What are you here for? You haven’t been sleeping well. How long has it been? Three weeks since you had a good night’s sleep. Three weeks of restlessness, impatience, and waking up to nothing but the hum of the air conditioning and the pernicious realization that you’re still stuck here. It stings doesn’t it, to be the one left behind; but that’s how you see it.
You’re headed to the grocery store. The expansive selection of food items an icon of America. Ever since the Cold War, a supermarket is one of many things the U.S. is known for. This is the first time that you’re leaving the house for a normal activity, perhaps that means it’s all over. Welcome to the first mundane activity of the rest of your life. It’s a cloudy day with a blight of rain drizzling down. The car ride feels like forever as some Vietnamese radio show floats softly through the car’s interior, blending with the hum of the engine and the droning road beneath you. Beside you your sister sits staring out the window. You haven’t sat in the backseat since you were kids, but now that she’s back from college the two of you exist silently at each other’s side. Before you get the chance to breathe in the moment your mom points out the new construction on the side of the road. How could they be building more condominiums in the area after what happened? How can they want new families to move into the area with their young kids? Have them grow up on the same street you did, send them to the same schools you went to. The same school you saw your friends at for the last time in their life.
Are they going to tell those young parents what happened before they moved in?
Will they see the holes in the wall when they first tour the school hallways?
What will the future look like for those kids? Didn’t even experience anything first-hand yet every time they mention their high school, for college apps or in job interviews, or perhaps in casual conversation, all anyone will know the school from is the national news. What will the future look like for you?
The car ride comes to a prompt end, as you and your family now enter the supermarket. There’s a tune stuck in your head, some song played over the radio. You couldn’t have understood the words if you tried and yet you keep replaying the same melody over and over. Walking into the store, the blinding strength of the incandescent lights hanging overhead melds into the pitter-patter of the rain hitting the ceiling above. That’s the same kind of ceiling your high school gym had. Same sound of rain. In the split second you spent focused on the rain your mom and sister go down the can aisle. You turn and find them gone, only a sliver of your sister’s hoodie peeks out for a moment before disappearing completely. You hurry to catch up.
On your way down you pass different rows of shelves all stocked with a colorful array of food and packages. Past the breads. Past the spreads. Past the cereals. Past the- wait. Out of the corner of your eye you see her. You take a few steps back until you’re standing at the very center of the aisle, directly ahead you see your old teacher. She’s young, can’t be that much older than a recent college graduate. She’s looking at a selection of wines, in her basket there’s a loaf of bread, a box of cheese cubes, a box of toothpicks, kitchen gloves and a roll of paper towel. Has she noticed you? It feels like an eternity that you stare at her before she glances over. Something about her is off, she is dressed much less formal than you’d expect from her. She was always in some sort of thick cotton dress with her hair up behind her head. It surprises you to see her standing before you in leggings and an oversized jacket – not the sort of thing you’d expect her to wear. Only now do you realize that was not the true version of herself. A false depiction which she recited daily perfectly in dress code and with immaculate orthoepy.
For a moment it looks like she’s trying to wave you over, but then her hand turns a few more degrees, and it becomes a mere wave of salutation.
As she waves with her left, her right hand guides a bottle into her basket. This is the sort of purchase one would make for a date, a night with a loved one. You can’t picture her going on a date at a time like this. You could never picture her going on a date before anyway, but much less now. Do teachers have personal lives? When you were younger, you used to think teachers slept at school. Curled up under a desk with the door unlocked. It was the safest place you knew, besides your own home. Neither of you move. Could you hug her? What exactly do you do in this situation. You’re almost an adult, and you already graduated high school – well, if you can consider having your diploma mailed to your house a graduation.
Something about her always seemed so warm. She really embodied the caring spirit that teachers should have. You look into each other’s eyes, afraid to talk. No harm should come to either of you, but you’re both still afraid. Maybe it’s residual, or perhaps you’re each afraid of reminding the other about what happened. Ever since you came home from school that fateful day everyone has been tiptoeing around you. What if something sets you off? You want to be capable of extending that same courtesy to her. So you remain silent. The last time you saw her was across the crowded parking lot of your high school. Police here shouting orders and escorting kids out of the building. Cars were already filling the streets. And across the masses of people you saw her. Both committing to a secondary glance towards each other, to make sure you were okay, before she disappeared completely from your line of sight.
One memory leads to an another, and in an instant you feel like your old self. The kid who was curled up under his desk in his English class with the lights off and the door barricaded. That feeling returns, the one where you don’t feel safe, you feel unsure of whether you’re about to become a news story, or maybe worse, a statistic. This is the oldest version of yourself. That kid who went to the same school every day for four years, who was excited about his future, who felt that nothing could go wrong in this environment of learning feels so long gone that you fear if you look inside yourself, and try to reach him, you’ll find that he’s simply not there anymore. Another casualty.
Before you know it, your sister pulls your sleeve. She tells you that she and your mom are over by the fruits, and would really like your opinion on whether the mangoes are ripe or not.
