“Any movement in there?”
“A lot of black in here.”
“What about that corner?”
“It’s all black.”
“Damn.”
“Wait.”
“What you got?”
“Got one.”
Someone’s kicking me. I can move my eyes. There’s someone there. I think that’s the person kicking me. Look around. That’s the only person I can see.
“Checking red!”
“Go.”
He gets closer. It’s my security guard. The one who never checks my bag. He’s touching my hand. Pressing fingers into my neck, pressing on my wrist. “Can you hear me?”
He’s smiling.
He’s prying something out of my grip. My hand is clenched. He presses it flat on the floor. I’m holding something. What? Oh yeah. It’s the mirror shard from my bathroom.
“You cold?”
I nod my head.
“Come’ere baby.” The ceiling moves behind his head. We’re going up. “Red coming out!”
Someone I can’t see. “Stretcher!”
“Come’ere baby.” Arm under my neck. “Straighten her up.” I’m moving my legs. I’ve still got the mirror shard in my hand. It’s like the muscles in my hand are being controlled by someone else. We’re going out of the lunchroom. It feels like he’s gonna drop me. “Red coming out!”
“Bring out your red!”
“I gotcha, baby, I gotcha.”
“Holy fuck what happened to that one? She in a knife fight?”
“She did it herself.”
“When did she do that? Motherfuck me.” Then to the radio. “Send a fucking surgeon.” “Holy motherfuck. Here sweetie. Jesus Christ. Give her to me. Give her to me. Check for more. Check for more.”
Handing me over.
“What’s she got in her hand?”
“Mirror.”
“Jesus mother of fuck. Take my mic.” Shuffling me around. Now that guy has me. “Sweetie, you’re ok. What happened to you? Why’d you do this?”
Their hands on my arm. Turning my arm. “Look at that shit.”
“She do this before or after? Check for more.” The guy gets his mic back. He’s setting me down. Putting my head on something soft. I feel buttons. A jacket. He’s talking into his mic. “Critical in need of life support. Southeast entrance. Twenty yards.”
I see a class photo upside-down. I can read the year. 1978. The glass in the frame is broken, but the picture is still hung perfectly straight. There’s blood on the floor. Mine?
Someone yells. “Where the fuck were you guys?” They don’t sound at all concerned. Chirp on the radio. “Gonna need about—life support—send—”
I can’t tell what they’re saying.
I’m more awake now. I can see my hand. Mirror shard. Oh right. Yeah. I did this.
The first guy, my security guard. He’s next to me. “What do you got here?” He tugs on my hand.
I look at him. Loosen my grip. Let the mirror fall.
He picks up the mirror shard. “You’re ok. You’re gonna be fine.”
His mic is talking. “—sure hope you’re ordering—pizza otherwise I don’t—the fuck you’re doing.”
He talks back to them. “You’re right here. Come through. Corner door.”
“I’m—at—door. I don’t see—”
“We’re in the hallway.”
“What are you doing—hold on. Yo! What the fuck—?”
I hear a door cracking at the hinges and paramedics are running by. I think I’m better. I can move a little. What made my neck sore?
“You’re gonna be ok.” The security guard is turning the mirror in his hand. “Where’d this come from? Move your foot, ok? Bend your knee.” I do it. “Can you bend the other one?” I do it. “You ok? Look at me. Where’s your worst pain?” There’s a stretcher coming out. “Look at me.” Holding the mirror up. “What’s going on with this?”
My face, reflected. Bruises, blood.
“You’re gonna die anyway, you don’t need to help.”
Somebody comes in behind him. “She stable?”
“No.”
“Let me take a look.”
There’s maybe ten kids in the hallway. Two security guards. Five paramedics. William, where are you? Did you go to my house?
The security guard’s fingers dig into my shoulder. “You’re good. You’re gonna be fine.”
I move my fingers. I didn’t know he’d been holding my hand.
He lets go. He looks surprised that he was doing it.
Another paramedic comes in behind him. The security guard is instantly out and the paramedics are all over me.
I think I can actually get up now. I think I can actually stand.
“Whoah! Where do you think you’re going?” Hands on me.
I’m pretty sure I’m fine now.
“Lie back.”
“I’m fine.” I’m standing.
“”You gotta lie down while we finish your arm!”
“My arm’s fine.” All I need here is some tape.
“You need to be still. We’re gonna stitch that up. Just stay still.”
“Oh don’t worry.” I say. I lie back down. “I do this all the time.”
The paramedic is yelling. “What about in there? Talk to me. Hell-lo? Finch!? Talk to me!”
A guy yells back from the lunchroom. “Yeah.”
“What is the situation in there?”
“All black.”
“It’s all black in there?”
“Yeah.”
“Then get out here and give me a hand with this one.”
Everything shakes.
The air rushing.
Class photos shatter. Their frames fall.
One of the main doors tears off its hinges. The metal detectors are in pieces. Everything is dull, all the sound muted.
I don’t remember standing. But I am.
Everyone is lying down in the front hallway. Everyone is down.
Martin Shapiro rights himself. He’s still here? Wow.
I look back. One of the paramedics is standing up. The other one is crumpled over my stretcher.
Dragging my arm behind me. It’s attached. I’m fine. Got half-worked stitches dangling out of my skin but that’s cosmetic. Check my legs. Yep. Still there. Boots on. Totally fine. Pair of scissors clanking along on the floor. They’re attached to some plastic tubing taped to the back of my hand.
I push on the door to the teacher’s parking lot. It’s chained shut. Sounds of people outside. I try the auditorium doors. Locked. Eerie speech from inside, cavern of whispers.
I go back to the lunchroom. Left my bag.
“Get out of the way!” Soldiers pointing guns at me. “Miss! Miss! Do not come in here!”
There are dogs in the lunchroom. Beagles. Soldiers walking them on leashes. Small fire on the lunch trays. Everything sounds hollow. A military guy combing through burned bodies and chairs. There’s my bag. With a neon orange X spray-painted on the back of it. I put it on. Adjust the straps, they’re cutting into my shoulders. Why don’t they make these straps thicker?
“Miss! Stop moving!”
I don’t have to talk to them. They don’t own this cafeteria.
There’s an arm on the floor. Severed in a fuzzy way below the elbow. I pick it up.
Confused glances between the two soldiers. “You want to put that down?”
“Do you know who this is?”
“Put it down. Put it on the floor. I’m gonna be sick.”
“Whose fault is it that she’s like this?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well I don’t know either but it isn’t hers. Keep this till we find out who this is. Don’t shake your head at me. You don’t own me. I’ve had people all day telling me what to do. Take a number!” I step into his gun.
The soldier moves back, startled.
That’s right. That’s right. “What are y’all doing here? We don’t allow guns in our school. Didn’t you see the metal detectors?” Keep going. Fuckheads.
“Miss you can’t be in here.” The soldier is looking at the fishing line and plastic tubing taped to my arm.
“This belongs to someone.” I shake the limb. “We’re gonna find out who.”
“Miss. Miss. You can’t take anything out of this room.”
“Why not?”
“Take off the bag.”
“It’s mine!”
“Take it off. Put your knees on the floor.” They’re coming toward me. They’re gonna stop me. “Put your knees on the floor!”
I make a step backwards. “I’m not giving you my bag. You want my books? I have to use these for homework.” I open my bookbag and hold up a paperback. “You want my Heinlein?” I throw it on the floor. I pull out my AP Bio textbook. “I’ve got to write a paper with this tonight on origins of parthenogenetic species. You want to help me with that?”
The soldiers have stopped coming toward me. Their eyes are wide. They grip their guns. “Jesus Christ.” That guy is sweating. “Miss. Just stop moving. Stop moving!”
I don’t know why I’m doing what I’m doing. I’m starting to feel good for once. I turn my back on them and walk out of the lunchroom.
“Miss. Miss! If you take another step I will shoot you.”
But here’s the thing, see. Somehow I don’t think you will. I go out of the lunchroom. Can I make myself throw up by thinking about it? I should have died earlier. I might get my chance to now.
“Do not move! Miss!”
I keep walking.
They’re on their mics. “T-C-M possible! Ordnance moving! Please advise!”
Squawk back over the air. “What?!—Who is in possession?”
“A student. Over.”
“—fuck did that—happening down there!!?—”
They’re following me, but from an increasing distance.
“Is there another detonator?”
“—don’t know!—”
“What the fuck miss? Miss. I’m trying to help you. Please stop moving!”
I don’t want your help.
Continued click of boots behind me.
I’m at the private lesson rooms. Nobody’s here. Three closed doors. Lights on in two. I open the middle one. Shuffling. Something knocked over. Open the door all the way. Marcel’s butt is in the air. He’s kneeling over Artemis. So Marcel isn’t a virgin after all. I was wrong about you, Marcel. Way to go Artemis. You probably could have done better than Marcel Hallows. But whatever.
The guy behind me shouts. “Stay away from the door!”
Startled looks from Marcel and Artemis. I smirk, close the door on them. Ten feet away I turn and go back.
The soldier guy backs up. He still has his gun pointed at me.
I knock on the private lesson door. “Do y’all know what’s going on out here?” Silence. I shake my head. They’re probably as well off in there as anywhere. “Nevermind.” Carry on.
When I find that boy I’m gonna kill him. Was this your plan, William? Did you want to help these idiots blow up the school?
I’m in a computer classroom, army dude is waiting outside. This kid I’m looking at is gone. I stand. The side of his head is missing and there’s a hole in the LCD in front of him. The kid is slumped forward on the keyboard, but the screen is still working, mostly. Geometry problems in a window. Kid’s wearing a striped shirt—blue, white, and yellow. Fat blue-and-yellow stripes with white ones, thin, between the blue and yellow. Like those snakes with three colors but it matters which order they go in, ‘cause if it goes red, black, then yellow, it’s poisonous. But if it goes black, then red, then yellow, it’s harmless.
I turn around. I’m the only one in this room who’s alive. Army dude is keeping his distance from me. There are rows of kids at screens in here. All gone. One girl has a box on her screen that says “Click OK to Continue.” It’s a ninth grade class. Here’s a goth girl with fishnet tights. I’ve seen her before. Black hair, black fingernails, blood red lips. It’s June. Brown in the corners of her mouth, little crusts of dryness. She’s extra pale now.
The kid next to her has a pin on his bag that says “I love girl scouting.”
I poke June’s head. She doesn’t move.
By what’s on her desk, it looks like she coughed up blood and part of her stomach.
A kid with his pencil case bloody, SpongeBob Square Pants mousepad.
A girl who used to have blond hair. Light blue dress. Shoes with fake buckles.
Wooden desk. The teacher. Crumpled in the corner by the flag. She must have tried to hide.
I look at the board. They’re learning about angles. Acute. Obtuse. Right. There are three-hundred sixty degrees in a circle. Tomorrow’s work: take a picture of something in your house that has an acute angle. The can opener. The medicine cabinet if it’s slightly open. The spokes on my bicycle tire. Take a picture of something in your house that has an obtuse angle. Barbie’s legs if she’s really horny. The medicine cabinet if it’s wide open. The semi-hexagonal bay windows in the living room. Take a picture of something in your house that has a right angle. Barbie’s legs if she’s not quite so horny. The medicine cabinet—if it’s open to a right angle. Underlined on the board: DO NOT FORGET.
I go outside and my military dudes are in a line going back down the hallway. The closest one is twenty feet away. Then there’s twenty feet between him and the next guy, then twenty more feet before the next guy. Four of them like that. Watching me.
I bang on the door to 128. It opens. Everyone’s huddled halfway under their desks, wide eyes, mouths closed, watching me. I lean in the room, look around. “Where’s Mrs. Guerin?”
Wild shaking of heads, fingers over lips, waving arms back and forth. I look back into the hall. Not sure what they’re shaking their heads about. I duck out. Pull the door to and hear it click shut.
Ghost town.
Hallway. I find an end, corner it. Kayla’s there. She giggles, pointing at me. Around the corner, here comes Spencer. He looks both ways. He’s got a detonator in his hand. I back off. The military guys back off behind me. Spencer moving away. He looks back at me. He starts running.
“I can’t get picture down that corner.” It’s one of the soldiers, two guys behind me.
“Roger that.”
“What’s that kid’s name?” The soldiers are yelling at Kayla. You. Girl in the purple. What’s that kid’s name with the bomb.”
“He doesn’t have a bomb.”
I grab Kayla’s arm and push her back into a classroom. “Kayla. Don’t come out.”
“ ‘I’ you ‘e’iver my ‘ote?”
“I’m about to.”
“ ‘E’iver i’.”
“I will. Just go in there and close the door.”
“Girl in the purple! The kid with the bomb. What is his name?”
I roll my eyes. “She’s retarded. Leave her alone.”
“Miss, I’m reminding you that you are in extreme danger. Please lower your bag. Just put it on the ground.”
I grab Kayla by her overall straps. I make my eyes say I’m serious. “Stay inside. Don’t come out.”
She goes in the room. She saw my eyes.
I pass the gym.
The guys behind me are coordinating. “These doors.” Double doors. Fire doors. “Seal everyone back. Seal everyone back. Lock these doors. Do you understand. Everyone behind that wall. Lock the doors and everyone behind that wall. What’s back there?”
“The showers.”
“Does it have an exit? It exits to the hallway?”
“Yeah.”
“Get everyone out of there. Get ‘em behind these doors. Lock this and get everyone behind this wall. One minute. Got me? One minute, do this.”
“Ok.”
“Good.”
All that from behind me.
“Spencer?! Spencer??” I’m moving down the hall. Come’ere you dumb shit. Are you even here anymore? Poor kid. Semi-intellectual. Loner. Everyone thinks he’s weird. The main crime committed in this school is the track team de-pants-ing Spencer. That shit happens all the time. “Spencer?!”
A teacher looks out at me from a classroom.
“Spencer in there?”
Teacher shakes his head, looking me up and down.
From behind me, the lead military guy says. “Lock your door.”
Next classroom. I go in. “Spencer in here?”
A chorus of “no”s.
“Where’s your teacher?”
“We don’t have one.”
“Did Spencer go by here?”
A few of them point, all in the same direction. The next classroom?
I back out, check the hall.
As I go to the next classroom the lead military guy goes into the last one. “Listen up. You. Lock this door when I leave. Nobody leaves. Stay in here. Stay down.”
The next classroom door is shut. I knock. No answer. I try the handle. It’s locked. I bang on the door. “Anybody in there?”
Some desks being moved. A desk falling over?
I bang on the door again. “Spencer?”
Then screams from inside.
“Spencer?? Hey. There’s a whole bunch of military guys out here. I think they want to hear what you have to say. What’ch’all got going on in there?”
A single yelp, like the sound a cat makes when you accidentally step on his paw—except if a human made that sound. Then a muffled: “Shut the fuck up.” And more desks moving.
Military voice from behind me. “Multiples in a class on the back hall.” Then someone on the radio. Then. “I don’t know.”
I bang on the door. “Spencer?!”
More shuffling and then a bang on the door from inside. A sound like someone kicking it. Then. “My name’s.”—“Not.”—“Spencer!!”
But it’s Spencer’s voice.
I look back at the military guys. They’re still with me. I rest my head against the classroom door. “Ok.” I’m picking at the half-sewn stitches in my arm. “What is your name?”
Silence.
What is your name?
The lock clicks open. I go in. I stand in the doorway. All the kids are backed up against the wall. Some chairs knocked over. Spencer is sitting cross-legged on the teacher’s desk with the neoprene grip-thing in his hand. I look at the kids. Jenna’s there. Kristen Picket. About 20 others. Spencer is holding himself perfectly still. Rigid. Like he’s frozen. How did I end up in a room with this kid? Stupid boy. Why did you go through with this thing? I wish you had already blown yourself up with it.
“Is there another detonator?”
“I.”—“Don’t even.”—“Know.”—“What the.”— detonator is.”—“”What does it.”—“Look like?”
“It’s that thing in your hand.” The molded black neoprene hand grip. It’s like a handle with grips all around it.
“I haven’t seen any.”—“”Detonators.”—“No.”—“Haven’t seen any of those.”
New voice in the hallway. “They were probably keeping ‘em separately. This the room?”
“Yes sir.”
This new guy strolls in carrying a laminated floor plan of the building. He’s dressed like a commander. He’s holding up a flat black ball, right by his head. He’s asking me matter-of-factly. “Have you seen any other pieces like this?” More soldiers behind him. Backing him up with machine guns. He speaks calmly to the soldiers, without ever taking his eyes from me and Spencer. “This hallway. Check and clear. Check each room. Clear the room. Check back.” Behind the commander, soldiers shoot out the lock on the classroom across the hall. They enter the room. Five seconds later they’re moving a train of kids away from our door.
The commander clips his mic to a strap on his arm and in the same movement brings his weapon to his face. Now he’s got a stubby machine gun on Spencer. The commander’s eyes are directly on mine.
Behind him, soldiers are moving kids out of the classroom and toward the double doors leading into the sunlight.
The commander is asking me. “Has he made any demands?”
I shake my head.
“You been talking with him?”
“Not really.”
“You know this kid?”
I’m not sure what to say to that.
The commander looks at Spencer. “I know him. Spencer Ellis. How you doing Mr. Ellis?”
Spencer squints his eyes.
“He said not to call him that.”
“That’s his name.”
I step toward the commander. “I know, but—”
The commander taps his mic. “Open and hold. On two. One.”
“He says his name’s not Spencer right now. He asked me not to call him that.”
The commander gives me a look of acknowledgment “Two.” He says.
Pops from behind us. Soldiers spill through the doorway, two on each side. Screams from the kids in the room. Two soldiers cross the open door, face it, turn, survey the room.
The commander looks at me. He can tell I want to get out of here. He shakes his head and says. “Spencer Ellis?”
Spencer raises his detonator hand. “Spencer’s not.”—“Here today.”
“Who am I talking to?”
“You might want to check.”—“Her bag.” Spencer’s pointing at me with the detonator.
The commander motions to me. “Why is that?”
I unshoulder one of the straps of my bag.
“Here’s the deal. See that thing?”
The thing in Spencer’s hand? Yeah, I see that.
“That’s the detonator.”
“Why’s it have tape on it?”
“That’s supposed to keep it from going off. Sometimes we wrap ‘em in Styrofoam and duct tape to keep them from going off. But it’s very unstable like that. It’s designed to be.”
Spencer raises his voice. “Check.”—“The bag!”
The commander takes a quick look at me and then his eyes are back on Spencer. “Open it. Go ahead.” His machine gun is on Spencer.
I shuffle off the other strap. Drop the bag. It hits the floor and I hear flat metal clicks from inside along with thuds from all the books.
I kick it.
The soldiers are yelling. “Don’t touch it! Don’t touch it!”
“What’s in her bag?” That’s Kristen Picket.
“I think it’s part of the bomb.”
“That was a bomb?”
Jenna gives Kristen the silence look.
Spencer says. “It’s in pieces.”—“They’re.”—“Spread around the school.”
Commotion from the kids against the wall.
Two soldiers are on my bag, sliding it toward the commander. One is opening the buckle. She’s a girl. “Push it up here. Opening! Back away.” The girl soldier opens my bag. The other one steps backward.
The commander is talking to the girl soldier. “What do we got?”
The girl soldier opens the mouth of my bag with ceramic-looking pliers, two feet long. She picks through my stuff. She takes out my Calculus book. Opens the cover with her tongs. Goes back into my bag.
And takes out a matte-black, flat-faced ball.
From the lunchroom. From the developing lab. Wrapped in black plastic when I was looking for my Photo-Flo. Irregular polygonal faces. Perfectly seamless. Five cushy buttons on the outside. Guess tac-mine operators have to have a full set of digits. Plush buttons, look like you could take them off with a razor. Like they’re not physically connected with whatever’s inside, just stuck on the surface.
Spencer says. “There’s a whole crate of them.”—“In the auditorium.”—“They’ve been there for.”—“A week.”
The commander clicks a switch on his mic.
“Mendoza, Mendoza. Anders here.”
“Mendoza. Go ahead.”
“Uh.”
“Anders?”
Anders clicks his mic. “We got a tac-mine situation in 109. Clear the building over?”