Brriing.
I smile happily and anxiously jump out my seat. The bell rings, and I’m more than ready to move on to my sixth period. I’d been sitting in my French class for the past fifty-seven minutes, barely listening to my teacher drone on about conjugating verbs.
These last days of school seem to go on forever. However, I try to look on the bright side. There are only two more periods left today and at least my next one—Geography—will be fun. This is because our school will be involved in a service project, the topic being an idea from one seventh grade girl or boy. I’ve been looking forward to it for weeks.
I run out of the French room, quickly giving my teacher the daily vocabulary word. I remember our speeches are due today, but I’m off the hook because I was sick the past three days.
Finally I’m about to enter our classroom. Mrs. Kopplin, our teacher—a freckle-faced blonde—greets us at the door.
“Hi Ellie,” she says, “Feeling better?”
“Yes,” I say, and enter the room to find a seat. I discover that the seats have been rearranged. Now they all form a semi-circle in front of the podium. The only open seat is next to a large girl and her short, black-haired friend. As I sit down, I hear them talking.
“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. Kopplin, 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, under a list labeled SIXTH HOUR SPEAKERS. “Our first speaker today is Andy.”
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 my friends and I to Cuba. We’re going to sell stickers and other items to get a film crew, where we will film a documentary on the horrors of deforestation. Thank you.”
He steps down from the podium, going back to his seat. I catch red cheeks and shaking arms. I’m sitting there in disbelief. He couldn’t have possibly been serious. It’s extremely hard to film something marketable.
“Your three minute discussion period has begun,” says Mrs. Kopplin.
For the next three minutes, different kids in my class get up to speak, hammering Andy with questions and telling him why his idea won’t work.
“You have thirty seconds left,” warns Mrs. Kopplin..
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. By the look on his face I know that what I said was a mistake. I was too harsh, the way I phrased my statement. Eh, he needed the reality check, I think to myself. There is silence for a few seconds, when Mrs. Kopplin 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 Andy, who lets out a deep sigh. I think I seem him clench his fists, although I am not sure. Mrs. Kopplin shakes her head.
“I’m sorry, but this topic does not pass. Keep trying, Andy. This is a wonderful topic, and I’m sure there are other ways in which you can help.” She winks before speaking again.
“Our next speaker is Sierra.” 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 Sierra 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 Andy with his fists clenched. I see the overturned chair. It’s inches from me. I try not to scream from fright.
After cries of, “What the heck?”, “What the hell?” and “What was that for?” Barry runs out of the room. Mrs. Kopplin, a track coach for the high school, immediately runs after him. Ironically, her desk chair almost overturns in her rush.
The rest of us are left alone in the room, breathless. I am possibly the most frightened out of anyone. I look at the chair again, and I’m reminded of how close it was to me. I’m trembling. Sierra is still standing on the podium, frozen. She looks as though she’s about to cry.
A kid in my class stands up. “Look, this isn’t Columbine,” he says, “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. Kopplin soon returns with the Dean of Students and the principal. We learn Andy 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 losing his temper. The class gets angry. If we would have known about it, the whole entire situation could have been avoided.
Right before the bell rings, Mrs. Kopplin warns us to keep the incident inside the classroom. It doesn’t matter. The word gets out anyway. I can’t stop thinking about it, and how close I came to that chair. But then I remember what that kid said. This isn’t columbine. That wasn’t a gun. Be thankful. The words bring disturbing images into my head. After they wear off, I realize how lucky I am. I’m Lucky to be alive, because with one upset student, a gun could be pulled at any moment . . .
Glad I got to read this piece. You have a nice, flowing style that's easy to read, but you strike complexity once in a while and it's rather lovely. I'm impressed by the way you've laid this piece out. A common tendency in nonfiction is to tell everything, but you don't do that and I commend you for that. 