Boston High

Boston High

James stepped outside like he owned the place.

He was the star of Boston Memorial's basketball team and the boyfriend of Tricia Patrick — the principal's daughter and, by most accounts, the most sought-after girl in school. Not that anyone knew about the boyfriend part. Her dad had made his position clear: no relationships until she finished school. It was an old-fashioned rule and Tricia had followed it faithfully, right up until she met James. She hadn't planned on falling for him. But she had, and she had fallen hard.

He found her on the court, running through her cheerleading routine for the upcoming game. When she spotted him, she jogged over and kissed him quickly, glancing around to make sure no one was watching too closely. They had a spot — an abandoned corner of school grounds where they could be alone without explaining themselves to anyone. Today was no different. They had plans to go there, just the two of them, before heading home.

"How was class, babe?" she asked, locking arms with him as they walked toward the parking lot.

The gunshot cracked through the air. Sharp. Loud. Close.

Everything froze.

Sounds like that weren't new to them — sirens, distant trouble, the background noise of a city you learned to live with. But this was different. This wasn't blocks away. This was right here, on school grounds.

James turned to Tricia. Her face had drained of color, eyes wide and searching his for answers he didn't have.

"We need to get inside," he said, pulling her back toward the building.

But before they could move, the doors burst open. Students poured out — screaming, crying, faces twisted with fear. The crowd swept around them like a wave, everyone running in different directions, no one sure where safety was.

"Stay close to me!" James shouted, gripping Tricia's hand so hard his knuckles went white.

They fought their way back inside and ducked into the nearest classroom. Other students were already there, huddled in the corner. Teachers barricaded the door with desks, hands shaking but voices steady as they told everyone to stay quiet, stay down, stay calm.

James pulled Tricia close. She was trembling.

"My dad," she whispered. "James, my dad's in there."

His office was in the administrative wing. Right where the shot had come from.

Time moved strangely after that. Minutes felt like hours. They sat in the dark, listening to sirens wail closer and closer until the parking lot was full of flashing lights — red, blue, red, blue — painting the walls through the window blinds.

James risked a glance outside. Police swarmed the building. More sirens. The sharp crackle of radio static. Then he saw the paramedics rushing toward the main entrance with a stretcher. Even from this distance, he recognized the man they were loading into the ambulance. Mr. Patrick's gray suit jacket. His tall frame, usually so commanding, now crumpled and still.

"Tricia, don't look," James said, moving to block her view.

But she'd already seen. Her hand flew to her mouth. "That's him. That's my dad."

They watched the paramedics work quickly — strapping him down, securing an oxygen mask over his face, pressing bandages against his chest that were already darkening with blood. The stretcher disappeared into the ambulance. Doors slammed. Lights spun. Then it screamed away toward the hospital.

Tricia didn't cry. Not yet. She just stared at the empty space where the ambulance had been, her breathing shallow and unsteady.

Later, as police cleared the classrooms one by one, fragments of the story emerged. Mr. Patrick had been in his office when someone forced their way in. An argument. A former student, some said. Others whispered about a disgruntled parent. Nobody knew for certain. What they did know: shots were fired, Mr. Patrick was hit, and security had tackled the shooter before he could leave the administrative wing.

James thought about Mr. Patrick — the man who'd always treated him kindly, who came to every basketball game, who had no idea his daughter's closest friend was actually something more. This wasn't a news story happening somewhere else. This was real. This was close.

"Whatever happens," James said, squeezing Tricia's hand, "we'll get through this together."

But deep down, he feared nothing would ever be the same.

________________________________________

When the police finally let them leave, Tricia grabbed his arm. "Come home with me. Please. I don't want to be alone."

James didn't hesitate. "Okay."

Tricia's mom had died of cancer two years ago, and the house still carried the quiet weight of that loss. Now, with her dad in the hospital, going back to that empty house would be unbearable. Before they went inside, James made a detour — to Shouncle Miliano, the corner spot they always went to, where he bought her a hot dog and a can of soda, her comfort meal. Then they stopped at their favourite diner and sat in a booth by the window, letting the familiar noise of the place soften the sharp edges of the day. The quiet clatter of plates. The smell of coffee and grilled sandwiches. The elderly waitress who knew their order by heart.

Tricia picked at her food, taking small bites without tasting much. Finally, she spoke.

"You know you'll have to go to school without me next week."

James looked at her across the table. "I know."

"I have to be there when he comes home. I have to help him."

"I know," he said again, reaching across to take her hand. "I'll manage."

But inside, he knew school would feel wrong without her there.

________________________________________

That night, they fell asleep on the couch at her house, exhausted, holding onto each other. Not as a couple stealing time alone — just as two people clinging to whatever comfort they had left.

The next morning, they went to Saint Therese Memorial Hospital. The place was too bright, too white, smelling of antiseptic and something metallic James couldn't name. The noise of the city felt far away, replaced by hushed voices, soft footsteps, and the steady beeping of machines beyond the walls. Families sat in the waiting room with tired eyes and fear written plainly on their faces. It was the kind of place where hope and dread shared the same air.

A doctor approached them, clipboard in hand, expression calm but serious. "Family of Mr. Patrick?"

"I'm his daughter," Tricia said, her voice barely steady.

The doctor's face softened. "Your father is stable. He's going to be okay."

Tricia let out a breath she hadn't realised she'd been holding.

"But," the doctor continued, "it will take time. The bullet entered through his shoulder and exited cleanly, but there was significant tissue damage. He lost a lot of blood. Recovery will be slow — he won't be able to return to work for several weeks, possibly months."

"Can we see him?" Tricia asked.

"Not today. He's still in critical care recovering from surgery. Come back tomorrow — he should be awake then."

The words settled slowly. James felt Tricia lean into him, her strength finally giving way. He wrapped an arm around her and held on.

________________________________________

Before heading back to Tricia's house, James stepped outside and called his mom. She'd tried twice already.

"Mom, I won't be coming home tonight. Something happened at school. Tricia needs me."

A pause. He could hear the worry in the silence.

"I'm okay," he added. "I'll explain everything later. I promise."

"James—"

"I have to go, Mom. I love you."

He hung up before she could argue, guilt twisting in his stomach. But Tricia needed him more right now.

The crisp Boston air hit them as they left the hospital, sharp and cold, like the city itself was holding its breath. Walking to the bus stop, hands clasped, James pulled out his phone and scrolled to the school paper's website.

The headline made his chest tighten: "Student Arrested in Principal Shooting: Drug-Related Motive Suspected."

He read quickly. The shooter was a former student — someone furious about being suspended for drug possession. But the article raised more questions than it answered. Where had he gotten the drugs? How had he gotten a gun into the building? And why had he targeted Mr. Patrick specifically?

Then, near the bottom, one line made his blood run cold:

"Police say the suspect may have had assistance gaining access to the administrative wing. The investigation is ongoing."

He looked at Tricia. Her head rested against the bus window, eyes closed, finally still. He didn't tell her what he'd just read. She'd been through enough for one day.

But as the bus pulled away, James couldn't shake the feeling that this wasn't over. Someone else was involved. Someone who was still out there.

Someone who might still be at the school.

________________________________________