Lockdown
It is the second week of school, the eighth day of hot classrooms in August in Denver; swamp coolers buzz noisily in the hallways. I walk my daughter inside, swing her hand playfully as we walk, then watch her fall into line behind the other kids, ducklings after their teacher. She is eight.
“Love you,” I call.
She looks back, her smile wide, her black eyes shining.
Sirens sound, echoing against the cinderblock walls in the hallway. Florescent lights click off, synchronized.
A recording: “Attention teachers and students, this is a lockdown. I repeat, this is a lockdown.” Silence falls over the hallway like a heavy blanket.
I cover my ears. The music teacher urges me into her room. I obey, sit in a narrow spot left by the door. Twenty-five fourth graders huddle against cupboards, a barrier.
Doors thud closed, dozens of doors in this Denver school. They are automatically locked by a button in the office; teachers can’t open the doors to let a child in if she went to the bathroom. A shooter could use a child as bait, I know. I imagine a little girl standing on a toilet, covering the flush sensor with toilet paper, waiting to be found, seconds feeling like hours.
At the other end of the hallway, someone yanks on a door at the end of the hallway. The door clatters in the lock. I jerk. The sun leaks around the edges of the tattered vinyl shades onto the lime-green carpet in front of me. Black duct-tape notes dance on a treble clef.
The teacher walks back and forth; her eyes scan the kids. Her hands tap her thighs, an even beat. Her brown hair is pulled back in a loose ponytail, lines of gray near each temple. Her shoulders hunch forward slightly. Students stare straight ahead like puppets in a store display.
* * *
Flashback. Fourth grade. I crouch in my closet and rhythmically rub my back against the textured plaster until my back is hot. In the hallway, the kitchen, the living room, my parents fight.
My dad’s tenor voice, “Don’t you dare question me! I’m the man of this house.” My dad’s cowboy boots stomp on tile, shag carpet.
My mom whimpers. “Please. Don’t. Calm down. Please.”
I rock over the seams in the wood floor, hold my knees to my chest. My mom’s body slams into the wall. Dishes shatter. A plaster wall breaks under my dad’s fist.
“Look what you made me do! Can’t you listen for once?” The sound of skin slapping skin.
“Please. I’ll do better. Please.” Her sharp intake of breath.
I push my eyes onto my knees until my vision blurs.
* * *
In the music room a cupboard handle pokes into my back. I move to the side. I remind myself that I am an adult. Safe in this room. I imagine the pop of bullets breaking the silence, screams echoing in the empty hallways. I push my hands into the carpet; see its texture on my palms, don’t feel it.
A boy slides his shoes off. Kids near him make sour faces, look at each other. The teacher points to his shoes, nods firmly. He makes a face as if to say, Really? Oh, fine. Two girls fan the air in front of their noses and stifle giggles. The music teacher pauses in front of them. Their backs go still.
Down the hall, a second door clatters. Someone pulls on it again. Harder. I hold my breath.
* * *
I am nine. My dad walks down the hallway, stops at my doorway. Silence. Eyes wide, I watch for his shadow to slip in front of my closet. I rock onto a bruise a few days old, rake my fingernails down my shins. He breathes through his open mouth, his breath raspy, the smell of Sucrets on his breath. My mom sniffles nearby, coughs. I count and breathe, one-two inhale, one-two-three exhale, one-two, one-two-three.
* * *
Another classroom door. Quick, rubber-soled footsteps to the next door. Ukuleles hang near me over a green chalkboard on white, plastic hooks. One hook is empty. I scan the room, desperate to find the missing instrument, put it back where it belongs. Accordions, bongo drums, recorders. No ukulele.
Someone pulls on the door near me. Instinctively, I bite the inside of my cheek and the side of my tongue, clamp down, and wait for the pain to soothe me. The door clatters in the lock. The lock holds. I am dizzy; the room glows. My skin tingles like after lightning. Footsteps to the door at the far end of the room. A scream pauses in my throat. I can’t feel my legs. I am frozen, a little girl in my closet, my dad in my doorway.
I pull my legs to my chest, rock slightly. A kid sniffles. My fists fly to my shoulders, ready to fight. I force my hands down to my lap, lace my fingers together. One-two inhale. One-two-three exhale. I find the missing ukulele. It is near me, strings missing, the finger board brown, the color of my daughter’s skin.
