To Craig Walker
(who was next to me on 9/11)
and
To Eliot Schrefer
(who was across the table when
I wrote most of this book)
WHAT JUST HAPPENED
(Part One)
MY FIRST THOUGHT
Claire
My first thought is: My mother is dead.
When Mrs. Shields, the school secretary, shows up so gravely in the doorway and gestures for Mrs. Otis to come over to her, I am sure that my mother has died, that I am now going to have to pack up my books and go to Sammy’s school and collect him and tell him that Mom is dead and I’m all he has now and somehow we’ll get by. I am so sure that something is wrong, incredibly wrong, and I can’t imagine what else it could be. I am already gathering my books as Mrs. Shields whispers to Mrs. Otis. I see Mrs. Otis nod, distressed, and then Mrs. Shields disappears back into the hall. I sit up straighter, waiting for Mrs. Otis to look at me, to say my name. But instead she looks at all of us and says, “Class, a plane has hit the World Trade Center.”
Katie Johnson gasps. Other kids start talking.
I am blank.
And then Mrs. Otis asks, “Do any of you have parents working in the World Trade Center?”
We look around. No. But Teresa says that Jill Breslin, who’s in one of the other senior English classes, has a father who works there. I think of our apartment, only ten blocks away from the towers. I know my mother isn’t home. I know she left with me and Sammy this morning and continued uptown to her office. But suddenly I’m wondering: What if she forgot something? What if she went back to the apartment? What if she took the subway down to Chambers Street, underneath the towers?
I’ve gone from being sure she’s dead to being unsure she’s alive, and that’s much scarier, because it almost feels rational.
Mrs. Otis informed us on the first day of school that there would be no cell phone usage tolerated in class, but now it’s the fifth day of school and there’s nothing she can do. She’s trying to hold it together, but she’s as confused as we are. Cell phones are ringing, and all these kids are telling their parents they’re okay, we’re all okay—our school is a good thirty blocks north of the Trade Center. Abby Winter’s mom starts telling her what the news is saying, and then she tells it to the rest of us: “The plane hit around the ninetieth floor. The building’s still standing, and people are evacuating. Firemen are going up. The other tower looks like it’s okay…”
My friend Randy spots a TV in the back of the class, but when he tries it out, all we get is static. I know Randy has a phone and I ask him if I can use it. I try calling Mom’s office, but nobody picks up. I leave a message on the answering machine, telling her I’m okay.
The principal gets on the PA and says that all the classes have been informed of the “situation downtown,” and that if there are any “concerned students,” they should come to the guidance suite. We all know what he means by concerned students—he means if your parents are there.
We’re not a big school. There are only about seventy kids in each grade. So I can’t help imagining Jill Breslin down there in the guidance office, and a few other kids. Teresa’s getting frantic now, saying she has to go see Jill. And it’s not even like they’re best friends. Mrs. Otis tries to calm her down, saying the guidance counselors will take care of it. And I think that kind of makes sense, since the guidance counselors are adults, but it also doesn’t, because even if Teresa isn’t best friends with Jill, she definitely knows Jill more than any of the guidance counselors do.
The thought of Jill Breslin in that guidance office makes me feel I should go to the lower school and see Sammy. I wonder if they’ve told the second graders what’s happening, or if Mrs. Lawson is closing the blinds and giving them a spelling test.
Suddenly there’s this big scream from the classroom next to ours—at least ten people yelling out. Mrs. Otis goes to the door connecting her room to Mr. Baker’s, and about half our class follows, so we’re there when she asks what’s going on. But nobody needs to answer—Mr. Baker’s gotten his TV to work, and it’s not one but two towers that are burning, and they’re saying on the TV that there was a second plane, that the towers are under attack, and seeing it erases any premonitions I might have had, because even if I felt something was wrong, I never would have pictured this. This isn’t even something I’ve feared, because I never knew it was a possibility. Kids are crying now, both in Mr. Baker’s class and in my class, and we’re looking at each other like What do we do? and the principal is on the PA again telling everyone to remain calm, which only makes it worse. It’s like the principal knows something he’s not telling us, and the TV is saying that people are jumping, and Teresa just loses it completely, and we’re all thinking about Jill and who knows who else, and people are trying to call their parents on their cell phones, but now all the lines are busy, or maybe they’ve stopped working, and I don’t even have a cell phone and neither does my mother. I just want to get Sammy and go home.
All of our class is in Mr. Baker’s room now—it’s practically the whole twelfth grade. Mrs. Otis and Mr. Baker are in the front, talking to each other, and then Mrs. Otis heads to the office to see what’s going on. Randy offers his phone to me again, but says it’s not really working, although maybe it will work for me. It doesn’t, and I don’t know what else I can do, except I realize now I should’ve given my mom Randy’s number. The TV is showing people downtown running away. I tell Randy I have to get my brother, and saying it to him makes it mean I’m going to do it.
I go up to Mr. Baker and say my brother’s in the lower school, in second grade, and I have to go get him. This girl Marisol hears me and says her sister’s over there, too, in first grade, and is probably really scared. Mr. Baker says nobody is supposed to leave the school, but we tell him we’re only going across the street, and we must sound really desperate, because he looks at us and says it’s fine, as long as we come straight back.
I don’t know Marisol at all—she’s new to the school, and the only reason I remember her name is because when it was called in attendance on the first day, I thought it was a pretty name. I take her to the side door, because I’m afraid someone from the office will stop us if we try the main door.
“I can’t believe this is happening,” Marisol says.
“I know,” I say.
But we have no idea until we’re out the door and onto Sixth Avenue. We don’t even see it at first—we just see everyone else looking up, and then we turn to look back at what they’re seeing. The towers are burning and people are cupping their hands over their eyes and staring straight at it. Shaking their heads or crying. Looking at each other in disbelief. Total strangers are talking to each other, saying “Oh my Lord” and “I never thought …” And then there are the people—this steady flow of people—coming from downtown. These are the people we were seeing on the TV just a few minutes ago, escaping what just happened. Some of them are covered in what looks like heavy dust, chalk almost, and others are just ragged from getting away. Strangers are coming up to them and asking if they’re okay, if they need any help. One guy has opened up his shoe store and is giving out sneakers to women in heels. Just giving them away.
Marisol grabs my hand, and I let her. We’re about to cross the street when we hear a siren—an ambulance heading north. There should be more ambulances coming from downtown, I think. It’s scary that there’s just one.
Marisol is crying now, and she takes her hand from mine so she can wipe her eyes.
“Sorry,” she says.
There’s a guard at the lower school, and even though we tell him we’re here to get Marisol’s sister and my brother, he makes us sign in and get a pass. I s
how Marisol where her sister’s room is, then say goodbye. We’re far from the only visitors—there are moms and dads coming to pick up their kids, and I have to admit that I’m hoping our mom will be one of them. I know she’d come for Sammy first.
I want her to be here already. Because that would mean she’s definitely alive.
I get to the classroom and Mom is nowhere to be found. There’s no TV, but the kids are definitely aware that something bad is happening, because parents keep arriving, and while nobody wants to say how bad it is, there’s no way to pretend it’s a normal day.
Sammy’s teacher, Mrs. Lawson, is the same teacher I had for second grade. “Are you here for Sammy?” she asks, and I say yes. Then I realize she’s asking if I’m going to take Sammy away, and I tell her that we live downtown, so there’s nowhere for us to go. I’ve never in my life said those words before. There’s nowhere for us to go. I feel it. I ask Mrs. Lawson if she needs any help.
I need to stay here. I need to stay close to Sammy.
“I’d love that,” she says. She gestures toward the desks. “We were drawing flowers. Maybe if you could go around and help them. At least until everything’s straightened out.”
My first stop is Sammy, who gives me a big hug and asks me if we’re going home like Lucas is.
“Not yet,” I tell him. “Let’s do some drawing first.”
“Is Mommy coming?”
“Yes,” I say. “She’s on her way.”
The kids’ desks are pushed together so that each set of six makes a tabletop. Sammy’s best friend, Spencer, is at the same tabletop as him, and he asks me if his mommy is coming. I tell him I think so.
“Now, let’s see those flowers,” I say.
Since it’s the first full week of school, all of the supplies are brand-new. The crayons are unbroken; some of them even have points. The pencils are newly sharpened, the erasers bright pink. I can’t help but think, This was supposed to be a good day. I feel nostalgia for an hour ago, when Sammy and I were walking from the subway stop, taking in the sunny weather, making jokes about SpongeBob SquarePants.
“Look at mine!” the girl next to me demands, and I compliment her on her flower (even if it looks more like an elephant than a tulip) and tell her to draw more.
A few more parents make it to the class, and each time one appears in the doorway, half the class turns, including me. The kid whose parent has arrived jumps up and runs over. The rest of us go back to what we’re doing.
Spencer proudly holds up his paper for me to see.
“Do you like it?” he asks.
I see a gray blob with green highlights.
“It’s fantastic,” I tell him.
“Do you know what it is?”
I’m pretty sure it’s not a flower.
“An alien?” I ask.
His face falls a little. “No.”
“A rhinoceros.”
His face falls further. “No.”
I am never going to guess.
“What is it?” I ask.
“You,” he says. “I drew you.”
Sammy laughs, and I tell Spencer extra loud that I love it. Maybe Spencer’s nailed it—maybe that’s actually what I look like right now.
Since there’s no TV, the parents are the only way we find out news. And when they stop coming—when there are only about ten kids left in the classroom—Mrs. Lawson leaves for a second so she can see what’s going on. Spencer asks me to tell the class a story, and since I can’t think of one off the top of my head, I grab the nearest book and tell them about a dog Cinderella. I try to focus on the story, not on the door and who might walk through it, because I know the kids are trying to follow my lead. We can hear more sirens on the street outside.
Mrs. Lawson comes back and looks stricken. I finish the book and get the kids going on a new drawing project—pumpkin carriages—and go over to her for the update. She tells me they don’t know how many people were in the towers—it could be as high as twenty-five thousand, although it’s probably more like ten thousand. And there is another plane that hit the Pentagon. There could be more. Nobody knows.
She tells me this in a whisper. Then we walk back over to the kids and try to gather enough orange crayons from the other tables so they can all draw pumpkins. The world is falling apart, and this is what we have to offer.
Spencer’s mom arrives and says it took her ages to get to the school from uptown, since everything has shut down. She says that Sammy and I can come back with her to the Upper East Side. But that’s so far away, and I’m worried that if the phones stay down, there will be no way for Mom to find us. I have to believe she’s going to be here any minute. Plus, I don’t want to leave Mrs. Lawson alone. So Sammy and I say goodbye to Spencer, and this is the point—now that his mom is here—that Spencer begins to cry, loudly protesting that he doesn’t want to leave, that school’s not over yet. He’s crying about the wrong thing, and I find myself almost jealous of that.
It takes all of his mom’s promises for Spencer to be persuaded—Sammy can come over later; Daddy will be home from work when they get back; they can have dessert before dinner tonight. Mrs. Lawson and I are so enthusiastic about each of these things that I half expect the other kids to chime in with their own tears, to see what rewards they’ll get. I hope they won’t, because I don’t think Mrs. Lawson and I could take it.
Eventually Spencer leaves, with his mom promising to keep calling my mom’s office until she gets through. We are about to resume our carriage drawing when an announcement comes on the PA saying that all teachers and their classes should pack up their things and report to the gymnasium. We are going to be leaving the building.
Neither Mrs. Lawson nor I know why this is happening or what it means. Since the weather is so summery, there isn’t much bundling up to be done.
In the gymnasium, the principal gently announces that one of the towers has fallen and people are being encouraged to move north of Fourteenth Street. Because of this, the administrators have decided to evacuate the building and move everyone to another school, on Seventeenth Street. It’s only a twelve-block walk, and everyone is going to stick together. The school secretaries will stay in the office to field calls, and the guard will stay in the main hallway, so if any parent or guardian comes by, he or she will be redirected to the new school. He also adds that transportation and communication in the city are extremely difficult at the moment, so if our parents haven’t arrived or called, it is probably not for a lack of trying.
I am still upset with my mother, though. And scared.
If you ever lose me, I remember her saying when I was little and we’d go to a department store, just let one of the salesladies know, and they will take you to where I can find you. Even though I’m seventeen, I guess I still thought this would always be true—that there would always be that lost-and-found, and not the lost-and-still-lost that I am now trapped inside.
The principal does not ask if anyone has any questions. He tells the classes to line up behind their teachers and starts releasing them, oldest to youngest, into the hallway and out the front door. Each teacher has been assigned another adult—a custodian or an aide or a volunteer parent—to help keep everything in order. I look over to the first graders and see that Marisol is there with her sister. There’s no way that we’re going back to the high school building, and nobody seems to think it’s odd that we’re here. We catch each other’s eye, and I almost wave. We have a kinship now, as thin as a thread, but permanent.
One of the towers has fallen. When it’s our turn to leave, it’s like something in me is finally willing to listen, and suddenly I understand what it means. The tower doesn’t exist anymore. Something I’ve seen my entire life—something so much larger than my entire life—is gone. That is my first reaction. And then I think about all the people inside. There must have been people inside.
When we get to Sixth Avenue, I feel like I’m in one of those myths where the one thing the woman can’t do is turn around a
nd see what’s behind her. I am holding Sammy’s hand and this girl Lizzie’s hand, following Mrs. Lawson, and all I can think is, Don’t look back. If I turn around, Sammy and Lizzie will also turn around. If I turn around, they will see it. If I turn around, I may disintegrate.
The street is jammed with people walking north. Some were clearly close to the towers, since the smoke and the dust cling to their skin and their clothes.
“What happened to them?” Sammy asks, and I don’t know what to say. I can’t even think of a good lie. So I treat it like he’s asked a different question and tell him we’re almost there, even though we still have five blocks to go. I wish I was still at the age when I needed explanations, and would receive better versions than the truth whenever I asked.
The only time I’ve seen this many people on Sixth Avenue has been for the Halloween Parade. I am amazed at how respectful everyone is. There are skyscrapers collapsing behind us, and nobody is pushing, nobody is yelling. When people see we’re a school group, they’re careful not to separate us. Stores are not only giving away sneakers, but some are handing out water to people who need it. You’d think they’d take advantage and raise the price. But no. That’s not what happens.
I am looking everywhere for familiar faces. There’s a small line of people moving against the march, weaving their way downtown. There’s no mistaking their purpose as they push forward. Every single one of them has a reason. It must be someone they love. Or a desire to help.
Don’t look back, I remind myself. Don’t look back.
I hear my name called out—“Claire!”—then Sammy’s. He’s quicker to react.
“Mom!” he yells. He stops walking, pulling me and Lizzie to a halt. And then she’s running over, and Sammy lets go of me, and it’s okay because Mom is right there, and we’re slowing up the line, and Mrs. Lawson is getting farther ahead, so my first words to Mom are “We have to keep walking.” She doesn’t question this. She is crying to see us, and this is the first time I’ve ever seen her crying to see us, and she’s practically carrying Sammy even though he’s too big to carry anymore, and she’s telling us how happy she is to have found us, and how hard it was. She had to walk all the way from Eighty-ninth Street on the East Side because she had a meeting there, and as soon as she can, she’s going to buy all of us cell phones. And what I want to shout is I thought you were dead, but not in front of Sammy or poor Lizzie, who I don’t even know, whose parents still aren’t here. I explain to Mom why we’re walking north; she nods, and I get a good look at her—she’s holding it together, too, and I want to tell her she doesn’t have to do that for me, because I might not be able to do it for her. I can tell she’s also trying not to look back, but she does it—she looks over her shoulder—and the tears won’t leave her eyes.