Lockdown (2 page)

And the thing is with happy people,
they expect you to be happy too. I smile. “Okay.”

I imagine Zoe and I could be a couple if I ever gathered the nerve to take our friendship up a notch. Of course, I could be imagining that Zoe likes me. For me, it's easier to keep things the way they are. Less risky. Less to lose.

Zoe says, “Since you're here now, and you're meeting me for lunch, you may as well stay and go to second block.”

I say, “That sounds like something Mr. Connor would say.”

Mr. Connor is the principal. I've seen a fair bit of him lately. Apparently my attendance is a concern. More like my lack of attendance. Sometimes I cut gym and don't come back the rest of the day. Some days it's just easier not to go to school at all. I figure so long as I'm passing my courses, no one needs to get in a knot. Mr. Connor doesn't share my theory. Neither does Zoe, apparently. She says, “I like Mr. Connor. He brought his baby in to show us. He's not afraid to reveal he's human.”

“Mr. Connor is human?”

She rolls her eyes.

I say, “I just need to get out of the school for a while. Science this morning was brutal.” I tell Zoe about Josh and the hamster.

Zoe gasps. “Josh is your friend from Cook Training last term?”

Josh and I were in the same class. No one would work with him, so I did. I'm not sure that makes us friends. I say, “Josh and I shared a workstation, yes.”

Zoe shakes her head. “He must be upset. Did anyone check if he was okay?”

I didn't. I was happy to get out of there. I say, “Yeah, he's fine.”

Just then we see Josh in the hallway. He's carrying the hamster cage and heading for the door. He's walking fast, his eyes down, his shoulders hunched around his ears.

Zoe sighs. “Poor guy.”

I could go talk to him, I guess. But the second bell rings and Zoe plants a quick kiss on my cheek. She says, “Meet me at my locker.” I touch my cheek where she kissed me. I imagine what it would be like to kiss her. By the time I look back at Josh, he's already gone.

Gym is right before lunch. If I were smart, I'd wait until the lunch bell rings to reappear at school. That way I could blend in with the crowds in the halls. Today, though, I make the mistake of arriving at school before the lunch bell rings. And Mr. Connor is waiting.

“Adam.”

Mr. Connor must watch the back parking lot from a secret turret or something. How else would he know to wait for me at the
back door? He's leaning against the wall, a half-eaten sandwich in his hand.

Mr. Connor is younger than a lot of teachers at this school. He wears khakis and running shoes. He's not wearing a necktie, but he'll have one slung over his desk chair. I know this from prior visits to Mr. Connor's office. He studies my eyes and repeats, “Adam.” He says it like a challenge, like he doesn't want to believe he's caught me cutting class. Again. He extends his hand, ushering me into the school. “Glad you could make it.”

I have to try. What have I got to lose? I say, “I pulled a hamstring. I have a note.”

Mr. Connor tilts his chin. He takes a bite of his sandwich and watches me as he chews. He's waiting for me to say something even more stupid. I know from prior visits, Mr. Connor can wait a long time.

Sigh. I say, “I went for coffee.”

Mr. Connor chews and swallows, takes another bite. The sandwich is just crust now, and shreds of lettuce. He takes the last bite and wipes his hand on his pants. He says,
“Did Mr. Ellington have you guys running in gym today?”

I follow him into the hall. I answer, “Apparently.”

The halls are almost empty. Some classroom doors stand open, and as we pass I hear snips of lectures, but nothing makes sense. We pass the computer lab. Through the windows I see a pack of ninth-grade guys huddled over something they shouldn't be doing. One of the computer lab windows is already covered with its metal roll-down shutter. The lab will be closed at lunch. All the windows in the school have metal roll-down shutters, but only the computer lab closes the shutters. Except during drills. Then everything gets closed.

“Mr. Ellington used to make us run too.”

I look at him in disbelief. “You had Mr. Ellington?”

Mr. Connor nods. “In this very school.”

That explains how Mr. Connor always knows where to find me. I wonder what he called Mr. Ellington.

Mr. Connor stoops to pick up a balled-up piece of paper. He lobs it into a trash can. “In high school, I hated running track. It felt like running around in circles, which it is, I guess.”

“I just don't like running.”

“You might like it if you ran somewhere interesting.”

I doubt it. I say, “You might be right.”

Mr. Connor looks at me. “My son, Dylan, he likes running the seawall.”

Mr. Connor has a picture of his family on his desk. His wife used to teach at this school too. Last time I saw Mrs. Connor, she was very pregnant. “Isn't your son just a baby?”

Mr. Connor grins. “I have a running stroller. Dylan rides, I run. He's helping me train for the half marathon next month.”

“Half marathon.” I shake my head.

“One step, that's how you start. Then another. No one sets out to run thirteen miles.”

Mr. Connor isn't talking about running anymore.

We pass the cafeteria and the smell of shepherd's pie makes my stomach lurch. Cook

Training class last term cured me of eating caf food. A few students are already in the lineup. Half the school will cram into the caf at lunch.

Mr. Connor says, “Adam, you can run or not. It doesn't really matter to me. But cutting class isn't working for you, so it wouldn't hurt to do something else. You've got nothing to lose.”

I smile. I was just thinking the same thing.

Mr. Connor's phone rings and he pulls it out of his pocket as he walks. It rings again and he flips it open. “Connor here.”

He freezes, listening on the phone. His eyes narrow, then widen, like he can't believe what he's hearing. He lowers the phone. “Adam, you'll have to excuse me.” He spins and walks away.

“No problem, Mr. Connor. Take all the time you need.”

As he rounds the turn in the corridor, I see him break into a run.

Time for me to meet Zoe. All the time in the world. I smile to myself. How lucky is that?

I climb the stairs to the second floor just as the lunch bell rings. Classroom doors burst open and students pour into the hallway. The hallway fills as people rush off to the cafeteria or gather in knots by their lockers to eat their lunch. A guy pushes past me, and my pack catches him in the shoulder. He puts his hand on my chest and pushes back, just hard enough that I know he's pissed, but not so hard that it counts as fighting. I see Zoe at her locker and plow through the throngs to reach her.

Zoe has silky hair she always wears in a ponytail. She calls it red but I think it's the color of new pennies. Zoe circles one arm around my neck and gives me a hug. She smells like peppermint lip balm and pottery clay from her art class. Into her ear I say, “Mr. Connor says I need some exercise. He says I should go for a walk on the seawall. He practically told me to cut classes this afternoon.”

Zoe laughs. “If you're asking me to go with you, I'm tempted. But I have a math exam this afternoon and I have to study.” She grabs her math text from the shelf in her locker. “You can help.” She sits on the floor and tugs my hand to sit beside her.

I actually attend math class with some regularity. I like subjects that have right or wrong answers. Ambiguity bothers me. So does getting up in the morning. Sometimes it's just easier to stay in bed.

Expanding equations is almost pleasant, sitting here with Zoe. I watch as she works. She holds her pencil so that the knuckle on her first finger points up like a little mountain.
In the creases of her finger, I see traces of red clay.

Zoe looks up to find me gazing at her. She smiles in a way that makes me think if I had the nerve, I could kiss her right now.

I say, “Math is just like clay. It is what it is.”

I imagine peppermint lip balm.

Zoe says, “Math is like poetry. The answer is hidden under layers and layers of symbols.”

I imagine the kiss. Would she close her eyes?

I say, “All answers are hidden. Otherwise, everything is a given.” I lean toward her.

She says, “Like feelings.” She closes her eyes.

Then the alarm bell starts to clang.

Zoe's eyes fly open and she says, “Not another lockdown drill.”

For a second the hall gets quiet. Then a collective groan lifts from the students in the hallway. Just last week we had a lockdown drill and now the same alarm is sounding. A few students glance around but no one seems too concerned.

Several girls standing at their lockers settle onto the floor and open their lunches. Another group laughs and jokes.

A teacher comes out of his classroom and shouts, “Lockdown, now!” When no one moves, the teacher takes the kid closest to him and shoves him into an open classroom. Then he strides over to the girls sitting on the floor and hauls one of them to her feet. She protests as he pushes her into the classroom. A few kids make their way into an open classroom. No one is moving fast.

I hoist myself to my feet. “Looks like your math exam got cancelled. How would you rather spend the afternoon—in a lockdown drill or avoiding school with me?”

Zoe rolls her eyes, but she lets me pull her to standing.

The teacher is herding kids into a classroom. He pulls one last student into the room and shouts, “Lock this door. No one goes in or out.”

It's just a drill and this teacher is in full lockdown mode, totally whacked out on
the thrill of the threat. I tug on Zoe's hand. “We'll take the back stairs.”

The stairwell is empty, and we laugh as we take the stairs two at a time. We're still laughing when we reach the bottom of the stairs. Two things happen at the exact same time. First, we see the stairwell doors chained and padlocked. Then we hear Mr. Connor's voice over the PA. He says, “This is not a drill. There is a gunman in the school.” The thin edge of fear in Mr. Connor's voice is totally real.

It's like the entire school floods into the stairwell. People pound down the stairs toward us. Their voices clamor, frightened voices. They push and shove toward the blocked exit door, trying to escape the school.

Like fish in a bucket, that's what we are. My mouth goes dry. A locked stairwell seems like a good place to kill a lot of people at one time. I grab Zoe's hand. “Come on. We have to go back up.”

We push against the flow of people, trying to get back up the stairs. As we run we scream, “The door is locked. It's a trap.” When more people reach the locked door, they too push back up. Eventually, the tide of people tramples up the stairs and I have to hang on tight to Zoe.

At the second-floor landing, we find the doorway to the corridor jammed with people six or seven deep trying to get through to the classrooms. So many people are pushing at once that no one is moving. A big guy throws himself over the wall of people. I see his feet kicking against people's heads. He makes it over. More guys follow him. I feel someone climbing onto my back. Then a skate shoe slams against my cheek as the guy propels himself over the crowd. Girls are doing it too, clawing their way over the backs of their classmates, pulling on people's hair, digging their heels into people to get into the hallway.

I make a stirrup with my hands and shout at Zoe, “Give me your foot. I'll lift you up.”

Zoe shakes her head. “I'm not leaving you.” Just then the jam gives way and we pour into the hallway. It's all I can do to keep my footing. People run headlong, forcing others out of their way, piling into the classrooms. In front of me, a girl falls. Some people step around her. Most trample right over her. For a second I think about stepping over the girl too, but I bend down and pull her to her feet.

It's Natalie from Science 10. Her eyes are wild. She's crying, and mascara streams down her face. Her hair is tangled. Her shirt is ripped. She stumbles again and I grab her. People rush past us like we're not there. Guys are crying. People are screaming over and over, as if it is a ride. But it's not a ride. This is real.

I push Zoe and Natalie toward an open classroom door. The doorway is jammed with people trying to get in. I can see there must be fifty kids in the classroom. Some of the kids are under the desks. I wonder how they think that is going to help them escape from a shooter. Other students have rolled the
shutters down over the windows. Someone shouts that people should get away from the walls. Would bullets go through a wall? Through a solid wood door? I doubt it. One thing I know: it's better to be in the classroom than in the open hallway. People are shouting, “Close the door! Close the door!”

I push the people in front of us so they sprawl into the classroom. The guy just ahead of us makes it into the classroom. Then he lunges for the door. “Close it!” he screams. “Lock it down!”

I know the guy. We have classes together.

I shout at him, “Not yet. Let us in!”

He looks me straight in the eye and slams the door.

I hear the lock thumping into place.

For a second, I stand, stunned. In lockdown drills, once the door is closed, no one comes in. So long as the door is closed and locked, students inside will be safe. But students outside are screwed. That's how it works. And those bastards just shut the door on Zoe, me and Natalie.

All down the hall, doors slam closed. We're alone in the hallway. I hit the door with my shoulder.

Zoe's hair has slipped out of its ponytail. She's not crying, but her eyes are so wide, her skin so white, I think she could be disappearing.

I crash against the door. “Let us in!” I throw myself against the door and actually feel it shudder. Voices on the other side are angry, afraid I'll break the door.