Paper Airplanes

by Monica Alexander

  And we’d made a home there. We had friends and an apartment and a life in Wisconsin. But now we were separated again, just when we needed each other the most.

  I ran my hand though my long blond curls, my fingers tracing my scar. I could feel my mother’s eyes on me, so I looked up at her.

  “I’m okay, Mom. I promise,” I said, my hand moving to finger my paper airplane necklace. I hadn’t taken it off since I’d woken up in the hospital. It was like having a piece of Will with me all the time.

  My mom looked at me skeptically. I knew she wouldn’t believe me until I proved to her that I was fine. And staying at home like I had been wasn’t going to build my case. I knew it wasn’t healthy. At home I was stagnant, never moving forward, never getting over the mess my life had become. And as apprehensive as I was, I knew it was time to start making it right again. I knew that if I didn’t start living the gunman would win. I couldn’t let him win. He’d already taken too much from me, and I wasn’t going to let him take anything else.

  I’d had to drop all of my classes at Coleman, because I’d missed a month of school. There wasn’t any way for me to make up the lost time. But the week before I’d put on a brave face and gone to our local community college to enroll in summer classes in a joint effort to not fall completely behind in school and to force myself to leave the house on a daily basis. It was a baby step, and I knew that. I couldn’t go back to Coleman – to my friends and my program and the campus I’d fallen in love with – not yet. But it had been my goal since I’d gotten home. I’d always planned to go back. I just needed time.

  I needed to work up the nerve to do it. I hadn’t been back to campus since the day I’d gotten out of the hospital, even though I still had the apartment nearby that I’d shared with Marley until the end of the summer. Our furniture and personal belongings were still inside. I’d taken most of my clothes home with me, but that was it. I hadn’t had the strength to pack much more than that, and a part of me knew that if I had my parents pack everything else up and turn the apartment back over to the leasing office, then it meant I definitely wouldn’t be back.

  And I loved going to school at Coleman. I loved my classes and the student life and the campus that looked so beautiful in the fall. But I also loved my friends. And that was why I wasn’t sure if I could ever go back. Will and Aiden wouldn’t be there, and I knew I’d be able to feel them missing as I walked across campus. If anything kept me away, it would be that harsh reality.

  I think I might have also been afraid of my memories of the shooting coming back when I was so close to where it had taken place. Marley had nightmares constantly. She said she’d wake up in the middle of the night screaming for Aiden, and she’d be terrified all over again, watching him die and not being able to do anything to save him. I didn’t want that. I didn’t want to remember Will dying. In truth, I didn’t want to remember any of it.

  So for now I was home, and my goal was to take some parts of my life back slowly over the summer. My hope was that by the time fall came around, Marley and I could return to school. It was what I wanted most – a sense of normalcy in a world where I felt shattered and broken and helpless. I didn’t want to feel like that anymore, and I knew I needed to start pushing myself to get past what had happened. It was the only way to not drown in reality. I needed to create a new reality for myself, one where I was strong and thriving, not where I lived in constant fear, jumped from loud noises and didn’t let anyone close to me. I wasn’t that girl, and I didn’t want to be her any longer.

  My mom smiled at me. She was so worried, and rightfully so. I couldn’t imagine going through what she’d been through in learning your only child had been involved in a violent, senseless shooting, had been shot in the head and was in a coma. Three long weeks she and my father had waited to see if I was going to wake up. They’d also lived in fear of what would happen when I woke up. There was the chance that small fragments of the bullet had entered my brain, and I wouldn’t be the same. They had three weeks of not knowing if their daughter was okay. And those seemingly short weeks had aged them like nothing else.

  “I’ve got a decently long day in court today,” my mother said instead of what was really on her mind. “One particular case isn’t going to go over so well with the judge, so I’ll probably be home late.”

  “Okay,” I said amiably, knowing how hard she’d been working.

  She’d taken a month off of work for me, so her caseload had doubled since she’d been back at her firm. Long hours were the norm for her these days. My dad was working the same long hours at the DA’s office. He was also a lawyer. I didn’t see them often, which I knew was compounding the guilt they both felt about what I’d been through. But I was okay when I was alone. It was being around other people that sometimes unsettled me. And I had big plans to get past that. I hated being afraid.

  “And your father and I have a counseling appointment at eight,” she added when I didn’t say anything else.

  “I know,” I told her. “It’s Thursday. No worries. I’ll be fine grabbing dinner on my own.”

  She pursed her lips together and appraised me. I knew what she was thinking. I’d like for you to come with us, Cassie.

  My parents had started seeing a therapist once a week after they’d brought me home. They’d had trouble dealing with what I’d been through, and it helped to talk through it with someone. After a month they’d evolved to group therapy where they could talk to other parents who’d been through similar things with their children. From what my mother had told me, I was lucky to have gotten out of my situation relatively unscathed. Most of the children of the parents in their group hadn’t been as lucky.

  And I knew I was lucky, but I was also still existing in a dreamlike state where what had happened to me wasn’t real. It wasn’t mine. It was like watching a tragedy unfold on the news. It saddened you, but since you weren’t there, you couldn’t really feel the emotions of the situation. I’d heard enough from Marley and Reese and read enough on the Internet to put the pieces together. The headlines and the pictures told most of the gruesome story.

  Fourteen Gunned Down at Coleman College.

  Coleman College Junior Goes on a Shooting Spree, Killing Fourteen People.

  Students and Faculty Mourn the Loss of Their Own at Coleman College Memorial.

  I’d read every article I could get my hands on, but I never had enough information to relive the experience, to feel what it was like while shots were being fired and students were being killed all around me. The doctors thought there was a good chance I would get my memories back, but it hadn’t happened yet. And a part of me felt that because of that I didn’t have the right to seek counseling and act as if I needed help, because what did I really need help with?

  Okay, yes, I realized that I probably had some things I needed to work through, but I didn’t need therapy. I had a plan.

  And sure, the feelings that emerged when I thought about Will or Aiden or the whole of the tragedy were raw and powerful and gut-wrenching, and at times they about leveled me, but I wasn’t about to go to group therapy with people I didn’t know and talk about how reading an old text from my dead boyfriend made me feel. I probably wouldn’t be able to explain any of it anyway. Most of the time I felt confused and conflicted and guilty simply for living. Fourteen people had died that day, and I wasn’t one of them. The guilt I felt was enormous. But I wasn’t ready to talk about it.

  When my mother didn’t say what I knew she wanted to say, I changed the subject.

  “I’m going to go to the grocery store today. Do you want me to get anything special?”

  “Can you get me some Greek yogurt?” she asked, and I could tell she wanted me to wait to go to the store so she could go with me, but she didn’t say anything. She knew I needed to go on my own.

  She wasn’t a big fan of me going out alone, but she also knew that she couldn’t protect me from everything. She had to let me live my life. We’d talked about it, and over the pa
st few weeks I’d started going out more and more, going to crowded public places that made me jumpy for reasons I couldn’t explain. But I fought through the fear and forced myself not to cower and hide.

  My parents knew how much I wanted my life back, so they promised they’d let me do what I needed to, in my own way, in my own time and without help, if that was what I wanted. And a part of me hoped they were proud I was taking a step forward. I’d always been driven, so for them to see me like I had been for the past three months, I knew it had to be hard. But that was all about to change.

  “Greek yogurt. Got it. And, um, I think I’m going to get a job,” I said hesitantly, wondering if my mother would say no to that idea.

  That was the biggest step I was taking and the one that made me the most proud, but my parents had never wanted me to work. They’d always wanted me to study, get good grades and have a rich social life. I’d never wanted to work before, and I hadn’t needed to, because they gave me a hefty allowance each month as long as I kept my grades up, but now I almost felt like I needed to work. I needed to do something, and taking two classes wasn’t going to fill up enough time for me to feel productive.

  My mom looked back up and nodded, doing her best to mask the surprise in her eyes “I think that’s a good idea. Where are you going to apply?”

  Wow. Not what I’d expected to hear.

  “Dawson’s Grill. I actually already applied. I figure I can make good money, and Dawson’s always hires people for the summer since business picks up.”

  “You don’t need money, Cassie,” she reminded me, as if I could have forgotten.

  Their money was something my parents didn’t hide. Our house alone, not to mention the landscaping, our cars and the vacations my parents took throughout the year were a clear indication of just how much money we had. She was right. I didn’t need money. But I needed my independence. Serving would give me that, and it would get me into the habit of socializing again.

  My little trips to the grocery store or the mall alone got me part of the way there since I had to interact with sales people and the checkout clerks, but I didn’t have to have lasting conversations. At Dawson’s I’d work with other servers that I’d have to be friendly with. I’d have to talk to my customers and engage with them throughout the time they were eating. It would definitely push me beyond my current comfort zone. And I knew doing that would get me one step closer to being able to go back to Coleman so I could move on with my life for real.

  Ironically, social anxiety wasn’t ever something I’d dealt with before. I’d been a cheerleader, I’d been involved in Student Government, I was in a sorority, and I’d had a million friends –friends at school who I’d cut ties with because I couldn’t bring myself to call them back and talk to them after what had happened. After a while, they’d just stopped calling. Everyone accept Marley and Reese, that is. I’d cut everyone else out.

  I also had high school friends who would be coming home for the summer and would want to hang out. They’d want to drink and be silly and enjoy their time off from school, and they’d want me to do it with them, but I wasn’t sure if I could. How could I go back to partying after what had happened? How could I just let go of Will and Aiden and the twelve other people that had fallen victim to the same fate. How could I move on when they couldn’t?

  And I knew hanging out with my old friends wouldn’t make things go back to normal. They all knew what had happened, so they’d inevitably treat me differently. And the last thing I wanted to do, the thing that had prompted me not to call any of my college friends back over the past three months, was talk about what had happened. No one knew what I was feeling, and I couldn’t explain it. And no one knew how to act around me. They either projected their sympathy or their pity, or they weren’t sure how to act, so they shot me these awkward looks that just made everything worse. It had been like that when I’d run into a few people I knew over the past three months. I would have liked for them all to treat me like normal, but it seemed like that wasn’t going to happen – at least with people who knew what had happened to me.

  I was hoping I’d meet some people at Dawson’s who didn’t know me and in turn wouldn’t know about the shooting. It was one of my only bright spots at that moment.

  “I know I don’t need money, Mom, but I want this job. I think it’ll be fun.”

  My mother smiled at me then, and I knew it was her way of holding her tongue and forcing herself to give me the freedom she knew I needed. “I think you’re right.”

  I smiled. “Good, because I have an interview today.”

  “Wow, that was fast.”

  I shrugged. “The manager said he needed people right away, so hopefully I can start soon.”

  She nodded. “Sounds great. Let me know how it goes.”

  “I will,” I said, and she leaned over and kissed my forehead like she used to do when I was a little girl. “Have a great day, sweetie.”

  As soon as she closed my door behind her, I rolled over onto my back and looked up at the ceiling. There were two cracks that converged to make the letter ‘Y’, and I wondered if I should be worried that the ceiling could cave in. I hoped not.

  I took a deep breath and decided to heave myself out of bed. I needed to get moving. I’d been up since seven, had already done thirty minutes on the elliptical and had coffee and showered. Since I didn’t have a social life, I went to bed relatively early and got up early. I never used to do that, but it was my pattern now.

  Walking over to my closet, I selected one of my favorite sundresses and laid it on the bed. I’d bought it the summer before when my mother and I had gone shopping in Chicago. It was bright green with white stripes, and it flattered my blond curls and tan complexion. It was preppy enough for a job interview, but it still showed off enough leg to be young and cute. I was meeting with the manager of Dawson’s Grill later in the morning, so I wanted to look right for the job.

  When I’d initially spoken to him on Monday, he’d been skeptical since I didn’t have any work experience at all, let alone waitressing experience. He said I’d be better suited for a hostess position, but I disagreed. Fortunately for me, I grew up in a house with two parents who were lawyers, who loved to argue and who often won arguments, so I’d picked up a few tricks along the way. I could be very persuasive when I wanted to be, and I’d persuaded the manager to let me come in and show him that I wasn’t completely inept. And he’d agreed.

  I had to meet with him at ten before the restaurant opened. Then I needed to stop by the bookstore on campus and buy the books for the classes I was taking that summer – Chemistry and Introduction to Psychology. I’d go grocery shopping in the afternoon.

  Damn, what a fun-filled day I had planned.

  But I also had at least an hour before I had to leave, so after I was dressed, I settled back onto my bed with my book to read just a little more.

  * * *

  “Cassandra, right?” Rick, the manager at Dawson’s Grill, asked when he approached me.

  I’d already been sitting on a bench in the entrance for close to thirty minutes, trying to look both professional and competent while I was secretly uber-annoyed that he was making me wait.

  I stood up to greet him, sticking out my hand for him to shake. “Cassie,” I said confidently.

  No one but my father called me Cassandra, and that was only when he was upset with me. I wasn’t a huge fan of the name and had always gone by Cassie or Cass – or Witter, as Will had like to call me. Just thinking of him made a lump form in my throat that I swallowed back. I wasn’t going to cry in front of who I hoped would be my new boss.

  “Right,” Rick said, taking my hand in his damp one. He started to open his mouth to say more but was interrupted almost immediately.

  “Rick!” a shrill female voice shrieked from the kitchen.

  “What?” he yelled back, and I jumped a little at the timber of his voice.

  “Justin cut his hand!”

  “Oh Christ,” Ric
k mumbled before he turned back to me. “Give me fifteen minutes?”

  “Sure,” I said politely as I sank back down, dreading the extended wait.

  The door behind me suddenly opened, and I was surprised to see Hale Foster wearing khaki shorts and the short-sleeved black Dawson’s Grill t-shirt the wait staff all wore. He didn’t see me at first, and then he stopped, cocked his head to the side as if he wasn’t sure if he was seeing things before a wide smile broke out over his face.

  “Cassie Witter?”

  “Hey Hale.”

  “Damn, girl, I haven’t seen you in forever,” he said, as I stood to give him the obligatory hug I’d give any old friend. It shouldn’t have felt odd, but it did. I hadn’t hugged anyone but my parents in a long time.

  Hale and I had run in the same circles all throughout high school. He was tall and tan with brown hair, broad shoulders and full lips that were sort of attractive. He’d dated my friend Jacqueline for three years. We knew each other well, but we hadn’t really kept in touch post-high school.

  He squeezed me tight, and I breathed through it, inhaling the faint scent of his aftershave.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked when he pulled back.

  “I’m interviewing for a job,” I said, smiling awkwardly.

  He gave me a funny look. “Really?”

  Hale didn’t come from money, and he’d been working since he’d turned sixteen. I’d never had to work and lived in one of the wealthiest neighborhoods in town. His question was justified.

  I nodded. “Yeah, I needed something to do this summer.”

  “Right. I heard you were home. You doing okay?”