I always have these dreams before school shooter drills. I never tell Mom, because she hates the drills, hates the whole idea of them, but she also wants me to know what to do. And I have learned. Run, hide, fight—it’s been said to us so often I wonder where “learn” fits in.
The first time I had to do it, it was in a school in Massachusetts, and I didn’t really mind; I was a little kid, and it felt a little bit like a game. But here in Tennessee they really get into it. They run it like they’re training us for the military.
I lied to Mom this morning when she came to talk to me; she thought it was bullies and I let her. It’s easier. It’s something she can understand. She grew up in a world where you were safe at school, or at least where bullies were the worst thing that could happen besides tornadoes and fires.
But that’s not how it is now.
They’ve told us there’s going to be a drill today, but we don’t know when. So I spend the whole day waiting for it, not listening to the teachers, not paying attention to anything, because I’m waiting for the alarm tones to go off to tell us to shelter.
It finally happens in history. I hear the tones, and the PA says, “Attention. This is a drill.”
I’m already falling into nightmare. I’m sitting in a brightly lit classroom with twenty other kids, but I feel like I’m alone in the dark with a monster. I can hear it coming. Him coming. I see Mom and Sam and Lanny dead just like in the dream.
My teacher is trying to be calm and telling us to execute our plan. I don’t remember a plan. I don’t remember anything. I keep thinking about the dream. My dad’s voice saying he’ll always come for me. Is this how it happens? Is he sending somebody after me again?
I flinch because now it’s not in my head, I’m really hearing gunshots. And screams. That’s not me having a flashback—the sounds are echoing all around us.
People are moving, but I’m frozen in place. Students are shoving their desks around to block the door. One wraps a belt around the slow-close hinge at the top of the door to jam it shut, while a girl, hands shaking, pushes thick rubber stoppers under the door to keep it closed against kicks.
There’s a newly installed deadbolt, and I hear somebody turn it with a click. Someone tapes a poster over the glass window so whoever’s outside can’t see in. They’ve put it up with the image facing us. George Washington giving us the thumbs-up, with neon letters around him saying HISTORY IS AWESOME.
Most of the students have already fled to the corners, huddling together. Some are crying and screaming, too, because the gunshots and the noises are so loud, and all I can think about is my mom on the floor, bleeding. Sam dead at the kitchen table. Lanny’s motionless feet sticking out.
My father’s voice whispers in my ear. I’ll always come for you, kid. You’re mine.
I feel like I’m falling down a black, black hole, and there’s no bottom. My skin’s cold. I can’t move. It’s like I’m in a cage but I’m just sitting there at my desk. I keep screaming at myself to move but I can’t.
Someone bangs on the door from outside and tries to shove it open.
The teacher’s shouting at me, but I don’t know what she’s saying. I hear only the gunshots. The screams. I can’t move.
Then there’s someone right next to me, grabbing me, and I think, I’m not going to die today, and without even thinking about it I pick up the stapler that’s under my desk—we’re supposed to throw staplers at anybody who gets in, I remember. But instead of throwing it I wrap my fist around it and punch him. Hard enough that I feel something twinge in my hand with a bright zip like electricity. I don’t stop. I hit him again. He’s screaming, but so is everybody else, and the pop-pop-pop of the gunshots is still echoing from overhead, and all I can think is, I got him. I got him. I’m safe now.
Then someone else jumps on me. I hit him too. Then a bunch of them have me out of my desk, and I’m down on the floor. Everybody’s yelling. Someone’s kicking my hand to make me let go of the stapler, and now I’m yelling too. I’m screaming, Make it stop, and finally . . . it does.
No more gunshots. No more screaming. It’s quiet. I’m curled up on the floor and there’s blood smeared red on the old linoleum floor. I see a yellow hair ribbon next to me, a broken phone, fallen schoolbooks, a tipped-over backpack. I look up to see the stark faces of my classmates. They’re all staring at me.
The teacher’s standing over me, calling my name, but I don’t answer. I don’t know what to do anymore. I just shut my eyes.
“It’s just a drill!” one of the guys on the floor a few feet away is sobbing. I open my eyes and realize that I know him. He’s not a shooter. He’s in my class. It’s Aaron Moore, everybody here just calls him Bubba. He’s holding a hand to his cheek, where he’s dripping blood. One of his hands is swelling up too. Another one of my classmates is down next to him. Hank. He’s whimpering and holding his jaw with both hands. Blood’s dripping from his mouth.
Blood’s on the stapler lying on the floor between us.
I did this.
I’m the monster.
“Are those real gunshots?” someone is shouting at our teacher. Kids are quietly crying. Holding on to each other. “Is someone really shooting?”
“No, it’s okay. It’s just a drill, calm down, everybody please calm down,” my teacher says. She bends down next to me, and touches me on the shoulder. “Connor? Connor, can you hear me?” Her fingers are shaking. I don’t say anything. I don’t want to. “Brock, get that door open. Run and get Principal Loughlin. Tell him we need an ambulance. Two ambulances. Go!”
Brock’s a skinny kid with glasses. He looks scared to death, but he runs over to the door and starts pushing desks away. Someone helps. It takes a while for them to get all the barriers out of the way. By the time they get the door open again, I’m slowly realizing that I did something really, really bad.
But I heard gunshots. Real gunshots. Real screams. I don’t understand why this is happening.
Then the PA comes on, and someone says, “Attention, everyone: there is no active shooter, I repeat, there is no active shooter on the premises. For the purposes of today’s drill, we used a recording of gunshots to simulate the environment you might encounter if an actual shooting were to occur. There were no gunshots fired. Teachers, please remain calm and encourage your students to follow their coping strategies. This concludes today’s active shooter drill. Thank you.”
He says thank you. I don’t know why he would say that.
I’m listening to people crying, and the boy whose jaw I broke—Henry Charterhouse—is glaring at me with blood all over his face, and I can still hear those gunshots echoing in my head around and around and around.
I don’t have a coping strategy for this.
Once I start crying I can’t stop. They give me a shot when they put me on a rolling bed to take me to the ambulance, and it makes everything go soft at the edges and fuzzy and I quit fighting them so much, but I’m trying to tell them that he’s here even though I know that isn’t right either. There is nobody. Dad wasn’t after me. Dad’s dead.
I’m sorry. I hear myself saying it, over and over, but I don’t know what I’m sorry for either. Shouldn’t I have fought? They tell us to fight. Not to give up. Not to let people get us.