At 10, she speaks out for Uvalde’s victims. But the girl she used to be is gone.
She was a portrait of resilience, a 4-foot-8, 75-pound embodiment of the maroon “Uvalde Strong” flags flying all over Texas. To an admiring public, she was alsoin the United States who have survived school shootings can recover, becoming some version of who they used to be.
She used to adore school, because that was the place she made new friends, and Caitlyne liked to think she could make a friend out of anyone. Now, whether she would be able to go back at all, Gladys didn’t know. Inside Room 302, she met her homeroom teacher, a young woman with a warm smile who called her “honey.” She escorted Caitlyne next door, where her new classmates were gathering. Caitlyne barely knew most of them, in part because dozens of Robb students had decided to take virtual classes or withdraw from the district and go elsewhere.
“They need to cut her grass,” Caitlyne said, reaching down to brush the dirt off a doll that had been left amid the flowers. She took a photo of Ellie Garcia’s to send to the girl’s father, then pointed at a solitary grave on the far side of a mesquite tree. Makenna Elrod was buried there. She had given Caitlyne a chocolate doughnut a few hours before she died.
It was nearing Caitlyne’s bedtime when they arrived home, so she put on shorts and made herself a cup of Swiss Miss hot cocoa. Beside her, Gladys prepped a bowl of banana bread mix. Cox has been reporting on children and gun violence for more than five years and is the author of an award-winning book on the subject,He strives to tell his stories from the perspective of the kids he writes about, not the adults around them. This requires the cooperation of their parents, who often say yes because they believe few people understand the trauma their children have endured.
She and Nef had accepted that it could take months before Caitlyne could sleep on her own again, but they hoped that small doses of time without her mom would inch her closer. Gladys, who was attending graduate school to become a counselor, knew that for Caitlyne to go back to school, she would have to regain a measure of independence.
Caitlyne viewed friendship as her gift. As a toddler, she sought out children at day care to share her toys with, spurning declarations of “mine.” As a second-grader, after learning that another girl’s parents couldn’t afford to buy new shoes, she brought a pair of her own from home. Just after dark, Jackie misplaced her phone, and when the girls pulled its location up on a GPS tracking app, it appeared to be moving. Pandemonium ensued. Convinced that someone had stolen it, Jackie insisted the other girls block her on social media. A few minutes later, they found the phone behind Caitlyne’s dresser.
“Jackie’s crying,” Caitlyne told her mom when she realized what had happened. “I’m going to take a picture with her.” Her favorite new activity was karate, which she practiced at the same studio Jackie had attended. Caitlyne excelled, kicking and punching with such ferocity that some of the boys tried to avoid her on sparring days. Even there, though, Caitlyne couldn’t escape the shooting. As an exercise for new students, her instructors would suddenly turn off the lights. The lesson was simple: Always be ready to defend yourself.
Caitlyne walked around to the front as Beto O’Rourke, the former Democratic congressman and presidential contender, took the stage next.“Who is Beto?” she asked.By then, Caitlyne had tired of listening to speeches. She’d heard that a group in the park was giving out Squishmallows. March Fourth, an Illinois nonprofit group formed after the July 4 mass shooting in Highland Park, had brought them to D.C. to campaign for an assault weapons ban. To get there, Caitlyne had left Texas for the first time and flown on her first plane., she now knew — but Caitlyne had also learned that the people they would meet were important. She showed Sen. Amy Klobuchar, a Minnesota Democrat, photos of six of the girls who died, and she told Sen.
It seemed like anything could give him a panic attack now, from a slammed door to a whiff of barbecue that reminded him of gunpowder. He decided to skip the dancing. Caitlyne put the lanyard back on, her mind again on the kids at home. She found a quiet corner and sat on the floor to make a video call.
A few days later, she and Camila were bickering in the car, and as they got home, a furious Caitlyne shoved open the front door with such force that it punched a hole in the living room wall. Mortified, Caitlyne apologized, swearing that she didn’t mean to do it. Her parents worried about what it would all mean for the coming school year, as did Ms. Salas, her former teacher.
Millions of dollars were raised after the shooting, but some families who’d lost a child opposed money going to the ones who didn’t. Those divisions were widening at the same time that parents all over town began to worry that, as the national spotlight faded, the state’s promised assistance would, too.
“A lot of couples here, they’re not gonna make it,” Nef said late one night, alone on the couch while his wife lay in bed with their daughter. “If a law enforcement job is to protect and serve, why didn’t they protect my friends and teachers on May 24? I have messages for Pete Arredondo and all the law enforcement that were there that day,” she said, her voice rising to a shout. “Turn in your badge and step down — you don’t deserve to wear one!”
She and Caitlyne had given each other nicknames. Eliahna was “Big Mac,” because she was tall, and Caitlyne was “Fries,” because she was skinny. Caitlyne had already done TikTok videos in front of most of the murals, and she wanted one with Eliahna, too. She handed Gladys her phone. It was a sunny Saturday afternoon, three days before the start of school. Her parents had offered to take her to SeaWorld in San Antonio, but Caitlyne had, instead, begged them to go to Eagle Pass, an hour away. She’d seen on Instagram that Beto O’Rourke, an outspoken advocate for new gun restrictions, was giving a speech there, and Caitlyne desperately wanted to meet him.
“I knew it,” Nef said again, because immigrants who shared his skin color and crossed the border illegally often traveled from Eagle Pass to Uvalde.“The reason your vehicle’s being stopped is you were going a little fast in the 30,” he said, though Nef hadn’t been driving more than five miles an hour over the speed limit.“Well, yeah. She’s one of the victims, and she’s afraid of —” Nef said, stopping before the word “police” tumbled out. “Robb victim, so she’s a little bit nervous.
Inside the diner, they ate cheeseburgers and talked about the year ahead. Mayah said a teacher would give her private lessons. She asked how Caitlyne felt about going back, and the girl said she was eager, but she mentioned nothing about earlier in the day, when she told Gladys she didn’t want to go at all.
“Let me see?” Caitlyne asked. She zoomed in on one, showing a group of children in a classroom, and began to count, touching each face with her thumb.