Thursday, February 23, 1995
I’ve been battling a cold for the past few days; this morning, I woke with a 100.3 fever. I didn’t tell Lisa because she’d have had me call in for a sub; I’ll do that tomorrow...today’s there’s too much to do. I’ve got homework coming in and Writer’s Workshop to run during the English 9 classes; I’m introducing Macbeth to my English 4/4H’s (we’re also going to the computer lab so that they may input their Research papers--and I can pre-date yesterday’s entry); and of course there’s today’s academic detention. Too much to do, and with the dependability of most substitutes in question, I can’t risk today’s work.
After third period is over, I walk from the computer lab to the room of the English department chair, for today’s semi-emergency meeting. On the agenda is last-minute WASC stuff--evidence cover sheets, I assume (since even I haven’t gotten around to doing mine). When I drag in, Aimee gives me a look, "Well, don’t you look like hell."
"Love you, too."
"Sick?" I nod. "Sweet." She then looks at me as if to say, "OK, so then why are you here?"
"A D."
"That’ll make ya feel better."
Smartass.
As I turn away from her, another colleague enters to the room. He’s the English 2 Honors teacher, demanding, conservative, a disciple of discipline, a pillar of morality (and the hater of Pulp Fiction), and he looks more harried than usual. "What’s up?" springs from me faster than the realization that I probably don’t want to know.
"Did you hear what happened at PeeVee?"
uh-oh. Nothing good ever starts with "Did you hear what happened at (fill in the blank)?" I shake my head.
"Shooting. Three down. One dead. Supposedly one of ours did the shooting."
"You gotta be shitting me."
We both turn as one of the red-coats comes in with her walkie-talkie. He turns to her. "Any more news?"
She shakes her head. Others are entering the room for the meeting, but as she speaks, everyone’s attention focuses on her. "No. Didn’t they make a faculty bulletin?" We all shake our heads. The teachers are usually the last to know; sad joke, but true. "Around ten o’clock there was shooting outside Pleasant Valley. Three kids were hit. One of them’s dead. Another critical."
Another colleague joins in. "And the shooter? One of our kids?"
She nods. "And he got away."
The department chair interrupts from his desk. "Here’s a picture of him." He holds open a yearbook from last year. This is the yearbook room, he’s the yearbook advisor, and this is opportune. He mentions the name. It doesn’t ring a bell with me, but it does with others who have now come into the room. One remembers him from freshman English. Aimee remembers him from the track team, which she used to coach. The student was a junior last year, the department chair begins. "But he’s no longer one of ours. He’s supposed to be on independent study." This is a discreet way of saying he was a problem student, and that he’s no longer in classes, but is in an "alternative program" so that he can receive credits and a diploma.
The red-coat is about to leave. Out the door, she says, "I can’t believe no one tol’ you guys. We had a meeting at eleven. We’re on high alert. We were told that the faculty was going to be informed, especially the men." And she is gone.
Especially the men. Some of us look at each other. Some are grim. Some have twisted smiles. I want to laugh. This could get real ugly. The phrase keeps going through my head. The one day I felt I had to be on campus and this happens. What If’s are running through like bad story pitches: What if he comes back here? What if some PeeVee kids want revenge and come over? What if it’s a gang thing? What if it’s a racial thing? News travels fast. This could get real ugly.
The meeting goes on, not that anyone is focused. We need to get the evidence sheets typed up. Big surprise. I decide I’ll do mine fourth period before Academic Detention. Not that I’m even sure it will happen now. If the red-coats are on alert, then probably the campus will be purged right after school; the administration will want to get kids off campus as soon as possible (cynically, because if they’re off-campus and killed, it’s not our fault). Thus, academic detention could be cancelled. I take a deep breath. I need to pick up conduct referrals to fill out on those students who fail to attend academic detention; while I’m up at the office, I’ll ask if there will be a clearing of campus. I bring my hand up to my forehead. It’s clammy. Shit. I forgot to take some Tylenol before third period. My fever’s probably back. Tomorrow, I am not coming in. The bell rings. The meeting is over.
I link up with Aimee at the door. She asks if I can help her with some WASC stuff after school. I remind her about academic detention. She nods. She’ll be on-campus late. If I can, would I stop by before leaving? Sure. And I’m out the door.
I return to my class. I prepare the room for academic detention and school tomorrow. I pull a substitute lesson-plan from my desk and begin to fill it out. I look up at the clock. It’s already one-thirty. I’ll do this later.
I head to the office, where I pick up the conduct referrals and ask Elizabeth, the principal’s secretary, to set up a substitute for tomorrow. She does, though she’s not sure if she can get the substitute I’ve asked for (a former student of mine from Pleasant Valley--a member of my first English 2 Honors class there--who is completing her teaching credential). On my way out, I see the principal, walking toward the office through the surprisingly deserted quad (usually there are students milling around, especially after lunch, but today it’s empty, giving me more mental evidence of a post-school purge). I wave her down. "Howdy," I say.
"What can I do for you?" No smile, not that I expected one.
"Question. Will there be... with all the ‘stuff’ that has gone down today...will there be a clearing of the campus this afternoon?" She stares blankly at me, like I’m some kind of moron. "I only ask because I have English 9 academic detention today. If there won’t be a clearing of campus, then I’ll know that any students saying that they couldn’t make it to detention because of a campus purge won’t have a legit excuse."
She purses her lips, shaking her head. "No. We’re not going to clear campus today." She begins to walk past me.
I turn to watch her go. Well, that was concise. I begin toward my class. I get two steps before I hear her call me back. I turn. At least she’s smiling now.
"That’s good. That would be really smart of them to say that."
"Gotta keep one step ahead of them." I wave and I’m off.
I retrieve my WASC stuff from my room and go to the computer lab to type my evidence cover sheets then I start working on this journal entry (but I don’t finish it...) ...
[POSTSCRIPT: By the end of the school day (now yesterday), the story concerning the shooting had changed. The shooting had now taken place just off campus of P.V.H.S., only one person was shot (the other was seen as wounded because of blood splatters from the first victim), and he was shot four times. The victim was fourteen and Hispanic. The shooter was still ours, on the loose, and African-American.
[By the six o’clock local television news, the shooting was blocks away from Pleasant Valley, in an alley way. The victim was alone, fourteen, and Latino. The shooter was unidentified, of no known race (though the neighborhood recently has been a "racial powder keg"), with no known whereabouts, and last seen in a small dark sedan.
[By the next day, the only news that was different was that the shooter was a former C.H.S. student, who, according to the principal, had been "on line for graduation," and yet he was no longer on our campus. Pleasant Valley High had gone through a normal school day: increased security but little restlessness. And the police’s usual community contacts had dried up.
[I kept hoping that with each new bit of information, the shooting would finally be placed out of state, done by nobody one anyone I knew would know, with a living, breathing victim. But that wasn’t going to happen... END OF POSTSCRIPT]
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