Interim(125)

Casey ran to Ms. Griffin’s desk and tore through the drawers. Other students rushed to her side to aid in the search.

Regan bolted from the room, certain she’d come face-to-face with Jeremy in this hallway—Hallway D. She had to; the gunshots were much too loud to be anywhere else.

The hallway was deserted. She halted in her tracks, listening for the next sounds.

Pop pop pop pop!

She ran the length of the hallway and took a sharp right, following the sinister sounds through the empty passageways. No one. Anywhere.

“Good,” she huffed. “They’re hiding. That’s good.”

She picked up her pace and rounded another corner, wiping every now and then at her guilty tears. She was to blame. If people were being murdered right now, she was to blame. How could she ignore the blatant signs? How could she ignore those words in his journal? How could she let him trick her so?

POP!

So close.

But maybe he didn’t trick her. Maybe he never had a plan to shoot people. Maybe it was the fight with Brandon that sent him over the edge. Maybe he was fine until . . .

She turned the corner screaming, “JEREMY STOP!” then skidded to a halt.

Hannah turned around slowly, cradling a rifle to her chest. Regan barely recognized her. She shed her oversized, boyish clothes for a skater dress and flats. Her spikey hair was now pink-tipped, and she donned full make-up: mascara, blush, lip gloss.

She was a killer knockout.

Regan blinked, then dropped her eyes to the floor. Ms. Griffin lay at Hannah’s feet—shot in the leg—bleeding out on the tile.

“Regan, run,” Ms. Griffin breathed.

“Yeah, Regan. Run,” Hannah echoed coolly.

Regan froze. Urine trickled down the inside of her leg, soaking her tights. A few droplets puddled on the floor.

“Hannah?” she asked, voice quivering.

“And you thought it was Jeremy,” Hannah said. She frowned. “Why did you think that?”

Regan shook uncontrollably, then cried out when Hannah raised the rifle at her face.

“Why’d you think that?” she demanded.

“I don’t know! Because he was picked on! I don’t know!”

“Liar. You know something I don’t,” Hannah said.

“H . . . Hannah, I d-don’t know. He was picked on. That’s all I-I know,” Regan sobbed.

“You’re telling me I could have had a partner in crime? If I would have just told him my plan!” Hannah said with mock disappointment.

Ms. Griffin whimpered.

“Hannah, please let me help Ms. Griffin,” Regan said.

“Are you f*cking kidding me?”

Students, this is not a drill, Mr. Armstrong’s voice came over the intercom. Report immediately to the nearest classroom. Lock the doors. Turn off the lights . . .

“Fuck,” Hannah muttered, and charged toward the front office.

“HANNAH!” Regan screamed.

. . . Hide. Post help signs in the windows for any injured. This is not a drill. This is . . . Hannah, Christ! . . .

Rapid firing.

“Oh my God!” Regan screamed, clasping her hands over her ears.

She shut up her eyes, thinking absurdly that she could disappear. But the image of Ms. Griffin lying helpless on the floor flashed in her mind, and she knew she couldn’t be a coward. She wouldn’t be a coward.

She rushed to Ms. Griffin’s side. “You have to help me!” she cried, yanking on her teacher’s arms. “I’m not strong enough!”

Ms. Griffin slid her good leg under her, using Regan for balance as she stood slowly. She gingerly tested her shot leg, putting minimal pressure on it.

She screamed.

“Okay okay,” Regan said quickly. “It’s okay.”

But it wasn’t okay. She glimpsed the wound—right near the femeral artery. Blood gushed as Ms. Griffin tested her leg once more.

“Stop it!” Regan shouted. She ripped off her shirt and wrapped Ms. Griffin’s leg. But it was too bulky. She couldn’t tie it tightly.

“Fuck f*ck f*ck f*ck f*ck,” she whispered over and over, then wriggled out of her urine-soaked tights.

“Regan,” Ms. Griffin whispered, and collapsed on the ground.

“GODDAMNIT!” Regan screamed. “Sit up, Ms. Griffin! SIT THE FUCK UP!!”

She wrapped her tights over the shirt, pulling hard to secure a makeshift tourniquet—to try to stop the dangerous flow of blood. She hooked her hands under her teacher’s arms, eyes searching for the closest classroom. English 10B. Twenty yards, give or take.