with his free hand and staggers backward. He’s lost it! If he’s having a full-blown panic attack, anything can happen.
Several of the kids cling to me.
Please, God, don’t let him hurt them.
“You don’t—confront—a soldier!” Stutts is screaming, his breath coming in short spurts. “You saw him,” he shouts at us. “He was going for his gun. Somebody threatens me—I’m gonna shoot back!”
Beyond his yelling, I’m aware of people running and shouting in the hallway. A door slams, and suddenly the intercom clicks on.
“Code Red. Teachers, lock your doors and keep your students inside the classrooms.” The principal’s voice is loud and urgent. “We are under an emergency alert. Teachers, do
not
allow students to leave your classroom for
any
reason. Lock your doors and keep your students
inside
.” He pauses, then says more slowly, “Teachers, this is
not
a drill!”
And then an eerie quiet falls. The lines from a poem float through my brain: “Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold; The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere The ceremony of innocence is drowned . . .” W. B. Yeats. “The Second Coming.” I had to memorize it last year, but I had no idea it was still there in my head. I wonder what innocence these kids will have left.
Stutts is watching the door and pacing back and forth like a caged animal. I can see the gun in his hand shaking.
The room goes fuzzy and I blink to clear my vision. I pick out a poster on the wall and stare— T HE S ILENT E. A magician in a tall pointed hat changes words with his wand:
cap
becomes
cape;
hop
becomes
hope
. Hope. I repeat the word over and over as I try to breathe deeply and slowly.
And then I see poor Patrick—still in the chair in the front of the room, hunched over, hugging his knees. I want to go to him, but I know I can’t. It breaks my heart to see him there alone.
Stutts grabs his son roughly. “C’mon, kid. We’re gettin’ out of here.”
Patrick’s eyes flash his terror as he’s yanked by his arm toward the door.
Stutts leans his head out and looks down the hall. He immediately pulls back into the classroom. “Shit! You tell them to clear that hall,” he yells at Mrs. Campbell. “I don’t want to see anybody looking around that corner. You tell them—if they don’t let me leave with my boy, somebody’s gonna get hurt!”
He doesn’t even seem to realize somebody already has.
Mrs. Campbell stands up and walks slowly toward him, speaking in a soothing voice. “Mr. Stutts, I don’t have any access to speak to them.” She looks over at the remains of the telephone. “Just let me go out and talk to the people in the hall about what we need to do.”
“You’re not goin’ out there. You’re not gonna bring them in here. You just want to tell them to rush me.”
He looks crazed, out of control.
Armed and dangerous
—I suddenly understand what it means.
“You’re in charge here, Mr. Stutts,” she says, her hands held up in a gesture of total surrender. “I’ll do whatever you want.”
Several students are crying. “I think I’m gonna puke,” Natalie announces, and I look around frantically for the trash can. DeQuan reaches for an empty plastic bin on a table near him and passes it to her. Natalie bends over it, gagging, but nothing comes up.
“Shut up and let me think. Everybody stay where you are,” Stutts yells at the kids, glancing away from the door for only a second. “Nobody move unless I say so.”
He’s pacing, prowling, and fidgeting with the gun, both hands on it now. “I gotta think what to do,” he mutters to himself.
He looks up at the sound of a siren in the distance, growing louder as it gets closer. The noise stops abruptly on the street in front of the school.
Suddenly the intercom crackles again. “Mrs. Campbell, is everyone all right in there?” I’m sure even the kids can hear the effort the principal’s making to sound normal.
Mrs. Campbell looks at Stutts
Several of the kids cling to me.
Please, God, don’t let him hurt them.
“You don’t—confront—a soldier!” Stutts is screaming, his breath coming in short spurts. “You saw him,” he shouts at us. “He was going for his gun. Somebody threatens me—I’m gonna shoot back!”
Beyond his yelling, I’m aware of people running and shouting in the hallway. A door slams, and suddenly the intercom clicks on.
“Code Red. Teachers, lock your doors and keep your students inside the classrooms.” The principal’s voice is loud and urgent. “We are under an emergency alert. Teachers, do
not
allow students to leave your classroom for
any
reason. Lock your doors and keep your students
inside
.” He pauses, then says more slowly, “Teachers, this is
not
a drill!”
And then an eerie quiet falls. The lines from a poem float through my brain: “Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold; The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere The ceremony of innocence is drowned . . .” W. B. Yeats. “The Second Coming.” I had to memorize it last year, but I had no idea it was still there in my head. I wonder what innocence these kids will have left.
Stutts is watching the door and pacing back and forth like a caged animal. I can see the gun in his hand shaking.
The room goes fuzzy and I blink to clear my vision. I pick out a poster on the wall and stare— T HE S ILENT E. A magician in a tall pointed hat changes words with his wand:
cap
becomes
cape;
hop
becomes
hope
. Hope. I repeat the word over and over as I try to breathe deeply and slowly.
And then I see poor Patrick—still in the chair in the front of the room, hunched over, hugging his knees. I want to go to him, but I know I can’t. It breaks my heart to see him there alone.
Stutts grabs his son roughly. “C’mon, kid. We’re gettin’ out of here.”
Patrick’s eyes flash his terror as he’s yanked by his arm toward the door.
Stutts leans his head out and looks down the hall. He immediately pulls back into the classroom. “Shit! You tell them to clear that hall,” he yells at Mrs. Campbell. “I don’t want to see anybody looking around that corner. You tell them—if they don’t let me leave with my boy, somebody’s gonna get hurt!”
He doesn’t even seem to realize somebody already has.
Mrs. Campbell stands up and walks slowly toward him, speaking in a soothing voice. “Mr. Stutts, I don’t have any access to speak to them.” She looks over at the remains of the telephone. “Just let me go out and talk to the people in the hall about what we need to do.”
“You’re not goin’ out there. You’re not gonna bring them in here. You just want to tell them to rush me.”
He looks crazed, out of control.
Armed and dangerous
—I suddenly understand what it means.
“You’re in charge here, Mr. Stutts,” she says, her hands held up in a gesture of total surrender. “I’ll do whatever you want.”
Several students are crying. “I think I’m gonna puke,” Natalie announces, and I look around frantically for the trash can. DeQuan reaches for an empty plastic bin on a table near him and passes it to her. Natalie bends over it, gagging, but nothing comes up.
“Shut up and let me think. Everybody stay where you are,” Stutts yells at the kids, glancing away from the door for only a second. “Nobody move unless I say so.”
He’s pacing, prowling, and fidgeting with the gun, both hands on it now. “I gotta think what to do,” he mutters to himself.
He looks up at the sound of a siren in the distance, growing louder as it gets closer. The noise stops abruptly on the street in front of the school.
Suddenly the intercom crackles again. “Mrs. Campbell, is everyone all right in there?” I’m sure even the kids can hear the effort the principal’s making to sound normal.
Mrs. Campbell looks at Stutts
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