Fright
Note: The following is a true story.
* Names Changed to protect safety.
School. So boring, so long, but yet, it goes on. I’ll be out for good soon - after I finish today, I only have six more days. The day is almost over - the fifth hour bell rings, and I scurry out of French and make my way to Social Studies. I’m excited, because today is our first day of World Council. I can’t wait to hear the speeches everyone has to give. I wont be presenting mine yet, because I was sick Tuesday and Wednesday and I have to still write my speech and get caught up on notes.
Our teacher, Mrs. King*, a freckle-faced blonde, greets us all at the door with a warm smile. The room looks different, because all of the desks have been arranged in a way that they all face the podium. I take a seat next two gossiping friends near the front.
“I’m nervous,” said the shorter, more baby-faced of the two.
“You’ll do fine,” reassures her friend. I smile. I had no problem with stage fright - I’d been performing on stage singe I was seven. I look down at my red binder and get out my world council voting packet, wondering if I should say my speech with an Australian accent when I present (it was my dad’s idea, since the country I was representing was Australia).
Mrs. King*, wearing a green sweater, knee-high, black boots and a khaki skirt, steps onto the podium.
“Welcome to the first day of World Council. The eight graders thought this was a fun unit. I’m sure we will pick a great topic to send to student council next fall,” she looks at the board, at a list labeled SIXTH HOUR SPEAKERS. “Our first speaker today is Barry*.”
An obese brunette boy about three chairs to my left gets up, cracking a gap-tooth smile.
“Hello,” he says nervously, getting up to the podium. “My country was Cuba, and my topic was deforestation.” I lay my head against the table, bored as he explains what deforestation is, a topic I had heard about countless times before this one. I sit up, listening again as he explains what he is proposing we do to help. “I’m looking to raise five-thousand dollars to send me and few of my friends to Cuba. We’re going to sell stickers and other items to get a film crew, where we will film a documentary. Thank you.”
He steps down from the podium, going back to his seat. I raise my eyebrows. He couldn’t have possibly been serious. Way, way too difficult. He was thinking too big - there was no way it would ever work.
“Your three minute discussion period has begun,” says Mrs. King*.
For the next three minutes, different kids in my class get up to speak, hammering Barry* with questions and telling him why his idea won’t work.
“You have thirty seconds left,” warns Mrs. King*.
I figure that I’ll get up and add to what has been said.
“Even if you actually manage to get this filmed,” I say, “how do you expect to market your DVD? I doubt few would buy a documentary made by a random twelve year old.”
He doesn’t answer. There is silence for a few seconds, when Mrs. King* says, “We will take a vote at this time.” The class gets their pencils ready to record the outcome.
“All in favor of passing the Deforestation topic?”
The class remains still.
“All opposed?”
All twenty-six hands, myself included, shoot up in the air. I look at Barry*, who lets out a deep sigh.
“Alright. Our next speaker is Tara*.” The short girl who I was sitting next to gets up, shaking nervously. Her friend gives her a thumbs-up, reassuring her.
“Hi, I represent Greece, and my topic is over fishing.” I listen for a little while, getting bored. I look at Specials, the book under my desk. When I l left off, Tally had just visited the hospital to check on her wounded boyfriend. I wanted to know what happened, but I figured that it would be polite to pay attention, so I resist the urge and look at Tara* again.
“I think we can try to-”
Her speech is cut off by the loud clanging of metal against the wall right next to me. A chair had just been thrown. I look to see Barry* with his fists clenched.
After cries of, “What the heck?”, “What the hell?” and “What was that for?” Barry runs out of the room. Mrs. King, a track coach for the high school, runs after him.
The rest of us are left alone in the room, breathless. I am possibly the most frightened out of anyone. There was less than a foot between the chair and myself. I’m trembling. John*, a kid sitting across the room, says,
“Look, this isn’t Columbine. That wasn’t a gun. Be thankful.”
These words do more hurt then help, because that image gets into my head. I see him pull out a gun, slowly picking off everyone in the class. I close my eyes and open them again, trying to get the image out my head. I begin to cry, wondering how it could have gone differently. How we could have been nicer to him.
Mrs. King* soon returned with the Dean of Students and the principal. We learned Barry* had been found, and suspended until Monday. We also learn that he had a strange mental illness, one where he couldn’t control his anger or really understand how he felt. He was more prone to loosing his temper. The class gets angry. Why didn’t we know about it? The whole entire situation could have been avoided.
Over the next few days, the story gets out. We become famous. Those who weren’t there want to know every little detail, and say stuff like, “I wish I was there.” To them, I sigh and say, “You don’t understand.”
Four months later, as I clean out my room, I run across the prompt card that says write about the scariest thing that happened in your life. And the memories return. I’d been living alright until that point. I remember what John* said. What if that really happened? Would I truly be safe?
