You have to force your legs to move into school.  It’s the first time you’re going back since… the incident.  It's been a few weeks since it happened.  The school opened last week, but your parents let you stay home an extra week since it was obvious that you weren't ready to go back.  A month, you realize, taking a moment to process it.  That day is still fresh in your mind as if it were yesterday.  It's probably because you can’t close your eyes without seeing it.

As you walk into the building, you see a plethora of security guards along with metal detectors and a security vestibule.  Nobody seems comfortable walking into the school.  They say it's easier to deal with your problems if you accept you’re not the only one out there dealing with them.  You don’t agree with that statement, because you know everyone around you is thinking the same things as you, but it doesn’t make being back here any easier.  You haven’t talked to many people about what happened.  You’ve barely been out of the house since it happened.  There was a memorial event when the school reopened, but you didn’t go.  You still can’t believe you’re back here now.  As you walk through the metal detector, a security guard checks your bag.  He hands it back to you, and you grab it, walk off quickly.  You accidentally bump into someone, and you almost scream until you realize that you didn’t bump into… him.  The guy who put you guys in this position in the first place.  You can’t help but think about what was going on in his head that day.  You don’t understand what can force someone to the point that they would want to do… that.  It's something you’ll never come to understand.  

You make your way up the first flight of stairs to your first class when you come across the hallway.  It's obvious people are avoiding it because only a few people will actually walk down it, and those that do only do it because their class is on it.  They still stay away from the bathroom.  Nobody is even looking at it.  You were on your way to the bathroom right next to it when you heard the first one.  It echoed down the hallway like when you put two speakers right next to the other one’s microphone.  You didn’t even know what was going on until you heard the second one.  And a third one.  By the time you had lost track, you were running down the hallway, making a break for the exit.  You take the long way.

After taking a few extra hallways, you walk into your first class of the day.  The classroom is about three fourths full, and not many more people show up after you.  It's obvious some people need more than an extra week.  You don’t blame them.  You take a look around.  Your class is usually pretty noisy in the morning, but nobody is today.  Everyone’s eyes are on the back seat in the middle of the class.  It was Parker's seat.  At least you think that's what his name was.  You knew the first letter was “P,” and there was definitely an “r” in there somewhere.  He always wore a uniform similar to those they wear in the army to school.  You didn’t talk to him much, but she seemed nice.  She always talked about.  Apparently he was a member of the Army Junior Re-something or other.  All you really know is he wanted to serve in the military one day.  That’s what he wanted.

The speakers activate after the final bell rings, and the principal asks everyone to rise for the pledge of allegiance.  Nobody does.  The teacher doesn’t, either.  You wouldn’t be surprised if the principal himself wasn’t.  Once he finishes his morning announcements, the speaker shuts off, and the teacher stands up.  You didn’t miss too much last week, but he does give you a bit of work you have to catch up on.  Not that you plan on doing it any time soon.  You just look out the window, watching cops drive up and down the street outside of it.  Apparently you aren’t the only one, because the teacher has to ask you guys to pay attention a few minutes into the lesson.  He only asked once though.  He knew the situation, and he knew not to push you all.  

First period goes by faster than you expect.  The only time you paid attention to what was going on was whenever the door opened.  Even the teacher stopped talking when it happened, and usually he’s pretty good at tuning that stuff out.  You guess everyone’s a bit shaken up after what happened, though.  As the teacher is wrapping up the class for the day, the door opens again.  This time, the guidance counselor walks into the classroom.  She scans the room until she makes eye contact with you.  After having a few words with the teacher, she motions for you to follow her.  You look around and see everyone’s eyes on you.  You can tell they are trying to analyze your facial expressions.  Why would the guidance counselor need to talk to them? they were probably thinking.  Did they have something to do with it?  You can’t blame them for thinking that.  You would be, too.  You grab your bag as the bell rings.  You follow her down the hall, hesitating as she walks down the hallway.  She looks back at you, urging you to follow.  You take a deep breath and walk forward, staying as far away from the bathroom as possible.  You follow her down the stairs, across the building, and into her office.  She sits down at her desk, which is covered in different candles.  You smell lily and rosemary, but there are two other scents you’re not as familiar with.  Maybe lemongrass?  You can’t tell.  The last time you were in here was last year when you were dealing with your own mental health problems, and back then, she didn’t have candles.  You pause for a second.  She probably worked with him, you think.  Everyone knew about his mental health problems.  It was just that nobody expected him to… you know, do what he did.  You look at the chair the guidance counselor is motioning for you to sit in.  He probably sat there, you think, staring at it.  You can almost see him sitting there.

“You can sit down,” the guidance counselor assures you.  “He’s not sitting there right now.”  Apparently you’re not the first person to react like this.  You sit down, but you stay at the edge of the seat.  She sighs.  “How have you been?” she asks, trying to keep a smile on her face.  You can see it in her eyes, though; she’s been having as rough a time as everyone else.  You shrug, looking down at the ground.  She nods, letting silence fill the room for a second.  For a bit, the only sound is the air conditioner running and the sliding of a desk on the floor above you.  “I tried reaching out to you last week, but you weren’t here.  I’ve been trying to reach out to everyone actually.  I want to make sure everything is okay even though I know the answer is probably no.  Did you take an extra week off?”  You nod.  Silence again.

“I know things seem rough now,” she starts.  “Nobody is ever prepared for stuff like this.  It is hard coming back from a school shooting.”  You tense up when she says, “shooting.”  “I know it's hard to hear right now, but if we as a school are going to get over this, we need to be willing to talk about it.  Taking a week off is acceptable, but isolating yourself is not.  You need to talk to people, whether it's me, your parents, or a professional.  People are here for you, and you have to know that you are not alone in this.”  There it is, again.  After a bit of silence, she continues.  “I need you to tell me something before you go.  Even if it's something as simple as what you’ve been doing recreationally since the shooting.  I’m not joking when I say communication is key if we want to have a chance at going back to the way things were before.”

There’s silence for a bit, and then a tear slides down your cheek.  You put your head in your hands as the guidance counselor takes a knee in front of you.  Before she says anything, you say, “No… we’re never going back.”