As I’m waiting to go up to the choir stands, a girl from the middle school asks me how I ended up in a wheelchair. There’s no malice in her question, no insult. She’s just curious. There’s a small ramp put in just for me, just for this occasion on the school football field. The bleachers are packed for graduation. This isn’t my year, I’m still a junior, but the choir is performing alongside the band. The middle schoolers have been invited to join us to bulk up our numbers.
“That’s enough chit chat,” calls Mr. Harrison, our choir director. He’s heard the girl’s question and wants to protect her, or me, or both of us, from having to hear the answer.
I roll to the front of the sopranos and the girl is right behind me, but she has lost interest.
The sun in the brilliant blue sky is hot today, unlike the day I ended up in my chair. That day was cold and there was frost on the school grounds. The girl may have heard of this morning, but she is young so she might not remember three years ago, she was probably still in elementary school. I was a freshman then, a junior now. Since the brief national news coverage of this event was eclipsed by another shooting two days later, no one really remembers.
Nola and I were on the high school quad that day, beneath the American flag lifting and fluttering in the breeze.
Today there’s no wind and the flags carried by the JROTC team hang there dull and lifeless, as if they’re melting in the almost-hundred-degree weather.
We bring our voices together and sing “The Star-Spangled Banner.” I’ve sung some variation of this song, in some arrangement, since elementary school, and the words and notes come easily to me.
That morning, Nola and I walk across the grounds, heading to the entrance. We haven’t quite reached the front doors, but I see our reflections in the glass. Nola is almost six inches taller than me. She wears her hair in long braids twisted into a knot at the top of her head. She looks so regal.
I tell her she should wear her hair that way for homecoming.
Nola laughs. “I’m not going to be voted onto the court, and I don’t want to even if I am.” This is a lie.
Nola wears a pink and blue flannel. There are holes in her jeans. We’re wearing the same Vans, pink and white. She’s always been prettier than me, and we both know it, and she never says anything. Even when she wears frumpy clothes, she is prettier than me. I try not to be jealous of her, but I am. I pull the sleeves of my sweatshirt lower. It’s gray and doesn’t have any fancy labels. My leggings are new though, they are still snug and not stretched out. It is my second time wearing them. Neither one of us wears gloves, she’s jammed her hands in her jeans and I’ve tucked mine in my sweatshirt sleeves.
We are almost to the concrete walkway when I fall.
I don’t trip, I don’t skid. I drop straight down. Nola’s confused, I see it in her face. She tries to catch me and she falls too.
Then I hear a pop. Sound travels incredibly slow.
I have a moment to realize how cold the grass is. It’s hard with frost and my hands are already numb. Someone yells Nola’s name and she turns. I see her face, I see a braid falling from her twist, I see the blue, blue sky beyond her. I feel her hand in mine. I can’t tell if she’s trying to pull me up or comfort me. But she hears her name and she looks up.
I want to sit up, but something’s wrong with my legs. The only thing I feel is Nola’s hand—it’s cold. But our hands are together and she’s gripping mine so hard it hurts. She opens her mouth to say something.
I twist my head so I’m looking at the world sideways and I see Hannah. She looks too skinny in her big clothes. She’s always been small for her age. And I know because I’ve known her for her whole life. She lives three doors down from me. We often walk the same way home. Tears are streaming down her face, tears and more tears. But her jaw is set and a muscle jerks in her cheeks. She has called Nola’s name. She’s raised her hand, and I feel Nola’s hand tighten—as if it were even possible for her to grasp me tighter—
Something bright and white explodes from Hannah’s hand. A firecracker? It’s not a firecracker.
During my first lockdown drill in kindergarten, I receive a red card and a call to my mother. I am five years old and my teacher shoves me in a closet with three other students. One of them smells like soup and I cry. The teacher tells my mother I am too loud, I will get everyone killed. My mother tells her there has to be more to protect children than throwing them in a closet and praying. I think the teacher agrees with her, but I keep coloring my worksheet.
Nola I think wanted to protect me, or maybe she was already gone, but her grip on my hand never wavered. The school security guard tackles Hannah. The last thing I remember is a black uniform with a badge. A voice asking me if I am okay.
I want to tell the girl behind me that I am in a wheelchair because of a bullet. But the truth is, I am in a wheelchair because a girl thought her boyfriend asked my best friend to homecoming a week before and, instead of talking to a friend, or crying into a pillow, or howling at the moon she followed us one morning with a gun.
I am in a wheelchair because a girl was sad.
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