It's my first time to watch the local news in two years. The news was about the incident, as it is for the rest of all the news channels. It must've spread fast for the past week because a lot of the media guys have been standing by our lawn and Mom got really upset. She was in her room all day and she won't let anyone in. Even Trina.

 

"You don't have to open up yet if you don't want to." Trina keeps telling me when she sees my worried eyes gaze out the window. I respect her for that.

 

I've been receiving calls from Celia, "You don't know how badly I want to go to your place right now, but my mother placed me on a temporary martial law." I understand. The entire village is still ballistic about the incident. Celia never questioned me, nor did she force me to answer anything. But she was constantly making up new things to talk about right after we end one. It was like she was avoiding it altogether.

 

Dax was just from next door. Our windows were adjacent to each other, so I wasn't surprised to find him outside my locked window, tapping on it patiently. "Brighton!" I hear his muffled voice as he stands up warily. "Never lock that window again," he climbs inside.

 

"That was intended for you," I say and he laughs. "No, actually I forgot you actually live there."

 

"You've only been gone for less than a week and you forget about me?" He makes a hurt face and clutches his chest.

 

When we first moved to Connecticut, I was immediately enrolled in Pius Hills Elementary School. I had no friends, I didn't know the place, and I had school starting in two weeks, so I thought I'd take a friendly neighborhood stroll. I saw a kid, about my age, busking with his guitar in the sidewalk of downtown. He had a couple dimes on his guitar case.

 

I walked up to him, hypnotized by the way his guitar strings obey his fingers, considering his guitar was way too big for a ten-year-old like him. It was a slow ballad, he barely even sung, just plucked his strings swiftly and carelessly. A lot of people passed by him, but he didn't mind. It took me a lot of self-debating if I should tell him I knew the song he was playing. I heard it on Molly's iPod, whenever I'd sneak a little entertainment.

 

"Snow Patrol," I blurted out.

 

He didn't flinch, he kept playing. It sort of bummed me out, though, because I was expecting he'd be surprised to know that someone actually knew what he was playing. I turned red and was about to leave before I caught his eye and he smiled. "Cool."

 

"You play well," I told him.

 

"Thank you," he smiled genuinely, clutching his guitar with pride. "You're new here?"

 

"How'd you know?"

 

"I Heart CT shirt." He pointed at my top. "It gives away the guessing part, really."

 

I looked down at what I'm wearing. I had a confused look on my face because I wasn't even wearing an I Heart CT shirt. But I still said "Oh," as if I knew exactly what he was talking about.

 

"I'm messing with you, I saw your moving truck. I live next door." He said quickly, laughing at the fact I actually fell for it.

 

"Oh!" I squealed. Then I laughed with him. 

 

"I'm Dax by the way," he said, not looking at me as he strummed on his guitar.

 

"I'm Brighton."

 

"Well, I'll see you around Brighton." He said, finally picking up his stuff and heading off.

 

Eventually, I did see him around (apart from living next to him): in the first day of school. He introduced me to his little clan: him, Celia, and Anwell. The four of us have been inseparable ever since. When we reached High School, Dax invited me to sing for a school performance with his band The Woodstones.

 

"I don't even sing," I laughed.

 

"Yes you do. I can hear you everytime in the bus. Whenever you're looking out the window like you're in a really sentimental movie." Anwell said. Celia snorted herself a laugh and I buried my red face under my palms.

 

"I think it's good," Dax said, also stopping himself from laughing as he tried to get my hands out of my face.

 

Over the long haul, I eventually did agree to join. Unexpectedly, people went ballistic over our little school band, too. We were asked to perform on any school event. That was the main factor why we got quite well-known around school. But we never took advantage of it. It sort of just happened. I was, and still am happy that I have the best people at the worst times. And today is no exception. I love how Dax can still make jokes out of everything that's going on.

 

"Stop," I say, trying to sound as serious as I can. A smile creeps out of my face and I fail.

 

Dax laughs. "How's the arm?" He walks up to me and inspects it closely until his eyes look crossed.

 

"Still keeping its shit together, if you ask me." I lightly push his head away.

 

I sit on my bed and he flops down on it with his back, laughing. "Everyone is."

 

* * *

 

"That kid is a time bomb." Trina doesn't go any farther than that. That's how she ends the conversation whenever we have no choice but to talk about the incident. I don't complain, though. In fact, Trina's been the one who's cleaning my wound.

 

Dax knocked on my window this morning, telling me about the memorial service in the Pius Stadium. "I'll be here in two hours if you want a ride, okay?"

 

I nod, but somehow the thought still bothered me. There's a very particular pair of numbers that I've been seeing all around the news and the papers: 12-2. Twelve dead, two injured. One of the injured is me, obviously, then the other one is this girl Tammy from Geography Club. She's a particularly low profile fellow and I don't know much about her except knowing that she hates The Woodstones. That bothers neither Dax and I. We do receive a lot of negativity, but we also get a lot more of heartwarming feedback.

 

When we arrive at the stadium, I see Anwell and Celia near the fire exit.

 

"Well, aren't you looking better," Celia, for a moment, stops herself from giving me a hug, knowing about my arm.

 

I look up front and see rows of crying people in their seats. I see Principal Oswen crying, too. There are large portraits of the deceased all around the platform. Honestly, I could only name two of those who passed away-- Eunice from Chem class, and Polly from French. The unfamiliar faces still haunt me, and Anwell notices.

 

"If it's making you uncomfortable, we don't need to be here," he says. Now I have Dax and Celia looking worried.

 

It was always like this with the four of us-- caring. During summer break, the four of us took a five-hour drive to Colchester and trekked terrains for an hour to ride the renowned 600-meter zipline. That was also the day we found out Celia was extremely acrophobic. She started convulsing, and her face turned as white as sheets. Anwell was just about to be pushed down the line. His entire gear was already put on and his body was already strapped to the wires. The operator said there was no way Celia could get through the other end if she didn't ride.

 

"Are you going or not? There's a lot of people in the line." The operator said impatiently.

 

"No, we're fucking not." Anwell snapped back, unbuckling the straps in his body and storming out with the rest of us, as he gave the operator the middle finger.

 

It was a bittersweet moment, but that was also the day I realized that I was stuck with these three. These three who would insist I had what it took when I doubted myself, who would pitch in money to surprise me on my birthdays, who would help me both socially and financially. These three showed me that there are far more better things that what life has to offer. Somehow, they've happened to give me the care and love I've longed from my biological family.

 

"Brighton?" Celia snaps her fingers in my face. "Are you okay?" She looks genuinely worried now as she grips my fingers tightly.

 

I nod quickly. "I'm okay."

 

"Come on," Dax tilts his head out the door and we all follow him. Each name of 'the asleep' (as Principal Oswen called them) were calligraphed on a the parking lot's wall. There were messages from people written onto them. Celia hands me a chalk and they all take their own space and write. I've never seen the three of them pay so much respect, so I take it. I don't write anything, though. It wasn't long until Celia tugs on my shirt did I think of something.

 

I'm sorry.

 

The three of them see me staring at the message I wrote, and they pat me on the back. It bums me out because they don't know. They don't know that I'm not sorry this happened to them-- I mean I am, it just isn't the reason why I wrote it.

 

I knew something not Celia, Anwell, nor Dax knew.

 

For the twelve of you who are "asleep", I'm sorry for being the reason why this happened to you.

 

I'm sorry you had to die instead when Vernon Lewis started the mass shooting in the first place to kill me.