It was cold. 

Cold, frigid, chilly, freezing, whatever you want to call it, but the school was cold.

So cold that Haven Luchesci felt the need to break one of the stupidest rules of her school and wear sweatpants under her uniform plaid skirt. 

Luckily for her, her first teacher of the day, her English teacher, didn’t care much about enforcing that particular rule. No, her teacher, Mrs. Tyler was much more interested in the poems they wrote and the books they read to worry about things such as sweatpants. 

Speaking of Mrs. Tyler’s class, Haven, should be getting back there soon enough. The start of the day was always rough for her. While many of her classmates come to school exhausted and drowsy she came in hyperactive with too much on her mind to sit still. And so that is how she found herself roaming the halls of her school, on her third lap of the three building, three floored campus the definition of “wrong place, wrong time” about to come her fate. 

It was cold. Even with the forbidden sweatpants and her school approved sweatshirt covering her body she was cold. If a teacher were to make her remove the sweatpants they would clearly see the goosebumps coating her legs and hopefully take mercy on her. 

Her footsteps were not the only ones wandering the halls for once. It was not uncommon for students to wander, but there was rarely anyone wandering during the first block of the day as anyone who would wander was currently slumped in their desk chair taking a nap. 

But today, of all days, there was another girl to join her. Even from across the hall, more than 20 feet away, Haven could tell she was pretty. Like Haven, this girl also wore the illegal sweatpants yet there was no uniform sweatshirt to be found and instead just the standard polo shirt. Her hips swayed naturally as she walked, her head held high and her braided hair swaying ever so slightly as she walked. 

She wonders briefly how many braids she has. If she had to make a guess she’d say probably around thirty. It’s always fascinated her how box braids look. They’re so intricate looking yet when you watch a braider braid they do it so quickly. 

Having spent so much time examining the girl Haven doesn’t realize she has been staring at her until they are mere feet apart. The girl smiles softly at her as one does when they see someone in the halls. 

Haven lifts her hand in greeting, opening her mouth- BOOM!

Haven jumps with a gasp at the noise while the girl, now only two or three steps ahead of her, just whips her head around to look back at Haven. Her eyes are wide and filled with fear as she stands frozen in place.

It must be five seconds that the two girls stand there just looking at each other, attempting to decipher what the noise could have been if not what they think. Five precious seconds they stand there, doing nothing. Five seconds wasted in blind panic just standing when they could have been running. 

Haven snaps out of it first.

She grabs the girls’ hand pulling her along as she darts for the nearest exit. They reach the very back entrance of the school in a matter of seconds only to push down on the lever and find the door locked. Absolutely stumped Haven pushes harder in the door as if it will move if she only puts more force into it.

“Lockdown,” the girl whispers, her lips parted in shock. 

This time Haven is the one dragged through the hall and into the nearest janitorial closet. Pressed against a mop she places a hand over her mouth, the fear finally catching up with her body as her eyes well with tears and her breaths become quick and uncontrollable.

“Do you have your phone,” the girl said in a voice so low Haven almost didn’t hear her. Her own eyes are filled with tears and her hands shake uncontrollably once Heaven shakes her head no. 

“Sh*t,” the girl cursed, letting her head rest against the wall behind her as she slid down until she was seated with her knees to her chest on the ground. She lets out a slew of curses only stopping when Haven slaps her free hand over her lips removing her hand from her own mouth to tap her ear once in silent warning. 

Haven had heard the footsteps coming even with the girls cursing and quickly acted before it was too late. The footsteps get louder and louder until they come to a stop what Haven assumes to be right in front of the door. 

The door handle jiggles making Haven's tears fall freely and the other girl gasps in Haven's hand. Praying that whoever is on the other side of the door didn’t hear Haven pressed her hand even tighter over the girl's mouth in an attempt to stop anymore sounds. But it is already too late.

The person outside the door has already heard and has already opened the door. 

It could be a male at the door or a female, Haven doesn’t know, and frankly she doesn’t care. A million thoughts raced through her mind as the person with the gun approached them, their heavy footsteps clicking on the tiled floor. Haven’s hands fell from their mouths as all hope left her body leaving only fear and self pity. 

She did not hear the gunshot, nor did she feel it. But she saw it. She saw the bullet for the briefest of moments before it was lodged in her stomach, likely hitting some major organ. 

She heard the next gunshot, and saw it as it entered the girl she had grabbed in the hallway. There were smears of red on her fingers as she slumped against the bucket she had been leaning against. 

Haven did not know this girl's name and did not bother to ask until they were on their deathbeds. Her voice was scratchy, hoarse, and her sentence was no more than a few slurred words and yet the girl understood.

She understood and she answered, even on her deathbed. 

“Nevaeh.”

And though Nevaeh didn’t ask and likely didn’t even hear for her eyes were already blank and lifeless, Haven used whatever was left of her voice to tell Nevaeh her own name.

“Haven.”

Later their sweatpant clad bodies would be found and the officers who found them would shake their heads as they looked at the girls' lanyards to gather their names.

Their deaths would be reported and their killer found. Their parents would mourn and their friends would cry. The school would hold a memorial for them both at what would have been their graduation day and days after the murder. Their seats at lunch would remain untouched, their friends sitting as if they were still there.

And the girls would pass, not knowing each other, but having died with each other. 

And the school would still be cold when the commotion was over and students had been sent home. 

For in America a shooting truly changes nothing but the lives of those affected. 

It does not affect the weather nor does it affect government officials.