It was basic chemistry, really.
I was sitting in class, meekly going over
Dr. Hale’s (“it’s Hale getting an A in this class”) notes
on ionic bonds and the chemistry between
sodium and chlorine
forming table salt, something with more of a connection
than I had with any of my classmates.
There was a faint din in the hallways
as our teacher cracked a few jokes
about the lesbian couple in class
that he had an idea were sneaking off
in the middle of labs to make out
(He was half-right; they were fucking, too.)
I remember the first wail.
A sudden little yip that seemed etherally out of place,
like a dog’s bark in the middle of an elegy,
where you instinctively want to mute the mutt,
but no one does, because
something’s not right, right?
A kid named John, unremarkable to my memory
save for the ledger of this tale,
would come down the hall a few moments later.
There was such urgency in the clack-clack-clack
of those sneakers on the freshly waxed floors,
the slant of the hall kept the noise at a rush.
“Mr. Hale, turn the TV on to Channel 3!”
(The doctor being left out was something
I immediately noticed as oddly troubling,
as even the remedial students knew
him simply as Dr. Hale, while his wife
was simply known as Mrs. Hale)
Dr. Hale, ever the jokester, asked John,
“This better be cartoons or
we’re going to have to have a talk.”
The TV flickered on after a few beats,
and cartoonishly, a replay of
Flight 11 careening into the World Trade Center aired.
“Fuck.”
I was still a good little Christian kid at the time,
and that fuck was the fuck that fucked forth a thousand fucks.
Dr. Hale, a jolly, plump man, simply buckled his legs,
and let himself collapse into his chair,
broken at the site of the North Tower
aflame and afraid.
The class, normally a timid, quiet little honors collective,
began frittering about with energy.
I walked out of the classroom after
another graphic and detailed replay, shaking my head
and considering a little prayer to my little God,
before I thought, “Well, what’s the point?”
Another quiet girl I liked followed me outside the room,
and looked up at me, sizing up her potential
only line of comfort in an sprawling, empty hall.
“Brandon, what’s happening?”
I took all the courage mustered from sixteen years
of awkward dates, bad romance, and loneliness,
and gave Kelly the most secure and enveloping hug I’ve ever delivered in my entire life.
We held that hug for minutes, as she cried into my shoulder
and I stared at the floor, wondering if a terrorist attack
was simultaneously making me hit puberty
and turning me into an atheist
with one grand gesture.
She finally released the hug, as the background noise
roared along with the news of the second plane
arriving at its final destination.
Kelly rubbed her eyes, then looked at me.
“Now what?”
I paused for a second, looking at the clock on the wall.
“We hope for the best, I guess.”
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