Russian Roulette: A Short Story

"Mr. Davis? Can I talk to you about, Will?"

Will hadn't been to class in a while so I was curious and concerned. Betsy and I walked just outside the classroom door, always a tricky position. Was she really concerned about Will or just setting a screen for one of her classmates to conduct some mischief? Betsy wasn't one to worry about. She kept to herself unless Will was kind enough to grace us with his presence. They weren't romantically involved; Will would like that but Betsy was engaged. Sixteen years old and engaged, full of the certainty that comes with being young and in love.

We had a connection, me and the two loners. I think it was rooted in music but you never know what kids identify with. My theory is based on the assent and interest in their eyes when I made a music reference. To Will, the 1990s were the glory years of music. I once made a disparaging comment about that decade, said that the 90s produced very little good music due to a lack of civil unrest, an opinion no doubt taken from some critic and voiced in class to make a point about some period in world history, exploited for the moment. Will looked confused. To a disaffected music loving kid who was now subjected to shitty pop-punk, the 90s sounded like a glorious, grunge infused time when young people made angry noise while sticking it to authority, all the while smelling like teen spirit whatever that was. I wanted to take back the comment.

It's not that I lost him. He was listening to my lecture, devouring it. It's that I lost a piece of our connection if only for that moment. Plus, he was right.

"Will isn't doing well," Betsy told me.

"OK, what's up?"

"I was at his house last night and he started acting strangely. He had a gun, a revolver. He was playing Russian Roulette."

"Was he drinking, doing drugs?"

"No, well, I don't know. But he has been talking about suicide lately and I think he will do it."

"Where were his parents?"

"They aren't around much, haven't been for a while. It was rare for him to be at home. He usually bounces from place to place. He stayed with my family for a while but my parents couldn't take his erratic behavior so my Dad finally made him leave."

This would not be the last bombshell my students would drop on their unsuspecting teacher but it was the first. I told Betsy I would talk with the administration about Will's situation and struggled to stay calm while offering condolences, balancing the need to maintain authority with the essential "I'm cool; I get it and will not judge you or your friend" quality. She sounded satisfied for the moment but I wasn't. I was not qualified to deal with suicide attempts and apparently neither was the County School System. Will was on his own, too old to qualify for help from Williams High School, too young for the real world, lost in the cracks.