Some Broken Things

Chapter 3

My first class is math with Ms. Rosalia. She goes on and on about one thing or another. Meanwhile, I'm passing notes back and forth with Tabby, who in her usual style, "forgot" to do her math homework.

I'm passing her the answer to question seven when I hear Ms. Rosalia say, "Miss Carson, would you care to share your conversation with Miss Kinney with the class please?" I freeze. Before I can respond, Ms. Rosalia has swept across the room and plucked the note out of Tabby's hand, along with the stash she had hidden under her notebook.

"Answer to question seven:" she reads aloud. I try my best not to cringe, but Tabby's not so lucky. "Negative thirty two and a half. I see someone forgot to do their math homework. Again." She turns to glare at Tabby. "You and Miss Carson will return to this classroom at three pm sharp. I look forward to seeing you. I have a very special punishment I've been saving."

And with that, she chucks the note into the trash can and continues on with the lesson. I swallow and feel my cheeks heat up as glances are thrown my way. I turn to Tabby and mouth "sorry", but she's already doing the same. We hide our twin smiles behind our hands and focus our attention back on our work.

The day goes on like always: Tabby and I get caught passing more notes again in science, I ace my geography test while Anush accepts his F with a look of defeat. I pat him on the back, telling him he'll do better next time.

Lunch is upon us in no time, the cold hotdogs left untouched by everyone in the cafeteria. Well, everyone except Ian Iserman. That kid'll eat anything as if it's his last meal. And then before I know it, I'm sitting Spanish class with Mr. Berndt. I stare out the window, Spanish verbs and adjectives circulating in my head, but making no sense when I put pencil to paper. I only catch snippets of the conversations around me through the haze fogging up my thoughts. Pain pulses behind my eyes and I rub them in aggravation. It's gotten worse and worse the longer the day goes on.

Suddenly, a shudder passes through the school, and everyone goes dead-silent. It's quiet enough that you could hear a pin drop, the silence only punctuated by the ticking of the giant clock in the courtyard. A second shiver runs down the school, and this time my head pounds in time with the pulses. Then, one by one, the lights in the classroom flicker and blink out. The kids erupt in a chorus of gasps and worried whispers. I lean back in my chair to find that the hallway is in a similar state.

I gasp and claw at my hair as my head pounds out one last agonizing warning.

RUN

Then the pain disappears, the headache vanishing. My thoughts clear in an instant, and I connect the dots immediately.

This is it.

My last chance to run. My last chance to hide. My last chance to live. I shoot to my feet, drawing all eyes to me.

"We need to go. NOW." I say to the room. Mr. Berndt's face of fear melts into a smile, and he laughs a bit too loudly.

"And why would that be Miss Carson?" He says, a tight smile on his lips. A warning, I realize. He knows this is serious, but he doesn't want to start a panic. Mr. Berndt has always been the person to believe you right away. Telling us about the latest conspiracies and stuff like that. You could tell him there was a flying tomato outside with a tiny camera inside made by the Russians, and he would dash outside to see for himself. My point is, he knows this is no joke.

"Umm, nothing. Just made me jump, that's all." I say, sitting back down and smoothing out invisible wrinkles on my school-issued skirt. His smile transforms into something more natural.

"Right. Just a power outage from the incoming storm I'm sure. Supposed to be a big one if what the weather reporter says is to be trusted." He says. That seems to calm the kids down a bit, and they settle back into their normal, if not more contained, conversations.

Just then the school speakers come to life with a burst of static and the principal's strained voice comes crackling through.

"Attention all students and staff, this is a lockdown. Teachers please lock your doors and get you and your students out of sight. This is not a drill. I repeat, this is not a—" her voice cuts into static, her end going dead. All the students jump to their feet, shouting and tripping over one another in their rush to get to the far corner of the room; the farthest one from the door. Mr. Berndt rushes around them and closes the blinds. Once he double and triple checks that the door is locked, he tries to comfort all the kids, even though we're all Juniors in high school. None of us are crying, but I can see multiple kids holding back tears.

We're all quieted by the doorknob rattling and a knocking on the door. Tentative at first, but then turning desperate and fearful. Kids are holding each other tightly, whispering sweet nothings to one another. Mr. Berndt goes to peek out through the window and jumps. We all freeze as he fumbles to unlock the door. I see a blur of white hair and a flash of pale skin, made even whiter by the darkness of the room. Trixie.

She rushes over to me and I wrap my arms around her. Tears roll down her face and I wipe them away with my sleeve, telling her it'll be okay.

"Shh, it's alright. It's all going to be okay." I whisper, leaning my forehead against hers. I tuck her closer and squeeze her tightly, not wanting her to disappear. She whimpers in my arms as footsteps sound outside our door. Dozens of people by the sound of them. And if my guesses are right, They all seem to be carrying something heavy.

What's worrying to me is that several people are trying to call their parents, the cops, the fire department, someone, anyone to come and help. But no one picks up. They must have disabled the cell connection somehow, I realize. It dawns on me that this is no ordinary break in by some crazy asylum patient, but an organized attack formed by many people.

"What if they have guns?" Someone whispers, frantically waving their phone about in vain for just one bar. Someone else grabs their arm and yanks it down, out of sight.

The kids start quietly debating who they think it is.

"Russians—" someone says.

"—terrorists—" says another person.

But I know it's neither one of those. It would have been all over the news the moment the people had set foot in America. Who then, I wonder?

The loudspeakers crackle to life again and we all jump. But it's not the principal's staticky voice that greets us.

"Ello Loves. This is Maximus speaking. Future leader of the country and all that jazz. I just want to let you know that this school is about to explode into a million teeny tiny pieces, but," he pauses for a dramatic effect, "I'm giving you all one last chance to flee for your pathetic little lives. Just waltz over to the front entrance and make your exit. Hop hop now, off you go!" He has a thick Cockney British accent and it gives me the chills. Something's off here.

Trixie is standing up with the other students when I pull her back down. She begins to protest but I cut her off.

"Everyone stay here!" I shout into the fray. They all look at me accusingly and pause. "Something's off about this guy, I don't trust him."

"So you're telling us that we shouldn't take our last chance at escape and just stay here to blow up?" Asks a blond girl. Sara, I think her name is.

I pause at that. "No, just that I don't trust this guy to keep his word or anything. This dude just waltzes into our school saying he's going to blow it up, and you all think he's just going to let us go? I mean, come on!" I say, exasperated.

She brushes me off and leads the group of kids to the door. I want to stop them, but I'm powerless. I just stand there mouth gaping as they all walk off to their more than likely deaths. At least I'm coherent enough to grab Trixie by the back of her blouse and haul her over to me. She struggles in my grip but I don't let go. There is no way in hell I'm letting my sister walk herself into that mess. I'd rather risk an explosion than whatever might happen out there. But if I'm wrong, well... my thoughts trickle to a stop at one gruesome depiction of what we'd look like if we exploded. I try to forget the image but it sticks in my brain, burned onto the backs of my eyelids.

The kids leave the classroom and head toward the front entrance, just across the hall. They leave the door open, giving me a perfect view of their exit.

Just as the first student steps over the school's threshold, bullets begin to rain down from the heavens.