Shooter by Caroline Pignat.
Title: Shooter.
Author: Caroline Pignat.
Genre: Fiction, YA fiction, teen fiction, school shootings, mental health.
Country: Canada.
Language: English.
Publication Date: 2016.
Summary: A lockdown catches five Grade 12 students by surprise and throws them together in an unlocked boys' washroom. There's Alice: an introverted writer, trapped in the role of caregiver to her older autistic brother, Noah. Isabelle: the popular, high-achieving student council president, whose greatest performance is her everyday life. Hogan: an ex-football player with a troubled past and a hopeless future. And Xander: that socially awkward guy hiding behind the camera. Told in five unique voices through prose, poetry, text messages, journals and homework assignments, each student reveals pieces of their true story as they wait for the lockdown to end. But this modern-day Breakfast Club takes a twist when Isabelle gets a text that changes everything: NOT A DRILL!! There is a shooter in the school and suddenly the bathroom doesn't seem to safe anymore. Especially when they learn that one of them knows more about the shooter than they realized...
My rating: 7.5/10.
My review:
♥ "Ughhh," Izzy moans in her overly dramatic way, like she's always on stage. Like we're always her audience. But I can't stop watching.
♥ Most of my life I've felt invisible. In fact, I kind of like it that way. There are no threats or expectations, no misunderstandings, no mistakes when you're just watching. I love to read life. From afar, that is. Body language. The sounds or smells of a setting, how all the pieces come together, or how they symbolize something bigger. It's like I'm there, but not really, so my brain is free to read all those details other people probably miss. Ms. Carter said that's why my own writing is so strong. I soak up what I see and put it in my stories. I've got about twenty notebooks full of them. Not that anyone ever reads them, except for Ms. Carter. I've shown her a few. That was the first time I ever felt like maybe I wanted to be seen. Maybe I wanted to be heard. That maybe, in some small way, I mattered too.
♥ After Randy died, everything changed. Nothing matters any more. Mom and Dad. Teachers. Wilson. Everyone looks at me like I'm a problem. A problem they can't solve. The ones I never get on Hurley's math tests. Solve for X. I gave up trying to make sense of it. I gave up talking about it. They can ask the question fifty different ways but sometimes X is just a dumb X. Nothing more.
.."Whatever, Logan. It's your life. I don't care."
And the thing is, she doesn't. I can't get mad at her for that, even though I am. She did care once-I had my chance with her and I blew it. Hell, I've blown a million chances these past two years-with football, school, my job, my parents. Coach Dufour tried to kick me in the ass a few times. But he didn't get it. Even if I wanted to, I couldn't do anything but watch as it all went up in smoke.
It's like, whenever someone cares-I can't. When they believe there's till good in me, I go outta my way to prove them wrong. Because there can't be good in me. There isn't.
♥ Facts: July 25, 2011-Mom's Matinée cigarette fell onto the living room carpet and started to smolder. The fire alarm woke me at 1:25 a.m., and wen I saw the smoke and flames, I called 9-1-1. The operator told me to get everyone out. In the 13 minutes it took the fire truck to get to our house, I not only helped Mom onto a lawn chair out front, as well as Sheldon, my turtle, I also rescued the three crates of Dad's comics collection I carried up from the basement, my box of 151 original Pokémon guys, my Lego Death Star that Dad and I were working on, and even a box of Ritz crackers in case Mom and I got hungry. The firemen arrived at 1:38 while I was standing on the porch in my Darth Vader PJs. Back to the flames, camera in hand, I looked through the lens at all I had saved that night.
Mom, slumped in the Blue Jays lawn chair, surrounded by all our most important things. I'd put hers in her lap: her big, red purse, her near-empty bottle of Jackson-Triggs wine, her pack of Matinée cigarettes.
Click.
The lightning was perfect. Excellent composition. It still is one of my most favorite pictures. Mom thanked the firemen for saving our house that night. I thought she would have been happy with all I did, but when she saw that photo, she only cried.
I was twelve, just a kid, really, but I realized four things on July 25:
1. Anyone can save more than one thing in a typical house fire.
2. Though she's always looking for them, apparently, Mom's purse, Matinée cigarettes, and Jackson-Triggs wine are NOT her favorite things.
3. Had I not called 9-1-1 (like I was supposed to) and not evacuated (like I was supposed to), I probably could have peed on the carpet (like I'm not supposed to) and put the fire out.
4. Dad really wasn't coming back home. Not for his comics. Not for his camera. And not for me.
So to answer your illogical question, if I had to pick just one thing, I'd pick my camera.
♥ I think too much sometimes,
blurt the wrong thing often, and
feel confused, always.
I do Social Autopsies,
dissecting my awkward conversations
to determine the exact
cause of death.
I want to finish the Lego Death Star I started when I was nine.
But I'm still missing a key piece-
my dad.
I am anti-Superman
and pro-Marvel.
I like a hero with a troubled past.
I guess, it gives me hope.
I wish life unfolded in graphic panels,
logical boxes of daily drama
narrated by Stan Lee or George Lucas.
A world where thoughts were clear and bold
in big bubbles overhead.
♥ Conversations are like skipping double-dutch-completely confusing, next to impossible to enter, and mastered only by the cool girls, like Isabelle. She was the double-dutch queen back at St. Daniel's. Double-dutch, like a conversation, can look really confusing at first with so much going on in two directions, but if you watch closely, find the rhythm, and pace yourself, you just might be able to jump in.
Theoretically.
Timing is everything. So is how you enter.
♥ He shrugs and looks down at his camera strap. "Well, it makes sense to me. The DREX stretched you out. You can't go back to the way things were. No matter how much you want to." He nods, sure of it. "You're just like my blue Hanes."
I want to make some sharp comeback. To laugh him off. But as I watch him fiddling with his camera strap, not looking at me at all, I actually start to see some sense in his words. Life is about stretching yourself, I guess. And once your heart has been expanded there's no going back.
.."You know, Xander, in some weird way, that's, like, the wisest thing anyone's said to me these past two weeks."
"Sometimes, you just know when it's time to let things go and move on, right?"
I smile a but, surprised by this weird connection. Who knows? Maybe I've been misjudging this guy all along. "It's like, you gotta be open to change when you see the signs."
He nods again, completely serious. "Like skidmarks. Now there's a sure sign it's time to change."
♥ Conversation Facts
1. What is said often is not what is heard.
2. What is said often is not even what is meant.
3. People lie. A lot.
4. Even if they ask for the truth, most people don't want to hear it.
No wonder conversations leave me so confused.
♥ Mrs. O'Neill said that usually when both eyebrows are up it is a "literal question." The person wants an answer. But that same question asked with one eyebrow up is a "rhetorical question." One you don't answer. Especially not with the truth. Especially not when it's, "Yes, actually, Mrs. Brown, this is the most boring lesson you've given to date. And you've done a lot of really bad ones."
Mrs. O'Neill told me that Mrs. Brown was being sarcastic.
sarcastic /sɑːˈkæstik/ adjective. using irony to mock or convey contempt. Snide. Scornful. Smart-alecky.
I wonder why it's okay for Mrs. Brown to speak sarcastically, but it's not okay for me to speak the truth?
♥ Social Autopsies help me make sens of the illogical, things like Mrs. Brown's moods, or group work, or even girls. I'm still dissecting that one-trying to crack the code. But Mrs. O'Neill tells me that even boys with the highest communication skills do not understand girls most of the time.
If that's true, then there's no chance I ever will.
Then Mrs. O'Neill asked me if I enjoyed our conversations, and I said yes.
"Well, I'm a girl," she continued. "So, what does that tell you?"
I thought about that for a minute.
Observations:
1. Technically she is a female. Even if her hair is cut like my bus driver, Pete's.
2. My mom is female. I like speaking to her.
Conclusion
I am quite comfortable speaking to middle-aged, overweight women.
But when I shared that insight with Mrs. O'Neill, something in her face made me think I should have asked for clarification first.
♥ "This is real life. Not everything has a story."
Alice smiles. "But every person does."
I guess she's right. We all have one-even if it's one we'd rather forget.
♥ She smiles at me.
I said that?
Yeah, I guess I did. I might not know the stuff teachers want, like this journey thing, but I do know what it feels like to be a nothing. A nobody. I know all about that. I can tell you what it feels like to grow up in someone else's shadow. And with all the things Randy did so well, that shadow was huge. It sucked to feel invisible when Randy was alive. But it's nothing compared to living in the total darkness of a dead brother's shadow.
♥ They're both right. It is a hero's journey. And it is real life. But I hope to God I'm wrong. Because I learned something else in Dunne's class, something I am not about to share.
In a Shakespearean tragedy-everyone dies.
♥ Never getting out. Never getting out!
Trapped inside a cement song.
♥ "So, he's never gonna get... better?" she asks.
I asked that question too. So I give Isabelle the same answer Gran told me. "Well, he is learning better ways to communicate. But even if science ever discovers how to separate autism from the person, who you'd be left with would not be the same person you started with." As much as I wish for the brother in my dreams, I love the brother in my life.
♥ "Thank you, Captain Obvious," I snap.
"You're welcome," he adds. "I've been working on my listening skills lately."
Awkward pause he doesn't hear.
♥ I talked to Mr. Strickland, the Yearbook teacher. And he told me there are "candid photos," where the person doesn't know you're watching. And then there are "stalker photos," where they don't want anyone watching.
♥ "It's not right," the Hulk finally says, "the way some Chinese parents push their kids like that."
Isabelle laughs then, a strange, sad echo in our room. "They're not Chinese."
The Hulk blushes. "I mean Japanese... or... whatever."
"No."
She lifts her head, revealing an Isabelle I've never seen before-one who is puffy-eyed and snotty-nosed. One who is broken. And real.
"I'm Chinese. They're white." She looks at the Hulk in surprise. "I'm adopted. I thought you knew that."
The Hulk looks away. Clearly he didn't know and feels bad about it. How would any of us know unless we'd met her family? Was it wrong to assume they were from the same culture?
"So," I continue, trying to understand what she is really saying, "your parents put a lot of pressure on you?"
"Yes." She hesitates. "Well, no, not exactly. I mean, they just expect it because I can. Because I should. Because I've been given so many opportunities." She says it like they aren't opportunities at all. Isabelle stares off beyond this tiny washroom. Beyond all of us. "I know it sounds ungrateful, but sometimes... sometimes I wonder what my life would have been like if they'd left me in that orphanage. If I wasn't... chosen."
Her voice hushes to barely a whisper. She isn't saying it to be heard or to impress us. And for the first time, I realize that Isabelle Parks' reputation as the "chosen one" isn't about us at all.
♥ I know she's right. The clean cuts. The short, straight lines. Those marks are intentional. A map of the dark places Izzy has been.
♥ "I know, it sounds crazy," she says. "Maybe I am. But I couldn't talk to anyone about it. Not even Brianne. No one could ever know." She looks back at Xander. "And then a few weeks later, he hands in his photos for the yearbook. A stack of black-and-white candids, stupid shots he took around the school. I hardly looked at the others, not when I saw the one of me." She stops. "And I saw it then, in that picture-I saw who I really was."
♥ Izzy keeps pm talkig. "MVP, Student Council President, leading actress, Yearbook Editor-and this year's book is the best one yet. I am successful at whatever I do. I'm not bragging. It's true. I've never failed. Ever."
"Must be nice," I mutter.
"It's not." Izzy presses her chin on her knees. "Failing is not an option. My mother wouldn't allow it. She does everything she can to prevent it. I keep trying to live up to that impossible standard. It's like, I keep clearing the bar, and they just keep on raising it. At some point it's all gotta come crashing down. The truth is..." her dark eyes fill with another shot of tears, "I'm not good enough. Not for Queen's Commerce. Not for Darren. And not for my mother."
No one speaks for a moment. What would we say?
"It's so funny, you know?" Izzy wipes her eyes with her ball of Kleenex. "I couldn't wait to grow up. But just the thought of leaving St. Francis Xavier, of graduating next month-it terrifies me," She swipes her cheek as another tear spills. "I know who I am here, what I can do. Where I fit in. But out there-in the real world-it's like... I will be nobody."
I look at Alice. Hope that she's got some wise words to say. She's smart, probably go with that kind of thing. But even Alice is silent. Just sitting there, staring at the floor deep in thought. Izzy looks at me then, like she's waiting for an answer. I look away. I've got nothing for her.
The truth is, she's just nervous, that's all. Izzy'll come out on top. She always does. She's just anxious about heading into the unknown.
But, me? I can't wait to leave this hellhole school where everyone is trying to help make me into something. I want to get away, to leave home, to get lost in that unknown where nobody knows about me or my brother.
Hell, I can't wait to finally be a nobody.
♥ "We talked about breaking up after graduation-well, he talked about it. But in my heart I always hoped..." Her voice trails off.
I finish it for her. "That one day he'd wake up, change who he is, and realize how much he really loves you." It's a classic TCM plot-The King and I, The Sound of Music, all the greats have it.
Isabelle smiles wistfully. "Absence makes the heart grow fonder. That's what they say, right?"
"Not any guy I know," the Hulk mutters. "More like, what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas."
Clearly he needs to watch some better programming.
♥ "At least you know who your mom is," Izzy says. "I'll never know my birth mother."
Leave it to Izzy to try and trump it with her story. Nothing supportive ever starts with the words "at least"-
At least Randy didn't suffer.
At least your parents have you.
At least you had a brother.
♥ "Don't get me wrong, I don't always like it," Alice says. "But that's just the way things are."
And you can't change the way things are.
♥ He looks at me, in me. He understands.
♥ "Okay-but your brother is definitely dead," Xander blurts at Hogan. "That I know because-"
"Xander!" Isabelle cuts him off. "Geez, don't you have a filter?"
"No." Confused, he looks down at his camera. "I never use one. I'd rather see things as they really are."
♥ I was a new man after that. I was someone people noticed and admired. I wasn't Randy's little brother; I was the Hulk. I could do anything. Maybe even get Izzy. Perfect, amazing Isabelle Parks. Because if I had her, then I'd have it all. And when she kissed me at the bonfire that night-I felt like that shooting star overhead. I thought it was a sign, that streak of light.
But I know now, it was what it was. A hunk of nothing, burning up and fizzling out as it fell.
♥ I don't remember running at him or tackling him or even hitting the floor, next thing I knew we were punching, wrenching, kneeing-in a full-on, all-out brawl. Only we weren't kids goofing around on carpets and mattresses, we were almost five hundred pounds of muscle and madness.
♥ Everyone thinks they'll be happy when they get the next iPhone or trip, or Kate Spade purse. But what if you had all of those things? What if you got whatever you wanted, whenever you wanted it-and you were still unhappy? What do you hope for then? On the DREX trip, I realized the people we met there had a richness to their families that I've never known. And when I came home and pulled back the curtain on my life and saw the real Oz-I saw the sad truth. All this time, I've just been kidding myself. My life is not happy. Or perfect. Or loving. It's empty.
♥ "But the Hulk did eventually get his own successful strip in 1968," he says, and smiles that weird smile. "And today, he's one of Marvel's key characters."
"Which goes to prove," Alice adds, directing her statement to Izzy, "that even a hero can play the role of supporting cast."
"Or," Izzy points out, pulling out her phone as it buzzes, "even a supporting character can become a hero herself."
Funny how people can see the exact same thing in so many different ways.
♥ "Recognize him?" he asks.
I shake my head. I don't think I've ever seen him before. He's familiar in his averageness. He could be anybody-he looks like everybody. Which, ironically, makes him a nobody.
♥ The puddle of pictures spreads as he rummages. Each one a crucial moment captured-a whole story, really, contained in four by six inches.
A close up of Mr. Jinder picking his nose as he marks assignments at his desk.
Some girl cheating off her neighbor's test.
Some freckle-faced guy cheering and pointing.
Mrs. Tripp lightning up a cigarette in her car.
A scrawny basketball player slumped alone on the bench, chin in hands, elbows on knees, his teammates a blur of legs running by on the court in front of him.
Mrs. Tucker, the librarian, yelling at kids in front of the "Quiet Please" sign.
They are not flattering-but they are real. Almost beautiful in a strange way. Like some modern-day Norman Rockwell painting of dirty-kneed rule-breakers. Meaningful, candid moments of real life. Every image affects me in some way. Stirs me. Each one... emotionally charged. That's it. Ms. Carter always encourages us to write in an "emotionally charged" way, to capture a moment of something really good or really bad, but full of raw feeling. Isabelle's yearbook has pictures of those typical high school highs, but Xander and his camera-he has somehow captured the lows.
♥ The world makes sense
through my camera lens.
Because film doesn't lie
like people do.
The Tank
Shows what is.
Frames my vision.
Makes me focus.
Helps me see
reel life.
♥ Me. Alone at a long lunch table. Students, a blur around me. I remember that day. Noah was home sick and I had no reason, no excuse to eat in the High Needs room. I even stopped by to eat with Kim or help out with the other students, but they were all gone on a class trip so I went to the caf. The photo catches my uneaten tuna sandwich in my hand, my slumped shoulders, my stare into the emptiness across from me. It catches that moment, the day I realized what had long been true.
I am alone. Completely alone.
Isabelle glances at it. "See? Who wants to see that in a yearbook? Who wants to remember that? It's just sad."
And it is. I am. Pitiful, really. My throat tightens.
God, am I going to cry? Here? Now? Over a lunchroom picture? That's even more pathetic.
I get it now. Why Isabelle and Hogan reacted so strongly. The truth is there in black and white. Literally. But Xander isn't to blame. All he did was hold up the mirror and show us what we'd rather not see.
♥ "But if it's really bad, I lock myself in my room and wait him out."
"Like a lockdown?" Hogan says, and snorts.
But it isn't funny.
"Yeah..." I choke on the truth of it. "I guess my whole life is a lockdown."
We sit in silence listening to the click of the switch as Noah flicks the lights on and off.
Click.
Click.
Click.
Click.
I feel stupid for speaking it-even if it is my reality. My life is a lockdown. What kind of pathetic soul admits that out loud?
"I know what you mean," Hogan says, interrupting my inner critic.
"Totally," Isabelle adds.
It surprises me. Do they, really? Only someone living my story would truly know.
"I shut everyone out after Randy died," Hogan says, looking at his picture.
Nobody speaks.
"It's like..." Isabelle struggles to find the right words. "Like we lock up a part of ourselves out of fear. Fear of being judged. Fear or failing."
"...or fear of getting hurt," I say.
"...or of hurting someone else," Hogan adds.
"...or of always being alone," Xander says in his robotic way, as he continues to sort through the pile of photos.
Our personalities, our stories are so very different-and yet, our fears feel so similar.
I look around the tiny washroom. The five of us cooped up and locked down. And Noah, humming, moaning, flicking the lights on and off.
Click-click-click.
Trapped, as his unspoken fears wind tighter.
Tighter.
Tighter.
How long do we have, I wonder, before he finally snaps?
♥ I don't get small talk. It's basically people asking other people silly questions. It's talking about things you don't really care about with people you don't really care about. It doesn't make sense. Why would I care if some stranger at the bus stop thinks it's a nice day?
♥ "So, do you like the name Al-ex-an-der?" The way he said it, I decided that I did not.
"My preference is irrelevant," I said. "It's my name."
♥ I push through the crowd, eager to reach them and set things right. Hogan won't do it-not to save himself, anyway. Because, if I know anything about Hogan King, it's the story he tells himself-that he has to suffer, because he deserves it.
♥ We lie like that-and I cry. Like, snot-sobbing ugly-cry, until there's nothing left. And my mom cries too. But she never lets go. She just holds me tight, tight enough so that I can finally let go.
And that great big breath I've been holding for so long, years really-the one that makes my heart ache and shoulders tense, the one that makes my arms bleed-at last, it's released.
♥ It shocks me how easily people believe the worst, how quick they are to point fingers and lay blame, and, sadly, how silent when at last they learn the truth.
♥ Once Maxwell was named in that police report, most people blamed his mom. Expert after expert and every neighbor interviewed on The National's coverage was adamant that Maxwell's broken home life was the real problem. His mom's single parenting, her low income and lack of education, her drinking and boyfriends. They splattered all the dirt they could find on that family and, like those readers and viewers, I agreed.
"Ms. Steinberg needs understanding, now more than ever," Gran says. "No, she's not perfect. What family is?" She shakes her head. "I can just imagine what those 'experts' and 'neigbors' might have so say about ours!"
Gran is right. Like the saying goes: "Don't judge a book by the chapter you walk into." But I seem to do it all the time with people. I read a little bit of their lives and think I know them. Or worse yet, judge them entirely by the cover. We all do it, I guess. We buy into whatever story makes us feel better about our own. Make Maxwell a monster. Point fingers at the school system, or the medical system, or the family that failed him. Blame someone else. That way, we remain blameless.
But we're not. Not really. Because, the more I think about it, the more I realize that every one of us is a part of Maxwell's story. Even me.
♥ "If you face your fears, they lose their power," she explains.
♥ "Trust me," Gran says, "the best healing comes through helping others."
♥ "You're a hero, Hogan."
I look up at her. "A lot of people would disagree with you about that."
"Well..." her eyes glisten a bit, "fun fact... you're my hero." She blushes and looks away, but I hope it's not for long. Because maybe if she keeps looking at me like that, maybe I might believe it someday too.
♥ And I realize that maybe we do have something more in common than the lockdown. Not that I want to, like, hang out with her or anything.
"Look, Isabelle. I know you're probably still freaked out by everything that happened. I know I sure am. But my Gran told me that you have to take it back." Her jaw is set in determination. "Take back the school. The atrium. We have to face the fear-whatever it is-or we'll be locked down forever."
♥ We sift in silence for a few minutes and then he says, in his oddball way, "My dad left me when I was nine."
I focus on the pieces, unsure of what exactly I should say to that.
"We were supposed to finish this together." After a few moments he continues. "But I've decided to do it myself. Maybe I don't need him after all."
I don't reply. But I don't really think he expects me to.
After a pause, I clear my throat and mimic his detached tone. "My birth mother left me in a box on the roadside."
A fact. One I've never told anyone. Still, it's just a fact. That's all. Just information. It's not a definition of who I am. Unless I let it be.
"Are you retconning too?" He looks up at me, suddenly interested.
"What?" I've no idea what he's talking about.
"Retroactive Continuity? It is when comic book writers change or rearrange a character's early life."
Oh, comics. Yay.
He keeps talking. "I know that changing up a backstory seems illogical and wrong because, well, the facts are true. What happened, happened. But sometimes it's not about the facts, it's about seeing the character's past in a new light-to make the story ahead even better."
I pull out my new iPhone to check the time. I should probably go.
"So, I have decided to retcon." He picks up a piece, examines it, and tosses it back in the box. Picks up another. "The stuff with Max. Maybe even all the way back to when Dad left."
♥ You taught me a lot of stuff, too, mainly about Marvel. Now, I love Marvel mutants. I totally relate to them. No, I cannot shoot laser beams from my eyes or adamantium claws from my knuckles-though that would be cool! I can't manipulate the weather, fire, or ice, or control minds or metal. But I know what it feels like to be different.
I think we both know what that's like.
I noticed something else, Max. In all the Marvel comics, the mutants start out hating what makes them different. But as they evolve they realize what it takes to raise a storm, read a mind, or even take a stand when no one else will.
Courage.
It takes courage to risk being different-but I think it's worth it. It's so worth it. Because what makes us different is what makes us powerful. And what we choose to do with that power can make us heroes.
And I choose to be a hero, Max.
I'm glad we met. Despite the ending, I'm still glad our stories mixed like a crossover series. Remember when you first told me about crossovers? I hated the idea of characters from one comic appearing in another. The Avengers should not be in a battle with the X-Men. Characters should stay in their own worlds where they belong. (Honestly, I don't even like it when my foods touch.) But then you showed me the A vs. X series... and I loved it! Almost as much as my Star Wars comics. You were right. It's good to mix things up sometimes. I think that if a character gets too comfortable the story gets predictable and boring. Other characters bring tension and conflict, problems and drama, lots of drama-but like Ms. Carter and Stan THE MAN Lee say, that's the key to a great story.
Maybe it's also the key to a great life.
I'm not sure when I'll be albe to deliver you letter. I've seen the newspapers. I've read the horrible things the press is saying about you and your home life. But even if no one else cared about you-I did.
You mattered to me, Max. And I just wanted to let you know.
Your friend,
Xander.