fringe and armed.
His grip tightened on the strap of the gym bag. The gun was loaded; he’d seen to it before leaving the house and once again while parked outside the school. With nary a thought, he set the bag to the floor and knelt before it, slowly fingering the zipper, then drawing it open.
With hand in the bag, for the first time, he considered Calvin. Calvin, bent over just like him but with the span of a hallway between them. Him, looking up and back at Phillip. Phillip Krandall never thought he spoke the same language as the teachers, the students . . . hell, anyone , but there, in that moment, he and Calvin Cantrell understood each other just fine. What passed between them was an unspoken litany of all the wrongs before them and after them and just how Phillip intended to go about righting them, and Phillip couldn’t move for fear that someone, after all this time, might actually understand him.
And in that moment, he knew Calvin saw it, too. For Calvin, leaning over his fallen books and homework, simply shook his head as if to say: “No, Phillip. Not yet.”
Phillip nearly fainted. His heart raced, and he feared he might vomit. He fell backward on his haunches, bracing himself with an arm and elbow. He couldn’t take his eyes off Calvin. He scurried to his feet and, nearly forgetting the gym bag, which inconceivably weighed much more than it had only a moment previous, made to quit the hallway. Quit the hallway, the school, the property . . . the whole damned planet if he could. For he rushed down the corridors and burst through the front doors of the building.
No hordes of media there to report on the massacre. No throngs of police and SWAT teams, all aiming to bring him down. No scores of huddled masses, weeping and hoping their child was not among the slain. No one save Phillip, running scared to his car. He raced home in a blur, hoping to be the first to his room so he could clear out the notebooks and journals and drawings and the video he left for his parents and the news stations. He rushed home in shame.
There’s always tomorrow , he told himself over and over. I can come back tomorrow. But he never did. He faked a fever for two days. He lay in bed and contemplated his options. He considered gearing up and heading back into the school but couldn’t. Couldn’t look in the mirror. Couldn’t face his classmates. Couldn’t face Calvin Cantrell.
And two days later, some kid shot up Virginia Tech, and all of Phillip’s thunder scattered to the winds. His moment, it appeared, had passed.
Moments like those didn’t come every day. Each time he passed a populated sidewalk cafe, each time he entered a crowded movie theater, each time he sat in a busy restaurant, something in him itched to high heaven, and he wondered just when he would stab at scratching it. For those moments came so few in life, and he saw yet another passing. As Calvin Cantrell stood before him in that cheap motel room south of Dallas, he felt him dousing that flame yet again, and Phillip’s resentment mounted.
Calvin’s response could not be more infuriating, him with downcast eyes, looking hangdog and saying over and over: “You don’t get it. You don’t understand.”
However, Phillip understood perfectly. He glared back at his cohort and felt his body uncontrollably shaking from what he could only assume was pure rage.
“I don’t believe what I’m hearing,” he growled. “This is a plot convoluted enough for a shitty novelist or a B-movie. Scratch that. No novelist worth his salt would touch this plot.”
“Just hear me out,” Calvin pleaded.
“I’ve heard enough.” Phillip had opened a bottle of corn liquor earlier and pulled from it. He wiped his mouth and shook his head. “You dragged me clear across the country to do a murder, and now you’re calling it off. Because you are thinking with your dick .”
“That’s not fair,” Calvin said. “We can still do a murder, if that’s what’s got
His grip tightened on the strap of the gym bag. The gun was loaded; he’d seen to it before leaving the house and once again while parked outside the school. With nary a thought, he set the bag to the floor and knelt before it, slowly fingering the zipper, then drawing it open.
With hand in the bag, for the first time, he considered Calvin. Calvin, bent over just like him but with the span of a hallway between them. Him, looking up and back at Phillip. Phillip Krandall never thought he spoke the same language as the teachers, the students . . . hell, anyone , but there, in that moment, he and Calvin Cantrell understood each other just fine. What passed between them was an unspoken litany of all the wrongs before them and after them and just how Phillip intended to go about righting them, and Phillip couldn’t move for fear that someone, after all this time, might actually understand him.
And in that moment, he knew Calvin saw it, too. For Calvin, leaning over his fallen books and homework, simply shook his head as if to say: “No, Phillip. Not yet.”
Phillip nearly fainted. His heart raced, and he feared he might vomit. He fell backward on his haunches, bracing himself with an arm and elbow. He couldn’t take his eyes off Calvin. He scurried to his feet and, nearly forgetting the gym bag, which inconceivably weighed much more than it had only a moment previous, made to quit the hallway. Quit the hallway, the school, the property . . . the whole damned planet if he could. For he rushed down the corridors and burst through the front doors of the building.
No hordes of media there to report on the massacre. No throngs of police and SWAT teams, all aiming to bring him down. No scores of huddled masses, weeping and hoping their child was not among the slain. No one save Phillip, running scared to his car. He raced home in a blur, hoping to be the first to his room so he could clear out the notebooks and journals and drawings and the video he left for his parents and the news stations. He rushed home in shame.
There’s always tomorrow , he told himself over and over. I can come back tomorrow. But he never did. He faked a fever for two days. He lay in bed and contemplated his options. He considered gearing up and heading back into the school but couldn’t. Couldn’t look in the mirror. Couldn’t face his classmates. Couldn’t face Calvin Cantrell.
And two days later, some kid shot up Virginia Tech, and all of Phillip’s thunder scattered to the winds. His moment, it appeared, had passed.
Moments like those didn’t come every day. Each time he passed a populated sidewalk cafe, each time he entered a crowded movie theater, each time he sat in a busy restaurant, something in him itched to high heaven, and he wondered just when he would stab at scratching it. For those moments came so few in life, and he saw yet another passing. As Calvin Cantrell stood before him in that cheap motel room south of Dallas, he felt him dousing that flame yet again, and Phillip’s resentment mounted.
Calvin’s response could not be more infuriating, him with downcast eyes, looking hangdog and saying over and over: “You don’t get it. You don’t understand.”
However, Phillip understood perfectly. He glared back at his cohort and felt his body uncontrollably shaking from what he could only assume was pure rage.
“I don’t believe what I’m hearing,” he growled. “This is a plot convoluted enough for a shitty novelist or a B-movie. Scratch that. No novelist worth his salt would touch this plot.”
“Just hear me out,” Calvin pleaded.
“I’ve heard enough.” Phillip had opened a bottle of corn liquor earlier and pulled from it. He wiped his mouth and shook his head. “You dragged me clear across the country to do a murder, and now you’re calling it off. Because you are thinking with your dick .”
“That’s not fair,” Calvin said. “We can still do a murder, if that’s what’s got
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