A New Normal

CW: Themes of and/or references to gun violence, sexual assault, and abortion

A New Normal

They giggle and touch up their makeup in the smudged mirror of the crowded restroom. Too young for their low-cut shirts and glossy red lipstick, but old enough that their parents trust them to attend the concert unchaperoned. The girls have attended all four of the pop star's previous performances in their small town. By now, it's practically a tradition.

They emerge from the restroom holding hands and make their way through hordes of screaming fans. They take dozens of selfies, laughing at their own exaggerated poses. When the lights go dark, the audience erupts, and the stage comes alive with their idol strutting under the spotlights, strumming a guitar and singing into a microphone glittering with rhinestones. The girls wave their arms, mesmerized. They've memorized every word of every song since her first single was released.

The noise is deafening. All faces are turned toward the stage, thousands of voices singing the same familiar lyrics. At the rear of the concert hall, the doors open slowly, and a man walks in with a gun.

*

It's a hot and sticky Sunday morning, but the congregation sits remarkably still, as though any unnecessary movement might invite admonishment from God himself. The women bow their heads in prayer, their bare shoulders covered by scarves. The men face forward, stiff as boards, occasionally receiving a discreet nudge from a wife whenever their eyelids begin to droop. Children fidget in the pews, and the occasional baby's cry is quickly silenced by a pacifier or a hurried retreat to the vestibule.

Sacraments and guilt are sprinkled about like holy water. The priest delivers a lengthy homily on forgiveness, and the congregation nods along, some listening intently, others calculating how much longer until lunch. When it's time for the final hymn, everyone stands with renewed enthusiasm. The familiar words pour from them, their voices rising toward the vaulted ceiling in a weekly release of worries, obligations, and sins.

An elderly woman near the back closes her eyes, swaying gently as she sings. Beside her, her grandson studies the colored sunlight spilling through the stained-glass windows, wondering why the saints always look so unhappy. She squeezes his hand, and he smiles up at her.

The congregation sings louder as the organ swells. No one notices when the heavy doors at the back of the church push open, and a man enters with a gun.

*

They show up at the Dragon Diner on the strip around one in the morning, just as the dance club up the street closes. The waitress loves these regulars, with the sparkle of strobe lights and freedom still dancing in their eyes. Excellent tippers and hilarious company, they shed boa feathers on the vinyl booths and leave glitter everywhere, like a busted fairy. When they flounce in wearing size ten heels and makeup the waitress couldn't dream of pulling off, she welcomes them as though they are royalty.

She's married with children, but these night birds have become like family. She doesn’t mind when they take over the diner, helping with the cooking and cleaning. They dance to Cyndi Lauper's Girls Just Want to Have Fun on the jukebox and have enough gossip to sustain a podcast for years. Occasionally, they pull the waitress onto their makeshift dance floor between the counter and the booths, and she laughs until her sides ache.

By two in the morning, it's closing time. Some are beginning to sport five o'clock shadows, which they mock mercilessly. The waitress thinks fondly of her husband, sound asleep at home.

Someone drops more coins into the jukebox for one last song, and Queen's We Are the Champions fills the diner. The waitress joins in the chorus from behind the counter, waving a dish towel like a freedom flag. They're laughing so joyously that no one hears the bell above the door. Nor do they see the man who enters with a gun.

*

At sixteen, she is raped.

When she discovers she's pregnant, she tells no one. She's earned a college scholarship, and her acceptance letter remains tucked beneath her mattress, where she takes it out sometimes just to reassure herself that another life is waiting.

She finds an underfunded clinic that's perpetually on the verge of closing its doors. The building is old, the waiting room crowded with women of different ages, and the magazines are several years out of date. Some sit alone, staring at their hands. Others whisper to companions or scroll through their phones. She wonders about their lives, the circumstances that brought them here, the stories they'll tell afterward, or perhaps never tell at all.

When her name is called, she follows a nurse down a narrow hallway, frightened by how quickly everything is happening. The medical professionals are kind and patient. They explain the procedure, answer her questions, and reassure her when her voice begins to break. It's much more invasive than she imagined, and she finds herself staring at the ceiling, counting the tiny cracks in the plaster.

Afterward, she's told to remain in the waiting area for thirty minutes before leaving.

Her eyes settle on a black-and-white photograph hanging on the far wall. A mother cradles her baby, whose tiny hand is wrapped around her ring finger. The tenderness of the image makes her throat tighten. She hopes that will be her someday. Just not today.

Still a little woozy, she leans back in her chair and shuts her eyes. Behind her, a man walks in with a gun.

*

The Pledge of Allegiance is followed by morning announcements. The kindergartners and first graders are preparing for their holiday assembly, an annual celebration involving paper snowflakes, off-key singing, and an enthusiastic interpretation of Jingle Bells performed on plastic instruments.

The seasoned teachers have spent months teaching their students to move quietly through the hallways. They've even developed a simple system of hand signals that the children have learned with remarkable ease. Little brains are like sponges, and these teachers, wonderful educators in every sense, know how to make even the smallest child feel capable of something important.

Today, the children are dressed in their holiday finest. There are red velvet dresses, crooked bow ties, Santa hats, and enough light-up sneakers to illuminate the hallway whenever someone takes a step. One little girl wears a reindeer antler headband that keep sliding over her eyes. The boy beside her holds her hand.

The teachers smile as they shepherd their charges toward the auditorium; the children's excitement is contagious. As someone in the main office begins calling the older grades to the assembly, popping sounds come over the intercom, accompanied by screams. The intercom goes silent. From somewhere near the front entrance comes the unmistakable sound of pounding footsteps.

The teachers exchange glances. Their expressions change so quickly that the children barely notice. One reaches for the nearest classroom door while another quietly directs the children to sit against the wall. Another teacher raises her hand, fingers pressed together in the familiar signal for silence.

The children don't understand what's happening. They know only that their teachers have asked them to be quiet, and they are trying their very best. The teachers understand all too well what is happening.

At this idyllic little elementary school, a man has entered with a gun.

*

The courtroom buzzes with anticipation. Every seat is occupied, and people stand shoulder to shoulder along the back wall. Another courtroom, another active shooter on trial, another group of grieving loved ones whose lives have been irrevocably changed. They clutch photographs, tissues, and one another's hands. Reporters crowd the designated benches, their notebooks open, their cameras ready.

The defendant sits beside his attorney, staring at the polished surface of the table. He's young and handsome, with neatly combed hair and a face that might once have appeared on a college ID or a driver's license. Nothing about his appearance suggests the horror that has brought so many people into this room. The jury has already delivered its verdict. The judge is now prepared to pronounce the sentence.

Life in prison. Not the death penalty. The gallery erupts. The judge pounds his gavel, its sharp cracks swallowed by the pandemonium. Reporters scribble furiously. Cameras flash. Families in the gallery cling to each other, devastated that the punishment will never feel sufficient.

The defendant remains seated, his hands folded in his lap as if in relief. His attorney whispers something, but he just shrugs. The courtroom is so loud that no one notices the rear doors opening.

There is shock, but certainly no surprise, when a mother pushes through the crowd with a gun.