Red Eye
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The PTA canceled the Harvest Festival, citing trauma. No one argued. A pair of sunglasses melted into the pitcher’s mound. Custodians took turns with the metal detector, pulling up forks, zippers, half a tray table. Miss Elena, who taught music, found an arm in the garden beside the tomatoes she’d planted in April. She told no one and called out sick for the rest of the week.
Marcus’s mom said the government was behind it. Alan's older brother thought it had something to do with satellites. David stopped talking altogether. On Thursday, he brought a journal to school and began sketching jet engines with graphite so heavy his hands turned silver. When asked about it, he said he was preparing. No one asked for what. Not even Mrs. Keane, who started locking her classroom door between periods and sitting with her back pressed against the concrete walls.
The eighth-grade president, whose house was destroyed by fiery debris, started having yelling fits in the middle of class, even though her family had been on a different plane, returning from the Bahamas when it happened. She lost her dog, Misty, a golden-doodle, and her favorite pair of sneakers. They combed through the ashes but couldn’t find anything that wasn’t made of metal.
Joan, the school counselor, took over the morning announcements, beginning each day with something like, “Today’s a great day to remember that our feet are planted firmly on the ground. Let’s do our best.” On the third day, she forgot to turn off the microphone and began weeping quietly for the whole school to hear. She’d once known a family who lost their son in September 11th and couldn’t stop thinking of them. A few kids said they saw Joan in the front office later that day, hands shaking as she wiped tears from her eyes. The receptionist just patted her on the back and escorted her out, telling her she would be okay.
Recess was moved into the gymnasium indefinitely. All sports practices were canceled. The other kids worried that trick-or-treating would be next. The air smelled too much like burnt plastic, and everyone said it wasn’t healthy for developing lungs. The school board held a vigil, which was scarcely attended and turned uncomfortable when they began handing out sparklers because the order of church candles and drip-protectors had gotten lost in the mail.
In the town over, a boy claimed to have found an intact seatbelt and charged five dollars to look at it. He said it was good luck. For another five, you could make a wish, and it would come true. His cousins vouched for him, showing off the new video game console their parents had bought them. He made over four hundred dollars from requests for straight A’s, new bikes, and snow days that never came. It was an unseasonably dry winter, the grownups murmured to each other at the store, avoiding eye contact, never fully stopping to talk. No one spoke of the tragedy.
The black box was found but offered no answers as to why it happened. The company’s spokesperson called it a fluke, citing technical errors that had since been fixed, assuring there was no reason to cancel more flights or issue refunds. Families vowed to stay local for the holidays, but by spring break, they were eager to escape to the warmth of tropical islands with names they couldn’t pronounce, even if it felt impossible to justify stepping aboard.
I imagined the passengers had all fallen asleep when it happened, unaware, thinking they’d soon touch down, ready to see their families or finish their work trips. I hoped they had sent messages to their loved ones saying I’ll see you soon or Only a few hours until we’re together again. I wondered if, that night, they dreamed of reds and oranges and yellows, a blinding sunset of tranquility as they plummeted from thirty thousand feet.
Marcus’s mom said the government was behind it. Alan's older brother thought it had something to do with satellites. David stopped talking altogether. On Thursday, he brought a journal to school and began sketching jet engines with graphite so heavy his hands turned silver. When asked about it, he said he was preparing. No one asked for what. Not even Mrs. Keane, who started locking her classroom door between periods and sitting with her back pressed against the concrete walls.
The eighth-grade president, whose house was destroyed by fiery debris, started having yelling fits in the middle of class, even though her family had been on a different plane, returning from the Bahamas when it happened. She lost her dog, Misty, a golden-doodle, and her favorite pair of sneakers. They combed through the ashes but couldn’t find anything that wasn’t made of metal.
Joan, the school counselor, took over the morning announcements, beginning each day with something like, “Today’s a great day to remember that our feet are planted firmly on the ground. Let’s do our best.” On the third day, she forgot to turn off the microphone and began weeping quietly for the whole school to hear. She’d once known a family who lost their son in September 11th and couldn’t stop thinking of them. A few kids said they saw Joan in the front office later that day, hands shaking as she wiped tears from her eyes. The receptionist just patted her on the back and escorted her out, telling her she would be okay.
Recess was moved into the gymnasium indefinitely. All sports practices were canceled. The other kids worried that trick-or-treating would be next. The air smelled too much like burnt plastic, and everyone said it wasn’t healthy for developing lungs. The school board held a vigil, which was scarcely attended and turned uncomfortable when they began handing out sparklers because the order of church candles and drip-protectors had gotten lost in the mail.
In the town over, a boy claimed to have found an intact seatbelt and charged five dollars to look at it. He said it was good luck. For another five, you could make a wish, and it would come true. His cousins vouched for him, showing off the new video game console their parents had bought them. He made over four hundred dollars from requests for straight A’s, new bikes, and snow days that never came. It was an unseasonably dry winter, the grownups murmured to each other at the store, avoiding eye contact, never fully stopping to talk. No one spoke of the tragedy.
The black box was found but offered no answers as to why it happened. The company’s spokesperson called it a fluke, citing technical errors that had since been fixed, assuring there was no reason to cancel more flights or issue refunds. Families vowed to stay local for the holidays, but by spring break, they were eager to escape to the warmth of tropical islands with names they couldn’t pronounce, even if it felt impossible to justify stepping aboard.
I imagined the passengers had all fallen asleep when it happened, unaware, thinking they’d soon touch down, ready to see their families or finish their work trips. I hoped they had sent messages to their loved ones saying I’ll see you soon or Only a few hours until we’re together again. I wondered if, that night, they dreamed of reds and oranges and yellows, a blinding sunset of tranquility as they plummeted from thirty thousand feet.