like gray snow. The SWAT team, too, was firing.
Everyone was firing.
… when Blake threw down the gun and balled up,
screaming, PLEASE don’t kill me! Please!
… because my father hustled me out into his pickup
in the teacher’s parking lot and told me to wait
with the doors locked, head down, before he told
the principal to phone 911.
… because my father’s first instinct was to get
me out of harm’s way, even though I’d put myself
there again and again for months. I chose it.
… because I deserted Blake, my friend, when
he clearly needed me most.
AFTERMATH
* * *
I stayed home for two days.
I didn’t want to return to school,
to see how different it was.
I kept hearing the gunshots,
the wail of so many sirens,
the chatter of police radios
and EMTs and firemen yelling.
In my sleep, in my mind, it was there.
My dad insisted, I KNEW
that kid was off. I just knew it.
It’s what everyone said now,
as if everyone always paid attention
to Blake and had stories to compare.
He had boxes of ammo hidden
in his locker, the news anchors claimed.
And there were vague reports of
hunting knives and smoke bombs.
He was in our home, Mom repeated
as she paced our house. Our home!
The school’s metal detectors were replaced
with bigger, better versions.
The hall monitors were too.
We had a policeman on campus now,
just like the high schools in Tallahassee,
Atlanta, Miami, everywhere else.
Mr. Green came back with his arm in a cast
and gave mandatory classes on integrity,
community safety, and school violence.
He told me he was proud of me.
He told me I had done something good.
The hallway tile was still bile brown.
The rows of lockers: mouse-fur gray.
The gym still stank of kid sweat and crotch.
The bullet-riddled water fountain was replaced.
But the school wasn’t the same.
How could it be?
HERO
* * *
I was given a certificate
by Principal Carson.
My father framed it
and hung it in the hallway
next to his community college diploma.
My Warcraft account got renewed,
my iPod replaced,
TV privileges returned.
March wasn’t yet through,
but my life was back
on the rails again,
my mother said,
hugging me hard
as she smiled again
for the first time in forever.
Becky Ann refused
to speak to me,
called me a freak
to her pals Linda
and the other Becky,
loud enough
for me to hear.
But someone told her
to shut the heck up.
Amazingly, she did.
Kids sat with me
at lunch, asked me
to recount the whole story.
Even Sue paused to listen,
her arm still bandaged
from one of Blake’s ricochets.
Even Nicholas
put down his graphic novel to hear.
They pleaded for answers:
Was the gun big? How many guns?
Did you get to fire it? Was he acting, you know, crazy?
Did he threaten you? Did he? Did he?
When did you REALLY know? Why didn’t you tell anyone sooner?
Did you ever see him shoot the gun?
Did he have grenades? Was Aaron on his death list?
Is it true that he sleeps in the closet?
ABSENCE
* * *
Blake didn’t return to school.
After a few weeks
of lawyers and judges and doctors
and reporters and experts,
he was sent to some “facility”—
that word made me shiver—
in Phoenix, Arizona.
I imagined Blake there
in that endless dry heat,
hunched somewhere alone
in a world of hospital white,
his father’s green army belt
looped twice around his waist,
an unopened pack
of Wrigley’s in his fist,
uneaten gumdrops bulging
in his shirt pocket.
Everyone called me a hero,
but it didn’t feel that way.
I was a snitch.
I told on my friend.
I was a thief.
I stole my father’s keys.
I was a liar.
I lied about it all.
I was a fraud.
I was popular
for all the wrong reasons.
Worse, I still yearned
for the Beretta
and all it meant to me.
Maybe I did prevent
a massacre—
we’ll never know.
But I sure as hell
know one thing.
I lost a friend.
I don’t have
the words
I needed
to calm
my soul.
At least
I was
a hero.
At least
there was
that.
AND THEN
* * *
I started dreaming.
Always of that day
when Blake was hauled
away in handcuffs.
Sometimes of the
Thanks for nothing!
I wished he’d shrieked.
Sometimes of cold
rings of steel
encircling my own wrists.
With people suddenly
interested in me,
I still lived inside
the pile of my bones
and flesh,
so acutely aware
of myself
and how I buried
who I wa
s inside
someone else’s story.
Most of all, though,
I dreamed of that Beretta,
as if by holding it again
I’d still have Blake around
instead of off somewhere
where broken kids disappear to.
What the hell’s wrong with me?
I asked myself, wishing I’d never
seen a gun, but not quite wishing
I’d remained uncool and alone
versus the center of insincere attention
from the other kids, the teachers,
everyone.
I dream of my long-lost, simple past,
the way I used to dream of Becky Ann.
Like iron filings to a magnet.
AFTER
* * *
The gun might’ve been Blake’s answer,
but it wasn’t mine, as much as I wanted
to grasp hard onto any answer.
Here’s what I know:
I stopped a massacre.
I stopped a school shooting.
Perhaps that’s the answer
I never expected to find.
Perhaps that ought to be
enough for anyone,
even though it meant
surrendering the only
genuine friend I ever had.
Here’s what I also know:
I miss Blake.
But I did the right thing.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
* * *
A successful book is always the product of a powerful initial vision, some careful re-envisioning and adaptation, and collaborative input from trusted sources. With that in mind, thanks to my wife for sifting through countless drafts of this book and for reminding me to “get back into the mindset of a kid.” A very special “Thank you!” is deserved by Caryn Wiseman and Mary Kole at the Andrea Brown Literary Agency—their help at a crucial point in this book’s evolution was invaluable and spot-on.
Most of all, thanks are due to Mary Kate Castellani, who provided both the gentle support and tough-nosed editorial feedback that this book sorely needed.
To the many others who helped along the way, a sincere and well-deserved “Thank you!”
To Victoria, Valerie, and Veronica—with love and gratitude
Copyright © 2011 by Ryan G. Van Cleave
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means,
electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval
system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
First published in the United States of America in March 2011
by Walker Publishing Company, Inc., a division of Bloomsbury Publishing, Inc.
E-book edition published in March 2011
www.bloomsburyteens.com
For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to
Permissions, Walker BFYR, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, New York 10010
Library of Congress has cataloged the hardcover edition as follows:
Van Cleave, Ryan G.
Unlocked / Ryan G. Van Cleave.
p. cm.
Summary: While trying to impress a beautiful, unattainable classmate, fourteen-year-old Andy discovers
that a fellow social outcast may be planning an act of school violence.
ISBN 978-0-8027-2186-0 (hc)
[1. Novels in verse. 2. School violence—Fiction. 3. Loneliness—Fiction. 4. High schools—Fiction. 5.
Schools—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.5.V36Un 2011 [Fic]-dc22 2010023296
ISBN 978-0-8027-2261-4 (e-book)
Unlocked Page 7
