Page 9 of Bitter Falls

“What drill?” I say, and then I remember. It’s like the floor falls from under me.I should have known this.Connor’s reluctance to go to the school today makes total, blinding sense. I was advised but I had the date wrong.Oh my God.

Today was his active shooter drill at school.

“Look, I’m sorry, I should have talked to him about it,” I say to the woman on the other end of the line. “If he didn’t act appropriately, I’ll talk to him. He’s going to counseling for—”

She takes a deep, audible breath. “Connor’s been taken to the hospital.”

“What?” I’m on my feet, the chair zipping across the room on its wheels and banging hard into the wall. I barely notice. I’m clutching the phone so tightly now that the edges dig into my skin. “Is he okay?”

“He may have a broken nose,” she says. “There were three of them involved.”

“Involved inwhat?”

“There was a fight in the classroom,” she says. “I’m sorry—”

“Which hospital?” I demand, but then I correct myself. There’s only one ER in town. “Norton General.”

“Yes, ma’am. I’m really sorry. I tried—”

I hang up while she’s still talking. I’m already on the way to the door, grabbing keys and purse and punching in the alarm code to disarm the system.

I’m halfway to my car when I see the shiny sprinkle of window glass on the pavement and remember, too late, that I’m a sitting duck out here.

I stop. I turn toward the tree line and make a slow half circle. If they’re out there, I want the Belldenes to see that I am not fucking afraid of them.

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 knowwhen. 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.Himcoming. 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 hearinggunshots. Andscreams. 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 sayingHISTORY 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 areso 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.

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