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Chapter 1

The first day back to school after spring break and very few of the faculty of S.L. Wright Elementary were looking forward to it. The kids, the recesses, the noisy lunches. Quite a few were more than content to sit at home in the still hours of spring and drink their teas and watch their programs as the hours whiled away.

Alas such a time for that came to an end. As the two-story building awoke with what it's strange inmates called life before the kids arrived the only feeling hanging in the air of the staff was one of quiet anticipation. They silently resigned themselves to their classrooms and began their organisation of lesson-plans and the like.

Each were ready for the day to begin, but, like the kids en route, they too wished Spring Break had lasted a little longer.

That art teacher, one Mr. NeSmith, had nothing to say on the matter of the strange teacher he locked eyes with. For him this was just another day, and entering his classroom, which smelled of the many trapping of art, paints and watercolours and papers, as well as a fine underlying hint of mildew as to be expected of a mobile classroom. He had no class for the first block and so Mr. NeSmith, Micheal if you wanted to be casual about it, went about preparing coffee for his morning ritual of hanging particularly good works of art. What few gems there were, and of course what could only be treasured by an elementary school teacher.

The glance at the other teacher inched into his mind as he had his first sip of coffee, strong and black the way he liked it. He realised he was not an exceptionally striking man, what with his naturally frazzled hair and slight pouch, but that look that crossed her face, why, she might as well have been sizing up a leper! Mr. NeSmith shook his head and blamed it on the unrealistic expectations that are to be found in a decadent society with its culture rooted deeply in the media.

Whatever that meant.

Meanwhile the buses had arrived, and in the main building the tension amongst the faculty was growing as they heard the calls and squawks of children, wide awake and ready to go, while the adults themselves would much prefer to still be asleep. As the din of children-at-consciousness grew the faculty prepared themselves by barricading their desks with paperworks, preparing distractions of notes on the writing boards, and calming themselves with whatever brew could be found concocted in the teacher's lounges.

Indeed, as NeSmith finished his cup of coffee, and the faculty at large sat at their desks, much like clockwork, the bells rang and the children stampeded. The school day had begun.

Hank wished there was a window he could look out of, he rather hated being inside this little metal box. It cooked you during the hot seasons and was a meat locker in the cold, the air flow would get so nasty with the smell of other kids, and finally, he just did not enjoy school all that much. Oh sure, he made all A's and had his group of friends, barely got in trouble for anything more than talking in class, but right now he just wanted to go home.

It wasn't even spring break that made him feel this way, indeed, he wanted to see Little Mike, Lou, Boris (Boris was everybody's Russian friend), and especially Yue, his crush since he realised it was okay to like girls.

But today...

Hank slumped in his chair thankful to be hidden in the back of the class while his teacher, the always cheerful Ms. Abbie, went into space, came back, and started teaching.

Hank started hatching a plan, he could go home for a stomach ache, that would do it, he just had to look the part. Hank had read The Bad Book for Good Boys, something intended for middle-schoolers that Hank was very proud to have read before his time with super-reading skills. In it was all sorts of ways to be mischievous and it was a wonder why they printed it at all but of course Hank did not wonder that. It did not bother him that there was a book explaining to good boys how to be bad. So he recalled the section on faking a stomach ache.

Step 1: Hold your breath and rub your cheeks. Why? It was sure to give you a pale and blotchy look that means you are coming down with something.

Hank carefully drew in his breath and made sure not to puff out his cheeks. Then he leaned forward on his desk and rested his head in his hands, using them to slowly rub his cheeks while he held his breath.

He might've gotten away with it if he had more "who can hold their breath the longest" contests at recess, as it was he could not handle it for more than half-a-minute before he let out an alarmingly loud burst of air in the back of class.

And just to ruin his blotchy cheeks, he blushed as the kids around him turned to stare at him.

Hank could only seize the opportunity, even if it wasn't fully matured.

"Ms." he started in his quiet voice, "my stomach hurts." His voice wavered, he did not know if it would have helped him or hindered him, but he prayed it would help him. He just wanted to go to the nurse's office so he could talk to his mom or dad and they could spirit him away. First he had to punctuate the feeling of pain he was faking. He did this by holding his stomach with one arm and furrowing his brow, causing one small wrinkle on his youthful face.

As if his body wanted to play along, and because he gulped air to hold his breath, Hank burped. The unlucky student ahead of him got to smell the full force of the twice-unbrushed teeth of Hank, and the kid made a face as he turned around.

Hank blushed.

Hank quickly gathered his belongings, including the packet, and made his way to the front of the class. He was ready to go but he made absolutely sure not to look too eager, taking his time in his actions as one who is sick would be expected to.

Abbie had made the call, but the voice from the other end of the phone was not the voice she expected, it was male, for one, and sounded like a teenager,

"Don't let him leave the room," it spoke, then the phone went back to dial tone as though she hadn't dialed at all. Hank looked at her expectantly, waiting for her to dismiss him.

As if to justify her paranoia, at the moment she stuck her head outside the door the phone rang. It was a special ring, two tones and then a third longer one followed by a beep.

The was the Silent Alarm System, part of the new initiative brought on by the Sandy Hook Elementary shooting. Whether or not Abbie had read the brief in her emails about there being a drill today did not stop her from knowing what to do when she heard.

That is; she was supposed to lock and bar the doors to the class, draw the blinds on the windows to prevent anyone looking out or in and gather the class in the middle of the room or into the bathroom if the classroom included one. Then the teachers were instructed to keep the kids silent for the duration of the drill until the SAS was heard again.

The kids were already beginning to shuffle to the middle of the room.

All around the school students and teachers alike participated in the "shooter drill" as it was called by the faculty. The real name for the drill was the "invasion drill" but honestly they could not decide which one sounded worse. For the kids it was simply the "Phone Drill" cause that's what always prompted it.

In the next mobile over the art teacher continued his coffee like nothing was going on, he'd participate if he had kids in this block but as it was he had none, so he kept doing his morning routine. Of course this was when he got the call.

"Mr. NeSmith," sounded the voice of the middle-aged principal, Mrs. Willie Davis, "Would you be so kind as to go around and check the mobiles to see that they are locked for the drill?"

Micheal wanted to grumble but he was the only free teacher out there.

"Okay Mrs. Davis."

"And give me a call when you're done."

"Yes, Mrs. Davis."

"Thank you."

Mr. NeSmith planned his route. He decided to go around in a clockwise fashion, thus getting to the teacher next door's classroom last before finally getting to his own.

It only took him a few minutes to make the round, the drill wasn't supposed to last as long as it was after all, and he finally came up to the final mobile. The one with the teacher who looked at him strangely.

As the art teacher grabbed the doorknob a loud noise behind him, the sound of someone smacking the side of a mobile, made him jump against the door. He turned to find that there was a kid, probably in his mid-teens, standing beside the mobile in front of him. The kid grunted, or so it sounded, swayed, then left faster than Micheal could fully grasp.

The terrified teacher stood with his back to the door and his chest pounding a steady rhythm.

Was that one of those "shadow kids" that had been in gossip? Or was it just some truant taking advantage of the drill?

Either way he could hear the kids, both inside the smacked mobile and the one he was pressed up against, making noise as they had heard the teen's smack.

Micheal wondered whether or not to apologise to the kids he probably just terrified, and the teacher too.

Instead he cleared his throat and shouted, "sorry!" into the door then left, blushing madly, back to the relative safety of his mobile. And what a relief it was, happy to be out of that situation and back in familiarity that he almost forgot to make the call. But he did, and as promptly as the conversation ended the SAS went off again, signaling to the school it was over.

Micheal didn't bother reporting the kid, he didn't like the look of him, sure, but he watched him run off away from the school and figured he wasn't coming back. He figured he'd stop by the teacher's later to give a better apology.

****

Meanwhile Hank's "stomach" was not getting any better, but he figured his chances of going home were all but lost thanks to the intervention of the drill.

As the alarm sounded he hung his head with his heavy heart and sighed his way back to his seat.