The Long Game
Page 46
Monday, November 6, I thought. President Nolan. John Thomas. November 6.
“After the events of the past couple of days,” Dr. Clark said, “I’ve been asking myself what people will remember about this week, this tragedy.” She took her time with the words, each hard-won—and even harder to listen to. “Will they remember where they were when President Nolan was shot? Will they remember refreshing news pages, desperately waiting for an update on his condition? Will they remember going to the polls in record numbers, because voting was the only thing they could do? Will they remember the First Lady telling them that her husband had been put in a medically induced coma? Will they remember the look on her face as she swore on live television that President Nolan would make it through this, that he was a survivor?”
The room was quiet, silent but for our teacher’s voice.
“Will people remember the president’s sons standing behind the First Lady at that press conference? Will they recall anything at all about the week leading up to the shooting?”
Dr. Clark shook her head. “I don’t have any answers for you. I can tell you,” she said, looking out at us—and through us, “that I was on an airplane on September 11th. It was a transatlantic flight, my senior year in college. I was studying abroad. I remember landing and getting off the plane. I remember people turning on their phones. I remember the news spreading, slowly, from person to person—and the airport . . .” She closed her eyes. “I remember they had the news on. I remember watching. And I remember thinking that I’d almost flown through New York.”
I recognized the rawness in her voice and looked down at the edge of my desk, pushing back against the emotion causing my throat to tighten and my eyes to sting.
“I want you all to take a few minutes,” Dr. Clark said, “and write—about Monday, about what you remember, about what you think that other people will remember when they look back on that day. Write about the questions you have, what you’re feeling. Write about whatever you’d like.”
There was a moment of agonized silence.
“Can we write about John Thomas?” a girl from the front row finally asked. Her voice was wobbly. The question sucked the oxygen out of the room.
That was what the students at this school would remember. That was their flashbulb memory—hearing the news about the president, and then being shuffled into lockdown, terrified that there was a gunman loose in the school.
“Write about whatever you’d like,” Dr. Clark repeated.
I picked up my pen, but no words came. Beside me, Vivvie was already scribbling. My eyes found their way to Emilia. She was sitting very straight, her hands folded in her lap, her head bowed.
I wondered if there was anyone in this class who would admit on paper that John Thomas’s death wasn’t a tragedy to them.
“If you’d like”—Dr. Clark’s voice broke into my thoughts—“you may break into small groups. If you’d prefer to continue writing, rather than discuss any of this with your classmates, simply remain at your desk.”
One look in Emilia’s direction told me not to even try to approach her. Instead, I found myself sequestered in a corner of the room with Vivvie and Henry.
“We’re looking for someone who’s a part of the Hardwicke community.” I didn’t bother beating around the bush. Dr. Clark wanted us to deal with this tragedy. This was my way of dealing. “Someone security wouldn’t really screen,” I continued, “with a grudge against John Thomas.”
Vivvie blinked a couple times. Henry, in contrast, clearly hadn’t been harboring any illusions that we would be using this time to share our feelings.
“If Asher were here,” Vivvie said, “he would suggest we assign the perpetrator a code name.”
“We don’t need a code name,” Henry said.
“If Dr. Clark comes by,” Vivvie insisted, “it would be better if she didn’t hear us talking about the killer. Let’s talk about . . .” She thought for a moment. “The hedgehog.”
Henry wisely chose to keep any objections to himself.
“Fine,” I said. “We need to figure out who might have had a motive to hedgehog John Thomas. The problem is that people aren’t exactly in the mood to talk. Not about the real John Thomas.”
“Is this the part where you suggest a highly inadvisable way of putting people in the mood to talk, in hopes that someone can shed light on who the”—Henry glanced at Vivvie—“hedgehog might be?”
“After the events of the past couple of days,” Dr. Clark said, “I’ve been asking myself what people will remember about this week, this tragedy.” She took her time with the words, each hard-won—and even harder to listen to. “Will they remember where they were when President Nolan was shot? Will they remember refreshing news pages, desperately waiting for an update on his condition? Will they remember going to the polls in record numbers, because voting was the only thing they could do? Will they remember the First Lady telling them that her husband had been put in a medically induced coma? Will they remember the look on her face as she swore on live television that President Nolan would make it through this, that he was a survivor?”
The room was quiet, silent but for our teacher’s voice.
“Will people remember the president’s sons standing behind the First Lady at that press conference? Will they recall anything at all about the week leading up to the shooting?”
Dr. Clark shook her head. “I don’t have any answers for you. I can tell you,” she said, looking out at us—and through us, “that I was on an airplane on September 11th. It was a transatlantic flight, my senior year in college. I was studying abroad. I remember landing and getting off the plane. I remember people turning on their phones. I remember the news spreading, slowly, from person to person—and the airport . . .” She closed her eyes. “I remember they had the news on. I remember watching. And I remember thinking that I’d almost flown through New York.”
I recognized the rawness in her voice and looked down at the edge of my desk, pushing back against the emotion causing my throat to tighten and my eyes to sting.
“I want you all to take a few minutes,” Dr. Clark said, “and write—about Monday, about what you remember, about what you think that other people will remember when they look back on that day. Write about the questions you have, what you’re feeling. Write about whatever you’d like.”
There was a moment of agonized silence.
“Can we write about John Thomas?” a girl from the front row finally asked. Her voice was wobbly. The question sucked the oxygen out of the room.
That was what the students at this school would remember. That was their flashbulb memory—hearing the news about the president, and then being shuffled into lockdown, terrified that there was a gunman loose in the school.
“Write about whatever you’d like,” Dr. Clark repeated.
I picked up my pen, but no words came. Beside me, Vivvie was already scribbling. My eyes found their way to Emilia. She was sitting very straight, her hands folded in her lap, her head bowed.
I wondered if there was anyone in this class who would admit on paper that John Thomas’s death wasn’t a tragedy to them.
“If you’d like”—Dr. Clark’s voice broke into my thoughts—“you may break into small groups. If you’d prefer to continue writing, rather than discuss any of this with your classmates, simply remain at your desk.”
One look in Emilia’s direction told me not to even try to approach her. Instead, I found myself sequestered in a corner of the room with Vivvie and Henry.
“We’re looking for someone who’s a part of the Hardwicke community.” I didn’t bother beating around the bush. Dr. Clark wanted us to deal with this tragedy. This was my way of dealing. “Someone security wouldn’t really screen,” I continued, “with a grudge against John Thomas.”
Vivvie blinked a couple times. Henry, in contrast, clearly hadn’t been harboring any illusions that we would be using this time to share our feelings.
“If Asher were here,” Vivvie said, “he would suggest we assign the perpetrator a code name.”
“We don’t need a code name,” Henry said.
“If Dr. Clark comes by,” Vivvie insisted, “it would be better if she didn’t hear us talking about the killer. Let’s talk about . . .” She thought for a moment. “The hedgehog.”
Henry wisely chose to keep any objections to himself.
“Fine,” I said. “We need to figure out who might have had a motive to hedgehog John Thomas. The problem is that people aren’t exactly in the mood to talk. Not about the real John Thomas.”
“Is this the part where you suggest a highly inadvisable way of putting people in the mood to talk, in hopes that someone can shed light on who the”—Henry glanced at Vivvie—“hedgehog might be?”
