SeCuRiTy
Jesse Martin walked into his
classroom. The air was somber. The day had begun and no one was really enthused
about being here. School was bad enough as it was. The teachers were
unenthusiastic. He had six classes a day, lunch, and gym. The teachers read off
his lessons from rote memory. The books were uninteresting. The material dull
as a butter knife. He had to go to school though everyone assured him. In
school lay the keys to his future. Without an education he would be
nothing—lucky to get a job flipping burgers at McDonald's. Like every other kid
at East West High School, he resigned himself to a day of absolute boredom in
the hopes that he could achieve this distant dream of a decent life, free of
burden and debt.
Blond and blue eyed, Jessie was
the stunning picture of the American dream. People that looked like him were on
television all the time, and billboards, and, well, everything. He was the
quarterback for the East West Saints, and he was good at his position. The
other kids at school looked up to him. The girls all wanted to fuck him. The
boys all wanted to be him. No one
ever suspected that his mom was a drug addict who loved her Valium more than
she’d ever loved him. Or that his dad was a ghost around their house—working
himself to death trying to support their upper middle class lifestyle. He saw
his dad in pictures more than he saw him in real life.
Jesse wasn't a whiner though. He
knew the world had very little sympathy for whiners. All in all, he had a
pretty good life. He always got the things he needed, and most of the time, he
got whatever he wanted. He understood these things with a higher mind than most
people his age. His grandfather had told him once that he was, simply, wise for
his age. He had taken great pride in that. He buckled down. He did what needed
doing, and, although he was bored on some weird level he could barely
understand, he didn't let that stop him. There was a better future for him at
the end of this long, dull, road. He wouldn't have to work as hard as his
father if he played his cards right. He wouldn't marry a woman like his
mother—pretty, but fake, all her smiles painted on with her lipstick in the
morning.
“Substitute,” Jamal Irwin said as
Jesse took his seat. Jamal was Jesse’s best friend and running back for the
Saints. Half African-American and half Jewish, Jamal was a study in the
determined. He’d already locked down a football scholarship to a top ten
university. Jamal didn't come from the same kind of life that Jesse had.
Jamal’s family was barely clinging to middle class, and with each drop in the
economy, Jamal’s family was falling further and further down. Jamal was his
family’s hope—their shining light and he was pulling through for them like the
champion he was. Jesse didn't envy Jamal his success—he just loved him. They
had been friends since kindergarten and time had rendered them more like
brothers. “At least the eye candy’s pleasing today.”
Jesse glanced at the substitute
teacher. He noted several things about her instantly. The first thing was that
she was pretty and young when their ordinary teacher was ugly and old. This
teacher didn't have the lines of bitterness around her eyes that Mrs. Morales,
their real Spanish teacher did.
The two top buttons of the
substitutes pale white blouse were undone. Her skirt was inky black and
mid-thigh exposing long sexy legs. Her
black heels were high—maybe six inches. She looked a wet dream he’d had not too
long ago, down to the long black curls cascading down her back. Her lips were
ruby red and her attention was on them, sliding from face to face. Her gaze was
slightly insecure. And there was a certain hunger in it that he didn't know how
to name.
He was distracted from attempting
to figure out why he thought his sexy new teacher was hungry, by the arrival of
Charity Granger and Stephanie Blythe. He’d dated them both last year and
actually slept with Stephanie. He’d almost liked her more than just that, but
she’d been so needy that it had made him uncomfortable. She had wanted all of
his time and all of his attention. Even though she was a cheerleader, she
didn't like football, and while he didn't give much of a fuck about football
either, he couldn't stand the way she expected to be worn like a pretty
coat—and nothing else. He could do anything he wanted to her. She had no
stops—as long as he was with her. He
couldn't even tell if she liked him in the time they were together. All he knew
was that she liked belonging to the East West Saint’s quarterback. He’d broken
her a little in the polite phone call where he had dismissed her. He felt bad
about it sometimes. Using her had never been his intention—a thing of which he
was promptly accused—he’d wanted to like her. His only requirement had been
that she liked him in return. Not the East West quarterback. Him.
His gaze moved from Stephanie’s
sleek, flaxen, form to Charity. The whites of Charity’s chocolate colored eyes
were pink from drug use. Charity tried hard to be Stephanie’s twin. She had the
sleek, toned look down to a well-copied science. However, there was just more to
Charity than there was to Stephanie. There was a sadness in Charity Granger
that rested just beneath the carefully applied make-up she wore—a desperation
that was just as intense, but very different from Stephanie’s. The makeup hid
Charity’s cuts and bruises most of the time—and everybody, en mass, teachers
and students alike, let most of the time be enough.
Charity sat next to Jamal and
Stephanie took a place behind the other girl. The substitute sat on the desk,
and crossed long tan legs. Her panties were thin, sheer and black.
“I will have you know,” the
substitute said. He saw that her name was on the board. She was Ms. Rodriguez,
“that I am, originally, from Mexico. Bad Spanish will not be tolerated in this
classroom today. Each of you will try, very hard, to please me.”
Her voice was like velvet, her
accent so slight it was almost imperceptible, but it was there, and he found
himself leaning forward to listen to her talk.
“Oh, I’d try very hard to please
you,” Jamal whispered, and Charity tapped him the in back of the head with a
number two pencil.
“Pervert,” she breathed.
“Damn right,” he said.
“She looks like a cheap whore,”
Stephanie said, “but then Jesse likes his whores cheap. Look how hard he’s
paying attention.”
“Do not fuck with me,” Jesse told her. He was simply not in the mood
for her shit today. He took his gaze off the spectacle that was their
substitute teacher, glanced at the clock, and just resigned himself to it.
The sound was loud, and in the
near distance. It sounded like someone’s tire blew out while driving fast. It
was a hard pop, and, along with that sound came one long, dreadful scream.
The entire room grew silent in
the wake of that sound. No one talked. No one breathed. The sound of the clock
moving a second hand was the loudest noise in the room.
“What was that?” the substitute
asked.
“I don’t know,” someone whispered
back. There was burgeoning panic in that frantic reply.
Another hard pop, and a wavering
high-pitched scream.
“What the fuck?” Jamal asked.
The loudspeaker made that
strangely annoying static noise it made when it came on. The principal’s voice
dominated the room.
“Attention classrooms of East
West High, it seems we are in the middle of a school shooting. If you would
please move to the back of your classrooms and retrieve your Security Blankets
in an orderly fashion…Please do not try to leave the classrooms. This is
standard procedure in these situations…Just retrieve your assigned Security
Blanket and everything will be okay…”
There were several more pops—gunshots.
And several more screams, each one higher and more horrible than the last. Some
went on and on, the agonized shrieks of those in pain—dying.
“Oh my God,” Ms. Rodriguez moaned
in horror.
Jesse couldn't move, but chaos
reigned all around him. It was like he was in some special place outside of all
of this, watching it like it was some horrible dream. The gunfire was coming
closer by the second. He heard screams in the hallway. The substitute teacher
rushed past him, less pretty now that her face was a picture of horror.
Everyone was moving at
once—surging toward the back of the classroom like a fleshy sea. They had
practiced this a thousand times—but in the culmination of the horror all grace
and order was gone. Chairs were turned over and scattered everyone. Several
people started crying outright.
Pop.
Pop.
Pop.
Someone smashed into the
classroom door and a pale hand left a dark red blood streak on the glass. A
face was visible for a second, the eyes wide. He recognized the other boy. Paul
Cranston. Science nerd who’d somehow lost his glasses. A little geek who, Jesse
secretly thought, was going to change the world in some big way. Paul’s
startled, agonized, face slid out of sight.
Pa-Pa-Pa- POP.
Pop.
Pop.
You’re not wearing your Security Blanket Mr. Cranston, Jesse
thought insanely. He felt the smile curve his lips—a terrified reaction of his
face for a joke that really wasn't funny.
The slightly hideous, oh-so-plastic,
grin faltered when he actually heard Paul answer him.
That’s because they’re stupid, Mr. Martin. An incredibly stupid way to
solve the problem of gun violence in America. The essence of putting a Band-Aid
on a gunshot wound, excuse my terrible pun and darkish sense of humor. The next
thing they’re going to do is have us come to school in bullet proof vests. Or
hell, maybe they’ll arm us and we can shoot it out in the classrooms like Billy
the Kidd and Butch Cassidy…
Blood—thick and bright—seeped
under the door. At first it was a trickle, and then it became a river, moving
over white linoleum like a thing sentient and alive. Just outside the door, Paul’s
voice welled into a terrible howl, that clipped off suddenly and became
horrific begging. “Please,” he said, “Pl-Please. N-No. Don’t--”
POP.
A face wearing a dark ski mask
appeared suddenly at the classroom door’s window. Jesse felt like a statue—a
thing made of solid marble. His mind told him to move as he stared into the
gunman’s eyes, but his body simply would not obey. He understood the meaning of
rooted in fear then—completely. His bladder felt heavy. Distantly, he wondered
if he were going to piss himself before he died.
“…I understand that you are
afraid,” the principal’s voice said over the loudspeaker.
…Afraid to go to school,” Paul’s voice said. …Afraid of getting beaten up by bigger kids because you’re smart or
gay or black. Or all of those things. Or none of those things. Just different.
Afraid of lackadaisical teachers who think we need to ‘toughen up’ … or the
predatory ones. Afraid of being so bored with the mundane, watered down,
curriculum that you’ll quit and have no future at all. Afraid of not doing well
enough to secure a good future. Afraid of being shot by some kid that’s feeling
all those fears and can’t control it…
“…but I assure you that we have
this situation under control…”
…Out of control. Everything is out of control. Big Money says guns are
okay. So what if a few kids get killed in the process of making all that
delicious money. Fuck, even the Security Blankets are going for a thousand
dollars a pop. Pay a thousand dollars and save your children. Standard Issue
Security Blankets will keep them safe during those war-like sojourns in school.
This is another test. Live or die. The results will be on your taxes. Along
with the price of the gun this fucker’s using to kill you today, Jesse My Man…
The doorknob turned and didn't
open. Jesse was surprised that someone had had the forethought to lock it
against the intruder. A second later and the butt of the madman’s rifle smashed
through the glass of the door. A dark clad arm reached in, grabbed the knob,
and turned it.
“…The police are here. Can you
hear the sirens? It’s almost over. Just remember you’re Security Blanket and
you will be okay…”
…Bullshit… Paul snapped. …Stupid,
greedy, and careless is never okay. Someone always pays the price. Today it’s
us. Tomorrow it’ll be someone else…
“Here’s Johnny,” the gunman
cackled madly before exploding into the room. He was dressed in all black—a grotesque
TV depiction of a vigilante murderer, but, Jesse had recognized his voice. It
was Craig Jackson—a kid as low down on the social scale as Paul Cranston ever
was without any of the brainy potential.
Jesse sat in his seat in school
being stared at by his would-be murderer with the voice of a dead boy in his
head. He could see Paul’s body now, just outside the door way. Behind him, his
Spanish class cried out in a symphony of terror, the uniform sound broken only
by the occasional plea. He turned his head to see them because the killer’s
eyes were on them and they were a solid wall of orange—draped in the security
of the school issued blankets. The things were bullet proof and damn near
military grade.
“Fuck it,” the killer said.
Pop.
Pop.
Pop.
POP.
POP.
…He sounds just like the goddamn government, Paul said. His voice
was soft under the wailing of sirens, the screams of the classroom, the noise
of the gun and the pounding of Jesse’s terrified heart.
…Stupid.
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