Starting in the spring of 2009 and stretching over nine months, three Gunn students, one incoming freshman, and one recent graduate had put themselves in front of an oncoming Caltrain. The 10-year suicide rate for the two high schools is between four and five times the national average. That morning the school district’s superintendent, Glenn “Max” McGee, called Kim Diorio, the principal of the system’s other public high school, Palo Alto High, to warn her, “This is going to hit everyone really hard.” McGee was new to the district that year, but he’d known the history when he took the job. The kids were usually “silly and joyful,” she later said, but that period, they were “utterly and completely silent.” She then asked how many had been in a class with him, and everyone’s hand went up. In her creative-writing class later that day, Tarn Wilson asked how many people were friends with Cameron, and a third of the students raised a hand. He must have sent the text only a few hours before he died. Cameron had gone to tryouts for varsity basketball but hadn’t yet gotten his required physical, so he had asked whether Alex thought he could get in to see the doctor the next day. He thought about a text Cameron had sent him the day before. The principal, Denise Herrmann, stopped him and told him, because she knew he was one of Cameron’s best friends, and he fell to his knees. Alyssa’s first thought: Is there another Cameron Lee at our school?, because the one she knew was popular and athletic and seemingly unbothered by schoolwork, an avid practitioner of the annoying prank of turning people’s backpacks inside out.Īlex Gil got to school a little late that day and saw people crying in the hallways. The teacher read a statement containing the words took his own life last night, and then a name, Cameron Lee. It was November 4, 2014, a few days after homecoming and maybe a month before college applications would start making everyone crazy. After a few minutes the teachers filed out, each holding a sheet of paper, none talking. Gunn High School, about 1,900 kids waited.
Through the windows, they could spy the teachers packed in there. Now one of them, Alyssa See-Tho, was waiting outside the choir room for first period to start. In many parts of town, you can hear the warning of a passing train just about everywhere: the quad at Palo Alto High School the tables at Piazza’s grocery store, where kids from Gunn High School hang out after school the kids’ bedrooms after midnight.Ī few students had gotten in early to take some photos dressed as Scooby-Doo characters, part of an annual volleyball-team tradition. A bee goes in search of jasmine, stinging no one. The air is again still, like it usually is in spring in Palo Alto. “Ew, how old is that gum?” “The quiz is next week, dipshit.” On the road, a minivan makes a left a little too fast-nothing ominous, just a mom late for pickup. All at once life revives: a rush of bikes, skateboards, helmets, backpacks, basketball shorts, boisterous conversation. Then the gate lifts up, signaling that it’s safe to cross. The alarms ring and the red lights flash for a few seconds more, just in case.
The kids wait until the passing train forces a gust you can feel on your skin. But a Caltrain at a crossing registers more like an ambulance, warning you fiercely out of its way.
A Caltrain coming into a station slows, invites you in. Too fast to see the faces of the Silicon Valley commuters on board, only a long silver thing with black teeth. Five cars, double-decker, tearing past at 50 miles an hour. The kids on their bikes who pass by the Caltrain crossing are eager to get home from school, but they know the drill. First, from far away, comes a high whine like angry insects swarming, and then a trampling, like a herd moving through.
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