A Different Blue by Amy Harmon

listened to see if I could hear the sounds that Jimmy was still sleeping. Rain was pushing down on us from what felt like all sides, the little trailer rocking slightly from the water and wind.
    “Jimmy?” I said it louder.
    “Hmmm?” His reply was immediate this time, like he too lay listening in the dark.
    “Did my mother look like me?”
    Jimmy didn't answer right away, and I wondered if he was going to entertain this conversation in the middle of the night.
    “She had dark hair like you,” he responded quietly. “And she reminded me of someone I used to know.”
    He said no more, and I waited in the silence, hoping for crumbs.
    “Is that all?” I said finally, impatiently.
    “She didn't really look like you,” he sighed. “She looked more like me.”
    “Huh?” I hadn't anticipated that response at all.
    “She was Native, like me,” he grunted. “Her eyes and hair were black, and her skin was much browner than yours.”
    “Was she Pawnee?”
    “I don't know which tribe your mother belonged to.”
    “But I'm still Pawnee?” I persisted. “Because you're Pawnee?”
    Jimmy grunted. I hadn't recognized his discomfort for what it was. I hadn't realized what he wasn't telling me.
    Jimmy sighed. “Go to sleep, Blue.”
     

Chapter Eight

     
    When I heard the first shot I thought of the fireworks that had cracked and sizzled throughout the neighborhood on New Years Eve. It startled me, but it didn't occur to me to be scared. The parking lot around my apartment complex had been lit up for the last two days with residents setting off bottle rockets and spinners and kids running around with sparklers, and I was almost used to the sound. I slammed my locker shut and headed toward my seventh hour class as another shot rang out.
    And then kids were screaming and people were yelling that someone had a gun. I rounded the corner on the way to Mr. Wilson's room and saw Manny, his arm raised like the Statue of Liberty, a gun clutched torchlike in his hand. He was shooting at the ceiling and striding toward Wilson's door demanding to know where Brandon Bates was. Horror slammed into me like a runaway train. Brandon was in my seventh-hour, European History class in Mr. Wilson's room. I dropped my books and raced after Manny, screaming.
    “Manny! Manny, stop!” I shrieked. Manny didn't even turn his head. He kept walking and shooting. Three shots and then four. He walked into Wilson's classroom and shut the door behind him. A shot rang out once more. I flew through the door seconds later, expecting the worst. Mr. Wilson stood in front of Manny, one hand stretched out toward him. Manny had the gun pointed at Wilson's forehead and was demanding to know where Brandon was. Kids were crying and huddling together underneath their desks. I saw no blood, no bodies, and no sign of Brandon Bates. My relief gave me courage. I was behind Manny, facing Wilson, and though Wilson's eyes never left Manny's face or the gun pointed at his forehead, his hand motioned me away. I moved toward Wilson, giving Manny a wide berth so I wouldn't spook him, speaking softly as I did.
    “Manny. You don't want to hurt Wilson. You like him, remember? You said he's the best teacher you've ever had.” Manny's eyes swung wildly to me and then zeroed in on Wilson once more. He was breathing hard and sweating profusely, and his hands were shaking violently. I was afraid he would accidentally pull the trigger. At that distance he wouldn't miss Wilson.
    “Stay away, Blue! He's protecting Brandon! Everybody get down!” Manny screeched, waving the gun in every direction. “I'll b-blow his head off, I promise,” he stuttered, the words so at odds with his young voice that I almost laughed. But it wasnt funny. None of it was funny.
    I kept walking, and Wilson shook his head furiously, willing me to stay put. But I kept moving. My legs felt like they weighed four hundred pounds, and I couldn't feel my hands. I was completely numb with fear. But I wasn't