The Churning Wake

The Story As Told By Calla Lancelot

Her name was Alaia Emilianne Sloane. She was a Senior, seventeen years old, and one of my best friends. She was everything I wasn't, you know? Played Volleyball as a Freshman and Sophomore; ran track every year from sixth grade on up and was named Girls Track Captain her Senior year; she was a cheerleader as a Sophomore and a Junior; and tried out for Tennis there for a hot minute in Junior year. That day, the day she died, she was so hyped. She was going to set the state record for the 100-meter hurdles, she had told me so that morning. She was going to lead the Crestview High Girls Track and Field team to their first-ever State championship. I was excited: I had my driver's license and I was ready to go, I'd drive anywhere if someone asked, and I was going to go to Alaia's meet, because she deserved it.

When we heard Paige's scream, it was Alaia who first identified the victim. "Paige," she whispered.

"Did she say gun?" Clay asked, turning to me. First-period Biology with Mr. Ellison was the only class we shared that year, and I was grateful for the time away from my brother during the day, every day. I mean, I love him and all, but he's my twin and we've been together basically every moment since conception. Then the fire alarm rang, shaking me to the core.

From the room next door, Miss Winter's class, we heard popping. On and on and on, but we did nothing, stunned into complete stillness. I mean, you hear about shootings, but you never expect them to happen to you. Finally, at the same moment, Leo and Alaia stood up. Leo started shoving people left and right, moving them behind the teacher's desk, into a wardrobe, under shelves and into the storage closet for the science supplies.

Alaia was on her feet beside him, her bright red coils tied back immediately by a hairband, her brain on full speed. She looked ready to fight, with a long black tee and teal workout leggings, and she was constantly rebutting my teasing by claiming they kept her muscles loose during the day. She had my arm in one hand and Clay's in the other, and she shoved us behind a row of trash cans in the corner, "Get down and be still."

Clay and I didn't need any more warning; we obeyed. She looked to Leo, and he nodded to her, holding up two fingers. I didn't know what it meant at the time, but Leo has since told me he was silently telling her what positions to take to try to apprehend the shooter. Alaia smiled down at me, then whispered quickly, as the popping in the other room stopped, "Whatever happens here, Caca, you know I love you, right?"

"I love you, too," I replied. From where I lay, belly down on the floor, I could see Leo's shoes standing on one side of the door. There was the sound of the door swishing open and Alaia's gasp. She, for probably the first time in her life, had failed to be where she was supposed to be.

I heard him laugh, "Alaia Sloane. Oh, I should've known."

Alaia never looked back at me, never gave me up to him. Instead, she ground her foot into the floor like she was setting her foot in the block. Then, at the firing of an unheard starting gun, she charged. He didn't have enough time to react. Alaia was leaping through the air at him within a second, and he fired. There was a shriek of pain, an admittance of weakness, that I had never heard from Alaia before. She continued in her trajectory but was unable to maintain the muscle tension required to keep gliding. Alaia landed on him and rolled down, crumbling onto the floor.

He gasped and started to laugh, and at that moment, Leo sprang from the shadows and pinned him to the ground. There was a moan and three pops as the final trio of bullets tore through Leo's legs. And then everything went still. Absolutely and completely still. Blood was gushing from Leo's legs, an ugly, nasty rustic red color, but it didn't seem real. Surely, my best friend was going to spring up from the ground, laughing and shaking with the pride and joy of accomplishing another feat. Surely she would, because nothing could stop Alaia. But she still remained in her little ball where she had fallen, her shirt clinging to her chest, slick with blood.