Slamming my locker closed behind me, I gave a quick check of my watch and took off at a power walk in the direction of my classroom. The bell was going to ring soon, and while Mr. Phillips was one kickass dude, he was also the kind of teacher who would flat out slam the door in your face if you didn’t make it there on time.
But as I rounded the corner, Mr. Phillips wasn’t at the door with his hand on the doorknob, waiting to shut me out of my educational experience.
Instead, everyone sat quiet—motionless—and their eyes were focused on the TV mounted close to the ceiling in the corner of the room.
Goosebumps covered my arms and a chill ran up my spine as I breached the opening provided by the door.
I searched the room for Blane, finding him in his desk, exactly where he should have been. Except he too watched the TV, his face completely stoic. But his brown boot tapped the ground with rapid precision.
That was when I started to get nervous.
Blane Hunt didn’t waste energy. He channeled it into useful activity, or he didn’t use it. Period.
Something was really, really wrong.
God, I hoped it was everything going on with Franny.
Please, God. Let it be about the baby.
If you’d asked me yesterday, I never would have guessed that I’d be hoping for such a powerful heartache to be singular in its torture.
I prayed and prayed, but as I watched the faces of several normally-exuberant students, I knew it had to be something more.
Turning slowly to the TV, I let my eyes adjust to the scene in front of me.
Unbelievably bright, brilliant blue sky, marred irrevocably by the carnage underneath it.
The tops of the Twin Towers. On fire.
A fucking inferno. Billowing smoke and dancing flames engulfing floors and floors of offices. People were in there.
Blane’s dad was in there.
He worked on the seventy-fourth floor of the South Tower for the investment company, Morgan Stanley. That job was the reason they moved here from Georgia.
They’d moved around for most of Blane’s youth, never in one spot for more than a few years, but this job, this move, was the one that brought Blane’s charismatic charm into my life.
I couldn’t stop the quiver of my lips as a salty tear ran down my face and settled at the corner of my mouth.
“…definitely an act of terrorism of unprecedented proportions,” the reporter stated, an uncharacteristic shake in his normally steadfast voice.
“At 8:46 this morning, a passenger jet crashed into the North Tower of World Trade Center.”
Absolute dread settled into the deepest part of my stomach and started to churn.
“And at 9:03 AM a second passenger plane struck the South Tower.”
Oh my God.
Bile rose in my throat, and the air in my lungs was stolen right out of my chest.
My fingers covered my mouth to stop my scream.
Forcefully tearing my eyes from the screen and focusing on Blane, I realized that he had no clue I was there. No clue that any of us were, such was the intensity of his focus.
The flames of the fires were reflected in his irises, and by force of sheer willpower, his lids didn’t close.
The look on his face would be burned in my mind forever.
Disbelief. Agony. Determination. All swirled together to make one perfectly ugly storm.
Limbs shaking, I turned my attention back to the TV and blindly settled myself into the seat assigned to me.
My knuckles turned white as I gripped the front edge of my desk, eager to busy my hands but helpless to know what to do with them.
Thoughts scrambled and scrapped for priority in my head, and despite the abundance of my emotions, I struggled to make sense of any of them.
It was like I was having an out of body experience. My brain and heart were completely unwilling to accept the violence and carnage in front of me as reality, and the thrumming in my ears made it nearly impossible to hear any of the sounds around me.
The clock at the bottom of the screen read 9:53 AM when the reporter’s voice regained my attention, the force of my concentration willing my heart to beat more quietly.
“And we also have a report now that the…it was a plane that crashed into the Pentagon, and we have a fire at the Pentagon now as well.”
The creak of my desk echoed into the quiet room thanks to the spasm of my hands, and the weight crushing my chest got a little bit heavier.
My heartbeat throbbed in my neck, taking on a life of its own and making me uncomfortably cognizant of the oxygen I still breathed that so many, after today, would not.
This was the result of hate. Strong and unmitigated, and worst of all, growing by the day. Our world was full of bitterness and intolerance rather than understanding and acceptance. Our opinions refused to cross cultural lines, and instead of respecting others’ thoughts as their own, we criticized.
But knowing all of this would do nothing to stop it. We were all guilty. We didn’t live in a utopian society with no villains or criminals, wrongdoing and malicious intent, and as pleasant as a world without judgement sounded, it would never happen.
I wanted so badly to do something. To be the something that someone needed me to be.
To reach out to Blane and take his hand.
Instead, the stinging of my nose warned of fresh tears, and I remained in place at my desk.
Several minutes ticked by, and as each of them passed, the despondence and grief of so many of us thickened the air. The evidence of my sadness soaked the collar of my shirt, my silent cries the only consolation I could offer the people who were truly suffering.
For years, I had prided myself on my courageousness. But on a day when I truly should have shown it, a day when I could have been more for those who needed it, it turned out I had none.
I should have gone to him despite the void. Loved him though the hate. And embraced a friendship that had been several years in the making.
But instead I sat cowardly to the side and watched as Blane lost a little more of his everything.
“Oh my God!” I heard screamed from somewhere behind me.
My eyes hadn’t left the screen, but lost in my own melancholy, the sight before me had blurred.
As it snapped back into focus, I watched in horror as, once prominent and proud, the South Tower crumbled into itself, cascading and breaking and taking far too many lives with it.
Screams filled the air, and Blane jumped violently to standing beside me.
Please God, let his father have gotten out. God in heaven, please, please, please make it so everyone got out.
Finally, I found my voice, turning to Blane’s desk as quickly as I could.
But I was too late.
All I saw was the back of Blane’s sprinting form as he left the classroom behind.
The classroom phone hanging on the wall rang as I stood up to follow him.
Making my way out of my desk, I watched as Mr. Phillips put the phone to his ear, his eyes coming to me as I wove through the students in front of me.
“Alright,” he said into the phone, hanging it up, and raising his hand at me.
“Go back to your seat, Whitney. Please.” His eyes were pleading.
Torn, I looked between him and the door, wishing I knew what the right thing to do was.
Of course, there was no right thing to do. All I could do was pray that as many people as possible had gotten out.
That William Hunt had gotten out.
Retracing my steps, I headed back for my desk, defeated.
The sound of the TV turning off echoed like a gunshot.
“Administration says all TVs need to be turned off and stay off,” Mr. Phillips informed us as I sank slowly down. Frustration pulsed in my temples, but at the same time, I understood. Their job was to keep order and keep the students safe. We had the right to know what was going on, to see it for ourselves, but too many people had parents or other relatives that were involved.
/> Blane could pretty much get away with anything, but they didn't need the whole school running amuck.
So I sat in my seat, kept my head down, and did what I was told.
I’ve never been more disgusted with myself.
TWO HOURS LATER, I FOUND myself sitting on the hard wood of the gymnasium’s bleachers, surrounded by people but feeling very much alone.
It didn’t take the school long to figure out that there would be no focus that day. Not among students, teachers, or any other faculty. The scale of tragedy was too grand, the loss of loved ones too great.
Parents marched into the gym on an endless parade, swallowing their kids up in hugs and tears and uncertainty.
From what I had heard, making phone calls had become nearly impossible, and for a lot of people, locating loved ones was no longer a right but a luxury.
It was no different for Blane. I hadn’t spoken to him directly since he left the classroom at a run, but his face wasn’t one of someone who knew. He hadn’t been in contact with his father, and conversely, he had no confirmation that he no longer would be able to. No one knew anything, and I feared that with the scale of this event, it would be much too long before they did.
He stood across the gym, his normally tan skin pale and clammy looking, and stared at a spot on the basketball court, his arms crossed over his chest and his legs crossed at the ankles. His gaze didn’t waver. He didn’t search the room for people he knew. He didn’t watch while people got good or bad news.
His world lived completely in his mind, and I couldn’t see inside.
I lifted my head at the sound of the gym door swinging open and watched as Blane’s petite mother hurried inside.
Emily was always put together, not because she had to be to impress Blane or his dad, but because she wanted to be the best version of herself.
And today, to the untrained eye, she was no different. But I could see the blotch of her pale skin and the evidence of over-tucking at the hair behind her ears.
She’d tried to clean up her face, and as far as her makeup went, she’d done a good job. But I knew her too well. This was not how Emily Hunt normally looked—anchored and full of purpose.
No, today, she looked lost.
She headed straight for Blane, who’s gaze stayed fixed ahead, unaware of her presence.
That is, until she called his name.
I was too far away to hear the sound, but I watched as her lips formed each word, his eyes locked on hers.
“What are we going to do?” A sob opened her mouth wide until she regained control. “Oh God, Blane, he’s gone.”
I knew she didn’t know that for a fact, but the forceful feeling in her gut transferred straight to mine like a wire was running between them.
I’ve heard people say that a true connection with someone else goes beyond the reasonable. It goes beyond science and fact, and instead, takes root in the connection of your souls.
The look on Emily’s face was all the proof I needed to believe in such a fantasy.
She didn’t just look tortured. She looked incomplete. As though a piece of her beautiful soul had wilted at the loss of his.
The other man in her life stepped up with no hesitation.
As Blane became the man of his house, tucking his mother into the crook of his arm to give her comfort, I closed my eyes and once again, cried silent tears.
I mourned the loss of William Hunt, a man who had not only welcomed me into his home, but raised a son who welcomed me into his life when I had no one.
A life full of ambition and self-worth, but completely devoid of friendship.
I hadn’t even known I’d wanted anyone to be a part of it until him.
My blurry eyes opened just in time to watch Blane walking his mother out of the gym still tucked under his arm.
Emily needed him to be there for her.
But who was there for him?
I hated that in a time when we would have—should have—had each other, we were all alone.
And I hated that despite our distance, I could still see him suffering.
But most of all, I hated that hate won out over love as the stronger emotion once again. On a day filled with hate, literally stamped in the history books with the makings of it, I let it win yet another battle.
Oh, yeah. And I loathed terrorists.
Most people describe September eleventh as the day that tilted their normal world on its axis. But what about the people whose lives were already leaning?
I DIDN’T GO TO FRANNY’S house that afternoon. Not because I didn’t want to, but because I wasn’t allowed.
Once my parents had me home that night, they wanted me close.
And I understood. I did.
If ever there was a time to hold your loved ones close, this was it.
But Franny’s grief didn’t stop flowing just because more people were lost. If anything, I feared that so many traumas in a row would be too much for her, and I didn’t know if I could live with myself if she fell over the edge.
After one night at home, I found that the worry was too much, and I put up one hell of a fight until my parents agreed to let me leave the house.
Of course, their stipulation was that I took Gram with me.
I had a feeling that they were more interested in getting her off of their backs than keeping an eye on me.
I just hoped Gram would be able to dig down deep and find her usually missing people skills.
“On second thought, maybe you should wait in the car,” I pleaded as I pulled into the driveway and noticed that Franny’s doorstep wasn’t empty.
“Are you kidding me?” Gram asked as she spied Blane for herself. “The hunk is here which means this is just getting good.”
“You are the last thing either one of them needs right now, Gram,” I argued as nervous butterflies took flight in my stomach, the tips of their wings scraping at the lining and making it burn.
I had no idea what I was going to say or do, and now that Blane was here, that problem was compounded tenfold. Fathoming what he was going through in that moment was completely beyond my capability.
“You don’t know that,” Gram huffed, her silvery hair looking a little scraggly since her hairdresser had cancelled her usual standing Wednesday appointment due to the circumstances.
She was completely outraged, but in my book, if they cancelled school for the day, Gram’s hairdresser could cancel her hair appointment.
“Just stay in the car, Gram,” I reiterated, rolling down the windows and shutting off the ignition.
Before she had a chance to answer, I shoved the door open with my foot and jumped the short trip down from the inside of my blue Jeep Cherokee.
She was old, but reliable. Kind of like the woman still seated inside of her. That’s all I could really ask for.
I gripped my keys hard, the ribbing digging painfully into the flesh of my palm as I ascended the final steps at the end of their front sidewalk. Blane turned to me, whereas before he’d been just staring at the closed front door, his hands tucked into his pockets.
“Aren’t you going in?” I asked quietly, surprised I even managed to force the words past my lips.
“I’ve already tried,” he responded. “She won’t see me.”
“Blane, I…” I started, unable to finish.
“I’ll be back tomorrow,” he said instead of waiting for me to make sense of my scattered thoughts. “Hopefully she’ll see you today, though.”
With a casual wave, one worthy of acquaintances, he stepped down off of the stoop and headed for his motorcycle.
I fought with myself, unsure of whether I should bring up his dad or not, but something told me I should say something. Anything.
“Blane!” He turned back to me, waiting to hear what I had to say. “I’m sorry about your dad,” I finished lamely.
With a nod, he looked to the blue sky and then answered, “Me too,” before finishing his walk to his bike, throwing his leg over, starting it up,
and seating his helmet on his head.
The door creaked open behind me, Franny’s mother Gina filling its void. As I turned to face her, her kind eyes softened even further.
“Franny’s not feeling up for company today, honey. I’m sorry,” she apologized.
“That’s okay,” I agreed. “Could you just make sure she knows I came by?”
“Of course,” she nodded, her eyes softening into the bags under them.
I needed Franny to know she wasn’t alone. That no matter how many times she turned me away, I would keep coming back.
After one last soft look, Gina shut the door with a gentle click, once again physically cutting me off from Franny.
Meeting Gram’s brown eyes through the windshield of my car, I shrugged my shoulders.
She smiled in return.
My feet didn’t drag on my way back to the car like they had on the way up, and my door seemed to appear before me in no time.
Opening it up and climbing inside, I took a deep breath, cranked the ignition, and settled both hands on the wheel.
“Blane’s dad is most likely dead, and all I could think to say is ‘I’m sorry’. How stupid is that?”
She didn’t mince words. “Really damn smart.”
“Huh?” I questioned, scrunching my face up in confusion.
“Listen to me, Whit. Don’t ever struggle so hard trying to come up with something to say that you don’t say anything. That’s the real crime because you’re never, ever guaranteed another chance. As long as you say something, they’ll know exactly how you feel.”
Her advice seemed sound, but in this case, I just couldn’t convince myself that my simple sorry was enough.
“Now, where are we headed?” she asked as I shifted into reverse and started to back out of Franny’s driveway.
“I don’t know. How about home?”
I wasn’t particularly in the mood to socialize. Not to mention that part of me felt wrong to just go about my business so soon after such a major national tragedy.
“Home shmome. I’m locked in that place all the time, and I finally had an excuse to escape. We’re gonna live this up,” she declared, obviously not feeling the same mournful vibe that I was.
“Let’s go to a bar. Do some shots.”
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