Chapter 14

On Thursday after lunch the teacher was in the main office getting ready run off some history quizzes when two booming shots rang out, heavy thumps that came from the nearby front hall and shook the pictures on the wall. He jumped and the windows rattled. They were so loud that they sounded like nearby explosions. He ran out into the hall with a half-open ream of copy paper in his hands.

And there was one of his former English students, a skinny junior, standing in the middle of the hall with his hair in his eyes and a big, smoking pistol in his hand.

"Michael," the teacher said loudly, feeling his left knee buckle. "What are you doing?"

The boy turned toward him, waved the big pistol in his general direction and blinked several times. He looked lost, confused. The powder smell was very strong, overpowering. Something deep inside the teacher tensed, his heartbeat quickened. Run, demanded his brain. He took another step.

The teacher noticed that there was a star-shaped hole in one of the reinforced widows of the front doors and that the drinking fountain between the first-floor restrooms was spraying water. He felt as if he had a golf ball or something in his shoe. He took a step, limping, a bit confused. Now what are you doing, said his brain, refusing to locomote, urging flight.

"We'd better get this water shut off," the teacher said calmly, surprising himself and ignoring his recalcitrant leg and turbulent guts. He took a few steps toward the boy, dragging his foot, watching the gun, surprised it was so big. Three-fifty-seven said his brain, magnum was the word for it. Where did that come from, magnum? Odd word. Champagne? "Somebody might slip. Bell's going to ring."

The boy put the muzzle of the pistol in his mouth and backed up to lean against the tiled wall, eyes closed. The teacher took two more steps and held out the open package of paper. "Here, Michael, hold this," he said. "Please."

He pushed it against the boy's right forearm, the one holding the gun, and on his thin chest. My damn knee is trying to buckle. He braced his leg against the drinking fountain, still pushing the pack of paper at the boy. Nuisance, stupid leg, always something.

The shaken youngster took the gun out of his mouth and grasped the ream of paper with both hands, the weapon underneath the package. His mouth fell open but no words came out. He blinked and shook his head, looking confused. Perspiration beaded his forehead.

"Why don't you give me the pistol?" asked the teacher blandly, trying to sound calm and reasonable, holding out his hand, his insides in turmoil.

The boy shook his head, gulping, spittle dripping from his chin. "Uh uh," he said, shaking his head. "No. Mine."

"OK, now just hang on. You can help me; can't do this by myself. I've got to pry off this cover." He sprung the chromed front off the drinking fountain and set it aside. The spray got wider from the place where the bullet had nicked a pipe.

"Now, Michael, see that yellow handle down there. On the right. See it?" He pointed and was surprised to see how steady his hand was. Where is everybody; why aren't there more people out here? Do I have to yell for help?