November 1998, YM Magazine
When a baby-faced freshman strolled into Thurston High School's cafeteria and began spraying bullets, 16-year-old Tiffany Wright thought he was pulling a prank. Then, one by one, kids dropped to the floor, bleeding. Tiffany was one of the few people who stayed behind to help the victems. She will never forget the horrific sight of lifeless bodies and rivers of blood. Or the fact th two of the kids never made it home alive.
Once upon a time, I was your typical 16-year-old high school junior. I hung out with my boyfriend and tooled around in my red Mustang. Nothing much happened in my hometown of Springfield, OR. Sure, it got a little boring, but I felt safe-- especially at school. I read bout high school shootings in West Paducah, KY, and Jonesboro AR. But they were so far away. I thought it could never happen here, until two of my classmates were killed, 25 were left wounded, and my storybook world crumbled to bits-- all because of a 15-year-old freshman who burst into my high school cafeteria with a semiautomatic riffle and a ton of ammo.
May 21, 1998, was student government election day at Thurston High School. I arrived at 7 o'clock-- an hour early-- to help my boyfriend, Donny, hang up some campaign posters in the cafeteria. He was running for student body president. We were psyched: School was almost over, and the summer lay ahead. As we sat down to finnish our homework, nearly 200 kids surrounded us, hanging out before class. No teachers were in the cafeteria at the time.
Sudenly a puny guy I'd never seen in school before sauntered in. He was oddly dressed, like a little soldier, in a huge khaki trench coat. He has a bag slung over his left shoulder.
First, I zeroed in on the rifle gripped in his right hand. Then I noticed his expressionless face: He has a matter-of-fact look that said, "I have a job to do, and I'll get it done no matter what," Still, I thought he was pulling some election-dayy stunt. Who would think this baby-faced boy would bring a real, loaded gun to school?
My eyes stayed glued to the kid, who had moved to withing 20 feet of our table. Gun held at his waist, he stepped forward. Then he fired two shots through the middle of the cafeteria, where most of the kids were sitting. Stone-faced, aiming at no one and everyone.
Oddly, nobody screamed, so I had no Idea he'd hit anyone. Two kids from our table sprinted from the room, but Donny and I couldn't peel ourselves from our seats. We stayed, dumbfounded, trying to process what was unfolding. This couldn't be happening in our lunchroom. The guy must be using a cap gun.
Then a bullet hit Teresa Miltonberger, a petite sophmore I'd seen around school, who was sitting ten feet in front of us. As it blew into her forehead, she toppled backward off her chair, slamming her head on the floor with a sickening thud. Blood poured from her skull, pooling around her the way I'd only seen in violent action movies. Fear quivered through me. A few kids started screaming, and others dove under tables or ran toward the exit, But strangely, it wasn't total pandemonium. Most of us just sat and watched, confused, then terrified and paralyzed.
The shooter ran out of ammunition, and as he fumbled for more, a junior named Jake Ryker, bleeding from a chest wound, staggered toward him. A tall varsity wrestler, Jake tackled the kid to the ground. Suddenly, a feafening BOOM, much louder than the riffle shots, cut through the room, and Jake yelled out in pain. The boy has whipped out a handgun and fired a shot through Jake's hand. Jake knocked the gun from the kid's handd, and a swarm of boys piled on top of him. ONe guy grabbed the rifle and bolted off to find a teacher. Another held the shooter til the police came. Later, I learned that the gunman was a freshman named Kip Kinkel.
CLEANING UP AFTER A KILLER
Donny and I coudln't look away. He begged me to run, but I was desperate to stay. As the president of our school's Health Occupation Students of America program, with tons of experience at our local hospital trauma center, I'd always planned on a medical career. After helping strangers, how could I leave my classmates to bleed on the cafeteria floor? I wouldn't budge, so Donny dragged me out by the waist.
In the hallway, I broke into sobs, helplessly wondering how many people lay dying in that room. Then Donny rememberd that Mr Duffy our Health Occupations teacher and a registered nurse, had first-aid supplies. I snapped out of my hysteria and into doctor mode. We found Mr. Duffy, grabbed some gauze, and raced to the cafeteria, petrified of what we'd find.
It was a bloodbath, like some kind of war-torn battlefield littered with my friends and classmates. Bleeding teens, consciouss and unconscious, lay sprawled in chairs. Frantic teachers swarmed over the wounded, doing all they could until the paramedics arrived.
I turned off my emotions; I knew that if I fell apart, I wouldn't be any help. Then I walked aroud the room, talking to and touching the victims, and changing my bloodsoaked gloves over and over.
Some of the images I saw are etched on my mind. Our star baseball pitcher, Tony Case, my good friend, lay white as a sheet in a crumpled heap. A popular guy, Tony was tall, with dark hair and cute sideburns. It was frightning to see him lying conscious, yet perfectly still--- I guess he was too traumatized to move. I had no idea he'd taken four bullets in his torso and leg. When he turned to throw up, exposing a bullet hole in his back, I didn't see blood. It turned out his bleeding was internal.
To be continued....(soon as I have time to type more)
To be continued....
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