Page 97 of Loving at 40

He doesn’t respond, but he’s fighting a smile and I’m starting to feel a little better about our meeting. Viviana and I had an intense relationship, but the buildup took years of chipping away piece by piece at the armor around her. This kid wasn’t going to be any different.

“Well, thank you for your time today,” the woman states, holding out a hand to introduce herself as the school social worker. For some reason, I notice Brad’s fingers fiddling with the zipper pull on the computer bag. Back and forth. Back and forth. The nervous twitch has me wondering what he thinks about this social worker. I’d thought my therapist was full of shit at first and didn’t know anything, but my therapy sessions were mandatory if I wanted back in the department, and eventually, I did open up to her. Again, I remind myself things take time, and I was walking into the middle of this kid’s situation. He’d have to work backward before moving forward as I had done.

“Thanks for spending time with me, Brad. Maybe we could do it next week?”

Winter break doesn’t start for a few weeks, and Jenna and I will return to Lakeside Cottage. We need to go back to where we started, bringing us full circle and restoring the tracks that came unhinged when we were last there. Plus, River and Zack are expecting their baby girl any day, and Jenna wants to see the baby.

“Sounds good,” the social worker states.

Instinct has me wanting to clap Brad on the shoulder. Something tells me not to touch him, though. Instead, I put my hands behind my back and take a few steps backward, still watching him zip-zip the top of his bag. Without a word from my new mentee, I turn away and head for the door. Briefly, I wonder where Jenna’s classroom is and if I could sneak into it. I don’t remember the room number from her leading Rosie and I there for lunch a few weeks ago, but I imagine I could find it. Then I reconsider. Even with the visitor pass on my chest, I shouldn’t be wandering the hallways unescorted.

The thought has my attention turning back to Brad as I reach for the door handle. His laptop bag is two-thirds open, and he’s reaching inside it. The old guy in me marvels again that kids carry around computers.

Then my heart starts racing, and my palms sweat because the item he pulls from the school-approved bag is not the rectangular shape of a laptop.

I don’t think before I shout.

“Gun!”

39

[Jenna]

This is not a drill.

Nothing in the world prepares a teacher for those fateful words.

After a brief delay, where my head catches up to my racing heart, I rush to push a two-shelf bookcase full of anthologies in front of my classroom door. Barking orders for students to sit along the wall closest to the door but out of sight of the window, I’m shocked at how quickly they move. Something in my voice expresses this isn’t a joke . . . or a drill.

Some of the larger boys stack desks next, flipping them over to balance on top of one another as an additional barrier. Too late, I realize I didn’t reach outside my door and lock it. Unfortunately, the classroom doors in my building don’t have internal locking mechanisms and require a key insertion from the hallway.

Students hunch on the floor, some huddled together with arms around one another. Others are catatonic. We all seem to be holding our breaths. My heart pounds like a sledge hammer. Someone cracks a joke. A few kids awkwardly laugh. Someone says “That’s not funny.”

“Quiet,” I snap.

While actual drills were frightening, especially to someone like me with an extreme fear of guns and some residual PTSD from the loss of my husband because of one, nothing can equate to the actual terror of a real situation. On top of the responsibility I have for other people’s children, adding in the factor I, too, am a mother, this is a moment I truly feared happening. I was never so cavalier as to think it couldn’t happen here. There was no measure of location or probability. The deadly action was always the result of someone in deep mental distress. Every day became a risk in a classroom. The only way to bypass fear was to have a plan in mind and trust in a higher power.

Then I think of Archer.

He’s still in the building. The bell hadn’t rung for the lunch period to end his mentor session.

A new fear takes hold of me.

I cannot lose him.

My fingers hopelessly tug at the medal around my neck, sliding it back and forth over the silver chain. I can’t say how long we sit waiting. During the drills, police would use the building, firing off blanks that ricocheted around the empty hallways and stairwells to add to the anxiety. Even though it was pretend, the very real sound was nerve-wracking. The silence of the moment feels worse. Silence is golden. I hope it is true.

Eventually, we are alerted the threat is contained, and we are guided through an evacuation plan. Students are not allowed to go to their lockers but must leave the school as directed by the closest exit. Meeting points are positioned off the small campus, separating students because large groups can be a target.

Time moves in slow motion.

As Tricia Ramirez’s classroom is next to mine, our meetup spot is near one another. It could have been hours or minutes before Leon suddenly appears, sweeping his pregnant wife into a tight hug and reciting Shakespeare to her. He does that often, and while it’s endearing, my heart aches at his expressive relief. He smothers Tricia’s face with kisses right before her students.

I’ve been trying to call Archer, and with each unanswered call, my dread grows bigger, until I reach a panic stage. The all-call necessary to notify parents went out as teachers are on the list as well. Although several high school students drive themselves to the building every morning, in this case, parents are asked to retrieve their child and given instructions on where to collect him or her.

Waiting out the time feels like forever. My concern for Archer grows. My only relief is the elementary school and middle school have not been intruded upon. We don’t even know if our building had an intruder or if it was a student. The unknown is slowly eating me up inside.

While Leon isn’t technically allowed to be on campus, I welcome his presence as he stands almost as close to me as he does his wife, keeping his arm around her in the cold December temperature. Most students don’t have jackets, and some even wear shorts from gym class. I shiver myself, but it isn’t the cold making me quake.