Killer

I fake a look of horror as she eases me down into my wheelchair. “You wouldn’t!”

Nina smiles, her pretty face crinkling

up with humor. “I would.”

“Yeah, I know.” Nina Petrov is my rehab specialist and she is my favorite person in the world. Only a few years out of school, Nina is spunky and fun, from the top of her sleek, dark bob to the soles of her neon athletic shoes.

“Friday, you’re going to go the length of the room and back on your own, Britt. I hope you’re ready.” Nina points at me and grins.

“I’m ready, I swear.”

No I’m not.

“All right, your ride is here. See you in a couple days?” Nina waves to my mom as she enters the huge room. Even with her haughty appearance, Mom manages to hide her disgust, gracefully dodging gym equipment and various patients doing exercises with their therapists to reach my tiny corner in the midst of chaos.

I don’t get to answer Nina, because my mom barges in, inserting herself between the therapist and my chair.

“Britton. Ready to go? We have a meeting scheduled with the woman over at Students Speak—”

“Mom, I told you I’m not going,” I snap, feeling petulant.

“Ummmm, another client is waiting on me, Britt.” Nina turns to my mom. “Nice to see you, Mrs. Shelton-Reeves.” I might love Nina, but right now I hate her. Nina knows my mom well enough to vacate the area when she goes on one of her rants, leaving me to deal with her alone.

“You too, Nina. Thank you.” My mom’s voice is tight and clipped. Once Nina is gone, Mom scowls. “I will not argue with you about this, Britton. Especially not in front of other people.” Her voice is quiet, but laced with irritation.

I press my lips together, knowing if I say anything else right now, she’ll push even harder. Mom wheels me out to the car, trying to coddle me into the front seat.

“I can do it!” I shake off her hand and ignore the hurt look on her face.

After “the incident,” as it’s called in my house, my mom went into full-blown overprotective mode. Helicopter parents have nothing on Rose Shelton-Reeves. Since I woke up from a coma six months ago, she has one goal and one goal only—to fix me up so she can turn me into a walking, talking billboard for school-related shootings.

Mom starts going on her usual diatribe as she pulls out of the lot at the Blake Atkins Center, the premiere brain injury and spinal cord rehab center in the Southeast. I spent four months here as an inpatient after having two surgeries, and now come three times a week for outpatient rehab.

I only catch bits and pieces of her monologue listing all of the good things I can do for students everywhere if I just act reasonably and do what she says.

“So, Britt, then we would go to schools and…”

I let her go on, pretending to listen. Whatever. She’s on my left side, so I can’t hear ninety percent of what she says. According to her it’s so important for me to speak out about the shooting, even though I can’t recall a single thing from that day or the weeks leading up to it. How ironic that my mom can’t be bothered to remember a tiny little thing like the fact I lost all hearing in my left ear when a bullet tore through my skull.

“…and then we would travel… many states…”

I gaze out the window, rolling my eyes. All I want to do is move on, something my parents—my mother in particular—can’t seem to do. I mean, yeah I feel bad for what my parents went through—a daughter shot at school, brain surgeries, rehab, homeschool—but I didn’t ask Mom to quit her job to do all those things. She’s the one who said I couldn’t go back to regular school with all those “dangerous killers” out there.

More important, I don’t want to remember the shooting. I’m glad I can’t. I don’t think I could live with the memories of that day. Mom either refuses to acknowledge my wishes or isn’t listening, because the last thing I want to do is discuss the worst day of my life in front of students across the country over and over and over. I just want to be Britt again, not Britton Reeves, school shooting victim and activist.

Mom’s hand touches my knee and I flinch. “Sorry honey, I was calling your name and you didn’t hear me. We’re here.”

In front of us is the tall, gleaming glass high-rise where the offices of Students Against School Shootings are located. What a dumb name. Are any students for school shootings? A laugh escapes before I can squelch it.

I feel the heat of my mom’s glare as she exits the car.

“Great,” I murmur while Mom gets my chair out of the back of the SUV. Just how I wanted to spend my day.

Killer

“Maybe you’ve had enough, Kell.”

I glare at Logan and hold up my hand to signal for another round of drinks.