Unthinkable (Tate Langdon)

014

January 5th, 1994.

Just as she had anticipated, her mother went to work without giving Eve a second glance.

Most of the morning was spent trying to keep the angry butterflies in her stomach at bay. They were not of the pleasant variety, but rather, those that gnawed and stirred more nervousness in their wake.

She didn't know what to anticipate from Tate when he arrived. Saying goodbye before he went off wherever he was going was obviously important to him, and so it was important to her.

She tried not to fret too much over what would happen or what she would say, keeping herself busy with random tasks such as making and devouring breakfast, cleaning up around the house, and hanging out in front of the television.

She was deeply engrossed in a cheesy talkshow about cheating husbands when the signal scrambled and cut to a news segment.

"We're coming to you live in the studio with Matthew Clark, reporting live from Westfield High via cellphone, where it is apparent that a tragedy has occurred," a somber blonde woman announced, her eyes as wide as saucers as she struggled to maintain a professional image.

Eve sat up on the edge of her seat, ears perked to attention by the mention of her school.

"Thank you, Lisa. Details are flooding in every moment, but so far, the confirmed report is that there has been some type of mass shooting inside the school," the man's voice filtered over the screen, still panned to the blonde's face.

"Reports of casualties vary from one to twenty-seven dead and the number of gunmen remains unconfirmed, but one thing is for certain - this marks the greatest tragedy our community has ever seen."

Tears has sprung to Eve's eyes, her heart thudding in her chest. She immediately attempted to call her mother, to page Tate, to make contact with those closest to her.

Her mother wept gratefully that she'd skipped class that day, promising to leave work immediately in an uncharacteristically emotional display.

Tate, on the other hand, did not respond. Not to the first page, not to the second or third. Radio silence.

There was a feeling in her gut that told her why, but she chose not to believe it. He was going to get help, he'd told her that, just the night before. Tate hadn't even gone to school, and she felt guilty for thinking otherwise.

When the air filled with the sounds of sirens and the street filled with police vehicles, however, she no longer felt guilt. She only felt dread.

She wanted to go to his house, just a few houses down the street, but remained put. Somewhere inside, she already knew what was happening, what his goodbye the night before had meant.

By five P.M., his picture was on her television - a bad yearbook photo that highlighted the abject disgust in his eyes, the dark circles underneath them.

Beneath that photo of the boy she loved, the words read, Westfield High Shooting Suspect.