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It's always a pleasant drive, down Thurston Road in the morning. Everything is green, and the further I go from town, the more peaceful the view. I enter the east parking lot, and as I emerge from my car, the rooster over the fence greets the morning. Actually, he greets every hour of the day, but it's a nice, familiar sound. I check my plan book, sharpen a few pencils, and place the entry task on each child's desk. The breakfast bell will ring soon, and students will be here ten minutes after the bell. "All staff, please report immediately to the staff room for a brief meeting." The loudspeaker interrupts my thoughts. "Great," I grumble. "Now I won't have time to get the art supplies ready for this afternoon."
In the staff room doorway, two colleagues stand white-faced. We filter in quietly, some already in shock, the rest of us wondering. "There has been a shooting at the high school. Several students have been wounded. We have no other details. Our students are already on the buses, and we don't know what they have heard, or what the facts are. The building is in lockdown. After students arrive, be sure no one goes out." Our principal is composed and businesslike as she shares the instructions. Pat and Greg have already rushed to the high school. Their children are there.
"Today is Thursday, May 21, 1998," we all recite in unison. "Who can tell us what day of the week tomorrow will be?" "Friday!" says Joey, not raising his hand, his usual impulsive self. They tell me words that have the ar sound, like car. We make a list. They work on writing the words on a car-shaped paper, and drawing pictures.
The phone rings. The shooter has been apprehended. The lockdown is over.
Jackets and sweatshirts are hung up. The line at the water fountain slowly dwindles as we gather on the rug to read Henry and Mudge in Puddle Trouble. The story is familiar, but they still laugh when Henry's father jumps in the puddle. They go to work on squiggle books. Most of the squiggles look like giant mud puddles. "Ms. Orr, how do you write 'splash?'" "It's in the story, Ryan. Can you find it?"
No one is hungry. Our eyes search each others as we murmur about what we do not know. Jean comes in. The shooting was in the cafeteria. One student is dead. Many are injured. Pat's son, Tommy, is one of them. "Who was it?" Jean hesitates . "A student." Someone says they heard he also killed his parents. Another whispers, " The Kinkels". "No! Jean, it's not! Is it?" "Mary, it's the Kinkel's son!" "He was shot?" "No, he did it! He killed them. They're saying he killed his parents! "
"There's a helicopter out there!" "The big kids said someone was shooting at the high school." "Yes, that is true. But the police have caught the person who did it, and everyone is safe now." It is what we were told to say. We talk a little more, and they are content to move on to math. Tomorrow they will have more to say. They will have heard it all. Backpacks are loaded, and we line up at the door. Time to go. "See you tomorrow!" "Bye, Teacher!" "Goodbye! Goodbye!" The rooster crows as I cross the parking lot. Thurston road stretches out, gray, in front of me. Huge satellite trucks line the street in front of the high school. Yes, I'll turn on the TV when I get home. I'll find out the details. I'll know what happened. I park the car, gather my things, and unlock my front door. I shut the door, and then I cry.
And then, I cry.
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