Broken Wings

"I'm this close to saying 'fuck it' and burning it," I exclaimed towards the list of equations set in front of me. "Guezz calm down, it's not even that hard," said Irene as she smacked my arm with the back of her arm. "Says you, we all can't be super-smart, musically-talented, genesis," I said in an extremely sarcastic voice, "By the way, are you ready for your audition?"

"For what, Juilliard?" asks Irene. I just nodded my head in response gazing over the worksheet. "Ugh, I don't think I'll ever be ready, I mean this is all that I have ever wanted."

"You'll do great sweetie, now let me copy of you." She rolled her eyes but passed the paper anyways. "Thanks!" Suddenly the bell rips our ears a new one. "Fuck every time," says Irene shaking her head.

"Come on, we're gonna be late for English, and I want to go to the bathroom first"

As we walked the halls we made small chit chat about collages and made a sharp left for the bathrooms. "So are you ever going to apply?" she asks. "I don't think so-"

Suddenly a loud pop erupts through the air and cuts me off. Familiar hands yank me down as I land on the cold orange linoleum floor, elbow first. "Fuck, what was that?" I say as I rub my elbow "Shut up!" hisses a wide-eyed, freckled face freshman.

I nod my head to the left, a silent suggestion. We all move in a slow crawl, heads ducked so low that my bangs touch the old cracked floor.

Another pop cracks through the air, to me sounding like the spine of Satan splitting in half. This time the sound is different, softer. Like this time it traveled through something. As if on time a scream dances through the building.

A tear hits the floor; I look around, looking for the creator but figure out it's me. "Fuck, I never cry," I say to myself, "SUCK IT UP! This isn't the first time you've heard gunshots!" But my body isn't having it; suddenly I'm curled up on the floor. Hair sticking to cheeks, face stung by the crisp floor. My breathing becomes hasty, "I can't do this," I breathe out, again and again.

Footsteps come towards us, and my heart pounds harder. "We're gonna die," I breathe out. The footsteps stop, and I look out from under my purple bangs to see worn brown loafers. I'm shaken from two hands grabbing my shoulders.

"Snap the fuck out of it!" mutters an angry male voice. "Mr. Bishop?" "Yeah get up," he says. The bishop places his hand on my upper back and guides us towards the girl's bathroom.

I head the handicapped stall, Irene, Mr. Bishop, and the freckled freshman following me. "Maple, the shooter was yelling your name." Says Bishop eyes directed towards me. "Fuck, really?" mumbles Irene. The bishop ignores her, and looks at me, "Do you know her?"

"Do I know the bitch that is shooting up the school...nope," I say using the most sarcastic voice I can muster. The faces of my peers fall, "What? Trying to keep the mood back." "Glad to see your back," whispers Irene, her eyes showing love.

"Ok, enough chick flick moments," mutter the Bishop hastily, his deep voice coated with desperation. "We need to stop this cunt," he ran his hair through his badly dyed brown hair.

I raise my eyebrows, surprised by the 50 plus-year-old's language. "And how do you propose we do that," I whisper, sarcasm weaved inside my basket of despair. "Well, she isn't going to stop until she sees you." The Bishop says. "What the fuck are you saying she do," Irene says her voice reaching dangerous levels.

"Shh," freckle face screeches, "I don't care what are you going to do, just leave me out of it!" She hits the floor, belly-crawls to the next stall over, and stands on the toilet. And I swear to god I hear a tear hit the yellow water of the toilet.