First Chapter of Lockdown
Chapter One
I’m in the corner under the table. Next to me are a couple milk crates crammed with the notebooks we turned in yesterday. There’s a plastic bin of math junk—blue geometry templates, these little yellow blocks we used in elementary school but haven’t pulled out once this year, and rulers. A lamp cord dangles down from a dust-covered lamp I’ve never seen lit.
Some kids goof around and giggle. Kyle sits drawing little army men in the notebook he snuck over. Carrie smoothes Lip Smackers over her lips until they look wet. Even though they’re not supposed to, some kids read in the semi-dark, lying on their stomachs under the desk group nearest the corner. Ms. McCoy knows, but doesn’t say anything. We wait for the, “all clear, good job” that will come over the loudspeaker any minute.
Our school has twice as many lockdowns as the state says we’re supposed to have. On account of twelve years ago. The principal, Mr. Halverson, says it’s proactive. My dad says he’s fighting the last war. Lightning never strikes the same place twice.
My long hair falls forward like a curtain. I rest my face in my hands. The room’s quiet and I can think about everything.
I’m alone under the corner table and it reminds me of the forts I used to play in when I was a little kid: blankets draped over a bunch of dining room chairs, or the back of the couch or a table. I remember the sweet smell of fresh chocolate chip cookies.
I get this chill. My whole body shivers. It’s not that I’m cold or all sentimental over my happy fort childhoods, and I’m not scared, but my body feels that way.
And I wonder for a second if maybe lightning can strike the same place twice.
I’m in the corner under the table. Next to me are a couple milk crates crammed with the notebooks we turned in yesterday. There’s a plastic bin of math junk—blue geometry templates, these little yellow blocks we used in elementary school but haven’t pulled out once this year, and rulers. A lamp cord dangles down from a dust-covered lamp I’ve never seen lit.
Some kids goof around and giggle. Kyle sits drawing little army men in the notebook he snuck over. Carrie smoothes Lip Smackers over her lips until they look wet. Even though they’re not supposed to, some kids read in the semi-dark, lying on their stomachs under the desk group nearest the corner. Ms. McCoy knows, but doesn’t say anything. We wait for the, “all clear, good job” that will come over the loudspeaker any minute.
Our school has twice as many lockdowns as the state says we’re supposed to have. On account of twelve years ago. The principal, Mr. Halverson, says it’s proactive. My dad says he’s fighting the last war. Lightning never strikes the same place twice.
My long hair falls forward like a curtain. I rest my face in my hands. The room’s quiet and I can think about everything.
I’m alone under the corner table and it reminds me of the forts I used to play in when I was a little kid: blankets draped over a bunch of dining room chairs, or the back of the couch or a table. I remember the sweet smell of fresh chocolate chip cookies.
I get this chill. My whole body shivers. It’s not that I’m cold or all sentimental over my happy fort childhoods, and I’m not scared, but my body feels that way.
And I wonder for a second if maybe lightning can strike the same place twice.
Copyright © 2011 Flint Keller All Rights Reserved
