She turned the corner screaming, “JEREMY STOP!” then skidded to a halt.
Hannah turned around slowly, cradling a rifle to her chest. Regan barely recognized her. She shed her oversized, boyish clothes for a skater dress and flats. Her spikey hair was now pink-tipped, and she donned full make-up: mascara, blush, lip gloss.
She was a killer knockout.
Regan blinked, then dropped her eyes to the floor. Ms. Griffin lay at Hannah’s feet—shot in the leg—bleeding out on the tile.
“Regan, run,” Ms. Griffin breathed.
“Yeah, Regan. Run,” Hannah echoed coolly.
Regan froze. Urine trickled down the inside of her leg, soaking her tights. A few droplets puddled on the floor.
“Hannah?” she asked, voice quivering.
“And you thought it was Jeremy,” Hannah said. She frowned. “Why did you think that?”
Regan shook uncontrollably, then cried out when Hannah raised the rifle at her face.
“Why’d you think that?” she demanded.
“I don’t know! Because he was picked on! I don’t know!”
“Liar. You know something I don’t,” Hannah said.
“H . . . Hannah, I d-don’t know. He was picked on. That’s all I-I know,” Regan sobbed.
“You’re telling me I could have had a partner in crime? If I would have just told him my plan!” Hannah said with mock disappointment.
Ms. Griffin whimpered.
“Hannah, please let me help Ms. Griffin,” Regan said.
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
Students, this is not a drill, Mr. Armstrong’s voice came over the intercom. Report immediately to the nearest classroom. Lock the doors. Turn off the lights . . .
“Fuck,” Hannah muttered, and charged toward the front office.
“HANNAH!” Regan screamed.
. . . Hide. Post help signs in the windows for any injured. This is not a drill. This is . . . Hannah, Christ! . . .
Rapid firing.
“Oh my God!” Regan screamed, clasping her hands over her ears.
She shut up her eyes, thinking absurdly that she could disappear. But the image of Ms. Griffin lying helpless on the floor flashed in her mind, and she knew she couldn’t be a coward. She wouldn’t be a coward.
She rushed to Ms. Griffin’s side. “You have to help me!” she cried, yanking on her teacher’s arms. “I’m not strong enough!”
Ms. Griffin slid her good leg under her, using Regan for balance as she stood slowly. She gingerly tested her shot leg, putting minimal pressure on it.
She screamed.
“Okay okay,” Regan said quickly. “It’s okay.”
But it wasn’t okay. She glimpsed the wound—right near the femeral artery. Blood gushed as Ms. Griffin tested her leg once more.
“Stop it!” Regan shouted. She ripped off her shirt and wrapped Ms. Griffin’s leg. But it was too bulky. She couldn’t tie it tightly.
“Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck,” she whispered over and over, then wriggled out of her urine-soaked tights.
“Regan,” Ms. Griffin whispered, and collapsed on the ground.
“GODDAMNIT!” Regan screamed. “Sit up, Ms. Griffin! SIT THE FUCK UP!!”
She wrapped her tights over the shirt, pulling hard to secure a makeshift tourniquet—to try to stop the dangerous flow of blood. She hooked her hands under her teacher’s arms, eyes searching for the closest classroom. English 10B. Twenty yards, give or take.
“Ms. Griffin, we can do this.”
Her teacher nodded once, expelling the last of her energy.
Regan grunted and strained, pulling as hard as she could, sliding her teacher slowly down the hallway. She made it a few yards before stopping.
“Ten second break,” she said to herself, counting One banana two banana three banana . . .
She heaved and moved again. Several yards this time, her survival instincts kicking into overdrive: I am not dying today! Neither is Ms. Griffin!
“Ten second break,” she said again, breathing heavily.
“Regan, it’s all right,” Ms. Griffin whispered. Barely detectable.
Another pull. She wouldn’t stop until she made it to classroom 10B. Grunts and groans and mental determination got her there. She peeked into the classroom. Lights off. The chances of the door being unlocked were slim. She jiggled the handle.
It opened.
Screams and cries from inside.
“It’s okay!” Regan called. “It’s okay!”
But she knew they were sitting ducks. No teacher. No key.
She dragged Ms. Griffin in the room.
“Help me!” she screamed, and the students closest to the door sprang to action.
They slammed it closed once Regan and Ms. Griffin were safely inside.
“We can’t find the key. We don’t know where Mr. Howard is,” a girl said. It was Jamie—a fellow soccer teammate.
Regan took a quick inventory of the room then looked at Jamie, who was staring at her bra. She’d forgotten she was half naked.
“Here,” Jamie said, pulling off her jacket and thrusting it in Regan’s hands.
“It’s really bad,” Regan said low, zipping up. She pointed to Ms. Griffin’s leg. “Find the First Aid kit. Wrap it better.” She dropped her voice even lower. “Lots and lots of pressure. I think—”
“I got it,” Jamie said, and ran to the storage cabinet.
“What can I do?” a boy asked Regan. He was hunched over the teacher.
Regan thought a moment. “Make signs. Post on the door. Post on the window. Really big. As big as you can.” She pulled him close and whispered in his ear, “Teacher bleeding out.”
He nodded, and bolted to Mr. Howard’s desk.
Regan searched the room and settled on a student in the back.
“You! Do you have a cell phone?”
She nodded.
“Call 9-1-1. Tell them a teacher is hurt in room 10B. Be specific!”
The girl shook her head. “I’ve been trying. I can’t get through.”
“Keep trying!! Remember, 10B!”
“Okay okay, 10B, 10B, 10B, 10B,” the girl repeated to herself.
Sirens in the distance. Instant elation.
“Shut up!” Regan shouted. “Shut up and help me bar this door!”
But then a new realization hit her—something she was too distracted from discovering until now. She was in the wrong classroom. These students weren’t sitting ducks. The sitting ducks were in the lab: Brandon, Casey, Ethan, Alexia . . . all of Hannah’s tormentors.