Shooter

by Caroline Pignat

  Vandals struck the Kings’ home with paint guns in retaliation. Worst of all, I heard it wasn’t just kids. And by the time the official news release came from the police station—the one accusing Maxwell Steinberg and praising Hogan King as the hero who got us out, who alerted the principal, and who saved my brother—the King home had already been vandalized three times.

  It shocks me how easily people believe the worst, how quick they are to point fingers and lay blame, and, sadly, how silent when at last they learn the truth.

  Gran brought the Kings some baking that first week. Bite-sized support iced with butter cream. Typical Gran. I am glad she did, though. Because I wanted, I needed to hear how Hogan was doing. Not gossip or rumors. I needed to know he was going to be okay. His parents told Gran that he was out of the woods. The wound was healing and he’d need physio, but he’d be fine. I cried when she told me.

  But Gran also baked for Ms. Steinberg. That, I still have a hard time with. I feel betrayed, in a way. I’m mad that she did it. Mad about a lot of things, I think, as we take the truck together to do Pet Therapy at the children’s hospital.

  “Why did you bake for Ms. Steinberg? This whole mess—it’s all her son’s fault,” I finally say. “He tried to kill us, Gran.”

  Did she need reminding?

  “Alice May Waters,” Gran warns, and I know by her tone I’ll not be getting any sympathy from her. “Don’t tell me you’ve been swept up in their hate. You’re a pitchfork away from joining the angry mob we saw on the news.”

  Once Maxwell was named in that police report, most people blamed his mom. Expert after expert and every neighbor interviewed on The National’s coverage was adamant that Maxwell’s broken home life was the real problem. His mom’s single parenting, her low income and lack of education, her drinking and boyfriends. They splattered all the dirt they could find on that family and, like those readers and viewers, I agreed.

  “Ms. Steinberg needs understanding, now more than ever,” Gran says. “No, she’s not perfect. What family is?” She shakes her head. “I can just imagine what those ‘experts’ and ‘neighbors’ might have to say about ours!”

  Gran is right. Like the saying goes: “Don’t judge a book by the chapter you walk into.” But I seem to do it all the time with people. I read a little bit of their lives and think I know them. Or worse yet, judge them entirely by the cover. We all do it, I guess. We buy into whatever story makes us feel better about our own. Make Maxwell a monster. Point fingers at the school system, or the medical system, or the family that failed him. Blame someone else. That way, we remain blameless.

  But we’re not. Not really. Because, the more I think about it, the more I realize that every one of us is a part of Maxwell’s story. Even me.

  “I know you’re not a hateful person,” Gran says, her voice softer now. “You’re still scared. Understandably so.”

  She knows me so well. “I just want to crawl under my comforter and stay there for a while,” I admit. “A long while.”

  “I know, love.” Her hand reaches over and pats mine. “I felt the same after your grandfather passed. Couldn’t imagine a life without him. Just the thought of trying to run the farm alone terrified me. And look at me now, driving the truck!”

  I smile. Grampa always drove. All those years, I never even thought Gran could. She had a license, but she’d lost her nerve—so we took driver’s ed together.

  “If you face your fears, they lose their power,” she explains. “I know you’re afraid, Alice. But that’s why I make you go to school. And do your chores. And volunteer.”

  “But I’ve already got my mandatory volunteer hours,” I argue. “Couldn’t we have missed this, at least?”

  “Mandatory volunteering? Now there’s an oxymoron,” Gran teases. “Besides, playing with the dogs is no work for you. And wee Ben would never forgive you for missing Pet Day.”

  I laugh. Ben sure wouldn’t. His mom said the dog visits are the highlight of his week.

  “Trust me,” Gran says, “the best healing comes through helping others.”

  When we get to the hospital, I leave Gran and Noah with their dogs and head for the wing I’m visiting today. Buster squirms in my arms. For a puppy, he sure is a handful. But I know the patients enjoy the puppies the most.

  As usual, the kids are waiting in the playroom for us. The regulars know our schedule, and as soon as we arrive, the room explodes in squeals and barks. And then I see him.

  Hogan.

  He sits on a small plastic chair across from the TV, holding a game controller in his left hand. A giant in Lilliput. He’s playing against Ben, a regular here back for more chemo. But Ben bails on him and the game to chase after Buster. Hogan is wearing a muscle shirt and PJ bottoms, a sling over his right arm, and a growing smile. But it isn’t directed at Buster. Or Ben. Or the kids playing and laughing. It’s aimed in my direction. I think.

  I look behind, just to be sure, but there’s no one there.

  And that chill I’ve carried these past days, that cold knot of fear in my gut, just loosens and melts away. Warmth spreads up my chest and across my cheeks. Hogan is okay. He’s doing better.

  Best of all, Hogan King is smiling. A great big grin.

  And it’s for me.

  HOGAN

  “Hey,” I go.

  “Hey.” She sits in Ben’s empty chair.

  There’s an awkward pause and we blurt out together, “How’s your—?”

  She smiles. “You first.”

  “How’s Noah?”

  “Good, now that he’s back in his routine. Great, actually.” She pauses. “What about you? How’s your…?” She looks at my chest. “How’s your gunshot?”

  I snort. “Gunshot. I know, it sounds crazy, doesn’t it?” I glance at the bandage. “The doctors hope I’ll get full use of my arm when it heals, but I’ll have a scar—a bullet wound.” I smirk. “As if I wasn’t badass before. I’m, like, a neck tattoo away from full-on thug.”

  “As if.” She looks right at me.

  “Yeah, well the newspapers—”

  “Who cares what they said? You can’t believe everything you read, you know.”

  I laugh. “One more reason to avoid reading.”

  Buster comes and flops on my feet. I bend down and pet him. His ears are like velvet flaps. He leans against me and licks my hand.

  “He likes you,” Alice says.

  “I always wanted a dog but we could never have one because my brother has allergies.”

  Had allergies.

  “Speaking of brothers,” she pauses, “I never thanked you for saving Noah. If you hadn’t been there…”

  I shrug, unsure of what to say, because it wasn’t even like I chose to save him. It just sorta happened.

  “You’re a hero, Hogan.”

  I look up at her. “A lot of people would disagree with you about that.”

  “Well…” her eyes glisten a bit, “fun fact…you’re my hero.” She blushes and looks away, but I hope it’s not for long. Because maybe if she keeps looking at me like that, maybe I might believe it someday too.

  Xander, he’s the real hero. I think of him lying in the ICU up on the third floor. He still hasn’t woken up. I wonder if he will. I wonder what will happen to him when he does.

  I’ve been thinking about him a lot these past two weeks in here. There’s not much else to do. Xander…he’s not “the bad guy”—or “the good guy,” really. He’s both. Kind of like me, I guess. Neither of us wanted to hurt anyone. We just got carried along and caught up and then, suddenly, things went too far. And people got hurt.

  Just like Randy.

  I don’t know what I saw that day in the atrium. Maybe it was Randy. Or maybe it was some adrenaline-shock-concussion-hallucination thing. All I do know is that since then, whenever I think of Randy, I feel him with me. Beside me. Not pressing down on my chest like he used to. Come to think of it, that probably never was Randy. Anxiety, maybe? Or guilt? I can’t explain it, rea
lly. All I know is that things feel different now.

  Maybe it’s just the bullet hole. Or the guy I saved. Or the way his sister looks at me.

  But whatever it is, it’s healing.

  And it’s good.

  ISABELLE

  The school had been reopened for a week and a half before I felt ready to go back. It was the last place I wanted to be, and I’d been avoiding Bri, Darren, everyone really. Even Alice. At least until Ms. Carter paired us up for peer editing of our final assignments for Writer’s Craft.

  Great. Just great. I drag myself over and sit across from her. So awkward. I don’t know where to look or what to say. Red-faced, I shift in my seat.

  “Ummm…we can just trade stories,” Alice says, “and e-mail our feedback…if you want. We don’t have to talk. I mean, I don’t expect you to…just because we were…” She pauses and searches for the right words. “I get it. We’re not real-real friends.”

  And I see how it looks to her. My avoidance since I came back to school. She’s taking it personally.

  “No. That’s not it at all,” I say. “Seeing you just reminds me of that whole horrible experience that I’d rather forget. No offense.”

  She looks at me skeptically.

  “My meltdown…the picture…” I think of all the embarrassing things that came up that day.

  Alice nods. “What happens in the men’s room stays in the men’s room.”

  She still doesn’t get it. “You’re a trigger,” I say. “Seeing you brings it all back.”

  It makes sense, right? I saw something like that on an episode of Dr. Phil.

  She frowns. “That’s ridiculous!”

  Ms. Carter looks over at us.

  Alice leans in and whispers, “I see Noah every day. And Hogan every other day.”

  “Hogan?”

  She blushes a bit. “He’s out of the hospital now. Gran is helping him get his co-op hours at the kennel. So he can graduate.”

  “Are you…are you guys…dating?”

  The pink spreads over her cheeks. Hogan and Alice? OMG. They totally are. Or will be.

  “No,” she says, her eyes betraying her hopes. “We’re just friends.”

  “Real-real friends?” I tease.

  And I realize that maybe we do have something more in common than the lockdown. Not that I want to, like, hang out with her or anything.

  “Look, Isabelle. I know you’re probably still freaked out by everything that happened. I know I sure am. But my Gran told me that you have to take it back.” Her jaw is set in determination. “Take back the school. The atrium. We have to face the fear—whatever it is—or we’ll be locked down forever.”

  And I realize that maybe this quirky girl with her oddball ways is right. Maybe she’s on to something. And if someone like her can find the courage—maybe I can too.

  “Girls,” Ms. Carter interrupts, “you’re supposed to be peer editing each other’s stories.”

  “We are, miss,” I lie without thinking, but then I realize it’s the truth. I smile at Alice. “We, like, totally are.”

  ALICE

  Up to my arms in soapy water, I lean over the sink full of dishes and peer out the kitchen window. I should be studying for my final exams, which start on Monday, but I can’t concentrate. Hogan and Noah are out back trying to train the pups. I love watching them together. Hogan only needed a few more co-op hours to get his credit and, since we needed the help, Gran offered him a placement with our kennels. Even with his arm in a sling and a bullet wound to the chest he can still heft a huge bag of kibble from the truck and lug it, with the puppies and Noah trailing at his heels, over to the shed.

  “It kind of defeats the purpose of having someone else with Noah if you’re still gawking out the window after him. He’s fine. They’re fine,” Gran teases as she picks up the tea towel to dry.

  “I’m not. I just…” I busy myself with the pot-scrubber. “We’ll miss having Hogan around when his hours are done. I mean, Noah will…and the dogs.”

  “Mmm-hmm,” Gran says, knowingly.

  Red-faced, I take a handful of bubbles and blow it at her. She laughs.

  “Hogan!” she calls out the window. “Come in for a snack.”

  “Gran!” I scold her. “Don’t—I just—”

  “What, the boy can’t come in for a rest and a glass of lemonade?” She puts down the tea towel and goes to the fridge. “Well, aren’t you the taskmaster? And the poor boy fresh out of hospital with his arm still in a sling.”

  “All right, all right,” I mutter, with a smirk. That Gran. She reads me like a book.

  “I had a call,” she says, serious now as she sets the lemonade and cookies on the table, “from Mrs. Goodwin yesterday. About your options for next year.”

  “I already told you, Gran, I’m not going to UBC.” And I’m not. The more I picture it, me living on the other side of the country, the less desirable it seems. I said Noah needs me, but the truth is, I need him. And Gran, too.

  “No,” she continues, “not UBC, Carleton University, in town. They have a Creative Writing Program. It’s not far, about forty-five minutes on the highway. You could live at home and—”

  “And leave you and Noah to do all the work on the farm?” I say. It’s a ridiculous idea.

  Hogan and Noah come clattering in to the kitchen and sit at the table. Terrified that Gran will say something to embarrass me, I pick up a saucer, suddenly greatly interested in my scrubbing.

  “Well, I won’t be alone,” Gran says, pouring Noah’s drink. “Hogan will be here.”

  I stop and turn to look at them, oblivious to the soapy bubbles I’m dripping on the floor. “But your co-op here ends in a few weeks.”

  He grins. “And my job here starts after that.”

  “Really?” I say, my smile widening. I can’t help it. “Really? You’re working…here?”

  “Well,” Gran says, “only if I need the help. I mean, there’s no sense in hiring on if you’re going to be home just loafing about.”

  “Are you serious?” I say, my mind already skipping ahead. “But can we afford—?”

  “Your grandfather took care of all that,” she says. “Don’t worry about the money.”

  My imagination races, looking for all the reasons it won’t work. And finding none. “Then…yes! Yes!”

  Hogan smiles at me.

  “We have one condition, though,” Gran says. “You have to dedicate your first novel to us—me, Noah, and Hogan.”

  And I throw my arms around her, suds and all.

  ISABELLE

  My shoes squeak on the hospital floor as I head for his room. This is the last place I thought I’d be—the last person I’d visit. To be honest, I’m not really sure why I came. I only know that I had to. That small voice inside me whispered—and, thanks to Alice, I listened.

  He sits in a wheelchair at the table in his room playing Lego or something. He seems surprised to see me.

  “Isabelle Parks.” He announces me like some footman at a ball. But we are alone in the room.

  “Xander Watt,” I mimic. I sit across from him as he continues to sift through the bazillion gray pieces.

  Fun.

  “So…” I say, “how are you, like, feeling?” Stupid question.

  He shrugs. Stupid answer.

  He doesn’t ask me why I’m here or what I want. Instead, he pushes a pile of gray Lego towards me and points at the diagram. “Can you help me find this one?” His finger taps the drawing of some cube-shaped piece. It looks exactly like every other one. So, I start rummaging too. I never liked Lego. All the tiny bits. Hours building something just to take it apart. All that work—and nothing to show for it?

  What’s the point?

  “What are you making?” I ask, like I care.

  “Lego Death Star,” he says, like it matters.

  We sift in silence for a few minutes and then he says, in his oddball way, “My dad left me when I was nine.”

  I focus on the pieces, u
nsure of what exactly I should say to that.

  “We were supposed to finish this together.” After a few moments he continues. “But I’ve decided to do it myself. Maybe I don’t need him after all.”

  I don’t reply. But I don’t really think he expects me to.

  After a pause, I clear my throat and mimic his detached tone. “My birth mother left me in a box on the roadside.”

  A fact. One I’ve never told anyone. Still, it’s just a fact. That’s all. Just information. It’s not a definition of who I am. Unless I let it be.

  “Are you retconning too?” He looks up at me, suddenly interested.

  “What?” I’ve no idea what he’s talking about.

  “Retroactive Continuity? It is when comic book writers change or rearrange a character’s early life.”

  Oh, comics. Yay.

  He keeps talking. “I know that changing up a backstory seems illogical and wrong because, well, the facts are true. What happened, happened. But sometimes it’s not about the facts, it’s about seeing the character’s past in a new light—to make the story ahead even better.”

  I pull out my new iPhone to check the time. I should probably go.

  “So, I have decided to retcon.” He picks up a piece, examines it, and tosses it back in the box. Picks up another. “The stuff with Max. Maybe even all the way back to when Dad left.”

  And I realize that he’s not still talking about his dumb comics. “Are you talking about yourself? Like, revising your life?”

  Is that even possible?

  I notice it then, the cube-shaped piece. I pluck it out of the box and hold it up. “Is this it?” I can’t believe I found it—in all that gray mess. I’m amazed I found the key piece.

  “If you could retcon, what would you change?” he asks.

  “I’d go back to China,” I say, without thinking. And suddenly, it all becomes clear. China. “I think I need to see where I came from before I can know where I’m going next.”

  The wish rings true somewhere deep inside me, like the surfacing of a long-forgotten secret.