Five Minutes on the First Day of School

             I love the smell of the first day of school. It’s a heady mix of recently mopped floors, cold air conditioning, freshly decorated bulletin boards, new school supplies, the latest fashions with the tags just removed that morning, and the hopes and dreams of a new year. The kids pour through the doors of the high school, laughing and shouting at old friends, the freshmen nervously trying to find their classrooms and a familiar face. The clanging of locker doors sounds a cheerful chorus, and even the class bells seem excited to welcome everyone back. No one’s had a chance to be mean or cliquish yet. Everyone’s still trying to discover their place. The day is as shiny and new as the shoes and backpacks sported by every child. Even with fifteen years of teaching under my belt, the first day of school still moves me.

             As I walk down the long, crowded hallways of Ogeechee High School on my way to my classroom, morning coffee in hand, greeting my colleagues and students from past years, I notice Eddie immediately. He is a new student, transferred to Ogeechee from the next county over. Unlike the rest of the students, he seems sullen, withdrawn, and clearly not the least bit excited about being here. Dressed head to toe in black and wearing a trench coat and heavy boots in the August heat, Eddie stands out, even in a school as diverse as Ogeechee. We have our emos, goths, rockers, gangsters, artsy and angsty types, all of whom at one time or another love to wear all black. Usually, however, their black outfits have personality—band logos, pithy sayings, artful designs, or something to make a statement. Eddie looks like a bus boy in his father’s overcoat. I’d feel empathy for him except for the vibe he’s giving off, which is distinctly angry and hostile.

Amidst the hubbub of the first day, Eddie doesn’t interact with anyone; he merely stares at the floor. When he does look up, usually because someone brushes against him or makes a loud noise in his vicinity, Eddie glares at the offending party with a deep loathing and revulsion unnatural in someone so young. His eyes go completely dark, and his acne-scarred face contorts in an animalistic snarl, his muscles taut as if he is preparing to pounce. Clutching his backpack close, as if it holds all his earthly treasures, Eddie stalks down the hallway on his way to class. As he turns into my classroom for homeroom, I am not sure whether to be anxious or breathe a sigh of relief. This one could be trouble. At least here, I can keep my eye on him for one period.

             Eddie slumps over to a chair in the back of the room, next to Angela. Angela is a nice girl but incredibly shy. The quiet, mousy brunette always sits in the back to avoid attention, but she would lend a pencil or paper to anyone if asked. Angela has a heart for the outcasts and tries to help new students find their way around. Every high school has a quiet treasure like Angela. One minute until first bell, I walk to the back, greet Angela, and make small talk about her summer, careful to keep Eddie in my peripheral view. He sneers derisively at us as we talk. When Angela finishes her story, I turn to Eddie and introduce myself.

             “Hi, I’m Mrs. Peters. Is this your first day at Ogeechee?”

             Eddie just rolls his eyes underneath his greasy brown hair and doesn’t respond.

             “I believe your name is Eddie McDonald, right?”

             Again, Eddie refuses to respond, this time fiddling with the buckles on the sleeve of his trench coat and refusing to look at me. Angela is aghast at Eddie’s rudeness.

             “Well, Eddie. I’m your homeroom teacher, and we’ll be together all year. I hope we can get to know one another better as time goes by.”

             “Whatever,” Eddie says dismissively in a voice that can’t decide if it’s a tenor or a baritone. “Can I go to the bathroom?”

             “Eddie, you must speak respectfully to me in my classroom. The bell is about to ring, and we will have some important announcements at the beginning of homeroom. I will tell you when you may leave and provide you with a hall pass.”

             Eddie rolls his eyes again and instinctively clutches at his backpack. I purse my lips, eyes lingering on the backpack. I subtly indicate to Angela that she can change seats if she wishes, but she doesn’t. I carefully make my way back to the front of the room, speaking to students and keeping an eye on Eddie.

             Once the bell rings and the announcements are read over the speaker, I go through my homeroom expectations quickly. Most of the students are familiar with me and have no concerns. Eddie’s hand shoots up immediately.

             “Mrs. Peeeeterrrrrs,” he says in an exaggerated tone. “I need to go to the bathroom.”

             “Eddie,” I say, in a reassuring tone, “I already told you that I would let you go to the bathroom when I was finished with announcements. Please give me 30 more seconds. For your future reference, please go to the bathroom before homeroom begins.”

             The rest of the class giggles at my comment. Eddie’s face darkens, believing himself to be the butt of some kind of joke. I told all of them the same thing last year, when they were freshmen. Eddie is new; he must learn my rules like the others did. I quiet the class as I see daggers begin to shoot from Eddie’s eyes.

             When I finish the announcements, I provide Eddie the laminated hall pass and let him go to the bathroom. He grabs his backpack and walks out of the room before I can tell him not to take it with him. The students gasp, and I quickly explain that he is new. I ask the class to review their class schedules for the day until I return and follow him outside. Catching one of my colleagues with a free period in the hall on my way, I ask her to cover my class for me while I follow Eddie. He heads into the boys’ bathroom two doors down from my classroom.

             Almost immediately after he goes in, a freshman boy bolts out of the bathroom, features tightened in a cold sweat.

             “He’s got a gun, ma’am. He told me to get the hell out of the bathroom. You’ve got to do something!”

             After confirming no one else was in the bathroom with Eddie, I immediately dispatch the young boy back to his classroom. When I see he is safely inside and the hallway is empty, I activate the code red warning on my radio.

             “Code Red. Code Red. Gunman reported in second floor boys’ bathroom, next to the math classroom, room 203. Please keep all students in homeroom at this time and activate safety protocols. Lock all doors. Safety officers, please report to the second floor boys’ bathroom, room 203. Administration, contact 911. I repeat, Code Red. Code Red. This is not a drill.”

              I immediately hear the click of doors locking up and down the hall, followed by the scraping and grinding of furniture transforming into makeshift barricades. Every teacher understands the requirements. Every student who has attended Ogeechee before knows their hiding place, and they will help the new students. Repeated practice has prepared the school to some extent, but will it be enough for the real thing?

             The safety officers are still at the car line, ensuring that the first day’s drop off goes smoothly for the non-driving students. I hear through the radio that they expect to arrive at my location in about five minutes. I hear the distinct metallic click of what sounds like a magazine being loaded into a weapon and then the heavy metallic clack of the weapon being racked. Five minutes will probably be too late.

             I run around the corner of the wall of the perpendicular hallway across from my classroom and peer around the corner towards the bathroom. Thanking the heavens and the county for concrete, I catch my breath sharply when I see Eddie step out of the bathroom carrying a black AR-15 rifle, an ammo belt wrapped around his waist.

             “Aw hell. Ogeechee does not need this today,” I think to myself.

             “Code Red, Code Red,” I whisper into the radio. “Suspect is armed with an AR-15 rifle and an undetermined amount of additional ammo. What is the ETA for the safety officers and law enforcement?”

             “Safety officer ETA is three minutes. Law enforcement ETA is five minutes. What is the student status on the second floor?

             “No students visible in the corridors except for the suspect. I, Mrs. Peters, am the only staff member in the corridor. I will initiate Plan B until safety officers and law enforcement arrive.”

             “Roger.”

             “Eddie,” I call around the corner, stalling for time, “You don’t have to do this. Let’s talk this over.”

             “Mrs. Peeeeteeerrrrrrs,” Eddie taunts me. “You know nothing about me or what I need to do. If you want to talk, come out so I can see you.”

             Eddie fires a few rounds down the corridor for the intimidation factor, repetitive deafening cracks echoing off the walls and causing screams from the classrooms.

             “I’m going to find you, Mrs. Peeeeeteeeerrrrs. And if I don’t, maybe I’ll find that stupid bitch Angela and the rest of those jerks in homeroom. I’ll destroy this entire school before I’m done.”

             More gunfire, like mini explosives, burst off as Eddie marches inexorably toward me. I can’t let him reach my classroom. The wooden doors and the classroom furniture would not withstand an AR-15. He can’t reach the kids.

             “Eddie, Eddie. Stop. Let me talk to you. Who has hurt you? Who has made you so angry?”

             “I don’t want to talk to you, Mrs. Peeeeeteerrrrrs. Don’t you get it? I’m done with talking. I’ve tried talking to my parents, to therapists, to school counselors. No one listens. No one does a damn thing but transfers me from school to school to school.”

             Gunfire erupts again as Eddie shoots out the hallway light nearest to my position. The corridor descends into twilight. There is no response from the classrooms as the teachers have ushered the students into closets and storage rooms for safety.

             “Eddie, please listen …”

             “No, you listen to me. Do you know what my sorry excuse for a father did when I tried to talk to him? He bought me this gun. Took me to the gun range. Had ‘father-son bonding time’ as he called it, but we never talked about anything. Just shot up some targets. I still felt as shitty and worthless as before, but now, I have a high-powered weapon and know how to shoot it. I guess he wants me to be a monster. So, here I am.”

             At that moment, Eddie rounds the corner. We stand, face to face, Eddie’s rifle inches from my face. They say in your final moments, your entire life flashes before your eyes. That does not happen for me. I only see the kids—the Eddies, the Angelas, and every other kid who came to school today hoping for a fresh start.

             “Ed … Eddie,” I stammer despite my best attempts not to, “Regardless of what you may think, you have a choice. Right now, you still have a choice. If you hurt me or anyone else, someone else will make all your choices for you. I’d really like the opportunity to help you, if you’d let me.”

             For one second, I think I see his eyes softening, as if he is considering my offer. But then, Security Officer Ryan and law enforcement burst out of the stairwell at the far end of the corridor and storm down the hall, screaming at Eddie to put the weapon down. In that split second, his eyes blacken again, and he pulls the trigger, firing multiple rounds into my abdomen.

The world explodes around me, and I can’t breathe. I am on the floor of the hallway, but I’m not sure how I got there. I hear shouting and cursing and see law enforcement tackling and cuffing Eddie just feet away from me as Safety Officer Ryan gives me first aid.

“Are … they … safe?” I gurgle from lungs filled with blood.

“Yes, Peggy, you amazing woman,” Safety Officer Ryan chokes out the words with tears in his eyes, hands working desperately to try to save me. “Yes, they are. You stay with me now. The EMTs are coming.”

Ryan keeps trying to staunch the bleeding to no avail. Covered in my blood, he shouts repeatedly down the hall and into his radio for the EMTs. The more frantic he gets, the calmer I get. I am relieved to hear that the students, my students, are safe, but I am tired and my body is failing. I don’t feel any pain, exactly, but the act of breathing, which I took for granted earlier this morning, is now an immense exhausting labor that I can no longer continue on my own. Watching them arrest Eddie and confiscate his weapon gives me comfort that no one else at Ogeechee will be hurt today, and I know that I did my job. As my breathing grows more ragged, I only wish I had been able to help Eddie too. Just five minutes into homeroom period on the first day of school in my sixteenth year of teaching, I die in Safety Officer Ryan’s arms in the second-floor corridor. I am the 148th victim of a school shooting in the United States this year.