Every Last Minute (Time Wrecker Trilogy Book 1)

by Ellen Smith

  Don’t think about it. Don’t.

  It was a long time before Will finally stopped kneeling and let himself sit down on the floor. It would be harder to get to his feet this way, but he had no choice. His legs were aching. A quick glance at the clock revealed that it had been almost twenty minutes since Cliff left, and still no sounds from the hallway. The students were getting restless. He heard more murmurs than whispers now, and the occasional squeak of a chair or music stand. He thought he heard the quiet chirp of a cell phone or two, which students weren’t supposed to have during school hours. Will weighed the importance of trying to find the phones against keeping his post by the door. He stayed put.

  This is going to be okay. Will clung to that thought as hard as he could. It was all going to be okay. Nobody was going to get hurt.

  After another minute, Will felt his own cell phone vibrating in his pocket. Technically, he wasn’t supposed to have his phone on during school hours, either. Will looked back at the students and then felt his cell vibrate again. Screw it. He pulled it out of his pocket and looked at the screen.

  It was a long string of text messages. The first two were from Mara:

  Just saw your school on the news! You okay?

  I love you ❤ Come home safe today.

  The next one was from his mother:

  Just saw ur school is on lockdown. Some1 with a gun?!?! What is going on?

  Then his sister Becca had texted two minutes later:

  Praying for u.

  Another one from his mother:

  It says the kid is suicidal?!?! R u ok? Pls text me back!!!

  And then the most recent one, also from his mother:

  R U OK?????

  Will glanced up suddenly. The hallway was still silent, but who knew what might have happened when he was staring at his phone? He pocketed it again, ignoring it when it kept buzzing. He would worry about texting back after they got the all clear. He had a class to watch over.

  “Are those choppers?” a student asked.

  Will listened to the whip-whip-whip sounds coming closer. Maybe it was Air Force One, just doing a routine flight. Will knew that was a stupid thing to wish. It was probably the news, getting an aerial view of whatever was going on outside.

  Or the police, maybe. Will tried to remember whether they’d sent in police via helicopter during the bomb threat months ago. He remembered filing his students out of the building to the football field while the police swept the building. He’d carried the red emergency bag, shifting shoulders as he walked because it was so heavy. A few times, he’d almost lost a student from the line and panicked until he recounted and found everyone was there.

  That had been a long day.

  Whip-whip-whip. The helicopter, whatever it was, seemed to be coming closer. Will’s heart constricted. Maybe someone was being life-flighted. Will tried to push away the images of Mara, the first time he saw her. The ambulance had pulled up, lights flashing and siren wailing, while the first responders strapped Mara to a gurney. Will had caught a glimpse of her as the police officers approached him for questioning. Her face had been as white as the sheet.

  Will glanced back at the clock. Thirty-five minutes now since Cliff left. How long was this going to go on?

  “Mr. Sterling?” The voice came from farther back, closer to the emergency light. “What if we have to go to the bathroom?”

  Great. Will looked at the silent hallway, as if maybe it would give him answers. “Try to hold it,” he said, trying not to sound hopeless. “If it’s an emergency, I can try to ring the office and get someone to escort you.”

  The cell phone in his pocket buzzed again. At the same time, another student spoke up. “It’s an attempted suicide. The police got the guy.”

  “Did he really kill himself?” asked someone else.

  “He said attempted, idiot. Otherwise, he would have just said suicide,” said a third.

  “Watch the name-calling,” Will said. “How are you finding out all this stuff?”

  Silence.

  Of course. They were on their cell phones. Will sighed and pulled his out. If his students were reading what was up online, he’d better see it too.

  He had to scroll through five increasingly desperate texts from his mother before he saw a news link Mara had texted.

  BREAKING:

  WASHINGTON, DC—An area middle school is still on lockdown, although the situation appears to have been resolved, sources say.

  An ambulance was seen departing the school campus, where police and first responders were called on the report of an armed teenager outside the gym.

  The school has been on lockdown since approximately 1:00 p.m. Although the teen was outside the school and no direct threats to other students or staff were reported, the principal made the decision to lock down the school because the student was armed.

  The incident comes only months after the same school was evacuated for a reported bomb threat. The threat was found to be unsubstantiated. However, the school has engaged in an anti-bullying program to decrease school violence and promote healthy conflict resolution.

  Staff writers A. N. Jacobsen and O. Manzinelli contributed to this report.

  “So when are we going to be able to get up?” a student asked.

  “Yeah. I really do need to go to the bathroom.”

  “Me too!”

  Will sucked in a frustrated sigh. “Hold tight, guys. This isn’t anyone’s idea of a good time, but the person in that ambulance is having the worst day of all of us.”

  That quieted them down for a few more minutes, although the tension seemed to have dissipated. It was almost over.

  Five minutes later, Cliff’s voice came back over the PA system. “Staff and students, the code red has been lifted. You may return to your regular classroom routine. Students, at the bell you will skip your fifth period class and go to sixth period.

  “A few announcements are in order. First, the code red was called because a student was experiencing a medical emergency. There was no threat posed to any other students or staff. I want to be very clear about that. At this time, the situation has been resolved, and all school and after-school activities will resume as normal.

  “Second, I understand many of you are on social media and that you may find out more about this situation after school hours. I want to remind you that we have an anti-bullying policy at this school and that harassing or demeaning messages about anyone involved will not be tolerated.

  “Finally, I want to congratulate all students and staff for the speed and seriousness with which you responded to the code red today. I am very proud of our community and very proud of each and every one of you.”

  The PA system clicked off, and Will turned on the lights. “I’m going to need everybody to go back to your places. Anyone who needs a bathroom pass, meet me here at the door. Everyone else, chairs where you found them, take your seats, and please, please, please be careful of the instruments. I don’t want anyone or anything getting stepped on.”

  Will scribbled out three bathroom passes as the rest of the room immediately came alive with noise, scraping chair legs, and chatter. They were okay. Will looked out into the hallway and watched as it swelled with students and teachers, scurrying to the bathroom, to the copy room, to the front office. Things were already going back to normal. They really were okay. The relief of it almost bowled him over.

  “Be right back, guys,” he said, over his shoulder. “Try to keep it to a dull roar.”

  Will retreated to his office and closed the door behind him. He made a show of opening and bending over a filing cabinet as if he were searching for sheet music, just in case someone was watching through the frosted glass door. He braced his hands against the side of the cabinet just as his knees started to shake. Here it comes.

  All the emotions he’d turned off during the code red came rushing back. He let the cold edges of the cabinet dig into his palms, just to ground him
self in the fact that he was here, that it was over, that no one, thank God, was hurt.

  The memory of a pale, unconscious Mara returned, full force this time. He remembered watching her being rolled into the ambulance on the gurney, surrounded by a grim-faced team of first responders. I almost lost her. I almost lost her before I even knew who she was.

  “Mr. Sterling?” The door behind him cracked open. “Can I have a bathroom pass?”

  Will took a deep breath. It wasn’t enough to steady himself. It was going to have to be enough to fake it.

  “Sure,” Will said. He whipped out a file folder of music as if he’d just found something he’d been searching for. “Meet me up at the front.”

  Will signed four more bathroom passes on the way out of the office and back to the director’s stand. He almost tripped on the felt-covered platform but recovered quickly. No one had noticed. He sat down on the chair just as he overheard someone say, “Thank God we get to skip fifth period today. I hadn’t studied for my math quiz at all.”

  Will had to look away for a minute to compose himself before he turned back around and faced the class.

  “I want to address what happened today,” Will said. He leaned forward against the podium, as much for support as to get a better look at his students, all seated now, in their properly aligned rows with their instruments on their laps. “Put down your instruments. Let’s talk.”

  “Ever notice how when a teacher says, ‘Let’s talk,’ they mean, ‘Listen to me talk’?” someone muttered, not quite quietly enough. Phineas again. Will bit back a frustrated sigh.

  “Good point. Did everyone hear Phineas? He’s absolutely right. I did not mean ‘Let’s talk.’ I did indeed mean, ‘Listen to me talk.’ And what’s the rule I told you on the first day of school?” Will brandished his baton. “The baton rules. He who holds the baton makes the rules. It’s true in music as well as in life. Now listen up.”

  If Phineas didn’t look exactly repentant, at least he was quiet now. “You all already know that the medical emergency the principal was talking about on the announcements was an attempted suicide. Yes, a student had a gun at school. Yes, we were on lockdown because there was a gun on campus. You already know this, so I won’t pretend you don’t. And maybe that’s not the right thing for me to do.”

  That got their attention. A few of the students sat up straighter, while others frowned a little. Will wondered if they could tell his heart was racing. He was in too deep to stop now, so he continued: “I honestly don’t know. See, some people tell teachers that we should address the big issues with our students head-on. No holds barred, we should tell you whatever you want to know. Other people say we need to hold back the stuff you don’t need to hear. Don’t burden children with information they aren’t prepared to handle.” Will tapped the edge of the podium. “I think either way of doing things might be right and might be wrong. Maybe a little of both.”

  For once, Will wished someone would come out with a smart aleck comment. He was sinking in deep. “Here’s what I do know: whatever your problem is, whatever is going on in your life, people are here to help you. We have guidance counselors in the front office, we have a resource officer in the hallways, we have peer support counselors and lunch bunches if you want to talk with another student. And there’s me. Your teachers care about you. We want to help you. Whatever it is, whether it’s your grades or your friends or your parents or any problem, big or small, we don’t want you to feel like you have to handle it alone.”

  “Aww. Thanks, Mr. S. We love you too,” said someone in the second row. She meant it sincerely, Will thought, but a couple of the students snickered anyway.

  “Quiet,” snapped a self-righteous French horn player. “He would know. Wasn’t there a school shooting in your class when you were in college? My mom told me.”

  And there it was. Will wondered what it would have been like to be a teacher before everyone was searchable on the Internet. “Kind of. I wasn’t in class. My wife and I were in the Student Union, and there was an active shooter.” How much should he tell? How much could he stand to tell?

  “You were married when you were in college?” someone called out.

  “No. My wife and I didn’t know each other at the time. That’s how we met. She was shot—” Will’s throat constricted. Better pull it together. “And I found her.”

  “You saved her life? That’s how you met?” cooed the French horn player’s buddy. “That’s so romantic!”

  In an instant, Will felt as if he were back there, holding the body of the girl he didn’t know, trying to press down against the blood that squirted out of her blouse like a fountain. He could still smell the coppery scent of her blood and see her eyes roll back in her head. Feel the weight of her sinking into his lap.

  “No,” Will said. “It wasn’t. It wasn’t romantic at all.”

  3 Reasons I Wish I Could Have a Time Wreck

  and 4 Reasons I Know I Can’t

  By Brian Kendall

  Long ago, before timeline rectifications, before the Internet, before reality television or answering machines or any of the other modern-day annoyances that have come to plague my life, there was a young man. He was sixteen years old and his name was Johnathan.

  Johnathan was five-foot-eleven, played basketball at his high school, and was dating a girl named Becky. Like most high school boys, he aspired to many things: becoming an astronaut, visiting his uncle’s ranch in Wyoming, passing his geometry class.

  Johnathan did none of these things, because on one warm spring evening, he was riding his bicycle home from Becky’s house. He was out later than he was supposed to be and was pedaling home as fast as he could; trying, I expect, to make curfew. He was not wearing a helmet, as children often didn’t back in the seventies. He was not watching the road, and thus he did not see the car coming around a sharp bend up ahead. The driver of the car also did not see him.

  Johnathan was killed immediately on impact.

  I was the driver of that car.

  In the nearly forty years since that horrible night, I have heard many young people talk about this concept of “justice.” Of late, the most heavily debated iteration of criminal justice is timeline rectification, and, if you’ll permit me, I’d like to give you the perspective of one old man who wishes more than anything that he could be a time wrecker. These are the top three reasons I would gladly take a timeline rectification:

  Johnathan’s death was easily avoidable.

  Those of you who have grieved are doubtlessly familiar with the “if only” game. I’ll share the highlights of mine:

  If only I had waited five minutes to go to the store. Alternatively: if only I had gone five minutes earlier.

  If only he had reflectors on his bicycle, I might have seen him.

  If only I had taken that turn more slowly.

  If only he had been wearing a helmet.

  That a person should die due to factors as small and easily rectified as these adds an additional level of horror and injustice to that night.

  His passing cast a pall on all who knew him . . . and many who didn’t.

  I have never claimed to grieve at the same level as those who knew Johnathan: his parents, his friends, his schoolmates. I can only imagine the burden of grief they carry and the hole that his loss has left in their lives. Despite never having laid eyes on this young man until the accident, after his death I became somewhat obsessed with trying to honor the life that I had, wholly unwittingly, brought to an end. I read his obituary, the memorial in his school’s yearbook, and every article the newspaper printed about the accident. It was his death and my role in the accident that caused me to descend into alcoholism, which additionally cost me my wife, my house, and my job. I went from being a full-time father to an every-other-weekend parent—that is, when I was sober enough to pick up the kids. After a hell of a fight and two years of sobriety, I have now regained a job, an apartment, and a strained relatio
nship with one of my children.

  Johnathan deserved to live.

  And don’t we all? Whether Johnathan had continued to play basketball or date Becky, whether he ever became an astronaut or passed that geometry class, he deserved to live.

  However, timeline rectification is a tricky business. The government does not simply turn back time for every sad old man who wishes he’d lived differently. There are four reasons that I will never be able to take back that night.

  Legally, the accident was not a crime.

  Certainly, I have felt the weight of my role as a killer each day of my life. Legally, however, no charges were ever filed, and none were ever sought. This was an accident. According to the rules and statutes of the justice system, there can be no rectification for events that were not criminal.

  There was a fatality.

  Timeline rectifications are not performed for incidents that resulted in a pregnancy or a death. I understand, in principle, why the Department of Timeline Rectification would make such a stipulation. In my heart, I think those of us who have seen crimes result in loss of life wish for the opportunity to turn back time even more earnestly.

  The accident occurred before 2000.

  The technology for timeline rectification has existed since 1999, when the Supreme Court ruling was made. Presumably, Dr. Bennington had invented it before that, earlier in the nineties. However, partly due to the ruling and partly due to preventing some type of time paradox, we cannot change events that occurred before timeline rectification was first enacted under law.