New Point (20 page)

“Where is everyone?” The blue eyes jump around the room frantically. The gun rests in front of him, pressed close to his side. I can’t stop my eyes from flicking down at it every half second.

Churning fear loosens my lips and I start to babble. “Normally one woman mans this room to sign in kids when they are late. Mrs. Johnson has worked at the elementary school for thirty years, but she’s got a cold so I’m here in her place. Over there,” I jerk my thumb over my shoulder at the door behind me, “are the principal and vice principal’s offices but this morning they’re at a district meeting off campus. Beginning of school stuff.”

Out of the nowhere, I come up with a plan. Keep him talking, don’t give him time to think about anything except this conversation.

“What’s your name?”

The blue orbs narrow into thin slits, and he swings his arms up so the barrel of the gun points at the center of my face. One squeeze and I’ll cease to exist.

It would be that simple, and I’d be gone. Would anyone other than Blake miss me?

“I’m the one asking the questions,” he spits out, and my mouth clamps shut.

Meanwhile the emergency operator continues to talk, the thin crackle of his voice reverberating around the small, semi-enclosed room.

“Tell him no fucking cops,” he emphasizes the curse word venomously.

I scramble to pick up the phone, sweaty palms causing me to nearly drop the receiver twice. Finally I manage to lift the plastic device to my ear. My directions interrupt the operator’s voice. “He says no cops. You–you’re not sending any police inside the school, are you?”

“No ma’am, you can tell him no officers will enter the building, but they will be outside. Arriving in less than five minutes.”

Our eyes meet across the few feet that separate us. The gun-wielding man’s taunt expression melts slightly, a sliver of worry flickers across his features.

In that fear I find a whisper of hope.
He might be more scared than I am. Keep him talking.

“No police officers in the school, they don’t need to come in.” As I speak, I take inventory of the young man before me. There’s no way he’s older than I am at twenty-four. Under six feet tall and scrawny, he has a pile scraggly of pale blond hair. Telltale signs of anxiety seep off him; a trickle of perspiration snakes down his cheek and the hands gripping the gun tremble the slightest bit.

“Cops outside,” he repeats.

With steady hands this time, I lower the phone back to the countertop and force my lips into a straight line. Anything to keep him from barreling down the hallways and attacking children – anything to keep Clarkes Elementary School from becoming a statistic.

Footsteps fall not far from where we stand, instantly tripling my heart rate.
Whoever you are, don’t come over here
, I plead silently. The gunman doesn’t seem to notice that we could be found out by another person inside the school, someone who might be able to overtake him. To my relief and dismay, no one appears nearby the room. But it’s a stark reminder of the training I received when I was hired; if the school is ever under a threat, teachers need to lock down the classrooms. Immediately.

How do I make the announcement without alerting the gunman?

“Will you tell me your name?” I try again.

“You first.”

“I’m Zoe. This is my second week at my first job.”

“Why are you in this room?”

“Could you lower your weapon? It’s really scaring me and making it hard for me to concentrate,” I return his question with a hesitant one of my own.

“What the hell do you need to concentrate on?”

The six hundred children a few feet away. The young minds I want to nurture. My future. Your future.

“I’m the one holding the gun. Answer me!”

“The librarian doesn’t see students first thing in the morning.” My voice wavers and then I’m back to stringing winding sentences together in my attempt to distract him. “There are some that come before class starts because their parents need to drop them off early. But once the bell rings it’s pretty quiet. Well, as far as I can tell. I just graduated in May and here I am–first job and all.”

“You actually went to school to become a librarian?”

In that room, thick with tension and terror, I have to smother a hysterical snort of laughter. He’s judging me?

Instead of noting the sickening paradox, I mutter, “You sound just like my brother. He still can’t believe I willingly work with children.”

As soon as I mention my biggest concern, the safety of everyone else in the school, recognition flashes in his eyes. It’s like he just realized that beyond this tiny room are hundreds of innocents. Slowly he lowers the gun to his side though he doesn’t put it down.

“Your brother doesn’t support you?” His question is almost childlike, and he watches me with a hopeful expression.

“In some ways he does, in some ways he doesn’t,” I answer truthfully.

That doesn’t please him. No, my answer enrages him. Between the spaces of one of my deep exhalations, he lifts the gun and slams it on the counter directly next to me. With a shriek, I’m on my knees, covering my ears with my hands and squeezing my eyes shut. Fear courses through me.
This is it.

Nothing happens.

I steady my breathing enough to realize he’s absolutely silent, standing inches from me. My eyes peel open. His denim-clad legs and heavy black workman boots fill my line of vision. I gulp a breath.

“Fuckin’ family never stands behind you,” he seethes but doesn’t move away from me. Something catches my attention, and I nearly sigh in appreciation when I recognize what’s beside me. It’s the silent lockdown trigger, tucked away underneath the counter. It could easily be mistaken for a light switch, but with one flick teachers will receive email and text messages initializing emergency procedures. Some of the classrooms are equipped with a light bulb that flashes once the alarm has been tripped. I nearly weep with gratitude. I can alert the others.

With a trembling hand I silently press the switch into the on position. Then I push off the floor and rise to my feet.

“My parents are dead,” I blurt out, trying to find common ground with him.

To my shock he releases his hold on the gun and pushes a shaky hand through his stringy locks. “Maybe you’re better off without them. Mine are alive and don’t give a shit about me. They kicked me out of the house, said I’m nothing but a piece of garbage. And I…” His voice cracks like he’s going through puberty.

He may be the same age as me, but he’s no more than a terrified kid.

“I know they don’t care if I live or die.”

There. My opening. I lift my hand to where his sits and gently rest it on top. The skin underneath my fingers is just as clammy as mine, twitching when we first make contact. “Loneliness is the worst kind of friend to have.”

“I’m not lonely,” he growls.

“Neither am I. I have plenty of friends and even my brother to spend my time with. But that doesn’t stop the ache I carry with me. Every single day, I can feel it. Even when I’m happy, when something makes me laugh, it’s still there.”

“It hurts. I’m always hurting,” he whispers as his piercing blue eyes meet mine and hold. Silently I count to ten, keeping the eye contact, wondering if what I’m about to admit will help or hurt this situation.

“Hurts so badly I’ve thought about ending it all.”

My words hang heavily, adding to the thick, suffocating silence swirling around us. They’re true to an extent, but he doesn’t know it was a fleeting thought in high school, never to be revisited. At face value my words don’t reveal the unyielding bond I share with my brother Blake, that he would rescue me from the deepest recesses of depression without a second thought to other obligations. I’d never consider harming myself again, but he doesn’t need to know that.

For whatever reason –a sense of kinship, understanding, maybe something else entirely– the words unravel the man next to me. His knees buckle, but he doesn’t fall.

“Why are you doing this?” I whisper tentatively.

“I want to die. There’s nothing for me on this earth, no one to care if I come out of this alive. This world wasn’t meant for me,” he moans. It’s not overdramatic overture; in his tone I hear complete conviction.

Frantic noises can be heard from the phone, so with my free hand I turn the device over. I gently squeeze where my hand rests on his. “You don’t have to do this,” I murmur. “You don’t have to.”

“Please help me,” he whimpers in desperation.

“I will. You know what that means, right?”

His eyelids fall closed, and he nods jerkily.

“I’m going to pick up the phone. It’s…” I clear the thickness clogging my throat. “It’s going to be okay, but we have to let the police inside.”

The quivering in his hands has made its way to his lips, and they flutter nervously, but he meets my gaze when he responds timorously. “Okay.”

At the same time as I lift the phone back to my ear, I tighten my grip on his hand. “I’m here,” I remind him.

“Sir?” I whisper into the receiver.

“I can hear, we’ve been listening. The police would like him to step away from the gun before they enter. Can you ask him to do that?”

“Hey,” I say softly to my companion. Belatedly I realize I’m using my “kid” voice on him. I developed the tool when there was a skittish child at one of my student teaching sessions. With my gentleness his tense features slacken further.

“Yeah?”

“Let’s step back, huh? We can sit down over there.” I tilt my head toward the row of chairs outside of the vice principal’s office door.

“Okay.” His voice is no louder than a baby’s breath and with a nudge from his fingertips, the gun is out of his grasp.

“We’re going to sit down now,” I tell the operator clearly. “When we’re seated I will let you know.”

Hands still interlocked, the young man and I move to the blue upholstered chairs and sit next to each other. He drops my hand and flops over, fisting his hair with long, thin fingers.

“We’re sitting down and the gun is on the counter. You can come in,” I call out in a voice much steadier than I feel.

Almost instantly the front doors to the school fly open and a SWAT team stealthy enters the building. In well-choreographed movements they stalk toward us, guns raised. What happens next is blurry, not because it happens so fast, but because a cloud of tears makes it difficult for me to follow the police officers securing the young man. I do notice when he’s yanked from the seat next to me, the sound of the handcuffs slapping on his wrists, and the gruff voice of a police officer reading him his rights.

I can’t move, I can’t think.

Did that really happen? How did I survive?

It’s not until a rough hand clamps down on my shoulder that I break out of my trance.

And then I crumble.

“
M
iss Zoe.”

Please, please, please
let me keep them safe. I don’t know what I’ll do if any harm comes to them. I won’t be able to breathe, won’t be able to live.

“What the
hell
is wrong with her?”

Is New Point experiencing an earthquake? No, my entire body is trembling.

“Zoe.”

Instinctively my arms tighten around the squirming kids in my arms.

“Zoe!” The voice is insistent and thick with concern.

Fingers grip my upper arms and suddenly I’m hauled to a standing position. “What’s going on?” Miles implores, demanding my wayward attention.

“Get off me!” I cry. “I need to – Duke! Alexa.” The fight falls out of my voice. I blink twice taking in my surroundings. Lacey stands at the hallway entrance to the kitchen propped up by crutches. I glance up to a visibly shocked Miles.

Tremors wrack my body and I turn back to look at Duke and Alexa.
Fine, they’re fine.

“Are you okay, Miss Zoe?” Alexa wrings her hands and the normally outgoing Duke looks confused and upset.

“I’m so sorry,” I whisper in a tone laced with shame. My fingertips come to my lips, pressing them closed.

“Seriously. What is wrong with you?” Lacey’s voice is cruel, mocking.

Instinctively my arms curl around my waist as if they’ll protect me from myself.

“Everyone in town will freak when they hear about this. How could Sharon hire someone like
you
to look after their kids?” Lacey taunts.

She’s not alone. I’m sick of my own hysteria, too.

“Enough,” Miles snaps.

I stare ahead in a daze, not noticing that he’s collecting the kids and their things. “Let’s go home, guys.”

“Is Miss Zoe okay?”

This time the sound of my name catches my attention and I glance down to Duke’s hesitant expression.

Even though I’m pretty sure I’m on the edge of a nervous breakdown, I force myself to walk over to where Miles has corralled Duke and Alexa near Lacey.