Jax

“Jax? Are you going out again?”

That’s my dad. Ever since the incident at school he’s been more apprehensive than ever. He’s continually searching for excuses to keep me home with him. Not that he has been successful in doing so. I’ve already decided that my work must come first. No rest for the wicked.

I let out a monosyllabic “yep”, before grabbing my coat and running out the door. I didn’t bother to wait for his approval. Knowing him, he would have blocked the door if he had the chance.

It’s not like I blame him or anything. We’re all a little bit more on edge after everything that unfolded that day. So I’ve noticed everyone seems to be on a state of constant alert, a little more reclusive, a little more reluctant to talk in the hallways or strike up conversation. Some more than others. The hallways are less chitter-chatter now, and more a thick, asphyxiating atmosphere of the threat of impending doom draped throughout the walls. There’s more tension, more friction in the air. And it doesn’t seem intentional.

The school administration hasn’t exactly been helpful in ameliorating all the tension, either. The day after it happened the principal called a school-wide assembly, where she spewed some malarkey about grief and acceptance and moving on, before announcing the school was going on heightened alert mode. Now every day we’re herded like sheep through metal detectors and wanded down by burly men wearing blue who clearly do not belong in a school before we’re even cleared to be ushered into the premises. There’s no way anyone can live normally, being constantly reminded that there’s no smoke without fire, that something so tragic, so unexpected, happened within these school grounds that warranted such an extreme response. 

How are we expected to be kids and function like kids if at the same time we are prematurely exposed to the ugliest parts of the real world? How are we supposed to remain naive and innocent and at the same time be expected to be able to confront such hard-hitting concepts of grief and sorrow, survival and loss, life and death? How are those worst affected by the events of that day, both physically and psychologically, supposed to recover and move on from all of it when their scars are constantly reinforced by the new daily routine that’s been imposed on them and the rest of us?

I don’t blame any of them for being silent, awkward, slightly more disquieted in the hallways. What joy is there to derive from being reminded of being caught in that feeble dance between life and death, let alone discuss it?

It doesn’t exactly help that there isn’t exactly a support network to deal with the fallout of what happened yet. The counsellor retired after the previous school year, and the school has yet to find a replacement. It’s currently up to the teachers to do double duty of teaching and watching out for everyone. They’re trying their best, but I can tell they’re struggling too. It’s not that they can’t tell what’s going on—they can definitely sense that something is off—it’s that they’re ill-equipped to deal with it on such a large scale. Couple that with a lack of training, and people start falling through the cracks en masse.

I can sense a lot of pent-up emotions and feelings. Fear. Distress. Anger. Existentialism. Things that they’re dying to tell someone, but that they feel compelled to hide in this silent, suffocating climate. After all, who is there to talk to?

I want to change that. And through this article I’m working on, I’m hoping to change it.

This article is something that I had been working on with the rest of the journalism club for about a week now, behind the backs of the school administration, who are usually the ones to oversee press-related matters. This removed a lot of the usual scrutiny that would otherwise have been involved, although it did mean having to work our way around the schedules of teachers when we were holding club sessions. This also means that when we do eventually finish this article we will need to “borrow” a few extra sheets of paper without their knowledge. 

We could see all too well just how badly the incident had crushed school spirit and all but killed the hallway chatter. The collective memory would definitely have faded with time, but it would have taken a while. And not without leaving its mark on those who had already been exposed to it.

The school would never have approved of such an article. The memo we were given was to carry on as normal, reporting triumphs and achievements and all the other positive stuff, as if nothing ever happened. But, within the journalism club, there was a silent but unanimous disapproval of such a mandate. How are we supposed to ignore that and pretend everything is okay when the entire school body is hurting for it?

Which brings me to the reason why I left the house today. 

The journalism club is still waiting on my interview. I’d wanted to carry it out sometime in the school week, but when I went there the last two times the person I was looking for didn’t answer. The next-door neighbour who coincidentally happened to be in her front yard commented something about her being a recluse ever since that day, and how they’d given up trying to get her to open back up to the outside world.

I know the chances of her answering her door are slim. But I’m going to try my luck again. It’s a Saturday evening, so hopefully everyone else will be at home. If there’s any time to get an in, it’s now—

Ring! “Woah!” I’m forcibly snapped out of my headspace, only to come face-to-face with a cyclist headed straight for me. I dive into the nearest sidewalk, jumping barely out of their way.

Boy, that hurt. But I can’t complain. It could have been worse.

After taking a moment to count my lucky stars, I take another look at the houses lining the street. It seems that I’m in the right place. 

I walk slowly, reservedly up the steps. I take a deep breath, before gently knocking on the door to Kit’s house.