Bitter Falls (Stillhouse Lake)(9)

If they’re out there, they don’t let me know.





3

CONNOR

I’ve been having the dream again. The one where there’s a man with a gun, and he’s coming after me. I can hear his footsteps. I’m in the dark, trying to get away, but he keeps coming, no matter how hard I run. I don’t remember how I get home, but then I’m just inside, standing there, and everybody’s dead. Mom’s on the floor. Sam’s slumped over at the table. I can’t really see Lanny, except for her feet sticking out from behind the kitchen counter, but I know she’s dead too.

Then I feel the barrel of a gun against my head in this cold, perfect circle, and my dead dad’s voice says, “I’ll always come for you, kid,” and I wake up shaking and wanting to throw up.

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.