Our Hill of Stars

TW: School shooting, trauma, mention of suicide and mental health problems, including nightmares and depression.

The night Halle Tucker came up to my door, I nearly refused her. Something told me not to, though.

I didn’t know that she would change me forever.

Halle Tucker was my half sister. She was eleven when her mom, Katherine Tucker, married my dad, Marshall Hogan. I was thirteen. I guess you could say that Halle really wanted to become instant friends with me, and I tried for the first year or so.

It was odd- I’d always wanted a sister, someone to talk to since my mom died when I was six, and my dad didn’t want anything to do with me or my problems- which included a lot.

But when Halle Tucker came around, something didn’t feel right. Something in my stomach lurched, and I’d learned to trust my gut after a day in sixth grade.

It had been a really bad day. I mean, it was October twelfth, the day Mom died, so it was going to be a bad day anyway. In the morning, I woke up, my alarm blaring in my ears, and I was screaming. Probably from a nightmare- I had started to get those again. They started after Mom died, and died down by summer of fourth grade, but then started again around middle school.

Dad didn’t bother coming into my room. He never did.

I wiped my own tears and got out of bed. I didn’t have breakfast that day, we didn’t have anything.

After Mom died, Dad had stopped functioning all the way. I had to learn how to tie my shoes myself, and I had to explain to teachers why my father couldn’t be at the first grade play. I always said he was sick.

I lived close enough to Saint James Middle School to walk or take the bus, which was nice. It was chilly that day, around forty degrees, so it was cold enough to wear my thickest coat. Whenever Dad wasn’t drinking or passed out in his room, I’d remind him that I needed a thicker coat for when it got really cold.

I decided to suck it up and walk, since I didn’t want to endure the torture of riding the public school bus. Also, something in my gut told me not to ride the bus, so I did. Despite how prestigious and private-school Saint James sounded, it was as public school as you could get.

It took about twenty minutes to get to S.J.M.S., and when I got there, I knew I was late, because there were hardly any cars in the car loop.

That should’ve been my first warning.

I walked inside quickly, rushing to my locker. I jammed my old backpack into the locker, and hurriedly grabbed my binder and textbooks. I rushed into first period, with Mrs. Whitaker.

When I got inside, I didn’t see a soul. Mrs. Whitaker stood behind her desk, a horrified expression masking her face. It was weird- usually at least two other people in my homeroom were late; Paige Strickland and Oliver Howell- yet I hadn’t seen anybody in the hallways.

God, it’s as if the universe was pointing a big caution sign at me.

Mrs. Whitaker looked at me and I could see her big blue eyes wash over with a mix of fear and relief. “Oh heavens, Phoebe, what are you doing?” She said, a hushed and worried tone to her voice.

“I’m just coming into homeroom,” I said, with a smaller, quieter voice than usual. Then, Mrs. Whitaker did something I’ll never forget.

She grabbed two desks like they were feathers and pushed them against the door, and then she sprinted back to her desk and grabbed her chair and pushed that against the door too.

The whole time she was doing this, I was frozen in place as my mind slowly pieced the puzzle pieces together. I looked over in the corner I’d been in just a week before for a drill lock-down. All my twenty-three classmates were huddled together, I lived close enough to Saint James Middle School to walk or take the bus, which was nice. It was chilly that day, around forty degrees, so it was cold enough to wear my thickest coat. Whenever Dad wasn’t drinking or passed out in his room, I’d remind him that I needed a thicker coat for when it got really cold.

I decided to suck it up and walk, since I didn’t want to endure the torture and humiliation of riding the public school bus. Despite how prestigious and private/charter-school Saint James sounded, it was as public school as you could get.

It took about twenty minutes to get to S.J.M.S., and when I got there, I knew I was late, because there were hardly any cars in the car loop.

That should’ve been my first warning.

I walked inside quickly, rushing to my locker. I jammed my old backpack into the locker, and hurriedly grabbed my binder and textbooks. I rushed into first period, with Mrs. Whitaker.

When I got inside, I didn’t see a soul. Mrs. Whitaker stood behind her desk, a horrified expression masking her face. It was weird- usually at least two other people in my homeroom were late; Paige Strickland and Oliver Howell- yet I hadn’t seen anybody in the hallways.

God, it’s as if the universe was pointing a big yellow caution sign at my face.

Mrs. Whitaker looked at me and I could see her big blue eyes wash over with a mix of fear and relief. “Oh heavens, Phoebe, what are you doing?” She said, a hushed and worried tone to her voice.

“I’m just coming into homeroom,” I said, with a smaller, quieter voice than usual. Then, Mrs. Whitaker did something I’ll never forget.

She grabbed two desks like they were feathers and pushed them against the door, and then she sprinted back to her desk and grabbed her chair that people were obsessed to spin in and pushed that against the door too.

The whole time she was doing this, I was frozen in place as my mind slowly pieced the puzzle pieces together. I looked over in the corner I’d been in just a week before for a drill lock-down. All my twenty-three classmates were huddled together, Isabella Rose whispering something that looked like a prayer.

That’s when I realized: something was very wrong in Saint James Middle School.

Mrs. Whitaker practically grabbed my stuff out of my hands and placed my super thick math textbook against the window, over the black sheet draped across it.

I’d been through the lock-down drill process too many times to count. My elementary school, Saint James Elementary School, did them once a month, and Saint James Middle School had been doing them twice a month, so we’d already had five drills this year.

The process was like second nature already: Principal Haynes comes over the intercom as usual and says, “Teachers, faculty, and students, we will now begin our lock-down drill. I repeat, teachers, faculty and students, we will now begin our lock-down drill. This is a drill. I repeat, this is a drill.”

Then Mrs. Whitaker calmly pulls down the black sheet that goes over the window panel in the door, and points to the corner of the room where we will sit, and a few people will always be whispering to each other, even when Mrs. Whitaker gives them a look. She’ll tell us all why we do lock-down drills, and if this were real, she would put desks and chairs against the door.

Then, Principal Haynes would come over the crackly intercom again and say, “Teachers, faculty, and students; we have completed our first lock-down drill for the month, thank you for your patience. You may continue regular procedures and period changing. And as always, it’s a wonderful day to be a Saint James lion. Go, Lions!”

And then Mrs. Whitaker would take up the black sheet, and we would get back in our seats, continuing on with our day.

But that day was different. Mrs. Whitaker was putting desks and chairs against the door, and nobody was talking at all. Not even “oh-my-gosh-did-you-hear-about-so-and-so-oh-my-God-I-know-right?!” Talia Goodwin.

Mrs. Whitaker gently grabbed my shoulders and directed me to the corner, and I squeezed in as far back as I could. If there was an imminent threat in our building, I wasn’t going to be in the front of the pile. I just couldn’t.

I couldn’t die the day my mother did.

Madison Parks, my best friend, took my hand immediately. She squeezed it three, sharp times. It meant: are you okay? I replied back with two elongated squeezes. They meant: yeah, I’m okay. She looked at me in a way you should never have to see your best friend look at you, and then Mrs. Whitaker came over to the corner, blue eyes glistening, and sat down near the front of the bunch.

She looked at all of us with a look that meant: “It’s going to be okay,” But her smile seemed tight-lipped and forced. How could we believe everything was going to be okay if our teacher, the adult in the room, was not sure of it?

After about twenty minutes of sitting, trying not to cry, and holding Madison’s hand like it was the last thing on Earth, Principal Haynes came over the intercom.

“Teachers, faculty, and students; the lock-down is all clear, you may continue regular procedures and class change. Law enforcement is currently involved, and you can leave your classrooms.”

Everybody breathed a sigh of relief, but something didn’t sit well. Principal Haynes’s voice sounded strained, and uncertain.

I think Mrs. Whitaker felt it, too, because she told us to stay down still. Forget about the sighs of relief.

The class next to us, Mr. Ferguson’s class, hadn’t felt it. I could see Mrs. Whitaker’s eyes water, and I knew something wasn’t right.

I thought it only happened in crime shows- the principal was being held hostage, forced to announce an all clear.

But that’s what you think about every bad thing in the world.

School shootings?

Mom dying?

Things that happened to other people, not you.

Well screw that.

We heard the footsteps first. Big, heavy ones. Mrs. Whitaker was literally crying. I was too, by then.

Then came the sound, that echoes in my head to this day.

Multiple rounds of big pops, and then screaming.

The rest of the world went black.

It all ended ten minutes later. Law enforcement did eventually get involved, and they got the shooter just before he was headed for us. We found out the whole story later.

The shooter was Tristan Elliot, an eighth grader. He had gotten on the bus that day, acting perfectly fine, and then he pulled out a gun. On the bus.

He was only out for one person- Dean Woods.

And Dean just so happened to be on that bus, that day. Tristan was out for him, and he didn't care how many people went down with him. Apparently, Dean had been a total jerk to Tristan, and it had been going on for years- since fourth grade when Dean moved here from Wisconsin.

After law enforcement got him down, he killed himself. Self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head. They knew he was dead before he even got into the ambulance.

The total death tally that day was thirty-seven. Seventeen people on the bus, nineteen people in Mr. Ferguson's class, including Mr. Ferguson, and then him.

It's horrid; what people can do when they're driven by hurt.

It's what Dad always said: hurt people hurt people.

That day, I learned to always trust my gut.

So when I was sitting in my house, binge-watching a reality T-V show, just before midnight; 11:56 to be precise, and a knock came on my door- I didn't really think twice.

The knock came just before midnight, and it was three, sharp knocks.

I knew it was Halle before I even got up.

I got up slowly, making sure not to spill my coffee.

I opened my door, and saw Halle standing there. Surprise, surprise. Halle had a bag with her, and she was standing completely still. Her eyes were hollow, and I could see her lips were beginning to be blue. I looked at her and then motioned for her to come inside. It was December in North Carolina- it was freezing outside.

Halle sat down and rubbed her hands together. I closed the door and offered her something to drink.

"I know you don't actually drink, Phoebe, but do you have anything caffeinated?" Halle asked, wrapping a blanket I had given her around herself.

"Yeah, in fact, I'm drinking coffee right now. I have some; but it's pure black coffee. I don't do any sugar, milk, or anything."

"Seriously? How do you function?"

"I dunno."

"Huh."

"Well, if you want that, I have it, but I do have creamer and sugar. Although I only keep the creamer for when my friends come over, because they are like you,"

"Oh. Well, yeah, I'll take the creamer and sugar with my coffee. I can do it myself."

I poured Halle a cup of coffee and then she set to work, adding her creamer and sugar. I didn't ask her why she was here.

Halle sat down across from me and sighed. I blew on my coffee and then she broke the silence.

"Phoebe, I know I haven't been here for you, or anyone really, for the past two years, but there's a reason why." Halle said, taking a sip of her coffee.

"Okay," I said, crossing and uncrossing my legs.

"Don't take it the wrong way, but I have depression."

"Oh. I never knew, Halle,"

"It's okay; nobody ever did. I kept it a secret, because I didn't want anybody to treat me differently. Have you kept contact with Mom or Marshall?"

"Oh, well that's okay, my grade-school friend, Luna, had a form of depression too. I didn't treat her any different, though. She was, in my mind, just a bit sad sometimes, and that was perfectly fine. And no, I have not."

"Oh, okay. I think my mom knew all along, especially in my teen years, but who knows. She was the kind of person to call obvious bipolar disorder "mood swings", so I don't really know. But Marshall tried to talk to me yesterday."

"He did? What'd he say?"

"That he missed you. And me. That he wishes he had all those days back. I think he never knew how serious the... uh..."

"Shooting? It's okay to say it, Halle."

"Oh, okay. Well, I don't think how serious the shooting was to your mental health. Or mine."

"Yours?"

"God, you didn't know?"

"Know what?!"

"I had a sister in Mr. Ferguson's class. She would be twenty-five now. I was in third grade when she died. I can talk about it now, though. It doesn't bother me as much."

"I had no idea, Halle. What was her name?"

"Oh, uh, Hattie. Hattie Tucker."

"I knew Hattie, she was my lab partner. We had science together. She was an angel."

Halle’s eyes were watering, and I felt a pang in my chest.

“Yeah, she was.”

I looked at Halle, seeing all of her.

I remember a lullaby Mom would sing to me when she still had good days. I must’ve been four or something. It went like this: “Under the wood, over the river, into the forest, out of the sky, it’s our hill of stars, shining so bright,” I didn’t get to ask her what it meant, and the one time I tried asking Dad, he freaked out and didn’t come out of his room for three days straight.

I always wondered, and something told me that Halle might know.

“Hey, Halle, was there a weird lullaby you were sung as a child that was like, it’s our hill of stars?”

Halle looked at me, her eyes telling me that I should’ve never asked that question. “Oh, sorry, if you didn’t want to answer the question-” I was trying to explain my reasoning, and then Halle cut me off.

“No, really, it’s okay.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I mean, we need to talk about these things,” Halle’s eyes softened, then hollowed again.

“I guess we’re dumping a lot of family lore, so… yeah. Well, did you ever wonder why my mom and Marshall got together so slowly, despite them knowing each other for, like, all their lives?”

“Kind of?”

“Well, like I said, we’re dropping lore, so… um… my mom was kind of with Marshall when he and your mom were together.”

“What?!”

“Yeah, that’s kind of how I thought you’d take it. So yeah. And they had stayed hidden while me and Hattie were little, and then wanted to get together when Hattie was in middle school, but… you know what happened.

And when Marshall was processing everything, along with my mom, they decided to wait a full two years before getting married.”

“Oh. That madman! All the time I had to deal with the grief myself, he was seeing somebody! He had been seeing somebody!”

I was hot with anger, but Halle still hadn’t answered my original question: what did the lullaby mean?

“Now for the lullaby, to get off of the topic of our parent’s relationship. Our hill of stars: our little safe space, our haven basically."

"Oh, that makes sense,"

"Yeah. So, whoever sings it to you is supposed to be, like, your safe space and haven. Or at least that's how I learned it. Hattie would sing it to me."

"My mother would sing it to me."

That night I learned why that chorus had replayed in my head over and over again.

Our hill of stars- our haven, home, safe space.

Mom, Halle, Hattie.