Turning Point

“STUDENT DOWN, STUDENT DOWN!” I heard after falling onto the filthy blacktop with the most incredible, shocking impact you can imagine. I felt as if a bomb exploded in my chest. I was thrown about three feet, as my legs gave out on me. I then felt like everything went into slow motion. Bright red blood rushed out of my body. I lay flat on the ground. My blood flowed away, taking my life with it. Breathing shallower, I clung to my life!

“Call 9-1-1, call 9-1-1!” I heard people scream as two adults with radios rushed to see what was going on.

“We have a student bleeding, call 9-1-1, call 9-1-1!”

Moments later I heard a siren. I felt weaker and weaker. Everything blurred. My eyelids were too heavy to keep my eyes open.

I woke up in a hospital bed with a sharp pain in my back, as if my right arm was detaching itself.

“Luis, we removed a bullet from your right upper back. It damaged your lung lightly, but you’ll be OK in a few weeks. You’re going to have to stay in the hospital a few days for observation,” said a young Asian lady doctor, in her blue surgical wear, pulling her light blue mask down under her chin. “Nobody knows exactly what happened. The police think that it was a random drive-by shooting. There will be an investigation. Let’s hope for the best and see what happens.”

“I hope they catch the shooter,” I said still waking up from the anesthesia. Flashing back to the shooting, I remembered seeing the shooter riding in a red car that zoomed past the school. I can’t put together the facial features of the shooter, but somehow the face looked familiar. As I tried to wrap my mind around this incident, I asked myself, “Why? Why me?”

Everything has its turning point. Water turns into ice at its freezing point. Then it turns into steam at its boiling point. And there is even a melting point when ice turns back into water. So when was my turning point going to be, I wondered? Everything started three years ago at about 7:15 on the first Monday of September at my new middle school: Middleshots. I don’t know why they call it Middleshots, maybe because we’ll give middle school a shot. I felt like an ant hurriedly and awkwardly crawling among a large crowd as if we were all ants. Almost the entire school population is Hispanic, English Language Learners (ELLs) —count me in that group. My name is Luis Paredes. I am 12 years old, 4’ 9” tall, my mom is Mexican and my dad is Salvadorean.

I was being crushed in the middle of a blue and white uniformed crowd. This school was larger than most high schools in America, with over 3,000 students. The grass area is big enough for four baseball diamonds but the students mostly play soccer on them. The main building looks like an old gray warship with its paint peeling off and stuck in a sea of black top. There’s a smaller building that looks like another ship sunk down to its weather deck. Seagulls and pigeons fly around and land on them. But since we are in the middle of a three-year drought, the playground looks more like a dry ocean floor.

I tried to see which classrooms I was assigned to on this first day of school. Kids and parents pressed up against each other to see the rosters posted outside the gym in small print. There was no respect. An Asian teacher carrying a black guitar case passing by pulled out a silver whistle and blew it loudly. “Back off!” he said in a firm, deep voice behind the crowd.

“Hey Daniel!” I said, as I spotted my friend from elementary school. Daniel Suarez had his nerdy, thick, black-rimmed glasses on and his equally nerdy, school-boyish, over-sized, brown back pack hung over his shoulder. He looked more like he was going camping and it was just the first day of school.

“What homeroom did you get?” I asked him. Daniel chewed a big wad of gum like a cow or camel chews its cud.

“Room 257. Do you know where that is?” responded Daniel in his high-pitched lisp.

“Alright! I got the same homeroom,” I said, relieved because I found company.

“That’s cool, but, do you know where it is?” Daniel asked again.

“Why don’t you ask that teacher that’s coming,” I suggested.

“You ask him,” said Daniel.

“Hey mister, do you know where room 257 is?”

“What?” asked the short, blond-haired man in a raspy voice. It sounded like he had laryngitis; a rough whisper.

“Where’s room 257?” asked Daniel.

“Let me see,” said the man in his soft voice. He looked around for a moment. Then he looked up into the clear blue sky. “Hmmm.” Then he paused and made some strange faces and rubbed his left hand over his mouth. “Ah, yes,” clearing his throat. Just go through those double beige doors, turn left, go up the cold, concrete stairs, and it’ll be the first room to your left,” as he limped away.

When Daniel and I arrived at room 257, a teacher stood by the door. He was young, in his late thirties, with a receding hairline, and a neatly groomed black goatee. He was about 5’ 8” tall. We found out his name was Mr. Ram; the computer technology teacher. He wore carefully pressed khaki pants and an equally ironed maroon polo shirt.

“Come in and take a seat,” said Mr. Ram in his quiet, articulate tone as he sat in his rolling chair at his perfectly organized desk and typed something into his laptop; maybe he took attendance by computer. Then the ear-splitting five-second bell rang and we waited attentively for what would happen next. We looked at the Apple iMac computers in front of us. The room was very clean and cool. There were about thirty other boys and girls all dressed in white tops and blue bottoms. Mr. Ram put his right index finger up to his lips signaling for us to keep quiet as the Public Address (PA) announcements came on. Mr. Ram finished writing on his neat agenda and homework assignments for his students on the white board on the front wall.

A man’s voice said, “Good morning all you Middleshooters; welcome to Middleshots School. I’m your principal, Mr. I.M. Ghone.” After she had a student say the Pledge of Allegiance, he continued, “Now your teachers will hand out to you a packet we have prepared for you. Welcome again to your school.”

After some ear-piercing feedback noise, we all covered our ears and as soon as it was quiet, Mr. Ram said, “Good morning again; my name is Mr. Ram. We are going to be together as a homeroom for the next three years. We have homeroom first and once again after sixth period.

“What’s in there, Mr. Ram?” asked Daniel, pointing to a stack of letter-sized manila envelopes.

“I have very important documents for you: a school map, letters going home, and your lunch tickets. You need to get your parents to sign some of the documents, so listen for your name so you can get your packet.”

After Mr. Ram passed out the envelopes, he said,

“That’s all I have for you today. Once again, welcome to middle school. Before the bell rings, I have a quick story for you. Last semester I had an eighth grade homeroom. At the last culmination ceremony there were a few students who didn’t make it to the ceremony because of their failing grades. On the day of the ceremony my homeroom and I lined up to walk across the stage. Through the fence I saw a student who didn’t make it to culmination. He was watching from outside. What do you think the look on his face was like?” Mr. Ram had us in the palm of his hands, all listening attentively.

“Sad,” said someone in our homeroom.

“Disappointed,” said another.

“That’s right,” said Mr. Ram. Looking at the clock on the wall he asked,

“So, who do you want to be in eighth grade: Part of the group that walks across the stage, or the student outside watching, leaning on his bike?” No one said anything.