Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 86857 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86857 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
“We don’t want you to be afraid to go to school,” Mom said, setting a plate of cookies and a glass of milk next to me.
“I’m not.”
“That’s good, but if you have questions—”
“Someone said they were bullied in school, and that’s why they did it,” I said.
“Well, we might never know since they’re no longer alive.” Dad leaned back a fraction and crossed his thick arms.
“What if they weren’t bullied?”
“What do you mean?” he asks.
“What if they just wanted to kill people because … they liked it?”
Rarely were my parents speechless, but that night, they had nothing. Not one word.
Finally, Mom cleared her throat. “Why do you think anyone would kill other humans for … fun?”
I shrugged. “I overheard one of my teachers talking to another teacher in the hallway. She said the boys were psychopaths. So I stopped by the library on my way home from school and looked up psychopath.”
“Um … Jo, you’re twelve. I don’t think it’s a good idea for a twelve-year-old to study psychopaths.” Dad’s face wrinkled. “It’s a lot for your immature brain.”
“Nothing is wrong with my brain. You’ve always said I’m too smart for my own good.”
They laughed, but it was an uneasy laugh.
“If they were bullied, it would mean they hated the kids they killed. But psychopaths don’t have feelings like that. They think they are better than everyone else. They don’t feel bad about the things they do. They don’t think about what other people are feeling when they do bad things to them. They don’t have any regrets. Can you imagine doing bad things and not feeling guilty? You don’t feel guilty when you shoot a deer, do you, Dad? Or if you have to shoot a bank robber, right?”
Dad coughed, bringing his fist to his mouth and easing his head side to side. “That’s … that’s different, Jo. I’m not a psychopath. I would never hurt innocent people, and if I did by accident, I would feel terrible. Remorseful. Pained.”
I roll my eyes. “I wasn’t calling you a psychopath. I’m just saying, maybe those two boys had something wrong with them that made them not feel bad about killing other humans the way you don’t feel bad about the deer. Dustin Santi told me people eat dogs in other countries the way we eat cows or chickens here. So what I think is kinda weird and gross is not weird and gross to other people. I bet those two boys who killed those kids would have eaten dogs. Don’t you think?”
For the second time that night, I left my parents speechless.
While other kids at my school were lined up at the door to the guidance counselor’s office to discuss how scared they were by the Columbine shooting, I was eating cookies and milk with my parents while discussing psychopaths and other cultures eating puppy dogs.
“Listen, sweetie, maybe don’t talk about this with other kids … or even other adults for that matter,” Mom said.
“About psychopaths or about eating puppy dogs?” I dipped my last bite of cookie into the milk.
My parents shared a look. “Both,” Mom said.
“Why?”
“Because it’s not just kids who are in shock and scared; it’s adults too. Parents are having a hard time sending their kids to school because they’re worried it could happen to them.”
“I’ve been going to school. Are you worried about me?”
“We love you. And of course we’d be devastated if anything happened to you, but the chances of it happening to you at your school are really, really slim. You have a better chance of dying in a car accident,” Mom said.
“Or getting hit by lightning,” Dad added.
Mom shot him a scowl.
He lifted a shoulder. “What? It’s true.”
“I’m going to Colten’s.” I stood, taking my glass to the sink.
“Don’t talk about it with Colten either. Okay?” Mom stressed.
I nodded, giving her a stiff smile before shoving my feet into my sneakers, pulling on a hoodie, and running across the street.
“Hey, Josie.” Becca smiled, opening the front door. “Colten’s upstairs, practicing piano.”
I stepped inside, toeing off my shoes.
“How are you doing, hon?” she asked with an ugly, concerned look on her face.
“Fine. Why?”
“Have your parents talked with you about Columbine?”
“Uh-huh. They said not to discuss it with anyone … and I mean anyone.”
Her pink lips parted, and she gave me a single slow nod. “Of course.”
“I’m going to see if Colten’s about done.”
“O-okay.” She seemed a little off as I zipped past her, straight up the stairs.
My momentum came to a screeching halt when I reached Colten’s bedroom door. His fingers played the saddest song I had ever heard. I tiptoed a little closer. His body moved with the music like the metronome on Vera’s piano.
Colten was only one of three boys who I knew that played the piano. He was also the best. I wasn’t the best at anything. I wasn’t liked by everyone like Colten. My “uniqueness” never felt special, just different. Not Colten. He was special. He could do everything. And most days I felt certain the only reason he was my friend was because my dad was police chief. Sure, I was smart. Who really cared about that yet? No twelve-year-olds talked about honor roll or scholarships. They couldn’t pronounce valedictorian let alone care about it.