The Attack
Some days being a teacher sucked. Third period, I gave James a referral to the principal because he wouldn’t sit down. Later, I fretted that I could have been grading the stack of chaotic papers on my desk during my student-free prep period but—I pinched the bridge of my nose—I needed a cold Dr. Pepper.
The afternoon sun beat down on the linoleum floor as I opened the refrigerator to the blast of cooled air, and my fingers wrapped around one of my six cans. The rat-a-tat-tat of an AK-47 pierced the air as my hand slipped from the cool metal, and on reflex, I dove low for cover.
From under one of the tables in the empty lounge, I watched the dark, sugary soda explode from a pin-size puncture in the can due to its collision with the floor.
Settle down. You’re not in Afghanistan. You’re home, safe. My breath heaved from my chest, and I willed my heart to calm down. You’re home. You’re safe.
Embarrassed, I jumped up and grabbed the can, rewarded only with a painted face of soda. That is when I heard the screams and more ta-ta-ta-ta-ta of semiautomatic gunfire. I turned. The staff lounge door hung ajar.
I’d heard gunfire four years earlier, and I’d been the first on the scene when an IED—an improvised explosive device- took out one of our convoys. I’d felt helpless then as I watched a pimply faced soldier barely out of his teens trapped in the Humvee, which burst into flames before I could reach it. That must be it. I imagined it. Post-traumatic stress disorder. PTSD—four little letters for years of waking in a cold sweat.
Humorless laughter tickled my throat. Rap music. Stupid, worried over nothing. Music, that’s all. I should go tell them to turn it down. But why is my hand shaking? As if to shatter all illusions, thick-tongued words echoed in the distance. The words “Allahu Akbar” were shouted over and over. Machine gun fire shook the walls. Male voices.
I rushed to the door. We’d had drills to prepare for an emergency, but this was real. Across the hall, Mr. Mackee in the biology lab craned his neck around his door as if it were a shield. Then he shrugged and gave me a “What the hell?” look. His eyes widened as more gunshots pierced the air. He darted his head back and slammed the door. I heard a click as the lock slid in place.
I gritted my teeth, sticking my head out to see down the hallway. I half expected to see flames and blackened faces burned beyond recognition. But instead, two students ducked into a room down the hall. “Men with guns,” they shouted.
Should I run across the hall, bang on Mackee’s door, and help him get the kids out? We could try to escape out the window. A scream and more gunplay made me freeze. My leaden feet wouldn’t move across the hallway. Sweat beaded on my forehead, and I couldn’t breathe.
But I had to move. Heavy boots resounded from somewhere down the hallway. Banging doors. Stomping, yelling, crying. Gunshots and deadly silence.
I eased the door shut and locked it. I leaned my back against it a moment but then I imagined bullets ripping through it. I jumped up. With a locked door, they’d know someone was in the room. I raced for the window.
The parking lot stretched out two floors below. Half a dozen students ran out toward cars as I pushed the window up. A gun fired, and one of the students dropped to her knees. The others screamed and took off running. I ducked under the windowsill. Oh, no, no, no, no. They’re shooting kids.
My hands danced like a wind up toy as I snatched up my cell phone. I pressed 9-1-1. “What’s your emergency?” a female dispatcher asked.
I gasped, unable to catch my breath. “I . . . I . . . I . . . they’re . . . they’re shooting up our school.”
“Okay, ma’am, slow down. Who is shooting?”
“I don’t know. I tried to get away, but in the parking lot, they just shot her.”
“I’ll get you some help. Stay with me. Where are you?”
“Monroe High School.”
More screams and more gunfire. They sounded closer.
“First thing is to remain calm and get to a secure place.”
I bit my lip to avoid crying. “I’m sorry. This can’t happen. I can’t stop it. I’m sorry.”
I covered my ears with the next series of screams. The phone was pressed to one ear, and the operator asked, “Miss?”
“Sorry. I’m here. There is no secure place.”
“Don’t be sorry. Can you find a good place to hide? I’ll stay with you.”
I scanned the room. “Not the closet, they will look there, but I can try the cupboard.” Shaking, I bent and threw open one of the sliding panels. Two jars of gold colored glitter sat alone on the shelf. I grabbed them and then shoved my way, feet first, into the bottom shelving. A momentary flash of men imprisoned in a burning Humvee made me almost wriggle out again. Steady your breath. You can do this. Fleeing feet and pulsating gunfire sounded closer.
“They’re coming. They’ll hear you,” I told the dispatcher.
“Take me off speaker but keep the phone on with the volume low.”
My finger jabbed at the off button for the speaker twice before connecting as the phone jerked in my sweaty palm. I stuffed the phone in my pocket and carefully slid the panel back in place.
Heavy banging at the door. Men with guns stood outside now. Boots kicked at the door, and the wood warped inward. It splintered in a thundering crash. The door to the lounge hurtled inward. I froze. My hand pressed against the sliding panel. It remained open a foot. Clunky black boots. A young male voice said, “No one here.” An American accent. Not foreigners. What? I’d heard “Allahu Akbar,” right? The lights flipped on.
“Check the closet,” a different male voice said, sounding more like one of my students than a terrorist. “The window. Is anyone out by the cars?” he asked. I shut my eyes. The shelving pressed against the knots in my stomach.
Boots pounded the floor. “No one’s in the parking lot,” said the second voice, a little nasal and high pitched. “What you got?”
I squinted. There were big bulky black boots, and my eyes traveled up to tanned hands and in them a machine gun. The rest of the shooter was too high for me to see from my position. If I moved my head, I might see more, but fear kept me from trying. He’d spoken English well.
Two sets of boots. All they had to do was shove open the panel door and drag me out by the hair. They’d shoot me. I imagined my heartbeat so loud that it reverberated through the wood. Thinking of Edgar Allan Poe’s horror story The Tell-Tale Heart, which we’d read weeks ago in class, I feared it would give me away.
A scream sounded in the hallway, and the murderers’ boots spun around. I ducked to see a student just beyond the doorframe. I recognized Alice. She’d been in my class when I’d done my student teaching the year before. Go back, go back, I could yell. Distract them. The vibration of the gun split the air, and Alice’s arms flailed. Her “I love Pink” T-shirt shredded to a red rag as blood spread over it.
She fell back out of my sight. A loud gasp escaped my lips. “God, no.” The bottom of one of Alice’s Vans tennis shoes faced me.
“What was that?” a voice asked. They’d heard me. As I shrunk into the shelves, the glitter in my hand hit the shelving. One set of boots turned toward me. Oh God, I’m dead. The boot stepped closer.
More screams came from the hallway. The boots pivoted. They were going after the kids. I could maneuver my fingers to grasp the jar. I should bust out of the tight confinement and throw the glass. Get the killers to come after me. But my hands wouldn’t work.
I squeezed my eyes shut again, and when I opened them the boots were gone. They’d left. They would kill someone else, and I didn’t do anything. I’d saved myself. I was such a coward. I began to shake.
Where were the cops? More gunshots. And then over a bullhorn- “This is the LAPD. You’re surrounded. Put down your weapons, and let’s end this peacefully.”
There was nothing peaceful about that screaming and gunplay. But I took a deep breath. Maybe I’d get out of this alive. More gunshots rang out. I put down my head. Please let this end. Please come and save me.
After what felt like forever, I heard the patter of boots. “Shit, they got this kid right in the doorway.” A voice close to me said. I squinted out to see black pants kneel where Alice’s shoe had been.
Another voice yelled, “All clear. Is anyone in here?”
Before I could answer, the first cop stood. “No one’s here.”
“No.” My voice was all air. I coughed and yelled, “I’m in here.” I clawed at the paneling and wriggled out of the tightly pressed shelving, fearing I’d be trapped with gunmen unless I joined the police. They couldn’t leave me. I pushed out the panel and tried to stand. My legs were putty.
I staggered and nearly pitched face first toward the floor. Squinting through the light, I saw the figures of two tall, clean-shaven cops with black vests blocking the door. Blue and red lights from outdoors washed over the wall, and black scuff marks lined the floor. That was where they had stood. Then my eyes traveled to Alice, and I shuddered as I averted my gaze.
“Miss, are you okay?” One brown-haired cop grabbed my arm. My tingling legs were asleep, and my head throbbed. But relief flooded me. I began to sob. A nightmare—nothing more.
The ebony-skinned cop placed a blanket over my shoulders, and I noticed the day had darkened. I stumbled slightly, and the officer caught me. I clung to him. My hammering chest tapped against his thick bulletproof vest an SOS in Morse code. He waited, his vest dripping from my monsoon of tears and my body sagging, trying to evaporate into the black protective vest.
It was like walking through a dream. The air felt dense and hazy, as if smoke blocked my eyes. My feet seemed to float across the tile where streaks of blood washed over the hallway from ceiling to floor. Sheets draped lumps that had to be dead kids. Numbness enveloped me. No, it isn’t true. This didn’t happen. How could it? I had to get out. I stumbled down the concrete steps of the front of the school and passed the bullet-riddled plaster sign displaying “Monroe High School.” I almost asked why anyone would shoot up our sign before I realized how stupid that question was.
Bulbs flashed in my face. Click, click. I raised my elbow to shield my eyes. Reporters pressed in, asking, “What happened in there? How did you get away? Can you tell us how many are dead?”
The ebony-skinned cop on my right put a hand up as if to make a path toward the pulsating red lights of an ambulance. I pulled back. “No, I’m okay. I didn’t get shot.” His grip tightened on my forearm as I reared back and craned my neck to find my Prius. The parking lot was a sea of police cars and SWAT team members intermingled with cops, firefighters, and reporters. “I have to get my papers off my desk. I need to grade them tonight. Then I’ll just go home. I only have a headache. I’m okay.”
I started to turn to head back into the building to go to my classroom when my vision blurred. My knees buckled. Something soft and strong braced my head. I collapsed, and everything went black.
