#reminds me of the teacher at i think it was sandy hook? who said

[allsortsofgeekery]

One of Us is Lying: Chapter 1

Synopsis: Five high school students, all from different social groups and ranks in the popularity hierarchy, walk into detention on Monday, September 24; only four walk out. Remy Kallagher was murdered, and the surviving four are all suspects. But who did it—Logan, the valedictorian and student council president, Roman, the star athlete, Patton, the adorable member of the homecoming court, or Virgil, the infamous school drug dealer on probation?

🚨IMPORTANT DISCLAIMERS🚨

I do not own this story or these characters. This fanfiction is based off of the novel, “One of Us is Lying”, by Karen M. McManns. I do not claim ownership to anything.

This fic will be dealing with lots of heavy and upsetting topics, so it is VERY IMPORTANT that you read the trigger warnings before you read.

The ending of this fic will be slightly different from the original book.

Word count: 1,750

Trigger Warnings: poisoning, drug mention, cursing, severe allergic reaction (let me know if I’ve missed anything!)

Pairings: eventual analogical

Without further ado, let’s get to the story!

Logan

2:55 PM

Monday, September 24

“NF better end it with her boyfriend, JG, because one night away from her and he’s already sleeping with his girl on the side, KT. Sorry, babe!”

“Turns out the adorable little bookworm WC isn’t as do-no-wrong as we thought. Give her the shot, and she’ll steal your man—which is exactly what she did to her “BFF”, LJ. Turns out, hooking up with your best friend’s boyfriend doesn’t do wonders for your friendship—or your reputation. Back to the books, WC.”

“We’ve all heard about JK’s one night stand with QD from a post a few months back—but it’s apparently not so one-night-standy after all. The two were caught making out in the closet at Q’s Halloween party, making everyone wonder if they’re still going strong. Trick or treat?”

Logan Sanders stood at his locker, scrolling through the day’s most recent gossip posts. The lengths he’d go to to stall today. He usually pretended he didn’t care about the posts—most of the time, he really didn’t—but sometimes he couldn’t help himself. Besides, he’d do anything to delay what was about to happen.

“Hey, bitch,” a voice said from behind him. Logan cringed inwardly. He tried to close out of the app, but it was too late. Remy Kallagher had already reached out, hand closed around his wrist and eyes set upon his phone screen. “Reading my very own posts?” Remy asked in a mock-flattered voice. “I’m honored, Mr. President. But it’s old news. Just you wait until tomorrow. You’ll love it.”

Remy’s eyes glinted in a way that Logan didn’t like. He yanked his wrist out of Remy’s bone breaking grasp and shook his head. “Believe me, Remy, my reading your posts is a very rare occurrence.”

Remy grinned like a Cheshire cat. “It won’t be for long.”

Logan’s eyes narrowed. “What’s that supposed to—“ he was cut off by a small buzz from his phone. There was a single message from Valerie Rosario, a girl on the Mathletes team with him.

“Hey! Are you coming to Ellen’s Coffee for practice today?”

A bubble that showed Valerie was typing appeared in the bottom corner of the screen, and then a second message was added:

“Jared’s here!”

Logan felt his face grow hot. Of course, he realized fully that among all of his extracurriculars and classes, it would be pointless and silly to pursue a romantic relationship. Even though Jared Williams had perfect, toothpaste-commercial teeth and polo shirts with his initials monogrammed into them and may very well be the first hot mathlete ever.

Regardless. Logan definitely didn’t care that stupidly smart Jared Williams was at Mathletes practice today. And he definitely didn’t care that he couldn’t make it today.

Remy leaned over and grinned his catlike grin. “Jared Williams, huh? Spill the Tea material or no?”

Logan went hot. “Spill the Tea” was Remy’s gossip app that the entire school read. He claimed he posted all of the gossip there to help people, but he really held it over everyone’s heads and used it to keep them in line. And it worked—ever since he had started the blog, nobody ever crossed Remy, because they knew he could dig up dirt on them. The whole school read “Spill the Tea”, no matter how much they hated it, though—it was their number one source of gossip and news. Even Logan wasn’t above it.

Logan had never been featured. Obviously. There was only one thing that could have possibly made it onto the site that concerned him, but Remy couldn’t know about that.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Logan said, shouldering his backpack and shoving past Remy. He couldn’t be late for his sentence. His unfair sentence, he reminded himself. To his annoyance, Remy still tagged along, a pest that Logan couldn’t seem to shake.

“So, where’re you off to, Mr. President?” Remy asked, employing the nickname he had been using since Logan had been elected Student Council President. It was beyond infuriating. “Off to one of your extracurriculars?”

“Don’t I wish,” Logan muttered under his breath as he came to a stop in front of Professor Walker’s door. Remy looked at him expectantly, willing him to move. When Logan stood his ground, the color rising in his cheeks, Remy suddenly burst out laughing.

“You?” He said between snorts. “Oh, sis! What’d you even do?”

“Nothing,” Logan replied, his tone and expression even. “I was falsely accused.”

Remy wasn’t having it. “Sure, okay, whatever you say, Prez,” he said between snorts.

Logan opened his mouth to respond, but Remy had already pulled the door open and stepped into the lab.

Logan took in the odd gathering. Definitely not the type of people he had been expecting—well, except for one. Virgil Macauley, the school’s notorious drug dealer, grinned like he had just won the lottery when he caught sight of him.

“You make a wrong turn?” He remarked, a shit eating grin on his face. “This is detention, not student council.” Logan flushed a fire engine red.

“Mr. Macauley,” Professor Walker said from behind the teacher’s desk. “This is not the time for commentary.” Virgil tipped his chair back and rapped on the desk with his fingers in reply.

Logan took a quick inventory of the other delinquents stuck in detention; other than himself, Remy, and Virgil, there were only two others: Roman Prince and Patton Hart. Neither seemed like the type to get a detention to him, but he supposed the students from the popular group were all wild cards. It was odd seeing Patton without his boyfriend. Even now, he looked utterly lost without him. Logan wondered bemusedly if it had taken a crowbar to pry them apart.

“Mr. Walker,” Logan began once he took his seat. Professor Walker looked up and quirked an eyebrow at him, but said nothing. “Please. There’s been a mistake, sir. I don’t know how that phone got in my backpack, because it does not belong to me. This is mine,” he said, pulling it out of his backpack and showing him. Mr. Walker sighed and steepled his fingers.

“Mr. Sanders,” he began. “These are the facts. You are not supposed to have a phone in my classroom. I found a phone in your bag. You broke the rules, you suffer the consequences. Case closed.”

“But sir—“

“I trust I should not have to repeat myself, Mr. Sanders, unless if you would like a second visit?”

Logan fell silent, but the others—save Remy—were now staring at him with a newfound interest.

“Mr. Walker, I think we’re being pranked,” Roman declared. He brushed a sandy curl out of his eyes. “The phone you found in my bag wasn’t mine, either.”

“Mine, either!” Patton piped up, looking between the two of them with wide, curious blue eyes. “I always keep my phone in my locker, I promise!”

Patton looked so earnest that even Logan had to admit that Mr. Walker was being stubborn when he shook his head.

“Boys, you knew the rule. Put the conspiracy theories to rest. In the meantime, you are all to write a five-hundred word essay about how technology is destroying the fabric of society as we know it,” Mr. Walker said, handing out notepads and pens. Patton’s brows furrowed again.

“But...Mr. Walker, if we don’t have computers, how do we know when we hit five hundred words?” His soft features scrunched up in confusion. Walker merely tapped a finger on the pad.

“Count, Mr. Hart.”

Roman

3:07 PM

Monday, September 24

He could hear the sounds of baseball practice going on outside without him. Roman rested a hand on his cheek and gazed at the clock. He had only been in here for less than ten minutes? Good god, he didn’t know how he was going to make it until four. He had just started his third paragraph--written in perfect, loopy cursive--when Remy raised his hand.

“Yes, Mr. Kallagher?”

“Can I get some water?”

Mr. Walker rubbed his temples. “Don’t you have any with you?” Remy smirked and shook his head. Walker heaved a sigh. “Very well. There’s a sink with some cups by the wall. Be quick.”

Remy saluted lazily and got up. Roman turned his attention back to his essay--or tried to, rather, because at that very second, the sound of screeching tires squealed from outside. Already on his feet, Roman raced to the window.

There was a red Camaro that looked as though it hadn’t been used in years that had crashed into an ordinary gray Volkswagen. The accident looked minor, probably nothing more than a fender bender, but it was enough to get Mr. Walker moving.

“Mr. Sanders, keep the room contained. I’ll be back in a few minutes,” he said to Logan before rushing out the door to inspect the damage. But by the time they even turn to look back out the window, the cars are already pulling out of the lot.

“Huh,” Virgil breathed, pressing a hand to the window.

“Well...at least nobody’s hurt…” Patton started unsteadily. He bit his lower lip.

Remy had already backed away from the window and perched himself on a desk, picking up his cup of water. “Bitches. This is perfect.”

Roman quirked an eyebrow. “How’s that?”

“You ever seen ‘The Breakfast Club’? This is, like, real life Breakfast Club.”

“I don’t understand what you’re referring to, Remy,” Logan said in his monotonous way of speaking. Remy rolled his eyes.

“Sure you don’t. Think about it. You’re all, like, walking movie stereotypes. The nerd,” he said, pointing his chin at Logan. “the homecoming prince,” nodding at Patton, “the jock,” a pointed glance at Roman, “and the basket case.” This earned him a growl from Virgil.

“Even so,” Logan started, his arms folded across his chest. “What does that make you?”

“The nuisance,” Virgil muttered from the far corner of the room. Remy narrowed his eyes at him for a split second before turning his attention back to Logan and grinning almost wickedly.

“I’m the omniscient narrator, Prez.”

Logan raised an eyebrow. “In ‘The Breakfast Club’? As far as I know, there was none.” Remy’s almost-evil grin widened.

“Maybe not in ‘The Breakfast Club’,” he conceded. Then he grinned and held up the cup in a strange sort of toast to the five of them. “But there is one in life.” Then he drained his cup.

Roman glanced at Patton. Patton looked back, looking thoroughly confused and possibly a little disturbed. Roman opened his mouth to tell Remy to stop being weird, but Remy dropped his empty cup to the ground.

His eyes bulged, and he clawed at his throat. Roman at first thought that he was joking, but suddenly the others were standing, too, staring at him with looks of concern.

“Remy…?” Patton began, but Remy didn’t show signs of responding. Instead, he fell off of his desk and hit the ground with a thud.

Taglist:

@sparkletastic-cookiedough @mijako98

[bloodinacake]

Note: Do not attack or send any hate towards the people I interview. Let's begin with @darlingcalvin who let me interview them!

Question One: How did you find out about Columbine?

DC: I guess it's just something I've always kind of known about. I'd hear all about it when I was younger, but I never really understood it's significance until i reached intermediate school. There was more emphasis on school shootings and our teacher had to prepare us in the event of that happening. Through there, I learned more about Columbine, Sandy Hook, and other infamous school shootings in detail, as it was something that fascinated me and still does. The rest is history.

Question Two: Do you think your interest in Columbine reaches a unhealthy level?

DC: I wouldn't believe so, no. It does not stem beyond morbid fascination for me personally. I do not romanticize or fantasize about the perpetrators - Eric and Dylan - and nor do I hold them on a 'godlike' pedestal. They were sick, and they needed help. However, I do try to empathize with them because I know they were suffering.

In short, I don't think my interest goes too far. It doesn't really stem beyond this tumblr account.

Question Three: How do you feel about those that do romanticize serial killers and mass shooters or look up to them?

DC: When it comes to them, I don't find myself mad but instead partially sad. People who do romanticize and look up to serial killers are probably impressionable people with dark thoughts and real problems. They do not know how to deal with it, so they find comfort in this 'dark and godlike' figures. They seem to relate to them somehow. I just hope for them to get help, to get someone to listen to them. Because I do know that they need it.

That can't be said for everyone, of course, as I don't mean to diagnose and generalize a group of people. However, from my experience with that part of the TCC, I genuinely hope they get out of that and learn that there is more light and happiness in this life. :)

Question Four: What's your opinion on those who bash columbiners and the rest of the TCC based on the misinformed actions of some people? (Those inspired by school shooters that try to shoot up their own school for example).

DC: I think they are misinformed, like you said. I think they have reason, in their mind, to bash the TCC as a whole based on those people - I mean, after all, can you blame them? However, it makes me sad knowing that I can't openly say that I am interested in True Crime without people thinking I want to fuck school shooters (pardon my language), so I wish some people did their research more into a community instead of blindly bashing it because others did some terrible things.

Question Five: Does anyone outside of tumblr know of your interest in true crime?

DC: My dad and I share an interest in true crime (his not being as large as mine), so he does know. However, no one else in my family / none of my friends really know. I don't try to hide it persay, but like I mentioned earlier, I can't tell people without them thinking I want to either shoot up my school or marry a serial killer.

Question Six: That's understandable. Have you ever received any hateful messages or threats?

DC: No, thankfully.

Question Seven: Do you think the stigma with true crime will ever change?

DC: To be quite honest, I don't think it'll ever change. It may shift slightly, but not quite change. Murder, in general, is a taboo topic on it's own. While there has been a steadily climbing interest in true crime, there is still that sense of taboo linked to it that 'warrant' people wanting to bring it down. Murder, in my mind, will never be okay. And many people also think that way. Coupled with misconceptions about true crime as a community, I don't see the perception of it getting much better, if anything.

Question Eight: My wifi diead sorry. Do you feel that the community itself is to blame for ghe stigma and stereotyping it gets?

DC: It's all good!

To some extent, yes. I don't believe it is the community as a whole that is to blame, but the actions of a few people in this community that cause the stereotyping and the stigma. For instance, condoners and romanticizers. However, I do think that outsiders see this, and perceive it to be the community as whole (which, in turn, is where the stigma arises from). So, while I don't think the community collectively is to blame, there are a vocal few in the community that cause outsiders to antagonize us.

Question Nine: How has tcc effected the way you see everyday life, if at all?

DC: I guess you could say that the TCC has helped me learn to value my life more. I research these tragedies on the daily - I'm constantly surrounded by the sad truth that many people's lives were cut short due to it. Through my research and through joining this community, I learn to show respect to the victims, who had no say in their deaths. It's a constant reminder that life is, ultimately, fleeting. I need to make the most of it while I still have mine - I guess it's a way to honor those who weren't able to.

Question Ten: Do you feel as though the tcc has helped victims?

DC: I've actually enjoyed this interview! It's given me a chance to think about my role in this community :))

I would like to think that we do. Throughout the community, many great and wonderful people are creating accounts and posts dedicated to the victims and raising awareness about them. It may seem rather trivial, but these accounts are promoting a genuinely positive message. Instead of glorifying the killers, they bring light to the stories of the victims. It really is a beautiful thing to see, in my opinion.

To end it off, I know that the TCC as a community is a very polarizing topic to discuss. I will admit, we have some pretty awful people in our community - they glamorize these killers, follow in their footsteps, and the like. However, I want to bring more light to the wonderful side of this community: The side that spends hours upon hours researching, making sure everyone has the facts over biased opinions. Those that talk about these tragedies, but respectfully so to where the killers are not glamorized. And most importantly, those that raise awareness to the victims and their families. Our community may seem like a bunch of murder obsessed weirdos, but in all actuality I've met some of the nicest, most caring and genuine people through the TCC.

Thank you so much for this opportunity to share my beliefs, it means a lot xx

[catlady1986]

Guilty Pleasure

Chapters: 2/?  Fandom: Final Fantasy XV Rating: Teen And Up Audiences  Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings  Relationships: Gladiolus Amicitia/Noctis Lucis Caelum Characters: Gladiolus Amicitia,  Noctis Lucis Caelum, Prompto Argentum, Ignis Scientia, background characters Tags: Romance, Secret Relationship, Older/Younger Lovers, Prejudice, Student/Teacher Relationship, more later

Note: This one is longer than the last, had a lot to add to this part. If it comes off as too wordy or doesn’t flow well let me know and I’ll fix it. Also, the rating will go up next chapter. ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡ – ✧) Thank you and enjoy!

Previous Next

The sound of his doorbell ringing relentlessly finally annoys Noctis into waking up, grumbling as he slides out of bed. He finds his friends on the other side of his door, them smiling and looking at him with intrigue.

“You both are jerks for ditching me.” Noctis snaps and then yawns.

“Aw, don’t be like that,” Prompto chuckles and slings an arm around his shoulder as they head inside, then gives a wink. “I bet you still had a good time without us there, maybe met someone nice?”

He did, but wait, does that mean-

“I brought you some hotcakes I made this morning.” Ignis says and hands him a Tupperware container.”

“Oh, thanks Iggy.” Noctis grabs a fork and stands against his counter, digging in and looking to his friends, them staring again with intrigue. “What?”  

“So tell us, what’d you do after we left? Did you meet anyone new by chance?”

Noctis furrows his brows. His stomach begins to knot and a pang of dejection washes over him. Gladio hadn’t come over to him of his own volition, he was asked to. But something didn’t add up, he hasn’t told his friends yet that his preferences lean towards men. Hell, he just realized only a few months ago after falling hard for a male teacher he assisted. So how and why was Gladio chosen?

The black-haired man sighs while shaking his head then gives them a pointed look before taking another bite. “Yeah, I did. Guess that was your doing?”

“Oh come on bud, don’t be mad. We just wanted you to have some fun.”

“I don’t need you two to set me up on pity dates.”

“I’m sorry Noct. We thought it would help you out.” Ignis says, looking a tad remorseful. “You’re terribly shy and don’t leave our sides when out.”

“Yeah! You get really awkward and standoffish around people” Prompto chimes in.

“Plus she’s a nice young lady, just started as a receptionist at my office.”

Noctis freezes. She? The person they tried hooking him up with was a woman? So then Gladio wasn’t asked to flirt with him. He liked him for himself. This makes Noct grin smugly.

“Huh, guess you guys were wrong about me then.”

“Wait, so you met someone else?” the blonde asks, eyes widening comically. “Dude, who? Was she hot?”

“Not telling.”

“Aw, don’t be a jerk.”

“So you didn’t meet with Jessenia? Oh dear, I’m going to have to write her an apology note then. Maybe some flowers, box of chocolates too.” the glasses-wearing man says and puts a reminder on his phone.

“Come on Noct, don’t leave your bros hanging. Tell us what she was like, did you get her number? Are you two meeting up again.” Prompto asks and nudges his friend.

“Again, not telling.”

Prompto lets out an overblown whine as Ignis goes stonefaced like he’s deep in thought. Then a subtle bit of irritation flashes onto his face before his stoic mask is back on.

“It’s a man, isn’t it?”

“Wha?” Is Prompto’s reaction, looking between his two friends.

Noctis stops eating, his face turning a deep red color and eyes down-turning to the floor. Leave it to Ignis to somehow ass pull the correct assumption even though he’s usually terrible at reading the atmosphere.

He sighs and sets the container down, knowing he’s going to end up losing his appetite after the incoming barrage.

“Yeah.”

“What? Noct are you- Umm- So you're uh.” Prompto stutters before shaking his head, looking slightly hurt at his friend. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

“I- I really only discovered it recently myself. I thought that maybe it was just a one-time feeling but the guy I met last night, we had a connection. Sorry, I should have said something sooner.”

The blonde smiles and softly knocks his friend in the shoulder with his fist. “It’s all right dude, just next time talk to us about it. Right, Iggy?”

“Uh, yes, sure.” the man says, shifting about then giving a friendly smile. “We will always support you Noct, even if the information is, surprising.”

“Thanks, you guys.”

“So now that is out,” Prompto begins and nudges his friend like before. “what did he look like?”

Noctis chuckles softly. “As cliche as it is he was tall, dark, and handsome. Really nice too, we played pool and chatted for a while.”

“What’s his name? Does he work? Where does he live?” Ignis grills the younger man.

Noct can’t help but roll his eyes. “His name is Gladio, he works at a bookstore, and lives with his parents but is saving money to move out. He said they’re really strict.”

“How old is he?”

“Early to mid-twenties, I believe.”

The sandy-haired man’s eyebrows arch up. “And he lives with his parents still?”

“Iggy, I lived with my dad until I was twenty. Enough with the interrogation.”

“Just worried about you, you don’t know who this young man really is. For all you know he could be a prostitute or a thief preying on naive people.”

“Jeez, thanks Igs.” Noctis huffs. “If he was any of those, wouldn’t he have tried to come home with me last night?”

“That’s true.” Prompto says and gives Ignis a nudge. “Cut him some slack, this guy may actually be genuine and bring our awkward dork out of his shell.”

“Wow, I feel so loved.”

“Very well. So what do you have planned for the day?”

“Pick up my pants and blazer from the dry cleaners. Then I’m going to go over the syllabus’ for my classes tomorrow.”

“I see. Would you like for me to come over then and help you look over it? I can make us dinner?”

“You don’t have to, besides today is your day off since you got dragged in yesterday. Enjoy it and lounge around your apartment, be lazy.”

“That is a waste of time when I could be doing something fruitful.”

“And that is why you got an ulcer.”

Ignis sighs and shakes his head. “Fine, I will try to relax.”

“Well, I think it’s time for me to scoot.” Prompto says and flashes a big smile at his friend. “Congrats buddy, hope things work out for you, I mean it.”

“Thanks, Prompto.”

“I should be leaving as well, need to stop by the grocer, running low on Ebony. Have a splendid day Noct.”  

“You too, see ya.”

The two men begin to leave but Ignis stops and turns back around at his friend, staring intently at his face.

“I do hope you plan on shaving, it wouldn’t be professional for you to look unkempt on your first day.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” he says and waives his friend off.

Noctis sighs and leans against his island counter, shaking his head. While it wasn’t how he had planned coming out if it proved to be true, at least it wasn’t as bad as he thought. Although there is still his father. He tosses the container into the sink and looks at his wallet, seeing a white note sticking out of it. Gladio’s number. Should he possibly try to call him? No, he may be in trouble if his parents are as strict as he said and Gladio did say to call him later. He does wonder though if he is all right, he seemed nervous when he said his parents were coming for him. Maybe he should- no, he’ll wait.

So Noct gets going for the day, taking a quick shower, then gets dressed and starts to head out. He glances at the note again, feeling a fluttering sensation in his belly and his chest become tight.

While out, he finds that his mind constantly wanders back to the young man, especially when he catches a glimpse of someone tall with brown hair or hears a deep rumbling laughter. Noct feels ridiculous, like a love-struck teen who can’t wait to see their crush after being away from them for a day. He tries to clear his head however when he arrives at the dry cleaners, he sees a bookstore down the street, remembering that Gladio works at one and should be there. Would it seem stalkerish if he stopped by to see if Gladio worked there?

Throwing caution to the wind, Noctis heads into the bookstore after picking up his items, scouring about but not finding the young man and then learning from a clerk Gladio didn’t work there. A bit downtrodden, he heads back to his car and goes to leave, but stops and looks at his phone. Maybe he could see if there were any other bookstores nearby, he could check them out, see if the young man is there and find out how he is doing.

Well, there is apparently way more bookstores then he initially thought and there was no way he could stop at them all. That would be too stalkerish and a waste of gas. So he decides to just check out the closet ones and if Gladio is not at any of them he’ll just leave it at that. He does really want to see him again though so he hopes for the best. Not at the first, nor the second, or the third. Noctis sighs deeply as he sits outside the fourth, a quaint little bookstore that isn’t like all the chain stores with their bland decorum while trying to be hip with the younger generation.

Noctis heads inside and gets a strong earthy scent along with a hint of flowers; the smell reminds him of Gladio. His heart begins to pound in his chest and he begins trembling from nerves. A female clerk walks by and smiles at him, before greeting the older man.

“Hi, anything I could help you with today?”

“Oh umm, b, by chance is there a uh, a young man named Gladio that works umm here?” he says, trying to act normal and not like a flustered dork.

The young woman gives him a once-over, then goes wide-eyed and smiles. “Just a second.” she says and scurries off to the back.

Noctis can feel his chest tighten, he becomes sweaty and nervous. Then the man steps out from the backroom. It’s like one of those cheesy scenes in the movies where the main character’s love interest enters the room and everything around them freezes while they continue to move, all the attention focused on them. But then Noctis feels his heart drop as Gladio looks at him; he doesn’t look at him with annoyance or disgust, he has a soft smile on his face along with woe. One of his cheeks was bruised and swollen like he had been hit. Despite that, Gladio still gives him that sweet look like he had the night before, making Noctis cheeks heat up.

“Hey, fancy meeting you here.”

“Yeah, I was in the area so I uh stopped in.” Noctis says and chuckles embarrassedly. “See if you by chance worked here.”

“Huh, lucky guess. Must be fate.” Gladio says and flashes a flirty look at the older man.

Noct feels his heart thump rapidly. “Yeah.” He looks up at the young man and smiles before furrowing his brows, reaching his hand up to cup his swollen cheek. “Were you hit?”

“Oh, that? No, I got angry and slammed my door shut, it knocked a plaque I had hanging over the frame down. Dumbass me just stood there and watched it fall before it thwacked me on the face.”

Noctis frowns. He doesn’t believe him, he’d seen similar things and heard similar excuses from kids being abused. But Gladio wasn’t a kid, so it’s not like he could call child services. So he dejectedly lets it go.

“So how badly are you grounded? No tv or phone?”

“No dessert too.” Gladio snorts. “It wasn’t too bad, just a lot of yelling and door slamming. Plus I have to stay at my mother’s on the weekends since my dad is at work and can’t ‘babysit’ me.”

“You really do need to get your own place, that sounds horrible.”

“Yeah, in time.” he says and bites his lip. “So I uh get done in a couple hours, would you maybe wanna get a bite to eat with me?”

“Are you even allowed too?”

“Yeah, my mom lets me have a bit more freedom then my dad does. Plus I usually get something to eat on my way home so if I’m late she doesn’t fuss.”

“Ah, okay. Where would you like to meet up?”

“There’s a diner by the bus stop down a few blocks, that sound good?”

“Yeah, sounds great.” Noctis says and smiles as his cheeks rosy. Then a thought strikes him. “Oh, since you’re staying at your mother’s on the weekend, I can give you my number then.”

“Sure. I can use the house phone so my calls can’t be monitored by my dad.”

Noctis quickly scribbles his number down onto the back of a receipt he had stuffed into his pocket and hands it over, exchanging bashful smiles. They say their goodbyes with Gladio heading back to work and Noct deciding instead of going all the way back home he’ll kill time by putzing around the nearby mall. Maybe he’ll look into some new ties while there.

An hour goes by and his phone begins to vibrate, an unknown number flashing across his screen. He’s apprehensive at first but answers it anyway.

“Hello?”

“Oh! Awesome! So you didn’t give me a fake number.” Gladio chuckles from the other end. “Hey uh, business is kinda slow so Karis is letting me leave early. Wanted to let you know I’m heading over, if you don’t mind eating around five.”

“That’s fine, I’ll stop by and pick you up. I’m over at the mall.”

“Yeah, okay, see you then.”

A wave of giddiness overcomes him. He hasn’t felt this excited since his early twenties when he and his then-girlfriend went out for the first time. That was the last time he dated or felt attracted to a woman. She broke his heart badly. Hopefully, it ends up better this time around.

Noctis finds Gladio waiting outside the bookstore and picks him up, them bantering awkwardly and flirtatiously as they head to the diner. But as they arrive, the younger man’s face goes white, his eyes widen and he bites his lower lip before quickly shifting his large frame out of sight.

“Shit.”

“Gladio? What’s wrong?”

“My fucking stepmother is there with my sister and stepbrothers.”

Noctis furrows his brows and looks through the large windows of the diner, spotting a middle-aged woman with three kids. He looks down at Gladio and catches the slight look of fear and brokenness in his eyes along with his panicked breathing, it making Noct’s stomach turn for some reason he can’t quite put his finger on. Without a word, he puts the car in reverse and drives away but Gladio remains in his hunkered over position, his breathing still frantic. In a move that would send Ignis into a tizzy, he pulls one hand away from the steering wheel and gently touches Gladio’s cheek before petting his hair. This seems to do the trick and his breathing returns to normal before sitting back up with a sigh.

“Gladio?” Noct asks with deep concern.

“Sorry, I have bad anxiety. I was afraid she’d catch us together.”

Noctis looks to him with remorse and gently rests his hand against his face again. “You want to go someplace else or do you want me to drop you off at your mother’s?”

“If, if it’s alright with you,” Gladio begins and turns to look at him, his amber eyes looking harrowed. “could we stop someplace secluded? I want to cool my head before I go home, I’ll give you gas money too.”

“You don’t have to give me money, I’ll do it. I used to take this one kid out for ice cream after school because he didn’t want to go home until his mother got done with work. Found out the neighbor that was watching him had been touching him inappropriately.”

“Ah, you sound like one of those do-gooders you read about it the paper.”

Noctis smiles. “Yeah, I like helping people. Even though I get really shy and flustered at first, I still try my best.”

“Wish there were more people like you out there in the world, maybe it wouldn’t be so rotten.”

Noct quickly glances at Gladio, noticing the pained look on his face. A thought pops into his head that would kill two birds with one stone. “Hey, I live not far from here. Why don’t we stop at my place and I’ll order out. That way you can clear your head.”

A soft blush forms on the brunette's cheeks. “Oh, yeah, that sounds good.”

Noctis continues to drive until he arrives at the carport for his apartment complex, shutting the vehicle off though neither exits right yet.

“Hey, thanks Noctis.” Gladio says and looks over at the black-haired man, smiling fondly. “Seems my gamble going and talking to you last night didn’t end in a mess.” His smile grows into one of teasing. “Or my dead corpse dumped in the river.”

“You thought I could’ve been a serial killer?” Noctis laughs.

“Hmm, people never suspect the cute ones.” Gladio’s eyes half lid as he looks at the older man, a sliver of a pink tongue swiping across his dry lips. “Hey umm, Noct?”

“Hmm?”

“Can I, can I kiss you?”

The thirty-year-old’s heart pounds in his chest and his body begins to tremble. Kiss? He hasn’t kissed anyone in years, not since his girlfriend. Will he still any good at it? Is Gladio teasing him? Is it too soon? Should he say no, that he wants to wait? His mind continues to race, even as his body begins moving on its own, leaning towards the young man who tilts his head.

Their lips brush momentarily before pressing them together in a tender kiss. It feels exhilarating and he wants more. Noctis rests his palms against Gladio’s cheeks, deepening the kiss that becomes needy and carnal, large tan hands gripping him around his waist. Tongues explore about in each other's mouths and dance about together, soft moans escaping out until Noct gasps when he gets cupped through his pants.

Blue eyes stare deeply into brown, both filled with lust, as the two pant quickly and continue to hold each other. Noctis is the first to pull back, opening his door and stepping out but he pulls Gladio with him, then he pins him to the side, capturing his lips once again as the younger man runs his hands down his back before gripping his ass. Noctis pulls back once again, their lips separating and making a loud smack, and takes hold of Gladio’s hand leading him towards the elevator. He has never done anything like this before but the feelings he’s experiencing are intoxicating and he wants more, wants to feel the pleasure of doing something scandalous. Taboo.  

[gracewithducks]

Tired (Isaiah 40:21-31)

In April of 1999, I was in my first year of college. It had been a rough year for me, to be honest. I struggled a lot with homesickness and loneliness; I wrestled with all kinds of questions about the purpose and the meaning of my life – you know, typical college freshman stuff. By April, I was feeling pretty grateful just to have made it through the year; I was getting ready for my second round of final exams, and starting to think about packing up my dorm room and heading home for the summer.

 And then, on April 20, 1999, two young men showed up at their high school with guns, and they murdered twelve of their fellow students, and killed one of their teachers, and hurt many others, before finally killing themselves. My friends and I were stunned. Even if we didn’t know any of the people who were killed, we were less than a year out of high school ourselves. Those kids: they were us; they could have been any one of us.

 It wasn’t my first experience of death. Four years earlier, I had said good night to my dad, not knowing he was about to have a heart attack, and we wouldn’t speak again. I knew that life was unpredictable and unfair, and I knew that not one of us was promised another day here.

 But I still remember being so completely shocked by the senselessness of what happened in Columbine. Nobody could have prevented my dad’s heart attack. But those students, that teacher – they didn’t have to die. Thirteen people left their homes for school that morning, maybe even too much in a hurry to tell their families that they loved them – having no idea that they wouldn’t go home again.

 There are lots of different numbers out there – this is, I have to tell you, a very depressing kind of research – but according to one count, there have been at least 213 school shootings since Columbine.[1] Two hundred forty eight people have been killed, and almost four hundred wounded – physically wounded; I cannot even begin to tally the emotional and psychological pain. Two hundred thirteen shootings works out to an average of just over 11 shooting a year… except that there have  already been 11 school shootings in 2018. Eleven school shootings, and January isn’t even over yet.

 Deaths in school have become so commonplace the news doesn’t even talk about them anymore.  And if that doesn’t break your heart – if that doesn’t make you furious – then I don’t know what to say.

 My first year of college, my first year of adulthood, ended with Columbine. My senior year of college started in September 2001. Whatever else I learned in college, I learned this: that life is short, and the world is unfair, and that pain and fear and hatred lead people to do terrible things. And I also learned that, unless we decide to do something about it, nothing is going to change.

 But I have to confess to you, friends, I’m tired.

 I’m tired. I’m tired – not just tired because my kids get up too early or because it’s winter and the days are short and the sun doesn’t want to shine.

 I’m tired, because it’s been almost two decades since Columbine, it’s been five years since Sandy Hook, and kids are still dying in school. I’m tired, because there are people who want me to believe that their guns are more precious than my children’s lives. I’m tired, because there are people who will argue about conspiracy theories rather than debate ways to make real change. I’m tired of looking around when I pick up my daughters at school and planning what we would do if someone opened fire. I’m tired, because “active shooter training” is a thing churches do now, and I can never see our sanctuary the same way. I’m tired of grief; I’m tired of risk assessment; I’m tired of fear. I’m tired, because the brokenness around us goes so much deeper than school shootings: I’m tired of racism, and sexism, and homophobia, and poverty, and inequality, and xenophobia; I’m tired of people being targeted for violence because of who they love; I’m tired of people being targets because of the color of their skin; I’m tired of hearing about neighbors being deported and families torn apart; I’m tired of people dying because they can’t afford to see a doctor; I’m tired of having to argue that science is real and facts matter; I’m tired of our leaders and our neighbors just accepting and even justifying the way the world is – and most of all, I’m tired of feeling like nothing is ever going to change.

 I’m tired. The problems are so big, and I feel like the proverbial little Dutch girl with my finger in the crack in the dam – while rock crumbles and water floods all around. I’m tired, because there is so much that needs to be done, and there is only so much that I can do… and it doesn’t seem to be making a difference anyway.

 I’m tired, and I’m guessing that you might be tired, too.

 It’s a good thing, then, the our scripture this morning is for tired people.

 Too often, this verse – about soaring on “wings like eagles” – it gets trivialized, reduced to get-well card and thinking-of-you status: “You may be sick now, but just wait; soon you’ll be soaring like an eagle!” I remember many of my college friends hanging it on their dorm room walls around exam times, as a promise to sustain them through their all-night study sessions: you may be tired, but God will get you through!

 And maybe it made them feel better – but colds and cram sessions aren’t what Isaiah was talking about at all.

 Isaiah was speaking to God’s people during a time of great suffering for the community. The tribes of Israel had been conquered by a foreign power; many of their leaders and scholars were sent away, and the people were struggling to hold on to hope. They had been promised, remember, that God would give them a home for all generations, a place to call their own – but instead, they’ve lost possession of the Promised Land, and they are living as a people who are occupied and oppressed. And part of the message that Isaiah gives them is an awareness, a warning, that they’ve reaped what they’ve sown: As a community, as a people, he says, you’ve let evil take root; you’ve allowed injustice to flourish, and you’ve forgotten the oppressed, the orphans, the widows and the strangers in your midst. You’ve stayed silent; you’ve been complacent and compliant, while the vulnerable have been forgotten and abused… and now you’re finding out how it feels to be powerless, vulnerable, and oppressed.

 Sometimes we learn compassion and empathy the hard way… and that’s what happens here. So the people repent; they are filled with grief for their failures, and sympathy for their hurting neighbors… and still the years go by. And they start to grow desperate, to be filled with despair: they say, God, we’ve learned our lesson; God, we’re sorry, and we want to do better – please, please, just give us another chance.

 But nothing changes. The occupation continues. Innocent people continue to suffer. Ordinary folks struggle to get by, and those in power don’t want to change, they just don’t care.

 So the people start to give up hope: maybe it will never get better. Maybe God really has forgotten us; maybe God has turned away from us – God doesn’t see what we’re going through, or God doesn’t care. The people are tired. They’re tired of waiting; tired of living in a world they’re powerless to change; tired of holding on to hope.

 And this is the moment, here in Isaiah 40, when the prophet’s tone begins to change.  After 39 chapters of rebuke, this chapter begins with God saying, “Comfort, O comfort my people. Speak tenderly to them…” Soon, there will be a way in the wilderness, a way where there seems to be none. “Every valley will be lifted up, and every mountain will be made low; the uneven ground will be made level, and the glory of the Lord will be revealed, and all people will see it together.”  

 And then God continues with a strange reminder: God tells Isaiah, “Cry out!” And Isaiah says, “What should I say?” God says, “All people are like grass, like wildflowers. The grass withers, the flower fades, but the word of God stands forever… See, God is here, coming with might, to feed the flock like a shepherd, to gather the lambs and carry them in his bosom, to gently lead the mother sheep.”

All people are like grass – it’s not exactly a comforting platitude… unless what you need is a reminder that sometimes, change takes a long time, but that doesn’t mean it’s not happening. The world we live in has been shaped, for better or for worse, by the lives of generations who’ve gone before us; their own lives may have faded away, but the legacy of their choices and the world they made lives on. And in the same way, our own legacy – our impact on the world, the changes we yearn to bring about – some of those changes may be a long time coming; some of them, we ourselves may never see… but we can still plant the seeds, we can still work to correct the course the world is on, so that it will one day arrive at those places we can only dream about today. We are a part of a much bigger story, and though our part may feel small and fleeting, it matters all the same.

 And then we are reminded, we may be small, but God is big – bigger even than the princes and rulers of the earth. They, too, are fleeting, impermanent; “scarcely has their stem taken root when [God] blows on them, and they wither, and the wind carries them away.” No matter how powerful and permanent any leader or regime or administration may seem to be, only God is eternal… and God will have the last word, in the end.

 Isaiah 40 paints for us this picture of tiny and fleeting human lives, in contrast with the eternal and powerful God of the cosmos… and Isaiah 40 also portrays God as a shepherd, a mother, and a comforter. And so Isaiah asks, “Why do you say your way is hidden from God?” Why do you say, God doesn’t see, and God doesn’t care? Of course God sees. Of course God cares.

 You may be tired, but God isn’t. God doesn’t grow weary; God is faithful and steadfast. And this season – this terrible, horrible season, this struggle against injustice, this wearying work of holding onto hope, of believing things can change – it won’t last forever.

 This is Isaiah’s message – it’s God’s promise through the prophet: hold on. This isn’t where the story ends. God has not abandoned or forsaken you; God has not forgotten you at all.

 When you’re faint, God will give you power. When you’re powerless, God will give you strength. Even youths may faint and be weary; the young will fall exhausted, but if you hope in the Lord – if you trust in God, not your own power; if you believe that God is faithful, that God can make a way where there seems to be none, if you keep working and dreaming for the future you can’t yet see – if you hope in the Lord, your strength will be renewed. You’ll mount up and soar on wings like an eagle. You’ll be able to run and not be weary, to keep going without growing faint.

 I know you’re tired. I’m tired, too. That’s why we keep coming back to worship: to be reminded of what we already know; to be restored, to have our hope renewed, to be reminded: the way the world is, isn’t the way the world has to be. The way the world is, isn’t the way the world’s meant to be. Change is possible; and what by God’s grace, what we do – even the little things – they matter; we are helping to create a future we ourselves may not see.

 We may grow weary, but God never does. God sees. God knows. God cares. And God will walk with us, God will work through us, to make ways where there seem to be none. May we be restored, and may the world be renewed, today and for generations to come.

   God, you know how weary we are. You know how much we struggle to hold onto hope, when there is so much devastation and suffering and injustice and evil all around. Restore our strength today; surround us and uplift us by your spirit, so we might soar on wings of faith. In the name of Christ, our shepherd, our savior, and our strength, we pray; amen.

    [1] I use the numbers and accounts recorded here: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_school_shootings_in_the_United_States

[jennsmuusings-blog]

The First Time I saw my Father Cry- Final version

I fixed up some grammar issues, and added a bit more to add some more explanation 

It happened when I was fourteen years old, and although some of the precise details are foggy, I remember the rest like it was yesterday. It was the first time our small little town had made national news. Most people dream of that, right? Their little town being on national news because of their school’s sports team going to state or some academic competition. No one ever dreams that their school would be on national news for this. It’s something we hear about all the time. The schools are burned into our brains—Columbine, Sandy Hook, Stoneman Douglas. It’s become quite a common occurrence in our country, but despite this all we’ve become desensitized to it, and there’s always that small little echo of a voice in the back of our heads that whispers, “it could never happen here.”

Let’s call the villain of our story, Johnny for privacy sake. I was a teacher’s assistant TA in the English class Johnny was in- and I never had a good feeling about him from the start. He didn’t like me, which is scary now… looking back. I was everything he hated. I dressed nice, I was a straight A student, and his English teacher loved me. He knew my brother, and they hated each other. Despite all of this, I never really thought much about Johnny. He kind of scared me, and I knew he was a bully- so I automatically disliked him. But he was just Johnny… White trash Johnny.

Johnny was expelled the week before the incident. It happened in English too. Johnny hadn’t turned his homework in for the third time that week and our teacher put him in lunchtime detention (the “tank” is what we middle-school kids lovingly called it… Think of it as a place where you go, where you act up or do not do your homework).  He usually shrugged and rolled his eyes but today was different.

“Fuck this school!” He yelled, and then he said the one thing I remember most vividly. “I swear one day I’ll bring a bomb and blow all of you up!”

The silence was deafening. Everyone paused, and for lack of a better word you could hear a pen drop. I stopped in the middle of passing out papers and looked at my favorite teacher in concern. She let out a quiet but furious, “go...” And that was all he needed to know he was in serious trouble. I didn’t really think about it after that. I brushed it off and told myself he was just stupid and trying to be edgy. However, like the mouthy fourteen-year-old that I was, I didn’t hesitate to whisper it to my friends during lunch.

  “He’s scary.” One my friends whispered.

  “He’s a pussy,.” I whispered back, rolling my eyes and continuing our discussion on which Twilight character we would probably be.

 The day of the incident started out rough for me. I fought with my mom that morning. I believe the argument was about how I wanted to skip softball practice. I wanted to hang out with my friends. I begged and I cried and threw a tantrum like I was a small child. Spring break was just a few days away, and I would be spending it camping with my “stupid” and “lame” family. I would much rather spend it with my goofy and lovable group of friends.

  I don’t remember the details of the argument, but I do remember the hurt look on my mom’s face when I told her that I didn’t want to go on our stupid annual camping trip. After all, I wasn’t a child- I was fourteen!

   “Get out of my face.” My mom hissed, but the hurt was evident on her face.

  “Oh yeah?” I yelled back. “What if I died on my way to school how bad would you feel then?”

It was a jab that was meant to hurt her, and thankfully my brother pulled me out of the house before I could be even more stupid. I went to school early that day, which was something I rarely did. My brother drove me, and I realized that I hadn’t done my Algebra homework- which made me even more upset. It was raining on that day, and I remember watching the rain- drops roll down the car window… I then made a wish. I told myself that I would do anything if I could just NOT have to turn my homework in today. A selfish wish. Now, I almost laugh at how ironic it was.

I met my friends at breakfast, and they cheered me up. I got my Algebra homework out of my backpack and tried to finish before the first bell. I wasn’t listening to their conversations anymore, as I tried (and failed) not to get syrup on my pristine paper.

 Then gunshots.

  Pop. Pop.

Do you know how they say that your blood turns cold? I used to think that was stupid and a little cliché, but it happened. I felt like someone had pushed me into a winter storm without a coat, and goosebumps are rising on my arms just writing this. The response was instant, everyone screamed. It was absolute chaos as 12 to 14-year-old kids (and a few lunch aids) tried to run out into the hall. I can’t tell you which of my friends grabbed me—and I can’t tell you how I managed to remember my backpack. But I was suddenly in the halls, and there were teachers grabbing us and pushing us into rooms. I screamed as I was separated from my best friends and put into a room with a group of 6th graders and a girl I hadn’t talked to since we were seven.

  It was quiet, and the teacher (one I had never had for class), shushed us and told us to get down and be quiet as she flipped off the light. I could feel my heart pounding in my chest, and a 6th grader was trying to stifle his sobs with his hand. It was so quiet, and I had no choice but to face what I had said to my mom that morning. I hadn’t said “I love you”, I hadn’t let her kiss my cheek or give me a hug. My last words to her were about me dying, and they could very well be true now. It dawned on me that I could die, and the tightness I felt in my chest is a feeling I will never forget. The girl I used to be friends with, touched my arm. I looked up at her to see that she was crying too.

 “I need to call my mom.” I whispered, trying not to cry.

She didn’t say anything, only nodded. I didn’t even know if my mom would know, or if she would find out from me. I pressed her contact with shaky hands and put the phone to my ear. The sound of her crying “baby” broke my heart.

  “Mommy, I’m sorry.” I whispered.

   “I know you are.” She replied.

    “I love you.” I continued.

     “I love you too.”

I don’t remember how the rest of the conversation went. But I do know that I had to hang up when my teacher started shushing everyone again. I was in that school for nine hours. I can remember the sound of the swat team running the halls, the sound of dogs. It wasn’t until 4 pm that they released us, one by one. My Algebra teacher walked me to my parents and for some reason, I found it necessary to tearfully tell her I hadn’t done my Algebra homework; she pulled me into the tightest hug (I think I felt guilty, maybe if I had done it- everything would be okay). I ran into my parents’ arms and sobbed as they kissed my head and my face and held onto me.

I had never seen so many news vans at once. FOX, NBC, CBS… They were shoving the camera in every child’s face, asking how we felt. My dad put his jacket over me and pushed me towards the car. He mumbled about leeches terrorizing these poor children. The drive home was silent, and my mom sat in the back with me and held my hand- not letting me go. My father was stoic. It wasn’t until my mom left the car that he made a move. Until that day, I had never seen my father cry. He parked the car and started sobbing. I could tell that he hadn’t truly cried in a long time, and he seemed to not even know how. I sat in shocked as he gathered me in his arms and cried into my hair.

I wouldn’t find out until later that it was Johnny who caused so much chaos in my once peaceful middle school. He had shot one boy outside of our middle school but ran, and he apparently had an accomplice who had grown a sense of ethos at the last minute. He’d had a list with the names of the people he wanted dead- and I couldn’t help but wonder if I was one of those people. As much as I hate to admit it, school wasn’t the same after that. There were always police at our school, and I was constantly reminded that this place I once loved was no longer safe. We made national news, but in the worst possible way.

I once had a substitute teacher who said something that still stops me in my tracks. He was young, probably fresh out of high school. He told my biology class that this would follow us forever, and we would never escape it. Our small town would look at the graduating class of 2015 and know that one of our very own had taken a gun to school with a plan to cause as many causalities as he could. They would always look at us and wonder which one of us was on that list, and which one of us could have very well died that day. I remind myself he’s going to be in prison for a very long time, but I can’t help but wonder myself. I would be lying if I said it doesn’t sometimes keep me up at night.

[fardell24b]

Lawndale and Sandi Griffin’s Genie - Chapter 2 Part 5

Tori was flabbergasted. “You can’t do that. Permanent records are meant to be private!”

“What is discussed here now, will not leave this room,” Ms. Li said.

 Torii looked at Andrea. “I will not say anything if you won’t,” she said, whilst winking one eye after the other.

 Andrea got the message “Deal,” she said.

 “Ms Jericho, I have never known you to pass up such an opportunity for gossip. You must be hiding something!” Ms. Li said.

 “I’m not hiding anything!” Torii said.

 “Neither am I,” Andrea added.

 “It is clear that you are hiding something. I’m hooking you up to the polygraph machine!” Ms. Li said.

  “Oh no!” Stacy said, as she heard Ms. Li’s threat to the other teens.

“Bring it on!” Andrea said.

“Are you sure?” Tori asked.

“Yes!”

5 minutes later, Ms. Li had hooked Andrea up to the polygraph machine that she had spent school funds on (shortly before the previous year’s collapse of the library roof). “Now, why were you fighting with Ms Jericho before Homeroom?”

“Like, I need a reason to fight!” Andrea said, her voice deadpan and reminding Ms. Li of someone else.

 ‘I see she has been observing Ms. Morgendorffer in class,’ Ms. Li thought as the polygraph needle continued to plot a straight line.

 “Was there a particular reason why you were fighting this morning?”

 “No!” Andrea said.

 The polygraph needle went haywire.

 ‘Yes!’ “Ah-ha! We are getting somewhere! Does the reason have anything to do with an earlier confrontation between Ms. Jericho and Ms. Griffin?”

 “No!”

 The polygraph needle, again went haywire...

 Some thought’s connected in Ms. Li’s brain. “Does it have anything to do with those crazy rumours from yesterday?” the principal asked.

 “No!” Andrea said.

 The polygraph needle once more went haywire. But Ms. Li was not paying any attention to it because Stacy had chosen that moment to burst into the office.

 “Ms. Rowe! What is the meaning of this?” Ms. Li asked. ‘This had better be important!’ she thought.

 Stacy was panting, and her hysterical nature was in full control. “There are vampires! In the Science Block! They are coming down from the new floor!” she said.

 “Vampires? Really, Ms Rowe, you must be watching too much of that Buffy show! There are no such things as vampires!”

 “But they have fangs and everything!” Stacy shouted.

 “Then lead me to them,” Ms. Li said, sensing something fishy.

 “Oh no! I am not going back there!” Stacy said. She then appeared to faint.

 “I guess I will have to check it for myself! Ms. Hecuba, stay where you are. Ms. Jericho, look after Ms. Rowe!” the principal said. ‘I am sure that they will be here when I get back,’ she thought as she quickly exited the office.

  After the Principal was gone Andrea disconnected herself from the polygraph machine with disgust.

 Torii shook Stacy. “Are you ok, Stacy?” she asked.

 Stacy sat up. “I didn’t think that would work!” she said.

 “You mean that there aren’t vampires in the Science Block?” Andrea asked.

 “No, I doubt Sandi would wish for any, or that Jean would create any without someone wishing for them,” Stacy said.

 “Lawndale is stuffed up enough as it is without a Hellmouth to make it worse,” Andrea said.

 “Of course you would have to watch that show too, Hecuba,” Torii said. ‘But not really surprising,’ she thought.

 “Better than watching any of the other crap on TV,” Andrea mumbled. Torii decided not to reply to that.

 “We had better get scarce before Ms Li get’s back,” Andrea said.

 “Oh yeah! I better get back to class,” Stacy said. She quickly left the principal’s office.

 “I will be in the Library,” Andrea said, as she too, left.

 “I’ll go onto the roof,’ Torii thought.

  Ms. Li entered the Science Block from the quad. “Seems oddly quiet,” she said. She quickly went to the stairs and went up to the second level. It was also quiet. She walked to the next stairs, those that now lead up to the third level, rather than the roof.

  Stacy returned to the classroom.

“You took your time, Stacy,” Sandi said, when Stacy had given the hall pass back to the teacher, and was approaching her seat.

 “Sometimes, it takes a lot of time!” Stacy said.

 “Stacy, Eeewww!” Tiffany said.

 “Sorry!” Stacy said, as apology.

 ‘She must have been up to something!’ Sandi thought. ‘But what?’

  Andrea entered the library, from the second level footbridge that lead from above the cafeteria. ‘The Principal won’t think to look for me here!’ she thought.  She then went to the fiction section.

  Torii emerged onto the roof, above the office/cafeteria/hall block. ‘I will stay up here until recess. But what will I do for that amount of time?” she pondered. She walked over behind the water tank shack.

  Ms. Li emerged from the stairwell into the corridor in the new floor of the science block. It felt ‘off’ but there was a distinct lack of vampires.

“Ms. Rowe! You will answer for this!” she said as she turned around. ‘Maybe she thought that there were vampires, but that is no excuse!’ she thought.

  Ms. Li arrived back at the office to find it empty. “Great, where have they gone now? I hope they are in class! There is definitely something going on here!”

  “Ms. Haley-Andrea Hecuba, Ms. Victoria Jericho and Ms. Anastasia Rowe, report to the principal’s office!”

 “Oh no!” Stacy said.

 “Like, what were you up to earlier?” Sandi asked.

 “You don’t want Ms. Li finding out about Jean, do you?” Stacy asked.

 “Of course not!” Sandi said.

 “Well, Andrea and Torii were called to the office about a fight, that involved you, this morning,” Stacy said.

 “Oh!” Sandi said.

 “Yeah, Quinn, Tiffany, a few others and I put together a plan to distract her if events went out of control,” Stacy said.

 “I can believe that,” Sandi said.

 “I got curious about Torii and Andrea being called to the office at the same time. Our plan would have been for naught if Ms. Li found out from either of them,” Stacy said.

 “Ok, Stacy,” Tiffany said.

 “Aren’t you, like, going to the Office, Stacy?”Sandi asked.

 “Mr. Crown hasn’t taken any notice,” Stacy said.

 “No, but Ms. Li may come here!” Sandi said.

 “Oh no!” Stacy said, distressed.

 “You can ma-ake a wish Sand-di,” Tiffany said, not so oblivious for a change.

 “Good point,” Sandi said. She grabbed the emerald. “I wish that Ms Li will, like, forget about Stacy, Torii, that Goth Chick and myself.”

 There was an absence of the wish granting sound.

 “Jean!?” Sandi said.

 The genie looked Sandi in the eyes. “I cannot remove information from a human brain, Sandi. You will have to wish something else,” she said.

 “Like what?” Sandi asked, glaring back (a glare that would have elicited an ‘Eep!’ if it had been directed at Stacy).

 “That she would get lost whilst attempting to find Stacy, Torii or Andrea,” Jean suggested.

 “That she would fa-all asleep,” Tiffany said.

 “Or that the spy equipment in her office would fail,” Stacy said.

 Sandi thought for a few moments. “Ok, I wish that all those things would happen.”

 “You have to say what you want to happen, Sandi,” Jean said.

 “Fine. I, Sandi Griffin, wish that that, first: Principal Angela Li would, like, fall asleep. Second: That all the equipment in the Lawndale High School Principal’s Office would, like, fail. And Third: That said Principal would, like, get lost whilst attempting to search for Stacy Rowe, Torii Jericho and/or Andrea Hecuba.”

 The wish granting sound was heard.

  Ms Li was waiting for the 3 miscreants (Andrea, Torii and Stacy) when knockout gas appeared in the office. “What!” she said, as she lost consciousness. At the same time all the equipment in the office failed. (Wires broke, the light bulbs blew, the computer’s Windows produced a Blue Screen of Death, and the hard drive gave up the ghost, the security screens shorted out, the circuit breaker covering the office tripped, etc.)

  “Wish granted,” Jean said.

 “Good,” Sandi said, she then went back to her work.

  Daria and Quinn approached the principal’s office. They had heard Stacy being called to the office and had left their respective classes. They had met outside the Cafeteria.

 “Quinn, wait. You don’t want her to see you,” Daria said.

 “Good idea, Daria,” Quinn said.

 They cautiously approached the office. As they approached the office they smelt something.

 “Eeewww! What’s that?”

 “Knockout gas,” Daria said, covering her nose.

 “How would you know?” Quinn asked, backing off from the door.

 “Research for Melody Powers,” Daria said as she followed her sister.

 “Okay...” Quinn said, recognising the name as a creation of Daria’s for her writing.

 “Someone must have wished for that. It is not likely that Ms. Li would just play around with that stuff,” Daria said.

 “I guess. But who?” Quinn asked.

 “No idea, at least no immediate idea,” Daria said, after some thought. There were many students in the school that she thought would want to knock out the Principal, Sandi was only one of them, but it wouldn’t make sense to blame any person without any more proof.

 “What do we do now?” Quinn asked.

 “Go back to class. Ms. Li will wake up in a few hours, rather groggy, but mostly ok,” Daria said. She was sure that the principal wouldn’t be adversely affected in the immediate future.

 “Ok,” Quinn said. They both went back to class.

  At the beginning of Recess, Sandi ran out of the music classroom into the quad.

 ‘Everyone is after me and the emerald!’ she thought. She grabbed the emerald and said; “I wish that I will time-warp forwards to the end of recess.”

 Sandi disappeared forwards 25 minutes, but the emerald didn’t! It fell to the ground.

[hemarriedawriter]

Safety.

2.18.18

 There’s one particular image that is still haunting me, four days later. It’s from one of the cell phone videos that one of the students captured from the corner of the classroom. In it, the SWAT team enters the room, guns drawn, demanding that the students put their hands up. And hands go up. But one pair of hands stands out from the others. These two particular hands are shaking uncontrollably. They’re trembling. Actually, it’s worse than that. They’re flapping. They’re the hands of a child whose life just changed.

 That’s the image that I cannot get out of my mind.

 I was on another airplane when the events at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School took place. It was an easy flight, with the majority of my time spent finalizing and tweaking my presentation scheduled for the following day with educators in Minnesota, focused on how to support beginning educators. It wasn’t until I got into my rental car and turned on NPR that I learned that it was happening. Again. Another school shooting. At a high school. With an unconfirmed number of fatalities, the only thing certain was that there were many.

 I know how this goes for me. I lock into NPR in the car and then CNN in my hotel room and I begin to embody the terror and sadness through every cell in my body and I can’t turn it off. I turn inward. I don’t talk to anyone, I don’t call my husband, I don’t journal, I don’t read, I don’t change the channel, I just watch. And there’s so much to watch. I am paralyzed with watching.

 I watch the images from the helicopters as students run out of the school, backpacks abandoned. I watch as parents envelope their children, many with ashes on their forehead, many wearing red and pink hearts as this was both Valentine’s Day and Ash Wednesday. I watch the cell phone footage from the students. Footage more graphic and horrific than anything I’ve ever seen before. So graphic that my brain can hardly allow me to register that these images are real. There is blood. There are bodies. There is blood and there are bodies next to desks and books and all the familiar images that my brain has categorized into ‘school’ and ‘learning.’ These images don’t belong together. There are images of police cars and ambulances and riot gear and transcripts from text messages and the voice a superintendent speaking for a community when no job training or degree prepared him for this moment.

 When I finally force myself to close my eyes, the last thing I remember hearing was that even then, eight hours later, parents were still waiting to hear the news.

Eight.

Hours.

Later.

Still.

Waiting.

And no one could give a good explanation as to why, no matter how many ways or times Anderson Cooper pushed on this.

 ******

 Those first few moments in the morning when I’m traveling are always kind of this no-man’s land where it takes me a bit to figure out where I am, what day it is, what my schedule is, and if I’m awake early or already running late. On February 15th I realized that I was in Minneapolis, I was on time, I was headed to a training with mentors, coaches, teachers, and administrators from all over the state, and there were 17 confirmed dead in Parkland, Florida.

 I set forth in my routine, I delivered my training with all of my heart and my full presence and I came home and crawled into bed, not ready to face this familiar scene of the day after. I surrendered until my husband came home with flowers and pistachios and Clementines (all of my favorite treats) and gently reminded me that we still had our own Valentine’s Day to celebrate and I got up because I love him and I love that he re-centers me when I shut down.

 And for a few hours I forgot about the images. I enjoyed a phone-free dinner with my husband in a quiet restaurant followed by an after-dinner drink in our neighborhood pub where we watched the figure skaters in the Olympics.

 ******

 And now the debates are flowing hot and heavy all over social media. I refuse to enter into the wild west landscape of the comments. I want my world to return to photos of Instant Pot creations and daughters all dressed up to attend fancy dances with their fathers, the men of my high-school years. But that is not the world anymore. Not right now.

 Columbine happened when I was in my first year in my own classroom, a handful of miles away from Littleton. I was a long-term sub in an eighth-grade civics class (as a trained English teacher), 23 years old, and I was totally in over my head in so many ways. I called my parents for advice as to what to say to my students on April 21st as I had no idea where to even start, feeling too young and totally unprepared to face these scared souls the following day, with my own terror of how our world had changed on April 20th, 1999.  I don’t remember what I said exactly. I am fairly positive (or at least hopeful) that my words revolved around safety and how they were indeed safe at school and how it was my job to keep them safe and I promised them that I would. And I believed that.

 And then Sandy Hook happened and I was brought to my knees. More precisely, I was brought to my back. I couldn’t get out of bed for days after Sandy Hook. If my husband hadn’t turned off the TV and lifted me back into the world I’d probably still be in the fetal position in our bed.

 These days, my research and my work centers around self-care for educators. It’s my passion project. My crusade. I am convinced with my entire heart that if teachers can take exquisite care of themselves, they’ll be equipped to take exquisite care of their students.

 But how does self-care protect a teacher—or a child—from an assault rifle?

 This question haunts me.

 For my self-care work, I use Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs as the research-based foundation for the work. We learn to check in with ourselves and ask ourselves questions related to each level of the hierarchy. We start at level one and ask ourselves if our basic needs are met. In other words, have we eaten? Have we had enough water? Did we sleep last night? And if we answer yes to that level, we express gratitude and move to level two. Here, we ask ourselves, ‘Do I feel safe?’

 And here’s where I’m stuck. Where so many of us are stuck. Do we feel safe? No. We do not feel safe.

 I strive to be a positive person. I work hard to see the good in the world and in individual people, even those who act the worst. I remind myself—daily—that there is more love in the world than evil. And most days I believe that and I feel safe enough to move to level three of the hierarchy. But I’ve been stuck at level two for four full days now.

 Life, of course, continues to go on and I play my role and I attempt to secure my own oxygen mask. I go for long walks with my dog and do yoga in my office. I savor date night with my husband. I give myself permission to spend Saturday afternoon absorbed in a novel. I go to bed before 9:00 on a Saturday night. I avoid numbing out with wine and instead pour myself another glass of sparkling water.

 And yet I feel off. Twitchy. Anxious. Nervous. Emotionally wrought.

 I’m on another airplane as I write this. This time I’m heading to Kansas to work with a school district on how to create highly engaged classrooms for our students. But there will be an elephant in the room with us. An elephant holding a sign with strobe lights screaming at us that NONE OF THIS MATTERS if we don’t first feel safe.

 On a grand scale, I’m committed to The Cause. I’m ready to march, to call, to write, to scream, to walk-out, to rally, and engage in all the other verbs that might result in action.

 But I’m also concerned about tomorrow. And Tuesday. And Wednesday. And how we help our educators feel safe themselves so that they can, in turn, help their students—your children--feel safe as well.

 So here’s where I believe we start:

 We review our school safety plans, one more time, and visualize our own mode of action even though we hate thinking about it. We look at our class lists, one more time, and check-in with each individual student, ensuring that each of those souls feels connected to at least one other student and one other adult in the building. We look students in the eye and we pull them aside for one-on-one conversations where we listen like heaven, the standards be damned for a minute.

 We make sure that our own family has a safety plan. Are essential phone numbers memorized? Do we have a way to charge our cell phones? Have we told each other how much we love that person and why? Have we forgiven acts that need to be forgiven?

 And then we take time to focus on the good. We are grateful that schools now have precise protocols even though we hate that we have to. We are grateful that those protocols continue to be refined, even though we are enraged that this is a need. We are grateful that there are first responders who run towards us and grief counselors who hold space for us. We listen to our colleagues with our whole hearts and check in on the quiet ones or the ones whose hands tremble. Particularly the newbies.

 We take radical care of ourselves. We allow for quiet in our day. We breathe. We hug. We seek out the inspirational stories that remind us that our ideals are actually based in truth and reality. We distance ourselves from online shouting matches and accusatory finger-pointing. We look for quotes and images that sooth us. We reflect on five amazing things that occurred in our classroom that day and five incredible things that happened in our homes. We put ourselves to bed.

 We take gentle steps towards healing ourselves and reestablishing solid footing around our level two needs. We ask for help when we need it. We take a time-out when we need it. We laugh hard again, because we need it.

[jennsmuusings-blog]

The First Time I saw my Father Cry- ROUGH DRAFT

This is actually based on a true story- because it’s something I personally wen through when I was 14. It’s a difficult subject that we don’t want to face because it’s uncomfortable. Someone brought a gun go my school and shot someone, and I remember every detail. This is my best retelling of this difficult moment. 

                                The First Time I saw my Father Cry 

It happened when I was fourteen years old, and although some of the precise details are foggy, I remember the rest like it was yesterday. It was the first time our small little town had made national news. Most people dream of that, right? Their little town being on national news because of their school’s sports team going to state or some academic competition. No one ever dreams that their school would be on national news for this. It’s something we hear about all the time. The schools are burned into our brains—Columbine, Sandy Hook, Stoneman Douglas. It’s become quite a common occurrence in our country, but despite this all we’ve become desensitized to it, and there’s always that small little echo of a voice in the back of our heads that whispers, “it could never happen here.”

Let’s call the villain of our story, Johnny for privacy sake. I was a TA in the English class Johnny was in- and I never had a good feeling about him from the start. He didn’t like me, which is scary now… looking back. I was everything he hated. I dressed nice, I was a straight A student, and his English teacher loved me. He knew my brother, and they hated each other. Despite all of this, I never really thought much about Johnny. He kind of scared me, and I knew he was a bully- so I automatically disliked him. But he was just Johnny… White trash Johnny.

Johnny was expelled the week before the incident. It happened in English too. Johnny hadn’t turned his homework in for the third time that week and our teacher put him in lunchtime detention (the “tank” is what we middle schoolers lovingly called it). He usually shrugged and rolled his eyes but today was different.

“Fuck this school!” He yelled, and then he said the one thing I remember most vividly. “I swear one day I’ll bring a bomb and blow all of you up!”

           The silence was deafening. Everyone paused, and for lack of a better word you could hear a pen drop. I stopped in the middle of passing out papers and looked at my favorite teacher in concern. She let out a quiet but furious, “go...” And that was all he needed to know he was in serious trouble. I didn’t really think about it after that. I brushed it off and told myself he was just stupid and trying to be edgy. However, like the mouthy fourteen-year-old that I was, I didn’t hesitate to whisper it to my friends during lunch.

           “He’s scary.” One my friends whispered.

           “He’s a pussy.” I whispered back, rolling my eyes and continuing our discussion on which Twilight character we would probably be.

           The day of the incident started out rough for me. I fought with my mom that morning. I believe the argument was about how I wanted to skip softball practice. I wanted to hang out with my friends. I begged and I cried and threw a tantrum like I was a small child. Spring break was just a few days away, and I would be spending it camping with my “stupid” and “lame” family. I would much rather spend it with my goofy and lovable group of friends.

           I don’t remember the details of the argument, but I do remember the hurt look on my mom’s face when I told her that I didn’t want to go on our stupid annual camping trip. After all, I wasn’t a child- I was fourteen!

           “Get out of my face.” My mom hissed, but the hurt was evident on her face.

           “Oh yeah?” I yelled back. “What if I died on my way to school how bad would you feel then?”

           It was a jab that was meant to hurt her, and thankfully my brother pulled me out of the house before I could be even more stupid. I went to school early that day, which was something I rarely did. My brother drove me, and I realized that I hadn’t done my Algebra homework- which made me even more upset. It was raining on that day, and I remember watching the rain drops roll down the car window… I then made a wish. I told myself that I would do anything if I could just NOT have to turn my homework in today. A selfish wish. Now, I almost laugh at how ironic it was.

           I met my friends at breakfast, and they cheered me up. I got my Algebra homework out of my backpack and tried to finish before the first bell. I wasn’t listening to their conversations anymore, as I tried (and failed) not to get syrup on my pristine paper.

           Then gunshots.

           Pop. Pop.

           Do you know how they say that your blood turns cold? I used to think that was stupid and a little cliché, but it happened. I felt like someone had pushed me into a winter storm without a coat, and goosebumps are rising on my arms just writing this. The response was instant, everyone screamed. It was absolute chaos as 12 to 14-year-olds (and a few lunch aids) tried to run out into the hall. I can’t tell you which of my friends grabbed me—and I can’t tell you how I managed to remember my backpack. But I was suddenly in the halls, and there were teachers grabbing us and pushing us into rooms. I screamed as I was separated from my best friends and put into a room with a group of 6th graders and a girl I hadn’t talked to since we were seven.

           It was quiet, and the teacher (one I had never had for class), shushed us and told us to get down and be quiet as she flipped off the light. I could feel my heart pounding in my chest, and a 6th grader was trying to stifle his sobs with his hand. It was so quiet, and I had no choice but to face what I had said to my mom that morning. I hadn’t said “I love you”, I hadn’t let her kiss my cheek or give me a hug. My last words to her were about me dying, and they could very well be true now. It dawned on me that I could die, and the tightness I felt in my chest is a feeling I will never forget. The girl I used to be friends with, touched my arm. I looked up at her to see that she was crying too.

           “I need to call my mom.” I whispered, trying not to cry.

           She didn’t say anything, only nodded. I didn’t even know if my mom would know, or if she would find out from me. I pressed her contact with shaky hands and put the phone to my ear. The sound of her crying “baby” broke my heart.

           “Mommy, I’m sorry.” I whispered.

           “I know you are.” She replied.

           “I love you.” I continued.

           “I love you too.”

I don’t remember how the rest of the conversation went. But I do know that I had to hang up when my teacher started shushing everyone again. I was in that school for nine hours. I can remember the sound of the swat team running the halls, the sound of dogs. It wasn’t until 4 pm that they released us, one by one. My Algebra teacher walked me to my parents and for some reason I found it necessary to tearfully tell her I hadn’t done my Algebra homework; she pulled me into the tightest hug (I think I felt guilty, maybe if I had done it- everything would be okay). I ran into my parents’ arms and sobbed as they kissed my head and my face and held onto me.

I had never seen so many news vans at once. FOX, NBC, CBS… They were shoving the camera in every child’s face, asking how we felt. My dad put his jacket over me and pushed me towards the car. He mumbled about leeches terrorizing these poor children. The drive home was silent, and my mom sat in the back with me and held my hand- not letting me go. My father was stoic. It wasn’t until my mom left the car that he made a move. Until that day, I had never seen my father cry. He parked the car and started sobbing. I could tell that he hadn’t truly cried in a long time, and he seemed to not even know how. I sat in shocked as he gathered me in his arms and cried into my hair.

I wouldn’t find out until later that it was Johnny who caused so much chaos in my once peaceful middle school. He had shot one boy outside of our middle school but ran, and he apparently had an accomplice who had grown a sense of ethos at the last minute. He’d had a list with the names of the people he wanted dead- and I couldn’t help but wonder if I was one of those people. As much as I hate to admit it, school wasn’t the same after that. There were always police at our school, and I was constantly reminded that this place I once loved was no longer safe. We made national news, but in the worst possible way.

I once had a substitute teacher who said something that still stops me in my tracks. He was young, probably fresh out of high school. He told my biology class that this would follow us forever, and we would never escape it. Our small town would look at the graduating class of 2015 and know that one of our very own had taken a gun to school with a plan to cause as many causalities as he could. They would always look at us and wonder which one of us was on that list, and which one of us could have very well died that day. I remind myself he’s going to be in prison for a very long time, but I can’t help but wonder myself. I would be lying if I said it doesn’t sometimes keep me up at night.