was the one who had saved my life, and the lives of a lot of other students. After what happened between Erin and my father—between
Eris
and my father, I should say—and the endless insults and injuries of school, I thought I’d put the fear of God into everyone at Hamilton. I had no plans to shoot anyone, and I didn’t shoot anyone. I was just going to wave a gun around, scare some people. I figured that if I had a reputation for being “crazy” people would leave me alone, or I’d at least be thrown out of school.
McCann cared about me about as much as anyone in that school did—not at all. But he had cultivated the bad habit of coming in early and smoking a cigarette while eating his McDonald’s breakfast on the corner about a block from the school. We passed one another on the street that day. I didn’t say hello; in Jersey, you don’t say “hi” to acquaintances you encounter outside. You might nod and raise your eyebrows. Teachers you ignore. The courtesy is supposed to be mutual, but that day McCann spotted me and decided to follow me. I was wearing Oleg’s long leather duster, which set him off. I’d told Oleg I needed the trench coat to hide my kilt, which I was planning on wearing to protest the proposed dress code at the assembly this afternoon. Oleg was always in favour of anything weird and stupid. But it was only three years after Columbine, and a picked-on kid strolling purposefully toward high school was enough for McCann. In those days, cell phones weren’t all that common among schoolteachers and other people who made no friggin’ money, so all he could do was tail me and hope to somehow intervene.
“Mr. Holbrook!” he had shouted at me. For a second, I thought it was my imagination, but then I realized that McCann was behind me. I ran up the steps, toward the entrance nearer the INDUSTRY sign. There was a metal detector there, of course, but nobody as yet manning it, and the doors were open. That’s Jersey City for you. I ran in, and in the foyer a fat guard, who had squeezed himself into one of our little plastic classroom desk chairs, looked up from his own breakfast of a bagel and grape soda, then looked back down at it when he saw it was me. What the hell was I going to do? Bring in a gun and shoot everybody? The stupid metal detector wasn’t even plugged in.
“Mr. Holbrook!” I wasn’t in shape, and I had a machine gun under my coat, but McCann was old, and a smoker, and only half-committed to confronting me, so I tore far ahead of him, down the hall and into . . . where? I had no plan, no place to go. Homeroom was locked, and I could hardly go through my day normally with the coat on the entire time. If I went to my hiding place, and my second gun, there was no guarantee I wouldn’t be spotted and my bolthole discovered. At Hamilton, about ten percent of the student body came to school just to aimlessly wander the halls before lunch. Then they’d retire to the curb to smoke cigarettes and listen to music and shout at the passing cars.
So I turned around and looked at Mr. McCann, his face ruddy like an Irish drunk. “What?”
“Uhm . . .” Now he didn’t know what to say. Ask me to open my coat and if I had a gun, then what? Ask me to open my coat and if I didn’t have a gun, well that’s a sexual harassment suit waiting to happen, now isn’t it? “You’re here early today.”
“Yes,” I’d said.
“Well then, I’ll put you to some use. I have something to pick up at the principal’s office, and need an extra pair of hands.” He wheezed as he spoke. McCann was smart. I couldn’t rightly refuse without him getting even more suspicious, and the principal’s office would necessarily trump any dumbass excuse I could think of. So I pulled the gun.
McCann threw up his hands and shouted, “Don’t shoot!” He was half-panicked but still thinking. The security guard extracted himself from his chair and started trotting toward us.
“Get down,” I said.
Eris
and my father, I should say—and the endless insults and injuries of school, I thought I’d put the fear of God into everyone at Hamilton. I had no plans to shoot anyone, and I didn’t shoot anyone. I was just going to wave a gun around, scare some people. I figured that if I had a reputation for being “crazy” people would leave me alone, or I’d at least be thrown out of school.
McCann cared about me about as much as anyone in that school did—not at all. But he had cultivated the bad habit of coming in early and smoking a cigarette while eating his McDonald’s breakfast on the corner about a block from the school. We passed one another on the street that day. I didn’t say hello; in Jersey, you don’t say “hi” to acquaintances you encounter outside. You might nod and raise your eyebrows. Teachers you ignore. The courtesy is supposed to be mutual, but that day McCann spotted me and decided to follow me. I was wearing Oleg’s long leather duster, which set him off. I’d told Oleg I needed the trench coat to hide my kilt, which I was planning on wearing to protest the proposed dress code at the assembly this afternoon. Oleg was always in favour of anything weird and stupid. But it was only three years after Columbine, and a picked-on kid strolling purposefully toward high school was enough for McCann. In those days, cell phones weren’t all that common among schoolteachers and other people who made no friggin’ money, so all he could do was tail me and hope to somehow intervene.
“Mr. Holbrook!” he had shouted at me. For a second, I thought it was my imagination, but then I realized that McCann was behind me. I ran up the steps, toward the entrance nearer the INDUSTRY sign. There was a metal detector there, of course, but nobody as yet manning it, and the doors were open. That’s Jersey City for you. I ran in, and in the foyer a fat guard, who had squeezed himself into one of our little plastic classroom desk chairs, looked up from his own breakfast of a bagel and grape soda, then looked back down at it when he saw it was me. What the hell was I going to do? Bring in a gun and shoot everybody? The stupid metal detector wasn’t even plugged in.
“Mr. Holbrook!” I wasn’t in shape, and I had a machine gun under my coat, but McCann was old, and a smoker, and only half-committed to confronting me, so I tore far ahead of him, down the hall and into . . . where? I had no plan, no place to go. Homeroom was locked, and I could hardly go through my day normally with the coat on the entire time. If I went to my hiding place, and my second gun, there was no guarantee I wouldn’t be spotted and my bolthole discovered. At Hamilton, about ten percent of the student body came to school just to aimlessly wander the halls before lunch. Then they’d retire to the curb to smoke cigarettes and listen to music and shout at the passing cars.
So I turned around and looked at Mr. McCann, his face ruddy like an Irish drunk. “What?”
“Uhm . . .” Now he didn’t know what to say. Ask me to open my coat and if I had a gun, then what? Ask me to open my coat and if I didn’t have a gun, well that’s a sexual harassment suit waiting to happen, now isn’t it? “You’re here early today.”
“Yes,” I’d said.
“Well then, I’ll put you to some use. I have something to pick up at the principal’s office, and need an extra pair of hands.” He wheezed as he spoke. McCann was smart. I couldn’t rightly refuse without him getting even more suspicious, and the principal’s office would necessarily trump any dumbass excuse I could think of. So I pulled the gun.
McCann threw up his hands and shouted, “Don’t shoot!” He was half-panicked but still thinking. The security guard extracted himself from his chair and started trotting toward us.
“Get down,” I said.
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