The Wallflower's Mask

This story includes depictions of a school shooting, fear, and an injury; although they are not graphic.

I always thought my name was a good fit for me. Charlotte—it means little and petite. It reminds me of the spider from Charlotte’s Web. As a little girl, I loved that book. I wanted to be that type of Charlotte: quiet, but also brave, bold, and kind.

I definitely nailed the quiet part. I almost never spoke when I was around people other than my family. Growing up, my mom called me her little flower because I was sweet and always stuck right by her side. I guess you could say I stuck to her like a fly stuck in a spider web. I wanted to go see what the other kids were doing, but I couldn’t leave my mom’s side. It was safe and comfortable around her, so that’s where I stayed.

As soon as we were home, it was a different story. I was the most lively person you would ever meet. I was always talking, dancing, and singing. You would have thought I was a completely different person—but I was still me. I was more me than I was anywhere else. I didn’t know how to show this side of me when I was around other people. My brave, bold, and kind parts tucked themselves away, and my mask of quietness slid into place.

I didn’t realize the extent of this until I was much older. I still remember the day I felt like I had finally found my name. It was a day when I found a part of myself that I didn’t know was missing. It was a day that I will never forget.

It started out as any other ordinary day. It was seven in the morning, and I had just gotten up to get ready for school. I made my bed, brushed my teeth, and got dressed. I decided on a white shirt, blue jeans, a light green sweater, and my white high-top Converse.

After eating breakfast, I grabbed my backpack and headed out to wait for the bus. I hated riding the bus, but I had no choice today, as my car was in the shop. So the bus it was. More kids from the neighborhood started to arrive, and I stood as far back as I could. I was the last one to get on and sat down in the first row. There was no one there, so it felt like the safest option.

After making a few more stops, we finally arrived at school. I got off the bus and walked inside to my locker. The lockers were gray—a pretty dull color, if you asked me. I opened mine and put away the books I didn’t need until after lunch. It was filled with notes from my mom and pictures of my family. I looked at them and smiled, then headed to my first class.

My first class of the day was Geometry. I went to my seat in the back of the room and got out a pencil and my notebook. I didn’t particularly love math. I got mostly B’s, which wasn’t terrible, but math was still math at the end of the day. The class went by pretty quickly. I kept my head down when he asked questions and just took notes. Then I dropped off my homework and headed out the door.

As I was leaving, I almost ran into Rosalind. Rosalind was the most popular girl at school. Everyone knew who she was, and I had three classes with her—although I doubt she could pick me out of a crowd.

“Sorry,” I said as I quickly moved around her and hurried to my next class.

As I walked, I thought about Rosalind. I wished I could be like her—always knowing the right thing to say and the right way to act. Not like me, who could never keep a conversation going.

The next class of the day was Biology. I had a love-hate relationship with this class. I loved learning about life, but dissecting frogs was not fun. I also shared a desk with the loudest person in the world: Isaac Cooper.

He was the class clown, always making jokes and laughing. He was probably the funniest and happiest person I knew.

I sat down and opened my textbook. Next thing I knew, Isaac came in smiling and sat down.

“Hey, Char, do you want to hear a joke?” he asked.

“Sure,” I replied, knowing he would tell me anyway.

“What’s the difference between a dad joke and a bad joke?” he asked.

I shrugged at the same time as he said, “One letter,” and burst out laughing.

I smiled and turned back to my book, knowing class was about to start. Isaac composed himself and turned to face the teacher. The rest of the class went fine. I didn’t have to talk, but Isaac seemed extra hyper, and it brought a lot of unwanted attention in my direction. I hated attention and would have been much happier if the teacher had just ignored Isaac. That way, I was never in their line of sight.

Oh well—life goes on, and at least Isaac was in a good mood. Although I suppose he was always in a good mood.

I got up to leave for my third class before lunch—English—when Isaac hooked his arm in mine and, smiling, said, “Let’s go!”

Isaac did this every day. We had the same English class, so we always walked together. I never said anything—and I never had to. He talked the whole time, pointing out everything he saw and making lots of jokes about it.

I wouldn’t have said we were friends. Other than Biology, English, and walking between them, we didn’t interact much. He was someone I could see myself being friends with if I could just get up the courage to talk to him—but I was as quiet as I was around everyone else.

We reached our English class and walked in. Rosalind was sitting in the front row. Isaac sat behind her in the middle row, and I went to sit behind him in the back row. I basically lived in the back row.

Class started, and everything was going terribly. The teacher called on me. I knew the answer—but all I said was, “I don’t know,” which was stupid, because I definitely did know it.

Then it got worse. Much worse.

We were in the middle of reading Chapter Five of The Great Gatsby when an alarm started blaring. This wasn’t like the fire alarm we had drills for—this was different.

I watched as the teacher looked up in surprise and fear and quickly went to the door. He looked out into the hallway before turning back to the class.

“Okay, class, don’t panic,” he said. “It’s probably just a false alarm.”

Then he turned to Isaac. “Isaac, help me close the blinds. Everyone else, get to the back wall.”

Isaac quickly got up and closed the blinds. His smile was gone, replaced with a face that was clearly trying to hold back pure terror.

I hurried to the back of the room and sat on the floor. Rosalind came and sat next to me. She looked terrified, hugging her knees and staring blankly ahead. Isaac sat rigidly on my other side.

Then I heard it.

The one thing I was expecting—and the last thing I ever wanted to hear.

A gunshot.

Rosalind covered her ears and leaned against me. Isaac’s eyes went wide, and he scooted closer. I instinctively grabbed both of their hands, holding them like a lifeline.

Then I heard it.

The one thing I was expecting—and the last thing I ever wanted to hear.

A gunshot.

Rosalind covered her ears and leaned against me. Isaac’s eyes went wide, and he scooted closer. I instinctively grabbed both of their hands, holding them like a lifeline.

We waited a long time before we heard it again. It sounded farther away this time, which was a good sign.

Our teacher slowly stood up. “Alright, class,” he said quietly. “We are going to move to the gym in groups of two. There is an exit on the far side that leads to where the buses are parked. I want you to get on the first bus and duck down. Got it?”

We all nodded.

The gym was at the end of the hall, just one classroom down—but there were twenty-one students in the class, and we didn’t know how far away the shooter was.

Just then, another gunshot went off. It was so faint that he must have been on the other side of the school.

We all stood and lined up against the wall next to the door. I was second to last, with Rosalind in front of me and Isaac behind me, still holding my hands.

Our teacher peeked his head out the door, then told the first two students to go. He watched them until they reached the gym, then waited a couple of seconds before sending the next pair.

After the eleventh set had gone by, we heard another gunshot—this time closer. He quickly sent the next two.

Finally, it came down to Rosalind, Isaac, and me.

That’s when another gunshot rang out—closer than any of the others. It made me jump.

Our teacher looked out the door, then turned back to us. “I want you three to walk as quickly and as quietly as possible,” he said.

We nodded and went for it.

Letting go of each other’s hands, we hurried for the door.

When we reached the gym, the shooter rounded the corner.

Our teacher flung the door open, and we ran inside. Just as the door slammed shut behind us, we heard a loud bang.

We froze.

“Keep going!” our teacher yelled.

I turned to run—then stopped.

Neither Isaac nor Rosalind was moving.

I ran back and grabbed Isaac’s hand. “We have to go,” I said.

He snapped out of it and ran for the exit.

Then I turned to Rosalind. “Rosa, we have to move. Now!” I said, grabbing her hand and pulling her forward.

Isaac held the door open as we reached it, and we rushed outside toward the bus.

I stopped.

Then I turned and ran back toward the door.

“What are you doing?” Isaac cried.

“I’m stopping the shooter from reaching the bus,” I said.

My words surprised me—but I didn’t stop.

Just as I reached the door, our teacher came stumbling out. His leg dragged behind him, covered in blood.

I felt sick just looking at it—but I stuck to what I needed to do.

As soon as the door closed, I slammed the lock into place.

Then I turned to our teacher and helped him onto the bus. He quickly started the engine and, even with the pain he was clearly in, drove us out through the back exit.

As the bus pulled away, I went and sat next to Rosalind, who was crying.

“Someone call 911!” I yelled, grabbing a phone from under my seat and tossing it to the kid behind me.

Then I turned back to Rosalind.

“Oh, Charlotte,” she said, which surprised me—I didn’t even know she knew my name. “That was so scary.”

She leaned her head on my shoulder.

Rosalind—the popular, perfect, pretty girl—was crying on my shoulder.

She wasn’t perfect. She was just like me.

She was scared, and she needed a friend. And somehow, that friend was me.

I looked over at Isaac. He sat across from me, staring blankly ahead.

Then he turned to look at me. A single tear fell down his face.

In that one look, I realized that beneath his jokes and laughter, there was a great deal of pain—pain the shooter had brought to the surface.

I scooted over and patted the seat next to me.

Isaac stood and came to sit beside me.

We sat in silence for a while.

Then he said, “You are the bravest person I have ever met. Who would have thought that underneath the quiet wallflower was someone so bold and brave?”

I leaned against him.

“I guess we all have masks,” I said quietly, “that hide parts of us out of fear. It isn’t until moments like this that you realize just how precious those parts are.”

We sat in silence for the rest of the ride to the hospital.

It was at that moment that I truly understood the meaning behind my name.

Yes, I was little, quiet, and petite—but I was also bold, brave, and kind.

I didn’t need to feel ashamed of being quiet, because that was part of who I was. And when I truly needed to be bold, I would be.

Being a wallflower wasn’t a bad thing—as long as I didn’t let it cover up the rest of me.

It wasn’t a mask meant to hold me back. It was something that could, when the moment came, help push me forward.

I also realized I wasn’t the only one wearing a mask.

Rosalind wore the mask of popularity—and when it slipped, she was just a girl who wanted to be loved and cared for.

Isaac wore the mask of humor—and beneath it, he was a boy carrying pain, trying to hide and heal from it.

We all have masks that cover parts of ourselves we don’t want the world to see. And sometimes, those masks stop us from truly being who we are.

I looked at the two people sitting on either side of me and knew that we would only be able to work through our masks together.

And I also knew there was no one I would rather do that with than them.