The smiley-faced alarm clock grinned at her like it knew something she didn’t, and Savannah glared back as the second hand bounced around its perky little circle. Sleep? Ha. That ship had sailed hours ago. But the headache? And the stomach doing gymnastics? Those had settled in for the long haul and were clearly committed to the relationship.
And then there were the cannons.
Mr. Johannsson had moved in next door sometime during the Reagan administration, back when his ears still worked. Now, at ninety-three, he shuffled to the mailbox each morning with a smile and a wave, pausing to compliment Mrs. Chen’s begonias and slip candy to the Martinez kids. Sweet as could be—until nightfall.
Every night at precisely 9, he removed his hearing aids, set them carefully on his nightstand, and cranked his record player to full blast. Then Tchaikovsky began its assault.
The cannons fired.
Her coffee mug trembled.
A car alarm outside joined the chaos.
Savannah had tried everything—banging on the wall with her hand, then her shoe, even her textbook. But Mr. Johannsson, blissfully deaf, slept right through it all.
Come morning, those hearing aids would slide back into his ears and he’d hear every word. But by then she’d be too exhausted to complain, or too guilty to ruin his day.
“Aging is not for the faint of heart, Savannah,” her dad used to say while pushing his reading glasses up his large Scandinavian nose.
Right now, though, she’d trade her working ears for his selective deafness in a heartbeat.
The Excedrin and Tums sat in her medicine cabinet, which felt about twenty miles away—through soft sand, uphill both ways. Fine, maybe that was a slight exaggeration, but the point still stood.
She flopped onto her side and mentally scribbled a list:
“Things That Make Life Easier.”
Number one: a well-trained dog.
Number two: a considerate spouse.
Number three: a neighbor who didn’t reenact the War of 1812 every single night.
Savannah yanked the white, feather-filled comforter over her head like a turtle retreating into its shell. She shoved her earbuds in and inhaled the lavender spray she’d impulse-bought at Target last week. The bottle had promised “Deep Sleep & Sweet Dreams.” She wondered if they gave refunds on broken promises.
She didn’t know it yet, but sleepless nights and cannon fire would soon be the least of her problems.
Marcus looked over at the young boy huddled under the desk. His eyes were squeezed shut and he rocked back and forth with his hands over his ears. Marcus entire body wanted to reach out and grab the little guy and pull him into safety. But safety was not to come for a long time.
Marcus loved teaching third grade. That was the age where the kids still had a healthy respect for authority and lived life to the fullest. They had absolutely no guile. Everything was new and had something adventurous waiting around the corner. They still believed in magic. They still thought people were good and kind. It broke Marcus heart to think that their world would never be the same again.
The first gunshots had happened at 10:03 a.m. during a lesson in social studies. Marcus had been teaching them to know how to find a place on the map by longitude and latitude. It was such a joy to him every time he saw the change from “learning to read” and “reading to learn.” The children were little sponges that soaked everything up. Marcus understood the responsibility he had and vowed never to forget.
By 10:04 a.m. the elementary school was in complete lockdown. His class had gone through “lock-down” protocols and practice runs, several times throughout the year. They knew that there could be a chance when something “bad” happened and in order to be safe, the school would “lock” them in to protect them.
As Marcus looked around as much as he could from under his own desk, he could tell by the terror in the kids’ eyes, that they knew this was not a practice test run. This was the real thing. Marcus could hear his students whispering. Some were prayers, some were simply calling out for their mommy or daddy. There were a few who were crying and one in particular who was acting very brave by telling his classmates to be quiet and wait. “The principal has this and the police will be here in a few minutes.”
Marcus prayed he was right. Two more gunshots startled all of them. Marcus could tell by the sound that whoever it was, had just gotten closer to his class. Two girls started screaming which only added to the already tense story that was playing out in living color. Marcus had served two tours in Afghanistan for Operation Enduring Freedom and knew that quiet and calm were two things that could save them. He wasn’t worried about himself, but he was terrified for his kids. He knew he had to make certain they were all safely hidden which also meant he had to get out from under his desk and expose himself to the open area. The class door was closed. If he could push a couple bookshelves in front of the door, it would deter the monsters for a while.
Before crawling out, Marcus reached into his bottom desk drawer and pulled out a pocket knife that he always kept under lock and key. He not only had been military, but he was an Eagle Scout. Even though he knew he could get into trouble for having it, he was glad he hadn’t taken it home. It may not be much help, but for now, it gave him a fighting chance.
“Don’t leave me…” Marcus heard the little guy, David, whisper.
“I’m not leaving, David. I’m going to push those bookshelves in front of the door to give us a little more protection. How’s that? You stay right there okay? You can watch me and be my lookout. Does that sound good?” Marcus tried to sound as calm as a cucumber but wasn’t sure it was convincing enough to a 9-year-old boy hiding under a school desk from scary people with guns outside his classroom. Marcus added a smile and thumbs up hoping to calm David’s fears even a little.
“I guess…” he said quietly. “But what if they come in here? I’m small. I can’t fight them cuz my mom say’s to use your words and not your fist.”
“Well, for the most part, your mom is right. Especially when Billy Johnson is calling you names and pushing you around. He’s a bully that’s for certain, but I’ve watched you handle yourself very well. Your mom would be proud. In a case like this, I don’t think she’d mind if you used anything you could to fight the bad guys off.” Marcus was groaning a little with the weight of the bookshelves. He hadn’t realized they were so heavy. After they were both in place, Marcus peaked under the little desk and reached out his hand to David.
“Come on buddy. Let’s get you somewhere with more cover. Take my hand. It will be okay.”
“Are you sure? My big sister Lizzy told me all about different school shootings and they didn’t turn out okay.” David looked squarely into his teacher’s eyes for reassurance.
“You’re right. All we can do is protect ourselves the best we can and pray that the authorities outside catch the bad guys and come and rescue us. But until then, we have to do everything we can to be safe, right?” Marcus really wished Lizzy had kept her mouth shut.
“Okay, then,” David said.
Marcus had 25 students today in class. He figured most of them were hiding in the coat closets and others were probably inside the large cupboards that held supplies. With a bathroom in the room, a few would be there too. After counting everyone to make certain they were present and accounted for, Marcus took them two by two as quietly as possible into the bathroom. There was only one stall, so it was cramped, but being together helped to calm the children.
As the last two children were led into the bathroom, another gunshot went off. Marcus was sure it was right outside the classroom. The tension in the bathroom escalated. Marcus held up a finger to his lips and told the kids without words, to be as quiet as a mouse.
They could hear yelling, screaming, and doors opening and closing. Marcus figured they were coming into each classroom. From what he could tell, there were at least two shooters, maybe more. David was clinging to Marcus’ arm like his life depended on it. The pocket knife in Marcus’ hand was the only weapon he had, besides his hand-to-hand combat training, which he hadn’t had to use in 10 years.
Marcus had to think of something in case the gunmen got into the classroom. He paused for a moment and knew exactly what he had to do. Squatting down until he was eye-to-eye with David, he pulled out the pocket knife and handed it to the little boy. Marcus leaned in and whispered, “don’t be afraid to use it if you have to. Your mom would be proud.”
Somehow, the child understood the magnitude of the situation and at that moment in time, he stopped being a little boy.
Marcus turned and waited…The classroom door rattled. The bookshelves fell forward with a crash. Marcus looked at his little charges and thought to himself what an honor it was to teach them and how brave they were. In perfect silence, each of them looked at their teacher and knew he was going to fight the bad guys to protect them.
Marcus could see under the crack of the door, the shadows of two sets of shoes. He waited until they were directly in front of the door, then smashed it open and knocked one of them down. He quickly shut the door and rammed his fist into the throat of one of the masked gunmen before he could fire a shot. Only one more man was left. Where had he gone? Marcus turned around the room looking. He wondered for a second if the gunman had left the classroom, but when the hair on the back of his neck tingled and he felt the barrel of an automatic rifle touch the back of his head, Marcus knew that wasn’t the case. The third-grade teacher figured this was the end. Yet for some reason that only God knew, the gunman didn’t shoot. With his hands raised, Marcus slowly turned around to face the gunman, hoping to distract him from the bathroom area. What he saw next, made his heart nearly stop.
David had opened the bathroom door. The man whom Marcus had killed lay near the bathroom. David reached out and slid the rifle away from the body and into the bathroom. As the gunman was yelling and cursing in a stream of crazy, Marcus did his best not to give away what was going on behind the mad man.
“Dear Lord, please don’t let that gun go off accidentally. Lord please don’t let them do anything to bring attention to themselves,” Marcus prayed to himself. With the shooters back to the bathroom, Marcus had a full view of his students. He could tell that David was getting ready to try something and Marcus knew he had to keep the gunman’s attention diverted for as long as possible. No matter what.
Marcus watched in fear, as David pulled out the switchblade and opened it. Heart racing, Marcus had an idea of what David was going to do, and he knew it could get David killed.
The brave little third-grade boy walked quietly out of the bathroom towards the gunman’s back as Marcus spoke up in a loud voice, “Hey, man. You really don’t need to do this. If you put your weapon down, the police will go a lot easier on you. It could shorten your jail time too. Which that’s always a good thing, right?”
Marcus was nervous, not for himself per se, but for the little guy sneaking up with the knife pointed at the gunman. Marcus watched, in surprise and awe as David lifted the knife above his head, then jammed it into the gunman’s right calf. The gunman yelled out in shock and pain. The shooter dropped his gun and became distracted just long enough for Marcus to grab it and knock him out. After tying him up with rope from a project the kids had been working on, Marcus finally looked around the room for David. His hero.
David was sitting on the floor in the corner. Marcus picked him up and walked into the little bathroom with the other children. There eyes were big as saucers and tears were all over there faces. Marcus held up his thumb to let them know everything was good but still held his fingers to his lips, not knowing for certain if the horror was truly over.
As they huddled together, the next ten minutes felt like a lifetime for each of them. Yet not one of them made a sound.
“This is the police. You’re surrounded. Put your weapons down and come out with your hands up!” It sounded like a bull horn.
Marcus and the kids all breathed a sigh of relief but still not a peep out of the children. Marcus walked to the door, but yelled through first. He didn’t want them thinking he was the shooter.
“It’s Marcus Jackson, teacher of the third grade. My kids and I are safe, but we have two gunmen in the classroom. One is dead and the other is knocked out and tied up. I’m opening the door. Don’t shoot.”
As he did, the sea of men in blue with guns blazing (or ready to blaze) made Marcus shudder. He lifted his hands just to make sure they understood that he was the victim and not the bad guy.
Walking out of the school that day, with his student, Marcus’ hands started to shake. It reminded him of how he felt returning from a patrol in a Humvee through the Afghanistan desert. The adrenaline and sheer relief that he was alive, always resulted in the shakes. Marcus made sure each student was reunited with family before heading towards the building where he would be questioned and debriefed.
A little hand reached out and grabbed him by the wrist. Looking down he saw David.
“Here Mr. Jackson, you forgot your pocket-knife. Thank you for keeping us safe and I hope it was okay for me to use the knife. You said I could if I needed to, and I saw you in trouble and thought that was a good time to use it. I hope you’re not mad.”
“Mad? Are you kidding? You were the bravest little boy I’ve ever seen. Thank you for saving my life. You are my third-grade hero. “
Marcus watched as David ran to meet his mom and dad. Parents screaming out their child’s name and praying to see a familiar face filing out of the school building. The fear was always first, then the look of total relief and finally utter joy as each loved one recognized there boy or girl. Next came contact. That first hug, kiss, more hugs, then the tears. Finally, that overwhelming sense of gratefulness and realization that this day could have ended so differently had it not been for one brave little third-grade hero.
Pam Torres | Author 