The following Monday, there were three police cars stationed outside my school. Those of us who get to school early always sit with our friends while waiting for the bell to ring, usually talking while sipping coffee or changing from street clothes into our Catholic schoolgirl uniforms. The following Monday, no one said much of anything.

“At least we had the weekend,” my best friend said softly.

“Yeah,” I said.
Then the bell rang, and we thankfully didn’t feel like we had to fill the silence.

“Girls,” said my English teacher, getting us all to sit down. “There are police outside today. When we have a lockdown drill, we’re going to hide in that corner,” she pointed to the farthest corner of the room.
No one focused on Death Of A Salesman the following Monday.

“Hello girls,” Our principle, a kind-hearted nun, said over the intercom, about halfway into the class. “Due to…what happened last Friday, we want you all to know that your safety is our number one priority. We’ll hold an assembly today, and a prayer service later in the week, to honor all of the little angels God took home so early…”
I remember that phrase: ‘God took home.’ I remember it because I hated it.
As if God had something to do with a gunman killing twenty little kids.
That Friday, the news had broken around eleven. We didn’t know what happened originally. At first we thought no one was hurt. That it was a false report. Surely, it had to be – how could someone shooting twenty little kindergarteners be true? I remember the questions, the fear in everyone’s voices:
“I heard someone got shot in the foot.”
“I heard he went after his mom.”
“What was the school called? Sandy Hook?”
“Sandy Hook. In Newtown. How far are we from Newtown?”
“About a half hour. Maybe less.”
“Were any other schools targeted?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you think we’ll go into lockdown?”
“I don’t know.”
And we think of all these little kids, screaming and crying and being faced with something so horrible, and we think of our families, and what we last said to them as we left for school that Friday morning. And I think about my little cousin, who was in fifth grade at the time – elementary school age. Was he in lockdown right now? Should we be in lockdown right now? How far were we from Sandy Hook? A half hour, maybe less…
That Friday, we couldn’t stop talking. The following Monday, we simply couldn’t talk at all.
“At least we had the weekend,” my best friend said softly. She dared speak up just to say something, because no one else has. It’s straightforward, precise, no way around it, like the math facts she’s so good at. As if she were validating it by speaking to me. As if she were saying: ‘I’m still alive.’

“Yeah,” I said. As if I were saying: ‘I’m still alive.’
Because we know twenty kids and six adults aren’t.