This Is Not a Drill

by Beck McDowell

  And then he elbows me in the chest, hard, with his free arm, and I feel the air leave my lungs. I make one last lunge for the gun and pull his hand down hard toward me. The last thing I see is the nose pointed downward. I’m looking down the barrel of Stutts’s gun. Then the world explodes, and a white-hot pain sears my chest.

  CHAPTER 23

  EMERY

  It all happens so fast.

  Stutts’s howling wakes up Patrick and I go to comfort him. Before I can reach him, I watch in terror as Stutts points the gun at his own head.

  Then Jake lunges at Stutts, knocking his chair to the ground. Jake rolls on the floor with Stutts, reaching for the gun. In slow motion I watch, helpless, as the gun turns toward Jake. Time stops, and then . . . and then I feel the blast with my whole being as Jake is knocked backward and falls limp to the floor. I scream, unable to move. No, oh Jake, no! Please, God, no, not Jake!

  What happens in the next second is a blur.

  There is a sudden flash of movement below me.

  Something streaks past me on the floor.

  Mr. Worley.

  The tiny animal darts out into the hall, and before I can stop him, Patrick jumps up from his seat and dives into the hallway after the hamster.

  A shot rings out, and I watch in horror as Patrick, little Patrick, collapses in a small heap on the hallway floor, motionless.

  “Paaatriiick!” Stutts screams. He lunges into the hall, propelled through the air by terror and grief, gun still in hand. Another shot echoes through the stunned silence, reverberating through the building. I watch as Stutts’s body twists sideways, suspended in the air. Then he falls beside his son.

  CHAPTER 24

  JAKE

  I FLOAT THROUGH THE VELVET DARKNESS, peaceful and warm. I hear distant voices, but I can’t make out their words; I don’t feel connected to them.

  And then the lightness of being is gone and my body feels massive. I’m tired. So very tired . . .

  I feel someone rocking me and at first I think it’s my mother.

  And then I think it’s Emery.

  And then both of them are holding me and their tears wet my face.

  CHAPTER 25

  EMERY

  Patrick is down and Stutts is down and Jake is bleeding in my arms. Then the police and paramedics rush in and strap Jake to a stretcher and I can’t see him. I can’t see if he’s okay. I sit crumpled on the floor until they lift me up and walk me out to an ambulance. They drive through the crowds of parents and reporters and policemen to the hospital, and I want to see Jake, but they tell me they have to check me out. And then my mom is there, and she tells me Patrick is okay and Jake is in surgery.

  There’s so much I want to say to him. And I don’t know if I’ll ever see him alive again.

  I feel like I’m suffocating. There’s a hole in my chest, too. I can’t lose Jake. Not now.

  Finally they come and they tell me Jake is all right, and I start crying and I can’t stop.

  After what seems like hours, the doctor releases me and they let me go to Intensive Care to be with him. He’s pale and he’s unconscious, but he’s stable, they tell me.

  I pull a chair close to his bed so that I can see the rise and fall of Jake’s chest. I feel my breathing fall into the same pattern, as if I’m breathing for him. It’s dark when he finally wakes up and sees me there beside him and squeezes my fingers.

  Maybe Stutts was right. You can’t truly see what’s good in your life without a reminder of how easily you could lose it. And I’m not going to spend one more minute letting yesterday’s anger rob me of today’s happiness.

  CHAPTER 26

  JAKE

  I OPEN MY EYES AND EMERY IS THERE. She’s wrapped in a blanket in a chair beside me—leaning on my bed, holding my hand.

  There’s a tube running out of my side. A shaft of fire shoots through my shoulder when I reach for it.

  “That’s a chest tube,” she says. “They’ll take it out after a few days.”

  Chest tube? What the hell?

  “I know it’s uncomfortable, but try not to mess with it. They had to reinflate your lung.”

  My lung? Emery’s image blurs and I blink to clear the fog in my head.

  “Are you hurting?” she asks. “How bad is it?”

  Bad. Real bad. No one’s ever set me on fire before, but I’m pretty sure this is what they call a ten out of ten.

  “Do you want me to get your dad?” she asks. “He just stepped out in the hall.”

  I try to speak but all that comes out is a hoarse croak. I look over at the window; it’s dark outside.

  “You’re at Hensonville Hospital. The doctors say you’re gonna be fine, Jake.”

  Fine. I’m gonna be fine. There are tubes and wires and bags and machines. And I definitely don’t feel fine.

  “Do you remember what happened today?” Emery asks.

  I try to focus. And then it starts to come back. There was a gun. I was rolling on the floor with . . .

  Stutts. Stutts! I remember.

  “You were shot in the chest. The bullet just nicked a lung, and you’re in ICU.” Emery’s voice catches. I squeeze her hand. “You were in surgery for over an hour. But the doctors say you’ll make a full recovery. Oh, Jake, we were so lucky it missed your heart. And that it didn’t hit any of the kids.”

  The kids! I reach for the bed rail. Pain shoots through my body, and Emery grabs my arm.

  “The kids are fine, Jake. All of them. They’re all with their parents. Mrs. Campbell’s good, too; she called earlier to check on you—and to say how proud she is of us. And Patrick’s gonna be okay. He’s here. His mom’s with him.”

  “Patrick?” I whisper.

  “Oh God, I’m sorry,” she says. “I forgot you didn’t know about Patrick.”

  She brings her face close to mine and speaks slowly. “After you were shot, Mr. Worley ran out into the hall.”

  Mr. Worley—the hamster.

  “Patrick dove after him, and the police—it was a rookie cop, a young guy—fired at him.”

  The cops shot Patrick?

  “What happened was, the cops were moving in because they felt like they were running out of time. They heard the blast when you got shot—”

  The gun—it was aimed at me.

  “—and this young cop,” she says, “the new guy, panicked. When he saw someone streak out into the hall, he just fired.”

  It’s all so fuzzy. Patrick got shot?

  “Thank God the guy’s not a very good shot. The bullet just grazed Patrick’s head. He has a concussion, and they’re keeping him here overnight for observation.”

  I can’t follow it all. I lie still for a few minutes, trying not to think about all the places I hurt, and I feel myself drifting off.

  • • •

  Then my dad is standing over me.

  “Jake, thank God you’re okay!”

  He lays his hand on my arm and touches my shoulder like he’s trying to make sure all the pieces of me are there. His eyes are red and his clothes are wrinkled and stained. Is that blood on his shirt?

  “I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you, too,” he says in a strangled voice.

  Emery’s smiling at me. She hasn’t looked at me that way in a long time.

  “Emery told us what happened,” he says. “You were so brave, Jake—too brave.”

  Did my dad just call me brave?

  “You should never have—” He stops and looks away. “He could have killed you. He almost did. But I know you did what you had to do, for the kids. I’m proud of you, son.” He pauses. “Your mother would be proud of you, too.”

  My eyes are stinging and there’s a lump in my throat.

  Dad pulls himself together. He’s back in mayor mode. “I’m sad for his family, of course, and for the family of the security guard. Their deaths are a great tragedy, but it could have been so much worse.”

  I frown at Emery. Did he say Stutts is dead?

  “Stutts didn
’t make it,” she says.

  “Did I . . . ?” I whisper.

  “No, you didn’t shoot him, Jake. After the gun went off and you were shot, then Patrick was shot,” Emery says, spelling it out like she’s talking to a first grader, which I appreciate in my drug haze. “And when Stutts saw Patrick down, he ran out into the hall. He still had the gun in his hand, and they shot him. They felt like they had to take him down after—after they heard the shot he fired when you went down. They weren’t sure what he might do.

  “The kids—they didn’t see what I saw, thank God,” she says, tears starting up again. “I don’t think he meant to shoot you. I’m not sure. I think the gun went off accidentally, but I just don’t know. It all—it all happened so fast,” she says. “It’s kind of a blur to me, too. We can talk about it later, when you’re not on pain meds.”

  Pain meds. So foggy.

  “You just have to take it slow for a while. No more heroics for a while, Biscuit.”

  Heroics? Me? My dad’s phone buzzes and he steps out of the room.

  “Jake?” Emery reaches over and turns my face toward her.

  She’s looking at me with those green eyes shining, like she can see way past this bed and this room.

  “Thank you,” she whispers.

  I’m confused, but it’s a good confusion.

  “For what you did. For Patrick. For the kids. For me.”

  I try to shrug and the pain is blinding. Must remember not to move.

  “And for this,” she tells me.

  I look at the paper she’s holding. It looks like my writing.

  “It’s the letter you wrote me.”

  Oh—that letter.

  “I never got it, Jake. Until today.”

  I frown, confused.

  “I remembered you said something while we were there in the classroom about a letter, so when Tab called to check on me, I told her,” Emery says. “She admitted she had it. She took it off the windshield of my car the night you left it.”

  What? Tab? I don’t get it.

  “She says she knew how much you hurt me. And she knew I really liked you.” Her face turns pink—God, she’s so beautiful—and she drops her eyes. “She figured you were trying to make things right. She was afraid I’d go back to you, and she didn’t think I should.”

  Tab! I hurt too much to be mad right now . . . but I’ve got a few choice words for that girl.

  “I know. I’m really mad at her. I honestly don’t know if we can still be friends after this. But she thought she was doing the right thing. Tab’s like that. She thinks she knows what’s best for everybody.” She shrugs. “At least she didn’t open it.”

  She smiles. Aw, man, that smile is killer.

  “I found the pieces of the picture inside the envelope—the one you took of us in art class that day, the one I tore up at my locker. I can’t believe you picked them up and saved them.”

  She looks happy—a good sign. I open my hand and close it again over hers.

  “I’ve missed you,” she whispers. “A lot.”

  The curtain opens and my dad comes in. He sees me holding Emery’s hand and clears his throat. “I, ah, just wanted to see if you need anything,” he says.

  “We’re good.” Emery smiles at him. She doesn’t pull her hand away.

  Suddenly, there’s a commotion to my left as the curtain is yanked aside and The Christine comes barreling into my little cubicle.

  “They told me only two visitors, and I told that nurse I am his stepmother and I have a right to be here. She does not know who she’s dealing with.”

  “Ma’am.” A young nurse is right behind her. “I’m sorry, but you’ll have to . . .”

  Emery’s fighting to keep a straight face.

  “She can take my place,” Dad says. “Come on in, honey; I’ll wait in the hall for a bit.”

  “No, no, I’m just leaving,” Emery says, standing up. “She can have my spot.”

  “Don’t,” I whisper, reaching out to hold on to her.

  She leans down to put a hand on my shoulder.

  “I promised Mom I wouldn’t stay too long. She’s in a panic, as you might imagine. Doesn’t want to let me out of her sight. I’m supposed to call her to come pick me up, but I’ll be back tomorrow. You get some rest. After you visit with Th—Christine.”

  She gives me an oops look after she almost says The. I wink at her, and she blows me a kiss and pulls aside the curtain to leave.

  CHAPTER 27

  EMERY

  I push the lobby button in the elevator and lean against the wall. My legs wobble a little as I walk across the lobby; I hadn’t realized how tired I am.

  A sign above an archway says CHAPEL. In the dimly lit room beyond it, a dark-haired woman kneels alone near the front, her head bowed.

  I know instinctively who she is.

  I step into the room, move quietly past the three rows of church pews, and kneel beside her.

  She looks up at me. Her face is streaked with tears. A rosary is threaded through her long graceful fingers.

  “Are you Silda?” I ask.

  “Yes?” she whispers.

  “I’m Emery Austin,” I tell her, not sure if my name will mean anything to her.

  Before I can say more, she reaches out and takes my hand in both of hers. Her hands are cold, but her grip is strong.

  “Thank you,” she says with a slight accent; she’s pretty and soft-spoken.

  “I didn’t want to disturb you—”

  “No, I wanted to meet you. My baby—my Patrick tells me you gave him hugs. I’m so, so sorry for what . . .” She begins to cry.

  “Is Patrick okay?” I ask.

  She nods, and when she can speak again, she asks, “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “And the boy—”

  “Jake. Jake’s fine, too.”

  “I’m thanking God for sparing Patrick’s life. And I am praying for him to have mercy on my husband’s soul.”

  “I’m so sorry you lost your husband.”

  “I lost Brian months ago,” she says quietly, “in a place far from here. I wish . . . I wish I’d tried harder to help him,” she says. “I didn’t know . . .”

  “No one could have seen what would happen.”

  “No.” She shakes her head.

  “It was obvious that he loved you very much,” I tell her. I’m not sure how much I should say. “Even the way he said your name . . .”

  Her face crumples and she nods. “I wish you could have known Brian—in happier times. He was a good person.” She wipes her face with her hand and says, “I’m afraid Patrick won’t remember him. He’s so young. I wish he could remember what his father was like—before—”

  “He will,” I tell her. And I know I’m right. “He’ll remember his dad. He’ll remember the good days.”

  I reach out and hug her. There doesn’t seem to be anything more to say.

  “Oh,” she says as I’m standing up to leave, “he gave me something to give to you or Jake—Patrick did.”

  She reaches in her purse and hands me a small stuffed animal—Lamby. Lamby with a tiny bloodstain right across his heart. He must have made the trip to the hospital in the ambulance with Patrick.

  “I don’t know how you did it,” she says. “Stayed calm for the children.”

  “They’re great kids,” I answer, my voice cracking a little. “I couldn’t let them down.”

  I dig in my purse for a Kleenex as I walk back out to the lobby.

  Suddenly, my legs nearly give way and I drop into a chair near the front door, clutching the stuffed animal and trying to pull myself together.

  It hits me—hard—that I saw two men die today. Witnessing Michael Higgins’s death and Brian Stutts’s death has changed me in ways I don’t even understand yet. And changed their family’s lives forever.

  A line from a Dylan Thomas poem comes to me: “After the first death, there is no other.” Death can never again be an abstract conc
ept to me. It feels like nothing else will ever have the same impact. Like Stutts said—I know things now I didn’t know before.

  The tears flow and I let them. People walking past try not to look. They’re probably used to crying here.

  The only thing that’s keeping me from coming completely unhinged is knowing I can talk to Jake about it.

  My phone dings and I pull it from my purse. need u the somewhat blurry text says.

  Apparently, Jake got his phone back.

  I smile, blow my nose on the wadded-up tissue, and scroll back to an earlier message I’ve read three times. Emery, call me. Worried sick. Please let me know you’re all right. Dad. I texted him as soon as I got my phone back and saw his message. It’s a number I didn’t have, but one I plan to call later, when I have lots of time to talk.

  And then there are the texts from Mom—a dozen or so—from panicked pleas for reassurance that I’m okay to more recent orders for me to come home and get some rest.

  And then I make a decision, feeling for the first time in a while like the master of my own fate. Mom’ll just have to deal with waiting for me a little longer tonight.

  I know I need rest. But for the first time in a long while, I’m fine.

  Just fine, Valentine.

  I tuck my phone back in my purse and my hand brushes the photograph. I take out the picture Jake took on the first day we talked in art class—now made up of a dozen jagged squares held together with Scotch tape. I smile at our unsuspecting faces—all happy and innocent and hopeful.

  All the pieces were still there—ready to be put back together in the spaces where they belonged. I turn away from the door and walk to the elevator that will take me back to Jake.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I CAN’T BEGIN TO DESCRIBE HOW LOVELY IT IS to work with my Penguin editor, Nancy Paulsen, who felt like a soul sister from our first conversation. I admire her passion for bringing great books to a diverse population of readers, and I respect her judgment in all things. Her expert guidance benefitted this book enormously; she is a writer’s dream editor.