Aftermath(48)

I follow the coordinates to an open door on the first floor. It’s a classroom. Nothing odd about the door being open – half of them are. I step through and brace myself for a more personal message, maybe written on the blackboard. I also keep my foot in the doorway. After what happened in the newspaper office, I am taking no chance that this door will mysteriously shut, locking me inside.

Maybe that’s the point here. Trap me inside North Hampton High and force me to call for help and explain what I was doing here.

I see nothing on the blackboard. Hear no footsteps creeping down the hall, which is dark and empty and still.

I move into the classroom, my foot blocking the door. When I hear a soft sob, I jump. It’s cut short. Stifled. I strain to listen. A whimper. Then a sharp “Shh!”

The sound comes from inside the room. The empty room. I peer around, shining my cell phone flashlight over posters on the walls. I pause on one for a theater production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, and I remember that Luka was the understudy for Puck in a local production — And I must stop that. Focus and banish my brother. It’s not the same poster, anyway. This one is from Broadway. Beside it, another poster lists fifty of the most commonly misspelled words. Then one for Banned Books Week. Below that are shelves of books.

An English classroom.

Turn in your badge, Detective – that took way too long.

English.

That sparks a connection. Something about Luka.

Yeah, it was his best subject. His favorite class. Move on.

No, there’s something —

That whimper comes again, and I tense. Other voices follow.

“Shh!”

“I can’t —”

“Shh!”

Silence.

“Where’s Luka?”

I spin. The last voice comes from across the room, a harsh whisper.

“Has anyone seen Luka?”

Now the connection hits. English class. This is where Luka was when the school went on lockdown, and then he snuck out and the next thing anyone knew, he was walking out of the boys’ bathroom with a gun.

I forget that I’m supposed to stay in the entranceway, making sure the door doesn’t close. I hear that whispering voice, and I’m bearing down on it.

The voice has stopped, but I know where it came from – an empty corner next to the blackboard. There’s nothing that anyone could hide behind. Meaning the “speaker” is exactly that: a speaker of the technological variety. I’ll find it and — A light flashes. I wheel as the opposite wall lights up like a screen.

At a gunshot, I start to drop to the floor, but the sound reverberates from all corners of the room, and I realize it’s a recording.

The light flickers and brightens, and figures appear on the wall. A moment frozen in time. Frozen in this very classroom. The photo was taken seconds after that first gunshot. I see that in their faces. A couple of kids sit at their desks, their heads up, like startled deer. Someone else is diving for the floor, and beside him, a girl laughs and points. Look at the idiot, diving for cover when a car backfires.

Two more shots sound in quick succession. Then a siren. The school siren. A teacher shouts “Everyone down!”

The first wall goes dark and a second wall lights up with another photograph. It’s the teacher, her arms raised, her face taut with fear. Kids in the first row are scrambling to their feet. A desk is falling over. One girl stands with her eyes wide, and I recognize her. Even with the blurred shot and imperfect projection screen, I know her.

It’s Tiffany.

She’s standing at her desk, and she looks utterly terrified.

She was in Luka’s class.

I remember that – she and Luka were doing homework together once, and he said she’d skipped sophomore English and gone straight to junior.

She’s looking at something beside her. That wide-eyed look of terror fixed on an empty desk.

Where’s Luka?

Has anyone seen Luka?

The speakers come alive again. Blasting from all corners. A girl sobbing. A boy telling her to shut up, just shut the hell up. Then a scream. A high-pitched scream of pain from another part of the school, and a boy shouts, “What the hell is that?” and more screams. Gunfire and endless screams.

Skye

I tear out of the room, and I swear the screams and shots follow me. I race along the hall, and when I hear footfalls, I spin, my hands going up, ready to defend myself.

Jesse runs over. “I heard shots. Like a recording. What the hell is going on?”

I stop and struggle to catch my breath. “Performance art.”

“What?”

“It’s…” Breathe. “It’s performance art. An installation with an audience of one. It was set up in the English room. Luka’s last… His last class.”

Jesse’s expression says he still doesn’t know what I mean. He takes my elbow, as if to steady me, and I breathe deeply.

“I’m okay,” I say.

“Yeah, no. You’re not. And this was a lousy idea. But you’ve seen what you needed to see, so we can go now.”

I nod. He keeps hold of my elbow, and we start down the hall. The audio is still going. Sounds of the shooting. Every time a gun fires. I flinch. We both do. Jesse walks closer to me, his hand tightening on my arm.

“It’s not real,” he says.