He stops, and I hear sniffles from the back of the room.
“I’m sure you discharged your duties as a soldier admirably.” Mrs. Campbell speaks softly, looking him right in the eye. “I didn’t realize you’re a war hero.”
“Don’t say that word to me!” Stutts shouts. He steps close, towering over her, but Willa Campbell doesn’t blink. “I’m no hero,” he yells. “The heroes are the ones who didn’t come home. Don’t you throw that word around, ’cause you’ve got no idea what it means.” He’s breathing heavy and it’s hard to believe no one’s heard him out in the hall.
Emery comforts Rose, who’s crying softly. “Shh, it’s okay, pumpkin.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Stutts,” Mrs. Campbell says. “I was only trying to honor the sacrifices you’ve made to protect people like me.”
He glares at her. Then his hostile posture deflates a little. After a couple of seconds, he turns away and mumbles, almost to himself, “I was just doing my duty, that’s all.”
“He said doodie,” Mason stage-whispers. I glare at him and he shuts up.
CHAPTER 7
EMERY
Stutts’s screaming has scared the kids half to death, and my knees are shaking again. I don’t know how Mrs. Campbell stands up to him when he’s like that. Jake’s jaw is locked, and I can tell he’s gritting his teeth.
We’re all barely breathing and the tension in the room is thick.
Then—a sudden movement in the doorway causes all of us to look up. I only have a second to register a man there. The security guy. The short, baby-faced one who’s always on his cell phone. He’s standing in the doorway with one hand on his hip and one hand on the door frame, just looking in like he’s about to say something.
What is he thinking? Does he know Stutts is armed? His face doesn’t show any alarm.
Before anyone can say a word, and before the guard has a chance to speak, the unthinkable happens.
It happens so fast, I’m not even sure of what I’m seeing—until it’s over.
Stutts swings his entire body toward the door and raises his arm, all in one motion.
A huge explosion rocks the room.
The security guard grabs his chest and staggers backward, no longer in sight in the doorway.
Stutts’s stance is wide, knees bent, body tensed, his arm outstretched as the echo of the horrendous boom rings through the classroom. There’s a high-pitched tone in my ears and the children’s screams sound far away. We all look from the gun in his hand to the empty doorway, afraid to move.
“Everybody, get down,” Mrs. Campbell yells, and five or six kids immediately slide from their chairs and cower on the floor. As soon as the rest of the kids understand, they hit the floor, too. I slide from my chair and crouch down, hovering over the kids nearest me, spreading my arms out to protect them, knowing it won’t be nearly enough if he starts shooting into the classroom.
“Keep your heads down,” I tell them, my voice shaking.
Oh God, oh God, I think he might have killed him! He shot the security guard! My head feels like it’s going to explode. The room goes white and I struggle to hang on to consciousness.
I look over at Jake, who’s also placed himself between Stutts and the kids on his side of the room. Mrs. Campbell kneels between Stutts and the children near her, shielding them. She has her back to Stutts, totally focused on the kids.
“I told you I’d shoot!” Stutts is yelling, his voice shaking and panicked. “You saw him. He was going for his gun.” He’s pale and sweaty and gasping for breath. He grabs his chest 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—THE SILENT 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 for permission to answer, but he ignores her. “We’re okay,” she says.
“Is anyone hurt?” the tense voice asks.
“No, no one’s hurt.” She pauses. “Not in the room.”
Poor security guy. He was definitely hurt, but we don’t know how badly.
She continues, “Mr. Stutts will not harm the children.” Good move, Mrs. C. She let them know his name and used her self-fulfilling prophecy trick at the same time.
“Quiet!” Stutts cuts her off. “I’ll do the talking here.”
/> “Mr. Stutts, please do not hurt anyone,” the intercom continues. “We’ll do whatever we can to resolve this situation peacefully. Just give us a chance to talk to you about what you want.”
I try to remember the principal’s name; Mrs. Campbell always refers to him as “the Big Cheese.” If she has to go down to the office, she winks at the children and tells them the Big Cheese needs to see her. I haven’t figured out if she likes him or not.
“What I want is to take my son out of here,” Stutts yells, jabbing his finger at the intercom as if the principal can see him.
“Mr. Stutts, let me come down there, and I’ll bring you back here to the office where we can talk.”
“I’m done with talking. You’ve been talking to my wife. You’re all on her side. You just want to keep me from my son.”
“Mr. Stutts, why don’t we—”
“That’s enough,” he yells. “Turn that thing off.”
I hold my breath and, thankfully, the intercom clicks off.
Mrs. Campbell’s face is chalky and I notice sweat beading her upper lip, but she manages to swing into teacher mode.
“Class, everyone needs to move to the reading carpet in the back. We can finish the coloring puzzles we started yesterday,” she says. “I’ll put the crayon boxes on the floor.”
A couple of yays and several relieved smiles. They liked the coloring puzzle.
“But we can’t color on the carpet,” Kimberly says.
“We’ll pass out books for you to hold in your laps,” Mrs. Campbell tells them, and I realize she’s moving them to the floor to keep their heads low. “Quickly, now.” Mrs. Campbell claps her hands at them as they scatter. She reaches for the puzzles from the tray on her desk, and I notice her hand shaking as she holds them out to Jake.
“I’ll get out the crayon boxes,” I tell her.
Jake hands out the puzzles, and Mrs. Campbell passes out books from the bookcase.
Stutts stands in the doorway, gripping Patrick’s arm. As soon as we’ve passed everything out, the kids start coloring. Jake and I sit on the floor with them. Mrs. Campbell walks back up to her desk. She seems exhausted; I watch her hold on to the desktop to lower herself into her chair.
The big clock in the front of the room makes a noise. It’s only 9:45—a little over an hour has passed since Jake and I got here. We should be leaving now to get back to school. Guess they’ll figure out we’re not there at some point. My mom will never let me leave the house again after this—if I ever make it home. Oh God, will I make it home?
All of a sudden, Mason yells out Mrs. Campbell’s name, and I look up just in time to see her slump from her chair to the floor.
CHAPTER 8
JAKE
I watch in total shock as Willa Campbell’s body goes completely limp and she slides from her chair to the floor. What the hell is happening? She lands facedown with her arm bent under her head, almost like she’s just curled up for a nap. Emery jumps up and runs to her, spilling crayons everywhere, and I race to help—not even thinking about that maniac Stutts for once.
Emery kneels beside her; she reaches down and shakes her shoulder. “Mrs. Campbell. Mrs. Campbell, are you okay?” The teacher’s head’s twisted at a weird angle to the side. Her hair’s covering her face, but it’s obvious she’s out cold.
“We need to roll her over to see if she’s hurt,” Emery says, looking up at me.
I reach down and move her as easy as I can. Her face is pale and sweaty, her eyes are closed, and her mouth is open a little.
“Mrs. Campbell,” Emery says, close to her face. “Mrs. C., can you hear me?”
The kids are starting to crowd around. I hold up a hand. “Hey, guys, everybody move back so she can get some air.”
“Is she dead?” Natalie wails.
Emery looks up in shock. “Oh, honey, no.”
“Is she going to be okay?” Rose asks.
“She’s gonna be fine,” I tell her. “She just fainted, that’s all. People do it all the time.”
“Jake, can you help me lean her up?” Emery asks.
I move closer and slide my hand under her back. I lift her shoulders and lean her body against me, holding her head to keep it from rolling. It feels weird touching her like this.
“Mrs. Campbell, can you hear me?” Emery asks again, close to her ear.
Stutts seems to come out of a daze. “What’s going on? Is she okay?” He walks closer, looking back and forth from her to the door. “Wake her up. You hear me? Wake her up!”
Emery gets very still. She’s taking deep breaths and staring at a spot in front of her and squeezing her eyes shut and then opening them. If she has one of those attacks right now, I’m gonna be on my own here.
“Emery, you okay? Don’t you go passing out on me, too,” I say to her in a low voice.
Emery glances up at me and then I can see she’s about to lose it. I’m not sure if she’s mad at herself for nearly fainting or at me for noticing. Or Stutts for—well, being Stutts. She hardly ever gets really steamed, but she can go from angel to kick-ass ninja in about three seconds if you really get her riled.
“Mr. Stutts, I’m trying.” Emery turns on Stutts, facing him down like a warrior. “We’re doing the best we can, so just cut us some slack. And put that gun away before you hurt somebody. This is no time to be waving it around.”
Ohhhh crap, this is not a good plan. “Emery, here, we can use this to fan her.” I grab a notebook from the teacher’s desk, trying to distract her before she really goes off on him. Stutts looks hypnotized; you can tell people don’t stand up to him very often. He doesn’t put the gun away, but he does hold it more carefully at his side.
“You want my water?” Simon asks, holding a plastic bottle toward us. “Mrs. Campbell can have it.”
“Thanks, Simon,” Emery says. “Good idea.”
“You da man, Tarzan,” I say to Simon. “Pour it on this and you can wipe her face with it,” I tell Emery, stripping off the long-sleeved button-down I’m wearing over my T-shirt and handing it over. Oh great. The one day I wear the freakin’ Justin Bieber shirt my grandmother gave me for my birthday. It was all I could find this morning, ’cause my crazy stepmom destroyed all my T-shirts. The Christine went into my room and took scissors and cut out all the slogans she didn’t like. And then she put the mutilated shirts back in my drawer! That woman is crazy as an outhouse rat. I put this one on today ’cause I figured it’d be under my other shirt where no one would see it. Simon checks it out, but Emery doesn’t notice as she pours water on the shirt I’ve handed her.
There’s a soft buzzing sound. Stutts reaches onto the desk and holds out a cell phone to me. It’s mine. “Turn it off. I don’t want to listen to that.” I glance down. Dad. Word has reached the mayor’s office. I turn it off and hand it back to Stutts.
“This one, too.” He hands me another buzzing phone. I switch it off and give it back to him. Looks like the whole town’s heard what’s going on. As much as I hate to worry everybody, I’m glad they know. Maybe somebody’ll figure out what the hell to do.
Emery wipes Mrs. Campbell’s face. Then she stops and looks up.
“Hey, does anybody remember seeing Mrs. Campbell giving herself a shot?”
Mason raises his hand. “I saw her. I came in at lunch one day because I forgot my lunch money, and she had a needle sticked in her arm.” Mason Mayfield III’s very proud of being the keeper of this information; then he looks worried. “She told me not to tell anybody. She said it might scare the other kids.”
“Good job, Mason. That’s important information,” Emery says as she reaches inside Mrs. Campbell’s sleeve. “You did the right thing telling us. Jake, look.” She turns the medic alert bracelet so I can read it.
Emery looks up at Stutts. “She’s diabetic. We’ve got to get her out of here.”
“She has Die-BB’s?” Olivia yells, alarmed.
“It’s okay, honey. She’ll be fine,” Emery says.
“This is
some kinda trick,” Stutts shouts, pacing back and forth. “You just want to let the cops in.”
“Mr. Stutts, Mrs. Campbell needs medical attention,” Emery tells him.
“Diabetic comas are dangerous.” I stand up so I can look him in the eye. I’m almost as tall as he is. “This is serious, man.”
Stutts stares back at me. I move closer so I can talk low without the kids hearing.
“Look, she could die. We can’t let that happen.”
“Don’t tell me what to do,” he says.
I stare him down because I know that one way or another, I’m going to get help for her.
“I’m not letting anybody in here,” he says.
“Just let me carry her out, man. I can take her down to the office and they can call the paramedics.”
“Jake, can you bring me her purse?” Emery asks. “She keeps it under her desk.”
I move to the desk, pick up the purse, and toss it at Emery. “You looking for insulin?”
“Yeah, I guess that’s what she needs, but I’m not sure what to do with it if we find any.” She digs through the bag. “Nothing here.”
“I’ll try her desk,” I say.
I search quickly, plowing through notepads and rulers and pencils and Band-Aids. Nothing.
“Hey, does it have to be refrigerated?” I ask, moving toward the back of the room.
“I don’t know . . . maybe,” Emery says.
I open the minifridge. “Nothing but Diet Cokes.”
I walk back toward Stutts. Mrs. Campbell needs help, and we’re the only ones who can get it for her. “Mr. Stutts, let me carry her to the front office and I’ll come right back. I give you my word I won’t bring anyone back with me.”
This Is Not a Drill Page 5