Mrs. Jackson looked at each of us. We lowered our heads and stared at the graffiti on the wooden surfaces of the desks. “As you all might know, one of your classmates has had an accident this weekend.” The entire class kept silent. “John Albert Driver is in the hospital, but he is going to be just fine. He will be back in a few weeks.”

Mrs. Jackson picked a ‘Get Well Soon’ card off of her desk and circulated it. As each student signed their name on the card Mrs. Jackson continued. Her tone was prescriptive and stern, far from her usual gentle coaxing. She raised her finger, wagging it once at each student with each articulated syllable. “If I hear anyone speaking about this accident I will send them to the Principal's office immediately. Don’t go spreading around rumors concerning things you know nothing about. “

This only muffled the rumors. Now we discussed the plight of John Albert and his brother in the secrecy of the boy’s bathroom. We clustered together, our whispers interrupted by the occasional flushing toilet. Many held that John Albert was still on the cusp of death. Mrs. Jackson had lied to us to spare us the grief. Others brought in daily news of John Albert’s brother. One day he was awaiting trial in his lonely cell. The next day he had been sentenced to death.

Weeks later, when John Albert came back to school, his accident had been all but forgotten. He was quieter and less chubby. I approached him with a group of curious boys in the hallway. We tried to get him to lift up his shirt and show us where he had been shot. He declined.

“Aw, come on John Albert. Show us where you got shot,” we pleaded. Some boys reached for the hem of his t-shirt and tried to pull it up to catch a glimpse of his wound.

“Fuck off. Leave me alone.” John Albert pushed us away and ran to class.