My gray-haired, hunchbacked principal walks across the stage. “Okay, Saber Cats.” He’s always lackluster, bored, breathing heavy. “What did we learn?”

Everyone is quiet at first. And then teachers chime in about what was done wrong or right.

Turns out everything was done right because there’s no wrong answer.

What do you do when there’s a shooter, anyway? You try not to panic, try to stay alive, hide in corners, board up doors with desks, and escape through doors or windows. All of it is right, as long as you are trying to stay alive.

What if my classmates were murdered?

What if, at some point, it wasn’t a drill? What if they passed into the afterlife and were stuck in their death loops, dying forever? I would see my acquaintances running down hallways and staircases in terror. I would never be able to forget it, because it would be right in my face all the time.

I don’t make it past the front lawn at the end of the day. I just plop on the ledge by the parking lot and roll a rose quartz stone around in my hand. It’s hard to just bounce back to normal after a schoolwide panic.

“Hey, brobro, you need a ride?”

Benji. He’s making his way around the ledge to meet me. No track practice today, I guess.

“Why are you just sitting there by yourself?” he asks. “Where’s Grady?”

“Grady takes the bus.”

“Come on—Mahalia’s waiting for us.”

Benji picks me up by the armpits and steers me through the parking lot.

My brother treats me like shit most of the time. Sometimes he treats me okay. I hate it when he’s nice to me, because I know it won’t last.

Mahalia is at the wheel when I open the door to her blue van, her hair in a ponytail of fresh microbraids. She smiles at me, face joyful and friendly, as always. “Hey, Jake.”

Her skin is pretty, like polished amber, and she smells like tea and flowers. Mahalia is Benji’s ex. She grew up in church with us, lives in our neighborhood, and drives her mom’s car, so we hitch rides home with her when she’s not tutoring or doing yearbook.

Benji gets in and instantly starts with smart comments. “Careful not to hit anybody backing out, Maha.”

“All front-seat passengers must remain silent for the duration of the ride,” she says, rolling her eyes and adjusting the mirror. “It’s the rules.”

Unlike me, she claps back against my brother’s sly comments. I swear he causes her more stress than necessary, even for an on-and-off couple. For some reason she puts up with it. They both put up with each other.

“Have you finished your application?” she asks Benji without looking at him.

“What application?”

“Georgia State? The one due in two months?”

“That’s forever away.”