Leave No Child Behind

by Randy Overbeck

  I tried to look up. I could hear Jerod’s ragged breathing above me. Around me, I sensed several hundred students and a scattering of adults stop in mid-conversation and mid-step.

  The voice I didn’t recognize screamed again, “Everyone on the floor, now!” To make his point, he let off another round from the automatic weapon. This time the bullets struck the ceiling fluorescent, shattering the fixture, the split electrical lines raining down a shower of sparks. The entire line of lights down the center of the cafeteria went black, dimming the room and throwing grotesque shadows. From where I lay, still squashed, I heard the sound of chaos--students diving for the floor, plastic chairs scraping the vinyl, flying books hitting the surface and the screams of hundreds of terrified teens.

  The gun erupted again and this time the glass of the vending machines behind us shattered, glass fragments exploding onto the teens huddled on the floor nearby. I heard a student cry out, “I’m hit!” and managed to turn my head to see. Blood poured down Keith’s face, the side of his head and blond hair now turning bright red. From my huddled position, I strained, but couldn’t tell if he had been hit by a bullet or had caught some of the flying glass. Keith began to cuss loudly and then cry.

  As it quieted again, I could hear others whimpering around me. My only thought was I’ve got to help them.

  Before I could move, the Arab voice screamed, “Where is the principal?”

  Squirming beneath Jerod’s weight, I tried to turn toward the voice and peer around the end of the overturned table. Jerod pulled me back roughly, placing his body atop me. “Stay down!” he commanded in a hushed tone. Then he shifted and leaned around the table edge, trying to see the intruder himself. As he edged forward above me, his heart thumped furiously in my ears.

  I heard a door open from the side and then a few quick footsteps. “I am the principal,” said Hal Thompson. Even across the room, his fear was palpable in those few words, but I could detect remnants of his hard-ass resolve as well.

  “Come with me,” shouted the Arab voice. “Fadi, they are yours. You know what to do.”

  “Yes,” a second Arab voice said. I realized that there was more than one intruder and my panic ratcheted up another notch.

  I turned my head to the side and was just able to take in two pairs of legs striding down the hall behind us, one pair of black suited pants and the second a pair of worn jeans.

  God, I wanted to see what was going on! I realized I was safer pinned under Jerod but I just couldn’t lie there and do nothing. I never was very good at playing it safe. Growing up, I was always the first in the middle of the fray and still have a few scars to prove it. If I had known what my impetuous nature would get me into, I might’ve held back. But I doubt it.

  Before I could decide on a course of action, the second man screamed. “Everyone, stand up! Everyone, on your feet!”

  Still stunned and not knowing what to expect, students and teachers were slow to react. It was as if the entire room was awakening from some horrible nightmare, people moving slowly, awkwardly. Teens and adults struggled to get to their feet. All around me I heard the sound of chairs being pushed and tables skidding as teachers and students braced themselves and rose on shaky legs. Jerod slid off me, stood up, then reached a hand down to help me up. I took it and rose, noting for the first time the throbbing in my head from my collision with the floor. I massaged my temple, feeling the mushrooming knot. I scanned the faces and bodies, trying to locate who had been hurt. I could see only a few who were bloodied, like Keith Dettmer. I tried to recall where the first aid supplies were. The kit was probably in the kitchen, at the other end of the room. Before I could form a plan to get to it, the man with the gun was yelling again.

  “Everyone who has cell phone, bring it here,” the Arab called Fadi shouted, producing a large canvas bag. At first no one moved, perhaps still in shock or remembering stories of the passengers with cell phones on Flight 93 that crashed in Pennsylvania. The intruder seemed to expect the hesitation. “This AK-47 has very touchy trigger,” he grinned and held up the rifle for all to see, “and if I hear one cell phone go off with one of those stupid ringers, I am going to fire in that direction.” He aimed at the ceiling and let loose another burst as a demonstration.

  A few teachers needed no more encouragement and began walking slowly up to the front of the room. Still apparently unsatisfied, the terrorist shouted, “I know there are hundreds of cell phones in this room and if I don’t see d’em being tossed into this bag, I’ll start shooting.” He looked around to the crowd of teenagers huddling together. “And I think I’ll start with her.” With one huge hand, he grabbed the hair of the girl closest to him, a pretty brunette whose face turned ashen. She screamed and this caused the intruder to laugh. Staring across the room at her terrified face, I remember thinking her name is Michelle and she had run for Homecoming Queen. Last week she was worried about which outfit might get her the most votes and now she thought she was going to die. I wondered if we were all going to die.

  The terrorist--I allowed my brain to formulate the unthinkable--threw the gray bag to a jock at the first table with his right hand without letting go of the gun while his left yanked Michelle’s hair again. Even from across the room, I could tell the terrorist was an incredibly strong man. Atop massive shoulders stood an ugly, threatening face with a long gray beard. He said, “Here, you collect the phones!” Nervous and scared, the teen missed the tossed bag. “I hope you do not play for d’ baseball team!” the Arab jeered as the teen bent down to pick up the limp sack. Then to the crowd, “Come! Drop your phones in ... or perhaps you want to sacrifice this pretty young thing!” Yanking on the brown hair with one huge hand, he wrenched the head of his captive and she cried out again.

  A few of the teachers moved out of the adjoining room and filed up to the student holding the sack. One by one, they lowered their cell phones into the bag. Glen Miller lowered his teal phone into the bag and gently placed his hand on the quivering arms of the student athlete. As Janet Striker dropped her phone in the bag, she announced to the gunman, “You know, students aren’t allowed to have cell phones in the building.”

  The terrorist squealed with delight and shot two rapids bullets into the ceiling. Striker shrank in terror. “Only one as foolish as you would believe that these,” he gestured at the teens with the gun barrel, “would follow your stupid rules.” Then to the students, “Show this foolish teacher I am right! Come!”

  Obeying this command, students joined the teachers and made their way slowly, fearfully to the front of the room where the terrorist and sack waited. Their eyes locked on the automatic rifle, girls pulled petite, colorful cell phones out of small purses and guys took sleek black Iphones from pants pockets. Even from our position at the back of the room, I could hear the occasional ring tone as the phones hit the bottom.

  Jerod didn’t believe in cell phones and my phone was locked in my car, so we didn’t move. But as we watched this somber procession proceed, the entire cafeteria quieted, a pall of dread settling over the large group. My glance darted around the room searching out the eyes of teenagers, trying to read their minds, to decipher their thoughts. Fear was etched on their faces, girls whimpering and guys trying to hold them, to comfort them. I just hoped that some male testosterone was not getting ready to test their fate by rushing the gunman. Some of the guys wore hardened looks and as I studied them, I was afraid they were plotting just that. I glanced over to Jerod to see if he was following my thoughts.

  I eyed a group of students to the left of the terrorist. The four guys exchanged quick looks and one, a tall, red-headed teenager flipped open a slim phone and his fingers began tapping the keys in furious repetition. Text messaging. I had caught a kid doing the same in my class last week and had confiscated the phone. Now I was just hoping he would get something out.

  My glance shifted to the terrorist, hoping he hadn’t noticed, fearing he had. Almost, as if he read my thoughts, he turned to the knots of students. His e
yes flashed recognition. In one second, the gun came up and fired once. The phone exploded in the boy’s hand and blood spurted. The students started screaming again.

  “Quiet!” he yelled and fired the AK-47 into the ceiling. Silence returned, except for the whimpering of the red-headed teen. “Anyone else want to try something?” the terrorist jeered. The rest of the students complied, dropping the cell phones into the bag.

  Then behind me, I heard the shuffle of footsteps and turned. I caught a glimpse of the plump form of Rob Holden. He loped around the corner, grasping a cell phone and huffing from the effort. In the eerie quiet that had fallen over the room, the soles of his shoes pounded on the linoleum, loudly announcing his hasty exit. His terrified shouts echoed down the hallway, “Hello? Hello? 911!! Help! Help! We’re under attack. At Thurber High School! Help! Hello? Hello?!”

  I turned, expecting to see Fadi burst for the hallway and aim his weapon. Fearing the worst, I got ready to crouch again behind the overturned table. But as I watched him, the terrorist did not move from his watch. As he stood there motionless, another spray of bullets shattered the uneasy quiet down the hallway. I heard Rob Holden cry out and the thud of a body hitting the ground.

  Then, in weird contrast to the sudden violence, the calm, deep voice of Principal Thompson came over the loudspeaker. “Attention, all students and teachers. Please report to the cafeteria now. This is a new safety drill and we need everyone’s cooperation. It’s important that everyone stop what they are doing and report to the cafeteria. Remember to walk, not run. This is a safety drill.” The audible click of the PA.

  I looked to Jerod, who whispered, “They want us all together. Why? To kill us?”

  “Probably to hold us as hostages,” he whispered. Looking at him, I couldn’t tell if he was saying this to make me feel good or he really believed it. I didn’t have time to ask.

  Before we could say anymore, we watched as a familiar form emerged from the hall where Rob had run by only seconds before. Cradling a steel gray automatic rifle in his left arm, Jesus Ramirez strode into the cafeteria, caught sight of me and smiled. Behind the perfectly trimmed black mustache, he announced, “It is a shame that cell phones do not work inside the center of this building. But at least, Ms. Sterber, you will not have to put up with any more snide comments from Mr. Holden.”

  Chapter 29

  I stared, speechless, struggling to process it. I was looking at the man I was trying to date yesterday, and he was holding a machine gun pointed directly at me. How could the handsome, smiling Jesus, whom I befriended and who I gave a tour of the school just last week, how could he have just gunned down Rob Holden in cold blood? And here he was, seconds later, strutting up the hallway wearing an ugly smirk. I couldn’t take my eyes off his figure as he strode up around the scene of the terrified hostages and joined the other terrorist at the front of the room.

  “Dee Dee!” Jerod’s harsh whisper and his hand on her shoulder forced her to take her eyes off of Jesus.

  “How could he do that?” I called at Jerod, tears fighting their way out. “Oh my God! I helped him. I tried to be his friend, I showed him around. I helped him learn the layout of the school.”

  “Dee Dee!” he repeated.

  “I helped them. I helped kill Rob!” I sobbed.

  “Dee Dee!” Jerod called again, more intensely.

  “Oh my God, what have I done?”

  “Dee Dee, it’s not your fault,” he said between clenched teeth. He glanced around, obviously worried that my words would draw attention. “Dee Dee, ya can’t do this right now. The students are going t’ need us.”

  I suddenly felt so soiled, so manipulated that I couldn’t let it go. I know I was going into shock but didn’t care. More than anything else, I wanted to curl up on the floor and die. Let them put a bullet in my head.

  Then Jerod grabbed both my arms and his fingers pinched hard, forcing me to look at him. He moved his face down so it was only millimeters from mine. His deep blue eyes, fierce, angry eyes bored into mine, willing me to stare back. He still kept his voice at a whisper, but in the intimate space between us, the words came out as shouted commands.

  “If we don’t help the kids, a lot of them are going t’ die!”

  “This doesn’t make any sense, Jerod,” I said, shaking my head. “Why would they do that?”

  “I’m sure it’s all about Akadi.” He was so close I could smell his breath on my face, the stale, sour odor from not eating. “These men are psychotic, Dee Dee. They’ll hurt or kill whoever gets in their way. We have t’ help the students so they don’t do something stupid, like try to play a hero.”

  I fought to focus. I looked around the room, scanning for knots of students that I knew. I saw then that some of the teachers, who had to cross the room earlier to surrender their cell phones, had moved back into the middle of the students instead of returning to where they had stood on the side.

  Jerod and I were still at the rear of the cafeteria where we had entered, next to the area where freshmen were usually consigned. We were still 50 feet from the teachers on the east side of the room and almost 75 feet the other way from where the two terrorists, Fadi and Jesus, kept watch in the northwest corner. In the weakened light, I surveyed the scene, searching for some of my own students and keeping an eye on the intruders. I watched both terrorists jeer at the frightened teens nearest them, brandishing their automatic weapons like proud trophies, jabbing the rifles at the students and laughing at them when they jumped.

  Bunched in two’s or three’s, the students crouched together, quivering, crying, whispering, praying. I could see that a few brave kids were trying to comfort others, but it wasn’t working. There was just too much fear in the room, like an evil plague spreading across the space. Even the tough, macho guys weren’t immune. In the dim cafeteria, I could still see the terror in the guys’ eyes, in the whimpering of the girls, in how the students stood closely bunched together, hoping desperately for safety in numbers, even though they knew there was none. As my eyes scanned the room, I saw Brian Foley, the new French teacher, standing against the wall on the other side of the room, almost by himself. Brian, with his long, shoulder-length, black hair and young handsome face, could pass for one of the students and this no doubt helped his popularity with many of the teens. Today, like most days, he wore a navy chamois shirt and his tan Dockers. His fear was even more obvious than most; it showed in the growing, dark stain on his pants by his groin but Brian seemed too terrified to notice, or care.

  Looking around the partially darkened room, I could tell the intruders had done their job, at least their first job--spreading terror.

  I again tried to focus on the immediate task. I heard Jerod say quietly, “There!” and I followed his eyes to the left side of the room. At first, I could not see what he was staring at and then I recognized them. Most of the journalism crowd--Tess, Goat, James, Zoë, and Tyler--stood together. As I studied them, I could see their lips moving and watched as their glances switched from the terrorists up front to Tess. Knowing how gutsy she was, I was afraid my student editor was cooking up some heroic stunt.

  “I’ve got to get over there,” I said to Jerod and turned to edge my way over to my students. His hand held my forearm and I couldn’t move.

  “Everyone listen up!” yelled the man the leader called Fadi, letting off another short burst of gunfire into the ceiling. The mumbles and whispers were cut off in mid-sentence and the room got quiet again. He turned to his partner and nodded.

  “Good afternoon,” Jesus announced, sprouting a broad smile beneath the mustache. “Many of you know me. I am Mr. Ramirez. I have substituted in a number of your classes. My friends and I need to use this school for only a short while. When we are finished, you can have it back, at least what’s left of it.” He grinned broadly and his comrade found this particularly funny, laughing out loud. “If you do what we tell you, there is no need for anyone to die.” And then, as if remembering some minor slip of the tongue, he add
ed, “No one else, that is.”

  Two girls in the group on his left clung desperately to each other and began to cry. He called, “Come now. Mr. Holden was an overbearing idiot and you cannot possibly be sorry he is dead.” At this, the two girls only cried more loudly.

  Studying Jesus, Jesus the terrorist, with the charming smile and Hollywood face, somehow made the terror all the worse. Standing next to him, Fadi, with his broad shoulders and long gray beard, looked like a stereotype of the FBI’s wanted poster of a Mideastern terrorist. With a small turban, he could have been a stand-in for Osama Bin Laden or one of the others on the terrorist watch list. But, Jesus was handsome and virile, by any standard. If behind that handsome face lurked the rabid hatred of a terrorist, then somehow we were all doomed.

  Ignoring the students’ whimpering, Jesus went on, “I think what we need is a change in scenery,” he announced brightly. “Many of you have told me how much you like to hang out on the balcony and it’s such a beautiful day today. Let’s all move outside to the balcony.”

  Stunned, no one moved immediately. Automatically, every face in the room turned from the terrorists to the slate gray lake and sky behind them. Outside, the large snowflakes jumped and swirled endlessly in the wind, as if dancing and laughing at our fates. Not knowing what to do, the teens’ frightened eyes darted to the adults around them, looking for some kind of answer. The teachers, I, had no answers.

  Fadi fired his weapon again, this time into the floor, sending chunks of the linoleum and concrete onto the legs of nearby students. They jumped and then fell on the floor, grabbing their legs, and crying out. Then he yelled, “Let’s go!” and pointed to the glass doors at the north end of the cafeteria. Jesus strode over to the door and held it open, grinning, like some demented doorman. A blast of freezing air sliced into the cafeteria immediately plummeting the room temperature. Every person in the room turned back and looked ominously at Fadi, cradling the AK-47, and began to make their way slowly toward the open doors.