“I’m thoughtful!”
“Nowkiss,” I said. Because to this day, you cannot convince me that those two weren’t in love with each other. Yeah, they argued constantly, but whenever the other wasn’t around, they pined. The only thing Jared talked about more than video games was Rosi. She wasn’t quite as transparent, but I knew her. She liked him. Even if she would never admit it.
“Okay, guys,” Ms. Taylor said. Her voice came from the front of the room, just a few feet from where Jared, Rosi, and I were. “The bell is going to ring in a few minutes. Please don’t forget to log out and …”
Her voice trailed. I don’t know how to explain this, but I couldfeeleveryone’s attention shift. I remember the sound of a collective gasp, but I’m not sure if that really happened or if my brain just planted it there, because it seems like whatshouldhave happened.
This loud, popping sound started, and there was yelling, and two hands—one on either side of me—grabbed me by the arms and yanked me down, out of my seat and onto the floor. It was so fast that I bumped my forehead on the edge of the desk. For a weird second, I thought this was some sort of bizarre revenge from Rosi and Jared for teasing them. But that didn’t explain all the loud noises, or why they’d be climbing under the desk, too, legs tangling with mine.
People always assume those few minutes of chaos were the scariest of my life. They weren’t, though. They were the most confusing. I hadn’t seenstanding in the doorway with a gun. I didn’t know what the popping sound was. I just knew it wasloud. I raised my hands and pressed them against my ears, sure it would pass in a second and someone would explain.
I felt Jared slump against me, and I lowered one of my hands to ask him what was going on, but he didn’t answer, and I figured he couldn’t hear me over the noise. Even when the bullet went through my arm, just below my elbow, it didn’t register. I felt the pain and I knew I was bleeding, but I still couldn’t connect the dots. Maybe it was shock or adrenaline or just denial, but I wasn’t scared. This was school. I didn’t need to be scared.
Then the popping got farther away. I heard it echoing in the hallway outside the computer lab, heard a voice on the intercom telling teachers to go into lockdown. I knew something was wrong then. We’d been doing lockdown drills since first grade. And yet, as crazy is this is going to sound, Istilldidn’t get it. I remember sitting there, under my desk, my arm bleeding, and wondering why I hadn’t heard Ms. Taylor shut the classroom door yet.
And then there was quiet. The heaviest kind of quiet. I don’t know how else to explain it. But it was so quiet that I wondered if all the popping had messed with my eardrums. I reached over to where Jared was leaning against me and nudged him, but he just slid limply down, away from me. I thought he’d been knocked out. Maybe he’d hit his head, too. I could feel a knot forming on mine, and I was thinking that I’d give him and Rosi crap for jerking me down so fast later.
Then I heard someone moving across the room. And breathing. I don’t usually notice how people breathe—being blind doesn’t mean you have superpower hearing—but this was fast and loud. And in a room this quiet, it was alarming.
“Hello?” I said, because I really couldn’t think of anything else to say.
“Hush.” The voice was sharp and ragged and I didn’t recognize it, which seemed kind of weird. I thought I could recognize the voices of pretty much all of the people in that class.
Then there was more shifting and what sounded like someone crawling toward me. I wondered why anyone would crawl in a classroom. Were we supposed to crawl during a lockdown? Was that part of a drill I had missed? I know all of these thoughts probably seem strange, but at the time, nothing was making sense.
“Stay quiet,” the voice said, much closer now. “I heard sirens. The cops should be— Oh no, Rosi.”
“What?” I asked. “Why are cops coming? What’s wrong with Rosi? What’s going on?”
But the girl—it was a girl’s voice—just kept repeating “Oh no, oh no, oh no” in a broken whisper.
I found out later that that girl was Eden Martinez, Rosi’s cousin, and she was saying “oh no” because Rosi was dead. I’d never even heard Eden speak before that day. She’s quiet and reserved. Basically Rosi’s opposite. But suddenly, we were the only two people alive in that classroom.
I didn’t know that then. It was after the cops came, after I was put in an ambulance, after I learned that the pain in my arm was a gunshot wound. I didn’t know the full extent of what had happened until I was safe and sound in a hospital room with my parents and sister.
Shortly after that, the camera crews showed up. There must have been a dozen news stories and TV segments about me over the next few months. I wasn’t just the blind kid anymore. Now I was the blind kid who survived a mass shooting. And with that came this assumption that, somehow, my story was the most interesting. Or the most tragic. Like things must have been so much worse for me because I was the disabled kid in that computer lab, scared and lost in the chaos.
But I don’t think that’s true.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying the shooting didn’t affect me. I lost my two best friends and my favorite teacher. Physical therapy and relearning to use my cane again sucked. And I still jump at loud noises and sometimes have nightmares and all the things you might expect. But I can’t help thinking I got off relatively easy compared to the others. Because I didn’t have toseeany of it.
Look, you don’t have to see things to be traumatized by them—I know that, obviously—but most of the pain and horror for me came in the aftermath. It came from learning what had happened. I didn’t have to witness it the way others did. I didn’t have to see the bodies of my friends. To this day, I don’t know where Rosi or Jared or Ms. Taylor were shot, and I don’t want to know. The other survivors didn’t get that choice.
I have the option to stay in the dark.
So I don’t really feel like the tragic, inspirational figure everyone wants me to be. If anything, I feel like a fraud. I’ve spent years feeling guilty about not being in more pain. Which is pretty screwed up, if you think about it.
I don’t think I deserve this scholarship because I’m a black kid from a poor community who was born blind and then survived a shooting. I deserve this scholarship because of my ambition and talent.
Because while I was never able to get a grade for that app I was making freshman year, I did make others. For now, they are pretty basic—no overnight successes—but they are all accessible for people with visual impairments. And I have ideas for more. And one day, I really think I could change the game when it comes to assistive tech and accessibility.
Not because I want to inspire people—I’m pretty tired of being “inspiring” at this point—but because I could help people. And, yeah, let’s be honest. For selfish reasons. I’m tired of being Denny Lucas, the blind VCHS survivor. I’m ready to be Denny Lucas, Tech God. Or, at the very least, Denny Lucas, the guy who makes really cool stuff.
I know there’s a good chance I’ve disappointed you here. But I’m hoping that won’t keep the committee from seeing why I should get this scholarship. I have big goals. I am driven and ambitious, and I know that with a bit of financial help, I could do some really awesome things.
So I am asking you to please consider my application. Not because of who I am or what I’ve been through—but because of who I could be in ten or fifteen years. I know I have potential and that I will use the money well. I hope you feel the same way.
Sincerely,
