Chapter 9
Drew
W
ithout much thinking, I find my feet moving towards the door. I peek my head outside into the hallway to find my colleague, Rita Torres, the other sixth grade teacher, across the hall doing the same. She’s a woman old enough to be my mother and is always there to listen to me vent, sitting with her nurturing expression, nodding her head.
We make eye contact as we hear a third pop followed by screams and the sound of a single pair of footsteps running down the hall, perpendicular from ours but out of sight.
Then, we hear the sound of doors swinging and slamming shut echoing through the parts of the hallway we can’t quite see. It’s all happening so fast—I can’t make my brain function fast enough.
Our two classrooms are the only ones before the hallway bends to where most of the seventh grade classrooms and the guidance counselor’s room are. On the other side of us is a doorway leading to a staircase.
I see a look of true and utter fear in Rita’s eyes.
It is fear I have never seen before.
My heart stops and complete terror cascades over me as I come to the conclusion that my worst nightmare is coming true.
Before my mind can even process, my body takes over.
It is my job to keep these 24 students safe.
Staff has had the training for this before, but this cannot fucking be happening.
In our ALICE training, the first thing they tell you is the sooner you understand that you’re in danger, the sooner you can save yourself. A speedy response is critical. Seconds count.
So, in a matter of seconds, I give my mind no option but to catch up with my body.
This is not a drill.
This is not a joke.
This is for real. And I have to fucking do something.
There’s a shooter.
There’s people screaming.
There’s a shooter, and he’s fired three shots.
And he’s just down the hall.
I muster up the strength to move through the horror that is beginning to close in on us and close and lock my door and shut off my classroom lights. I see through the window of the door, before pulling down the shade that covers the glass, Rita doing the same. Her eyes never leave mine until we both pull down the shade, no longer being able to see outside into the hall.
I turn to look around the room at the worried faces waiting for me to tell them what to do. Some are frozen, some are looking around the room, some have tears in their eyes.
And it’s silent.
Keep it together, Drew.
Keep it together.
ALICE is an acronym, standing for the five options to combat the situation. You don’t have to go in order, but I need to go through our options and choose what the hell we are going to do. And I have to do it fast.
“A” stands for “Alert, recognize the alert.
Done.
And we have to get out of here.
I look around and make myself think. We are on the second floor, next to the window. The window faces the blacktop behind the school. The stairs are right outside to the left, to the right is the hallway where we heard the shots and footsteps running down.
We can make it if we go down the stairs.
They lead right outside to the blacktop.
But wait. Which way was the shooter going?
Oh my fucking god. Shooter.
There’s a fucking shooter.
Is he going to turn down this hallway and head to the stairs?
Is he planning on entering every classroom?
Who is he?
Why is he here?
I shake my head at the influx of questions that have no clear answers. I realize there is no way to know, 100%, that it is safe to evacuate. I can’t take a risk that would put any of my students in danger. There’s no way to know where that scream came from or when the next—
POP!
Shot number four.
We all freeze.
I feel tears starting to well up in my eyes, but I squeeze my eyes shut to stop them from fully forming. My insides feel like they’re about to explode, but I have 24 pre-teens looking at me for what to do.
I need to stay calm. I need to be thinking clearly.
The “L” in ALICE stands for “Lockdown.”
We need to barricade the door.
Studies show that shooters often don’t attempt to get into looked or barricaded doors.
But then again, I’m not putting any trust into this armed person following a common pattern. Not after they walked into this school and put the lives of kids and teachers at risk in a place we are supposed to feel safe.
I try to speak but the words don’t leave my mouth at first.
I can’t believe this is happening.
Five minutes ago, we were talking about identifying character traits.
It’s the day before Winter Break.
We were going to watch Frosty the Snowman after the assembly to end our day.
This is a place for children.
This isn’t supposed to be happening.
“We need to barricade the door.”
The words finally leave my lips, but they don’t feel like mine.
The shocked, confused faces of my students continue to stare. No one moves. All the pieces of my heart. All frozen in fear. Right in front of me.
“Now. Now, please. Guys, you have to move.” My husky, unfamiliar whisper is the only sound in our room. “You have to be quiet, but you have to move. We can do this. We’ll be okay. We can do this.” The words pour out of my mouth but still don’t feel like mine.
I need to keep them safe. I need to protect them.
The door is locked, but I am putting nothing up to chance.
Slowly, a few of them begin to move. Cole, Marco, Jack, and a few others help me block the door with desks and chairs while others close the blinds of our windows.
I go to grab my phone out of my pocket to silence it and call 911, but it’s not there.
Fuck. Where did I put it?
Suddenly, we hear over the school’s intercom “Shooter is on the west side of the building, second floor.” And, seconds later, we hear three consecutive shots closer than the ones from before.
In our training, administration explained that communication was key to such a quickly-changing situation. Luckily, they have eyes on whoever this person is.
POP! POP! POP!
Screams fill the classroom right across from ours.
Too many obstacles in front of the door for me to even try to see who is hurt.
Those obstacles… trapping us in but keeping us safe.
Did Rita not lock her door?
As the screams echo, I grab on to whoever is closest to me, ushering all the students to move to the corner that is most hidden from the door. Huddling against the wall, gripping onto each other as if to stay grounded.
The screams are followed by ear-piercing silence.
I push my students back as far as I can into the corner and whisper to them to stay quiet. With tears streaming down their faces, hands covering their mouths, I need them to fade into the silence. I need them to survive.
It’s too quiet for a classroom.
I look around to find something to arm myself with.
He’s coming.
Whoever he is.
I don’t know what to grab.
What is there to protect yourself from a gun?
But, he’s coming.
Those shots were on the other side of the hallway.
My stomach tightens at the thought of who was in that room.
Rita.
The other sixth graders.
The ones we share a hallway, a lunch hour, a recess with.
I’m too small to cover all my students with my own body. I wish I could stretch myself to shield them all.
Why? Why was this happening?
I turn my body, so I’m facing them. Looking at their faces, so scared and so helpless, thinking my face must reflect the same.
On the first day of school, when I told them that our year together would be amazing. We would learn so much. Together. We would have so much fun. Together. We would make memories we would never forget.
Together.
I didn’t think this would be one of those memories.
I close my eyes and pray to the God I no longer believe in to save these 24 faces in front of me. My cheeks are soaked with tears I could no longer help from falling, and I latch on to the bodies in front of me.
We can’t stay like this, I think to myself. If the shooter somehow gets in here, we are in the perfect position for the most damage to be done.
I try to tell my students that we need to arm ourselves in case he gets through the door, but all that comes out of my mouth is a series of whispers.
I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.
I’m distracted by the resounding muffled cries before me when I suddenly hear police sirens approaching outside our covered windows, overlooking the blacktop and the staff parking lot behind the school. Police cars and fire trucks begin to overflow the lot.
I have a second of relief that turns right back into panic when I hear footsteps running past our classroom, further interrupting the silence and stillness we were drowning in just seconds before. The footsteps rush down the stairway on the other side of the very wall opposite of us now.
Frozen.
Then, I take a breath.