In the Dark, We Wait

Content Warning: This details my experience during a school lockdown that we presumed at the time to be an active shooter (it was not). There is no actual violence in this; there is only the dread of not knowing.

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“Attention, Great Falls High. This facility is in lockdown. Seek secure shelter immediately. For anyone outside the building, leave the area immediately.”

The woman’s voice crackles over the speakers. Her repeating message is intermittently interrupted by a shrill siren that sends a chilling echo through the auditorium. Seemingly as one, we leap from our seats and throw our instruments to the ground as we look around wildly for someone, anyone, who knows what to do. It’s too loud, someone has turned off the lights, and I don’t know where to go. My heart thuds painfully in my throat. I am rooted to the ground, listening to the duet of my heart and the siren. Everything is too slow. Moments ago, I had been wondering whether I had played a C sharp or a C natural; now, I am wondering if I will make it home today. Whispers, my heart, the siren, and the thudding of my classmates’ feet envelop me in a symphony of fear.

There is a crash near the backstage door. I snap out of my imaginary symphony as the door opens. Joelle is there; sweet, beautiful Joelle, looking for all the world like a guardian angel as she holds her phone’s flashlight aloft, lighting our way to salvation. On the other side of the door, a line of three or four people are using their lights to show us the way. I can’t quite see their faces. 

We shuffle into the theatre’s tool room. It’s hot. I can’t tell who the people around me are. I push through the mass of panicked bodies until I reach the back corner. There are two kids pressed against the wall there, holding each other and trying to stifle their sobs. I don’t know them. I want to go home. 

In the dim light, I catch a flash of silver, just to my left. It’s Avery. Thank God.

They’re holding a wrench. 

Wow. This is really happening. 

I reach silently for Avery’s hand. Our fingers meet, and relief, as much as is possible in the situation, floods through me. I squeeze their palm. One, two, three. I, love, you. They squeeze back. One, two, three. I, love, you. I close my eyes and pretend, for a moment, that Avery’s hand is really that of my mother. I miss her. Regardless of whose hand it is, I am grateful that I am not alone.  I had never imagined that something like this could happen to me. Horrible things happen to other people, but not us, not here… right? Half-remembered news articles flash through my mind: Sandy Hook, Uvalde, Parkland, Columbine, and now –  maybe – Great Falls. 

I’m going to end up as a statistic.  

I want to go home. 

Under the whine of the siren, whispers rise in a steady crescendo near the front of the cramped room. It’s Jackson, one of the sophomores. He’s passing out tools to use as self defense, like some sort of doomsday Oprah. Hammers, saws, drills, and two-by-fours are passed through the crowd. I see a silhouette winding its way toward the door. It’s Miss Dewey, the new Drama teacher. Her slight frame is almost comically overwhelmed by what looks to be a sledgehammer poised in her fists. 

We become who we really are in an emergency. Some people are being brave and preparing to take a stand, and here I am… cowering in a corner. I take a breath. Now is the moment to figure out what kind of person I am going to be. I decide in an instant that I don’t want to be a person of inaction, waiting for someone to save me. If I go down, I will go down fighting – with my friend at my side. 

I look around for something to defend myself with. I don’t know what’s going on, so I don’t know what kind of weapon I might need. All I can find is a pair of scissors. They’ll have to do. 

I squeeze Avery’s hand again.  One, two, three. I, love, you. 

I tighten my grip on the scissors. 

“Attention, Great Falls High. This facility is in lockdown. Seek secure shelter immediately. To anyone outside of the building, leave the area immediately.”

In the dark, we wait.