Interim (33 page)

He hesitated, and when no one appeared, he shuffled back to bed, crawling deep under his sheets, trying to hide from his deadly principles.

~

I don’t have one more goddamn thing to say about it.

~

Lab work usually consists of lots of movement, talking, burning, mixing, measuring, slicing, labeling. Today, though, the lab was quiet—seniors were studying individually for an upcoming exam. The only noise inside was the low whirring of the air conditioner clicking on and off, on and off—trying to maintain a steady temperature. A few birds gabbed in blooming Curl-leaf Mountain Mahoganies planted just outside the lab windows. They were pleasant sounds that offset the feverish study atmosphere inside.

Regan slipped a note to Casey, who stifled a giggle. Ms. Griffin cleared her throat and shot warning eyes in the girls’ direction. Students only got one. If she had to do the eye thing a second time, it was office time. They grew quiet and continued their work.

Pop!

The noise sounded from a distance. Half the class looked up.

“Get back to work,” Ms. Griffin ordered.

They resumed their studying. Probably a burst pipe somewhere. As long as they didn’t smell leaking gas, they were fine.

Pop pop!

Everyone looked up this time, staring at Ms. Griffin, waiting for an explanation.

“Pipes or something,” she muttered, unconcerned, and left her desk.

Regan chewed her fingernail. She couldn’t pinpoint the sound, but she knew she’d heard it before. A long time ago. Perhaps with her father? Where? Where did she hear it? She chewed and chewed until she drew blood. She watched it ooze from underneath the stubby nail, and then realization burst in her brain like a blinding sunray.

A hunting trip. The gun. The
pop pop
of the gun!

“Jesus Christ,” she breathed, mind racing. “Jeremy.”

She couldn’t ignore it—his fight with Brandon, his ominous words. The journal. The journal! But the date! Today was March 15, almost an entire month before the date he wrote in his notebook.

“It’s not right,” she breathed, then sprang from her desk. “Stay here!” she yelled to her classmates and headed for the door.

Casey jumped up, too, and followed her. “Regan! Where are you going? What’s going on?”

Pop pop pop!

Close this time. Where was Ms. Griffin? Why hadn’t she returned?

Regan whirled around. “Lock this door,” she ordered.

Casey grabbed Regan’s wrists. “What’s going on? What’s that noise?”

“Yeah, what is that?” Brandon called from the back of the room.

“Casey, lock this door. I mean it,” Regan said. “I’ve gotta go. Now.”

“What? I can’t lock the door. I don’t have the key!” Casey cried. “Where are you going?”

Instant tears.

Pop pop!

Someone yelling in the hall.

“FIND THE KEY!” Regan screamed, cursing the administration. Cursing the building designers. Doors only locked from the inside with a key—a “safety” feature to keep students from locking teachers out of their rooms.

Casey ran to Ms. Griffin’s desk and tore through the drawers. Other students rushed to her side to aid in the search.

Regan bolted from the room, certain she’d come face-to-face with Jeremy in this hallway—Hallway D. She had to; the gunshots were much too loud to be anywhere else.

The hallway was deserted. She halted in her tracks, listening for the next sounds.

Pop pop pop pop!

She ran the length of the hallway and took a sharp right, following the sinister sounds through the empty passageways. No one. Anywhere.

“Good,” she huffed. “They’re hiding. That’s good.”

She picked up her pace and rounded another corner, wiping every now and then at her guilty tears. She was to blame. If people were being murdered right now, she was to blame. How could she ignore the blatant signs? How could she ignore those words in his journal? How could she let him trick her so?

POP!

So close.

But maybe he didn’t trick her. Maybe he never had a plan to shoot people. Maybe it was the fight with Brandon that sent him over the edge. Maybe he was fine until . . .

She turned the corner screaming, “JEREMY STOP!” then skidded to a halt.

Hannah turned around slowly, cradling a rifle to her chest. Regan barely recognized her. She shed her oversized, boyish clothes for a skater dress and flats. Her spikey hair was now pink-tipped, and she donned full make-up: mascara, blush, lip gloss.

She was a killer knockout.

Regan blinked, then dropped her eyes to the floor. Ms. Griffin lay at Hannah’s feet—shot in the leg—bleeding out on the tile.

“Regan, run,” Ms. Griffin breathed.

“Yeah, Regan. Run,” Hannah echoed coolly.

Regan froze. Urine trickled down the inside of her leg, soaking her tights. A few droplets puddled on the floor.

“Hannah?” she asked, voice quivering.

“And you thought it was Jeremy,” Hannah said. She frowned. “Why did you think that?”

Regan shook uncontrollably, then cried out when Hannah raised the rifle at her face.

“Why’d you think that?” she demanded.

“I don’t know! Because he was picked on! I don’t know!”

“Liar. You know something I don’t,” Hannah said.

“H . . . Hannah, I d-don’t know. He was picked on. That’s all I-I know,” Regan sobbed.

“You’re telling me I could have had a partner in crime? If I would have just told him my plan!” Hannah said with mock disappointment.

Ms. Griffin whimpered.

“Hannah, please let me help Ms. Griffin,” Regan said.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

Students, this is not a drill,
Mr. Armstrong’s voice came over the intercom.
Report immediately to the nearest classroom. Lock the doors. Turn off the lights . . .

“Fuck,” Hannah muttered, and charged toward the front office.

“HANNAH!” Regan screamed.

. . . Hide. Post help signs in the windows for any injured. This is not a drill. This is . . . Hannah, Christ! . . .

Rapid firing.

“Oh my God!” Regan screamed, clasping her hands over her ears.

She shut up her eyes, thinking absurdly that she could disappear. But the image of Ms. Griffin lying helpless on the floor flashed in her mind, and she knew she couldn’t be a coward. She wouldn’t be a coward.

She rushed to Ms. Griffin’s side. “You have to help me!” she cried, yanking on her teacher’s arms. “I’m not strong enough!”

Ms. Griffin slid her good leg under her, using Regan for balance as she stood slowly. She gingerly tested her shot leg, putting minimal pressure on it.

She screamed.

“Okay okay,” Regan said quickly. “It’s okay.”

But it wasn’t okay. She glimpsed the wound—right near the femeral artery. Blood gushed as Ms. Griffin tested her leg once more.

“Stop it!” Regan shouted. She ripped off her shirt and wrapped Ms. Griffin’s leg. But it was too bulky. She couldn’t tie it tightly.

“Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck,” she whispered over and over, then wriggled out of her urine-soaked tights.

“Regan,” Ms. Griffin whispered, and collapsed on the ground.

“GODDAMNIT!” Regan screamed. “Sit up, Ms. Griffin! SIT THE FUCK UP!!”

She wrapped her tights over the shirt, pulling hard to secure a makeshift tourniquet—to try to stop the dangerous flow of blood. She hooked her hands under her teacher’s arms, eyes searching for the closest classroom. English 10B. Twenty yards, give or take.

“Ms. Griffin, we can do this.”

Her teacher nodded once, expelling the last of her energy.

Regan grunted and strained, pulling as hard as she could, sliding her teacher slowly down the hallway. She made it a few yards before stopping.

“Ten second break,” she said to herself, counting
One banana two banana three banana . . .

She heaved and moved again. Several yards this time, her survival instincts kicking into overdrive:
I am not dying today! Neither is Ms. Griffin!

“Ten second break,” she said again, breathing heavily.

“Regan, it’s all right,” Ms. Griffin whispered. Barely detectable.

Another pull. She wouldn’t stop until she made it to classroom 10B. Grunts and groans and mental determination got her there. She peeked into the classroom. Lights off. The chances of the door being unlocked were slim. She jiggled the handle.

It opened.

Screams and cries from inside.

“It’s okay!” Regan called. “It’s okay!”

But she knew they were sitting ducks. No teacher. No key.

She dragged Ms. Griffin in the room.

“Help me!” she screamed, and the students closest to the door sprang to action.

They slammed it closed once Regan and Ms. Griffin were safely inside.

“We can’t find the key. We don’t know where Mr. Howard is,” a girl said. It was Jamie—a fellow soccer teammate.

Regan took a quick inventory of the room then looked at Jamie, who was staring at her bra. She’d forgotten she was half naked.

“Here,” Jamie said, pulling off her jacket and thrusting it in Regan’s hands.

“It’s really bad,” Regan said low, zipping up. She pointed to Ms. Griffin’s leg. “Find the First Aid kit. Wrap it better.” She dropped her voice even lower. “Lots and lots of pressure. I think—”

“I got it,” Jamie said, and ran to the storage cabinet.

“What can I do?” a boy asked Regan. He was hunched over the teacher.

Regan thought a moment. “Make signs. Post on the door. Post on the window. Really big. As big as you can.” She pulled him close and whispered in his ear, “Teacher bleeding out.”

He nodded, and bolted to Mr. Howard’s desk.

Regan searched the room and settled on a student in the back.

“You! Do you have a cell phone?”

She nodded.

“Call 9-1-1. Tell them a teacher is hurt in room 10B. Be specific!”

The girl shook her head. “I’ve been trying. I can’t get through.”

“Keep trying!! Remember, 10B!”

“Okay okay, 10B, 10B, 10B, 10B,” the girl repeated to herself.

Sirens in the distance. Instant elation.

“Shut up!” Regan shouted. “Shut up and help me bar this door!”

But then a new realization hit her—something she was too distracted from discovering until now. She was in the wrong classroom. These students weren’t sitting ducks. The sitting ducks were in the lab: Brandon, Casey, Ethan, Alexia . . . all of Hannah’s tormentors.

“Oh my God,” she whispered.

Hannah planned it all along! This was no random shooting! She knew their schedules. She knew when they’d all be together—easy targets clumped in one space—at the far end of the building where it would take police longer to access. The lab could already be the picture of a mass murder for all Regan knew. She may be too late.

“I’ve gotta get out of here,” she said, shoving a desk aside from the doorway.

“What?” Jamie cried.

“It’s not here. It’s not happening here,” Regan replied.

“I don’t understand,” Jamie said.

“Ms. Griffin! Where are your keys?”

“Huh?”

“Your classroom key!” Regan cried.

“Purse,” Ms. Griffin breathed.

“Where’s your purse??”

“Drawer.”

“What drawer, Ms. Griffin?”

Time ticked. Precious precious time.

“WHAT DRAWER?” Regan bellowed.

“Right drawer,” Ms. Griffin said. She drew in a long breath. “Hidden under the files.”

Regan dropped to her knees and kissed her teacher’s cheek.

“Thank you. You’re gonna be okay,” she said, and bolted from the classroom, yelling a last set of instructions as she left.

She flew down the hallways, running faster than her heart allowed. It burned in her chest, demanding she slow down.

“I won’t!” she cried, picking up her pace.

Hallway C. And then D. She just needed to make it to the end. She had to beat Hannah to it.