Boston High

Jimmy Olsen

CHAPTER THREE

This was the first time James had truly been home since the shooting. Really home — not just passing through to grab clothes or shower before heading back to Tricia's. He liked his house. He liked the quiet familiarity of it — the way the floorboards creaked in the same spots, the smell of his mom's cooking in the walls, the particular silence that belonged only here.

He needed that silence right now.

His mom worked as a nurse at a care home for the elderly, coming back most nights with tired eyes and still asking how his day was before she'd set down her bag. She was steady and gentle, the kind of woman who carried strength in soft hands.

James was the only child of what his parents called a peaceful divorce.

"We just didn't want the same things anymore," his mom would say whenever he asked. "Your dad was a good man. He really loved me. But I had to let him go. It was unfair to keep him in a loveless marriage."

They shared custody. This weekend was supposed to be his dad's turn, but he couldn't make it — stuck at the hospital, on call for emergency surgery. His dad was a resident doctor. It was at that same hospital where his parents had met and fallen in love, working long shifts side by side. Despite being slammed, his dad had promised they'd connect through a video call.

________________________________________

James tried to focus on homework. He pulled up his textbook twice and read the same paragraph four times without absorbing a single word. Finally he gave up and sat by the window, watching the street below.

A car was parked across the road. Dark. Engine off. He didn't recognise it — but people parked on this street all the time. He watched it for a moment longer than he needed to, then looked away.

Not everything is something, he told himself.

When his phone rang, his dad's face appeared on the screen, still in surgical scrubs.

"Hey, Jimmy Olsen. How are you holding up?"

His dad had called him that since he was seven — after the Superman character, his dad's favourite. James had outgrown the nickname years ago but never asked him to stop.

The question opened something up. They talked for over an hour — about school, about the shooting, about Mr. Patrick, about Tricia, about everything. His dad mostly listened, asking quiet questions when James ran out of words, never rushing him.

"You know," his dad said eventually, "when I was your age, I thought I had everything figured out. Then I sprained my ankle badly enough to end my shot at going pro. I was devastated. Thought my life was over." He paused. "Spent a few months trying to drown that feeling in ways I'm not proud of."

James had heard the broad outline of this story before. His dad had never said that last part quite so plainly. He stayed quiet and listened.

"But that injury led me to medicine. Led me to your mom. Led me to you." His dad's expression softened. "Life takes you places you never planned for. Sometimes the detours turn out to be the whole point."

"I don't feel like I'm on a detour," James said. "I feel like I'm just... lost."

"That's allowed. Especially after what you've been through." His dad looked at him through the screen. "But you're not alone in it. You've got your mom. You've got me. You've got Tricia."

James glanced toward the window without meaning to. The dark car was still there.

He looked back at his dad and pushed it out of his mind.

They talked a little longer — lighter things. Basketball, the embarrassing loss his dad's favourite team had taken over the weekend, college prospects, whether James could visit next weekend if the schedule allowed.

Finally, his dad glanced off-screen. "I have to go. They're prepping another patient. But call me anytime. I mean it — doesn't matter what time."

"I will. Thanks, Dad."

"Love you, kiddo."

"Love you too."

The screen went dark. James sat still for a moment, feeling both emptier and steadier than before. Then he looked out the window again.

The car was gone.

He told himself that was a good thing.

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A soft knock came at his bedroom door.

His mom poked her head in, still in her work scrubs, reading glasses pushed up on her forehead. "You okay, honey?"

"Yeah. Just tired."

She studied him the way she always did — that quiet assessment she couldn't switch off even at home. She didn't look convinced, but she didn't push. She never did. She had a gift for knowing when to wait.

"I'm here if you need anything," she said, and pulled the door shut gently behind her.

James twisted and turned for another hour, the room too quiet, his thoughts too loud. He was considering dragging himself out for a jog when he heard a faint tap at the front door.

He went still for just a second before getting up. Old instinct. New habit, since last week.

When he opened the door, Tricia stood on the porch in a hoodie and jeans, hands buried in her pockets, looking like she wasn't entirely sure she should have come.

"Hey. Sorry for just showing up. I just..." She exhaled. "I needed to see you."

James stepped back. "Come in."

He led her quietly to his room and closed the door. They sat on the edge of the bed, shoulders almost touching.

"How's your dad?" he asked.

"Sleeping. My aunt arrived this afternoon — my dad's younger sister. She's going to stay for a few weeks to help with his recovery." A small pause. "Which means I can go back to school on Monday."

"That's really good."

"Yeah." She smiled, but there was something fragile underneath it. "I missed you today."

"I missed you too."

Silence settled between them — the comfortable kind, the kind that didn't need filling. Then Tricia reached over and took his hand.

"Everything's going to be okay, James. Everything will be fine."

She said it like she was working to believe it herself.

He squeezed her hand. "Yeah. It will."

She leaned in slowly, and he met her halfway. They kissed — soft at first, then deeper, holding on like the other person was the only solid thing in a world that kept shifting beneath their feet.

When they pulled apart, she rested her forehead against his.

"My girlfriend's coming back to school," James murmured. "All is right with the world."

Tricia laughed — a real one, quiet and warm — and for the first time in days, it actually felt like that might be true.

They lay down together, side by side, fingers intertwined, talking quietly about nothing and everything until Tricia's aunt texted asking when she'd be home.

"I should go," she said reluctantly.

"I'll walk you out."

At the door their lips met one more time, and James watched her disappear down the street before heading back inside. His mom was still on the couch, pretending not to notice, but he caught the small smile on her face.

"Don't say anything," James muttered.

"I wasn't going to," she said innocently.

But her smile widened.

James went back to his room feeling something close to settled — lighter than he'd felt in days. He picked up his phone to set his alarm and, out of habit, opened the school's news page.

He almost scrolled past it.

"Investigation Expanded: Shooter Believed to Have Had Multiple Accomplices Within School."

He read it once. Then again. Then a third time, slower.

Not a lone student with a grudge. A group. People who had wanted Mr. Patrick gone badly enough to plan it, to coordinate it, to get someone inside with a gun. People who, for all he knew, still came through the same metal detectors he did every morning. Still sat in the same classrooms. Still walked the same halls.

James set his phone face-down on the mattress.

Outside, the street was quiet. Ordinary. The kind of quiet that last week he would have taken for granted.

He lay in the dark for a long time before sleep finally came. And even then, it wasn't restful.

Tomorrow, Tricia was coming back to school.

He wasn't sure anymore whether that made him feel better or worse.