Boston High

Metals Detectors

CHAPTER TWO

The next Monday, James went back to school.

Metal detectors lined the entrances now, installed over the weekend as though the school board needed to be seen doing something. They beeped at every student who passed through, but the security guards barely glanced up — tired eyes, tight mouths, going through the motions. A shooting on these grounds still felt impossible to them, even after it had happened. Crime belonged outside, on the streets, not here. The beeping filled hallways where there used to be laughter. Now there was only silence and the shuffle of feet.

First period was math with Mr. Harrison — James's favourite teacher despite it being his least favourite subject. He sat in his usual seat by the window, notebook open and blank, his mind somewhere else entirely.

"Mr. Monroe."

James blinked. Mr. Harrison stood at the front of the class, chalk in hand, looking directly at him.

"Care to tell us what the answer on the board is?"

James looked at the board. His mind went completely blank. "Uh..."

A few students snickered. Mr. Harrison set down the chalk.

"James, can I see you for a moment?"

James walked to the front under the weight of everyone's stares. Mr. Harrison leaned against his desk, arms crossed, expression not angry — just concerned.

"Where's your head at today?" he asked quietly.

"I'm sorry, sir. I've just got a lot going on."

Mr. Harrison nodded slowly. "I know last week was hard on everyone. But you're here now. Try to be present — the work won't wait forever."

"I know. I'll focus."

"Good. Sit down."

James appreciated the concern, even if he couldn't show it.

________________________________________

The rest of the day blurred together. Classes came and went. Teachers talked. Students took notes. James absorbed none of it. His phone stayed in his pocket, silent. Tricia hadn't texted all day.

After the final bell, he headed to the basketball court. Connor was already there, jogging laps with earbuds in. Connor was one of the shooting guards — reliable, easygoing, someone who didn't ask too many questions. He spotted James and pulled out an earbud.

"Yo. Didn't think you'd be out here today."

"Needed to clear my head," James said, grabbing a ball from the rack.

"I feel you. This whole week's been insane." Connor finished his lap and walked over. "Wanna shoot around?"

"Yeah."

They fell into the familiar rhythm — passing, shooting, rebounding. For a few minutes, it almost felt normal. Connor drained a three-pointer and grinned.

"Still got it."

"Lucky shot," James said, catching the rebound.

"Bro, that was pure skill." Connor laughed, then softened. "For real though — how you holding up? I know Tricia's going through a lot."

"She's strong. Stronger than me, probably." James bounced the ball twice. "But yeah. It's rough."

"If you need anything, say the word. Team's got your back."

"I appreciate that."

They played in comfortable silence for a while, the sound of the ball and the swish of the net filling the empty court. Out here, with just basketball and someone who didn't need explanations, James could finally breathe.

________________________________________

After an hour, he checked his phone and found a text from Tricia:

Dad's home. Can you come by?

"Yo, Connor — I gotta head out."

"Already? We just getting started."

"Something I need to take care of."

"Alright. Practice tomorrow?"

"For sure."

James grabbed his bag and jogged toward Tricia's house, his heart picking up with each block. He hadn't seen Mr. Patrick since the shooting — since watching the paramedics load him into that ambulance. The image still hadn't left him.

________________________________________

Tricia opened the door almost before he could knock, like she'd been watching the window.

"Thanks for coming," she said softly.

"Of course. How is he?"

"Tired. But he's home." A small smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Come on."

Mr. Patrick sat in a recliner in the living room, arm in a sling, bandages visible at his collar. He looked smaller than James remembered. The man who had always commanded every room now seemed careful with himself, like someone relearning how to take up space.

"James," he said, his voice weaker than usual but still warm. "Good to see you, son."

"Good to see you too, sir. I'm really glad you're okay."

"Come sit down. Don't hover there like a stranger."

James sat on the couch. Tricia settled beside him, close enough that their knees almost touched.

They made small talk — basketball, classes, college scouts. Mr. Patrick asked about James's mom, his grades, his plans. It was the kind of conversation they'd had dozens of times, but this one carried weight underneath it, both of them working to keep things feeling ordinary when they knew they weren't. Mr. Patrick didn't know his daughter was dating James. He knew they were close, and he'd always seemed glad about that. Sometimes James wondered if he suspected more — but if he did, he never said anything.

After about twenty minutes, Mr. Patrick's eyelids began to droop. Tricia noticed immediately.

"Dad, you should rest."

"I'm fine, sweetheart."

"Please."

He sighed but didn't argue. "James, thank you for coming by. It means a lot."

"Anytime, sir."

Tricia helped him to his feet and guided him toward the bedroom. James waited, listening to their muffled voices through the door. A few minutes later she came back, pulling it shut softly behind her.

"He tries to act strong," she said. "But I can tell he's in pain."

"He's going to be okay. He just needs time."

She nodded, but her eyes were already filling. She was like this — held herself together in front of everyone else, then let it out when it was just them. James pulled her into a hug. She buried her face in his chest, her shoulders shaking. They stood like that until the shaking stopped, the house quiet around them except for the distant hum of the refrigerator.

When they pulled apart, she wiped her eyes.

"Thank you. Really."

"I'll always be here. You know that."

She smiled — a real one — and walked him to the door. As he stepped outside, she caught his hand and pulled him back. Before he could say anything, she leaned in and kissed his cheek.

"Text me when you get home," she whispered.

"I will."

________________________________________

James walked down the driveway with a settled feeling he hadn't had in days. In every version of the future he'd imagined lately, she was in it. People said it was just high school, like that was supposed to make it smaller. He hoped they were wrong.

He took the bus home, watching Boston blur past the windows — familiar streets, a city he'd looked at a thousand times. Tonight it looked different. More fragile.

His mom was in the kitchen when he got in, dish towel in hand, grilled chicken and rice on the stove. She searched his face the way she always did lately.

"Your dinner's on the stove."

"Thanks, Mom. I'll eat in a minute."

He went to his room first. The moment he lay down, everything caught up with him at once. His chest tightened. His breathing went shallow. The room felt too small, the walls pressing in. His hands started shaking.

Not now.

He closed his eyes and focused — in through his nose, out through his mouth, slow and deliberate, a rhythm he'd taught himself. Slowly, the panic pulled back, leaving him exhausted and wrung out the way it always did.

He'd never told anyone about the attacks. Not his parents, not Connor, not even Tricia. He couldn't afford for it to become visible. Couldn't afford for it to cost him the future he was working toward.

He splashed cold water on his face until he felt human again, then went and ate the meal his mom had made, doing his best to seem like himself.

His phone buzzed.

Home safe?

He almost smiled.

Yeah. Home safe.

Good. Sleep well. Love you.

Love you too.

He lay in the dark for a long time before sleep finally came.