One Minute to Noon

“OK, guys!” I screech over the macaw-like chatter in my sophomore English class. My students are sharing mementos they accumulated during summer vacation. The assignment is to interview each other and write an expository essay about another student’s treasure: Misty’s coquina shells and sand dollars from Florida, Ruth’s two Navajo pottery mugs from New Mexico, Roxy’s perfume from Paris, Kevin’s chocolate from Hershey Pennsylvania, a picador’s sword from a bullfight in San Fermin Spain, where one of my favorite students, Manny Pérez, ran with the bulls at festival.

“Sorry, Miss Minette, I think Mr. Bourdain is playing Patton again for his history class. It’s kinda loud so we’re kinda loud.” Manny explains. He reminds me of a compact question mark, short and thin, always eyeing the ground ahead of him, like he’s searching for the path that leads him from boyhood to manhood. His blue-black hair is short and Brylcreemed away from his face. It’s longer in front of his ears to mimic sideburns he can’t quite grow yet, and the gooey, errant strands stick to his temples like splayed spider legs preserved in acrylic. He’s emulating his great-grandfather, Manuel Benítez Pérez, El Cordobés, the famous bullfighter with brilliantined hair. “It’s the part where the Nazis pull off a surprise attack and George C. Scott stands in the street shooting at them with his ivory-handled revolver,” Manny says.

Not pearl-handled, I remember, those are for cheap pimps in New Orleans whorehouses, Scott once said. But ivory or pearl, the gunfire doesn’t seem right. It doesn’t seem recorded and played with Mr. Bourdain controlling the volume.

“It’s one minute to noon and you all can head for the cafeteria once you get everything put away,” I say.

The explosions continue. It dawns on me through the fog of considering details about my upcoming wedding and how all my students are acclimating to sophomore year that I can smell the acrid smoke from Patton’s revolver. No. That can’t be right.

Almost simultaneously, the horror of recognition dawns on everyone in the classroom, and we all stand in place to listen. Mingling with the sound of gunshots exploding down the hall, spent shells ping off the floor. The copper smell of blood begins to tinge the air. Anguished screams precede the bullet sprays. Silence. Two classrooms away, Mr. Bourdain’s, I am sure.

My students, wide-eyed and slack-jawed, look to me to tell them what to do, to give them a reasonable explanation about how an improbable horror can be happening while they collect their coins for cafeteria pizza. Silence. It seems like an eternity, but it’s only 45 seconds to noon.

Hysterical screams are cut short after another volley of bullets. The staccato click-click of cleated boots grows louder on the polished old wood floors. Some of my students begin to cry. Some ask Jesus to intercede. Others remain frozen in shock. Think, I think; Jesus apparently has no plans to intercede today. One classroom away.

“Students, I need you all to stay calm. Take cover under your desks, arms shielding your heads,” I say. “Just do it. We can cry later.”

If we live, I hear a student whisper through her sobs. They obey me. Think, I think.

“Miss Minette, I can help. You can’t defend us by yourself. Let me help,” Manny Pérez says.

“Manny, under your desk.”

I grab Ruth’s mugs from New Mexico and fill them with Roxy’s French perfume. If I am shot and have the time to close my eyes, I will think of dying in a garden filled with ylang-ylang, May rose, and jasmine. I search my purse for matches. (If I live, God, I promise to quit smoking). More shots and screams. The handle of my classroom door shudders as the latch bolt clicks, releasing in the face plate. There are no locks on classroom doors.

I light the golden perfume, its oils fueling the dancing orange and blue flames. I carry the mugs to the door. It opens outward, so the shooter must push down on the handle and pull it before regaining his shooter’s stance; my only chance to catch him at less than attention with my tranquil garden remedy. He is outside my door. I stand just inside. Silence at 10 seconds to noon.

Swiftly, he grabs the handle, depresses it, and yanks the door open. He is slightly off balance with his assault rifle pointed at the floor. He is just a boy, a troubled former student who dropped out last year. I try to remember his name, but it escapes me as he struggles to regain his balance and lift the rifle to the shoulder of his oversized leather trench coat. Angry red pimples dot his face, his black eyes vacant and shiny beneath a backward baseball cap. I am profoundly sad for what I have to do. He is just a boy.

I gauge his height and throw the fiery perfume into his pimpled face. He screams and drops to his knees. Manny rushes to my side, the bullfighter’s sword raised above his head. With both hands, he plunges it into the boy, burying it to its red leather hilt between his neck and shoulder, exactly as a matador like his great-grandfather would have done to the bull during the Fiesta de San Fermín Pamplona. The boy makes a hissing sound, his face still lit with a gentle fire from the perfume, like a scented candle melting while his features congeal into a dripping pool of human wax. Nearby, police sirens wail for all the lost children. The noon bell clangs, announcing it’s time for the cafeteria ladies to serve lunch. You are safe, I tell my students. You are safe. We can cry now.

Author's Note: This story is in memoriam for the victims of the Columbine school shooting on its 25th anniversary, and all those victims who have followed.