"Before the Bell Rang":
I was in eighth grade, and it was the last day of school at Lake Worth Middle School in Florida, May 26, 2000. The halls buzzed with kids laughing, lockers slamming, and teachers handing out yearbooks. Everyone was ready for summer—two months of freedom. My English class was watching The Outsiders on a clunky old TV, the room half-dark, kids sprawled across desks, whispering and giggling. I sat near the back, doodling in my notebook, feeling that mix of excitement and laziness that comes with the last day.
Mr. Grunow, our teacher, was everyone’s favorite. He was young, maybe 35, with a big smile and a way of making boring books feel like adventures. He leaned against his desk, arms crossed, watching us more than the movie. “Enjoy your summer, guys,” he said during a quiet scene. “But don’t forget to read something, okay?” A few kids groaned, but they were smiling. He was that kind of teacher.
Across the room, I noticed Nathaniel, a kid in my grade. He was slouched in his chair, hood up, staring at his desk. He’d always been quiet, but today he looked… off. His hands were fidgeting, tracing lines on a notebook filled with dark sketches—guns, tombstones, jagged letters I couldn’t read. I’d seen him get mad before, like when he argued with Mr. Grunow about a grade, but this was different. His eyes were hard, like he wasn’t really there.
“Yo, Nathaniel, you good?” whispered Jake, a kid sitting next to him. Nathaniel didn’t answer, just kept scratching at his notebook. Jake shrugged and turned back to the movie. I tried to focus on the screen, but my eyes kept drifting to Nathaniel. Something about him made my skin prickle.
At lunch, the cafeteria was chaos—kids throwing paper airplanes, teachers yelling to keep it down. I sat with my friend Emma, picking at a slice of pizza. “Did you see Nathaniel today?” I asked, keeping my voice low. “He’s acting weird.”
Emma glanced over at him, sitting alone at a corner table. “He’s always weird,” she said, but her frown told me she noticed it too. “He got in trouble this morning, you know. Threw a water balloon at some sixth-grader. Principal sent him home.”
“Sent home?” I asked, surprised. “Already?”
“Yeah,” Emma said, sipping her soda. “He was mad. Like, really mad. Kept saying it wasn’t fair.”
I didn’t think much of it then. Kids got in trouble all the time, especially on the last day. After lunch, we went outside for a school-wide water balloon fight, a tradition for the final bell. Kids were screaming, running across the field, balloons bursting everywhere. Teachers stood on the sidelines, some laughing, some shaking their heads. Mr. Grunow was there, dodging a stray balloon, his shirt already soaked. I laughed, but I kept looking for Nathaniel, half-expecting to see him lurking somewhere. He wasn’t there.
Back in class, we were packing up early, kids signing yearbooks and trading phone numbers. I was shoving books into my backpack when I saw him—Nathaniel, standing in the hallway outside our classroom. He was back. His hands were in his pockets, his face blank but intense, like he was holding something in. My heart started pounding, though I didn’t know why.
“Mr. Grunow,” Nathaniel called, his voice flat but loud enough to make the room go quiet. Mr. Grunow stepped into the hall, still smiling, probably thinking Nathaniel just wanted to talk.
“What’s up, man?” Mr. Grunow said, his tone easy. “Thought you went home.”
“I need to see Emma and Jake,” Nathaniel said, his voice sharper now. I froze, hearing my friends’ names. Emma, sitting next to me, looked up, confused.
Mr. Grunow’s smile faded a little. “They’re busy right now. Let’s talk outside, okay?” He stepped closer, his hand gesturing toward the door.
Then it happened—so fast I didn’t understand it at first. Nathaniel pulled his hand from his pocket, and there was a gun, small and shiny. A gasp rippled through the room. My stomach dropped, like I was falling. Mr. Grunow raised his hands, stepping back. “Whoa, Nathaniel, put that down,” he said, his voice calm but tight.
I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Emma grabbed my arm, her nails digging in. “What’s he doing?” she whispered, her voice shaking.
Before Mr. Grunow could say another word, a loud crack split the air. The TV flickered, the movie still playing, but all I could hear was that sound, sharp and final. Mr. Grunow stumbled, then fell, his body hitting the floor like a dropped book. Kids screamed. Some dove under desks. I just sat there, staring at the doorway, at Nathaniel standing frozen, the gun still in his hand.
“Call 911! Someone’s been shot!” a teacher shouted from the hall. Another voice, shaky, cried, “What did you do, Nathaniel?”
He didn’t answer. He just turned and ran, his sneakers squeaking on the tile. The room exploded into chaos—kids crying, teachers yelling to stay down. Emma was sobbing, still clutching my arm. I wanted to move, to run, but my legs felt like lead. All I could see was Mr. Grunow on the floor, not moving, blood pooling under him.
Minutes later, sirens wailed outside. Police stormed in, shouting for everyone to get down, hands up. We were herded into the gym, teachers trying to keep us calm, but their faces were pale, eyes wide. I kept hearing Mr. Grunow’s voice in my head, telling us to read over the summer. I kept seeing Nathaniel’s sketches, those guns and tombstones.
They caught Nathaniel a few blocks away. I heard later he’d taken the gun from a neighbor’s house, mad about his suspension, mad about failing Mr. Grunow’s class. He was 13, same as me, but I couldn’t understand it. How does a kid do that? How does a day so full of promise end like that?
We didn’t go back to school after that. Summer came, but it wasn’t the same. I kept expecting to see Mr. Grunow in the fall, leaning against his desk, smiling. But he was gone. The school put up a plaque for him, but it didn’t feel like enough. Sometimes, I’d pass Nathaniel’s old desk and feel that same prickle on my skin, like part of that day was still there, waiting.
Years later, I read he got 28 years in prison, a kid locked away for something I still can’t make sense of. I think about Mr. Grunow’s smile, about Nathaniel’s empty eyes, and I wonder how it all went so wrong, so fast, on a day that was supposed to be about freedom.
"The Janitor Who Watched":
It was the last day of school, and the hallways were a riot of noise and motion. Kids were everywhere, tossing crumpled papers, slamming lockers, and scribbling in yearbooks with colorful pens. Laughter echoed off the walls, mixed with shouts about pool parties and summer trips. I was in the gym, helping clean up after the final assembly. Our gym teacher, Mr. Larson, had roped a few of us into stacking chairs and picking up trash, promising we’d be out in time for the end-of-year ice cream social. I didn’t mind too much—it was better than sitting through another speech—but something felt off as I worked.
Mr. Thompson, the janitor, was in the corner of the gym, leaning on his broom. He was older, with gray hair tucked under a faded cap and a habit of muttering to himself as he cleaned. I’d seen him all year, pushing his cart through the halls, but he’d always been background noise, like the hum of the air vents. Today, though, he wasn’t moving. He just stood there, his eyes fixed on me and my friend Emma as we dragged chairs across the polished floor. His stare made my skin prickle, like I’d walked into a spiderweb.
I tried to ignore him, focusing on the stack of chairs I was building. Emma was nearby, picking up stray programs from the assembly. She caught my eye and tilted her head toward Mr. Thompson, her eyebrows raised. I shrugged, but my stomach was starting to knot. He wasn’t sweeping or emptying trash cans—just watching us, his hands tight around the broom handle.
As I carried another chair, he walked over, his keys jingling on his belt like a warning. “You’re always so helpful,” he said, his voice low and gravelly. “I’ve noticed you. Always in the same spots—library at lunch, math class in room 204, art club on Tuesdays in the east hall.”
My hands froze on the chair, the metal cold against my palms. How did he know my schedule? I’d never spoken to him before, not once. “Uh, thanks,” I said, forcing my voice to stay steady. I glanced at Emma, who was pretending to sort programs but clearly listening. Her face was tight, like she’d heard something she didn’t like.
“You’re in that art club, right?” Mr. Thompson went on, stepping closer. His shoes squeaked on the gym floor, and I could smell the faint chemical tang of cleaning supplies on him. “Every Tuesday, 3:15, by the mural with the blue birds. You’re hard to miss, always carrying that red sketchbook.”
My heart skipped. I did carry a red sketchbook, but I’d never shown it to him. I forced a smile, my lips trembling. “Yeah, I’ve got to finish stacking these,” I mumbled, turning away. My legs felt shaky as I hauled the chair to the stack, my mind racing. How did he know all that? Was he watching me?
Emma hurried over as soon as he moved back to his corner. “Did you hear him?” I whispered, keeping my voice low so it wouldn’t carry. “He knows my schedule, my sketchbook, everything.”
Emma nodded, her eyes wide. “He’s been weird with me too,” she said, her voice barely above a breath. “Last week, he was cleaning by my locker and asked why I stopped going to choir practice. I never told him I was in choir. And yesterday, he said he saw me at the mall with my sister, like he was keeping tabs.”
My stomach churned. “That’s not normal,” I said. “He’s a janitor. Why’s he tracking where we go?”
“I don’t know,” Emma said, glancing over her shoulder. Mr. Thompson was sweeping now, but his movements were slow, deliberate, like he was still listening. “It’s creeping me out. He’s always around, like he knows exactly where we’ll be.”
“We need to tell someone,” I said, my voice firm despite the panic bubbling inside. “Like Ms. Carter, the vice principal. She’s still here, right?”
Emma twisted a strand of her hair, her face pale. “What if we’re wrong? What if he’s just being friendly and we get him in trouble? It’s the last day—maybe we should just let it go.”
“Let it go?” I said, my voice sharper than I meant. “Emma, he knows where I am every Tuesday. He knows you were at the mall. That’s not friendly—that’s creepy. We have to say something.”
She bit her lip, then nodded. “Okay, but we have to get past him to leave the gym. He’s by the door.”
I looked over. Mr. Thompson was sweeping closer to the exit, his eyes flicking toward us every few seconds. My chest tightened. “We’ll walk out together,” I said. “Act normal.”
We grabbed our backpacks and headed for the door, trying to look casual. My heart was pounding so hard I thought he’d hear it. As we passed, Mr. Thompson stopped sweeping and looked up, his eyes narrowing. “Leaving already, girls?” he said, his smile tight, almost forced. “You be careful this summer. I know where you hang out—library, mall, that park by the school. Wouldn’t want anything to happen.”
My throat went dry. I gripped my backpack strap, my nails digging into my palm. “We’re fine,” I managed, my voice barely steady. Emma grabbed my arm, and we pushed through the double doors, the gym’s echo fading behind us. My legs felt like they might give out, but I kept moving, pulling Emma down the hall.
“Did you hear that?” Emma whispered, her voice trembling. “He knows we go to the park. How does he know that?”
“I don’t know,” I said, my mind spinning. “But we’re not imagining this. He’s watching us, Emma. We need to find Ms. Carter now.”
The hallways were quieter now, most kids already at the ice cream social in the courtyard. We hurried to the main office, our footsteps echoing. Ms. Carter was there, packing files into a box. She looked up, her glasses slipping down her nose. “Girls, what’s wrong?” she asked, her voice soft but concerned. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
I took a shaky breath and started talking, the words spilling out. “It’s Mr. Thompson, the janitor. He’s been watching us. He knows my schedule—where I go for lunch, my art club, even what sketchbook I carry. He told Emma he saw her at the mall, and he knew she quit choir.”
Emma nodded, her hands twisting together. “Today, he said he knows where we hang out, like the park and the library. It’s like he’s following us, Ms. Carter. It’s really scary.”
Ms. Carter’s face hardened, her lips pressing into a thin line. “That’s not appropriate at all,” she said, setting down the file she was holding. “How long has this been going on?”
“All year, I think,” I said. “But it’s worse today. He’s saying things like he’s keeping track of us.”
Emma’s voice broke as she added, “I’m afraid he’s going to show up somewhere this summer. What if he knows where I live?”
Ms. Carter leaned forward, her eyes steady. “You did the right thing coming to me. I’m going to call security and have them look into this. Stay here, okay? You’re safe.”
She stepped into the next room, and we heard her on the phone, her voice low but urgent, saying words like “concerning behavior” and “immediate action.” Emma grabbed my hand, her fingers cold. “What if he knows we told?” she whispered. “What if he’s outside the office right now, listening?”
“Don’t think like that,” I said, but my own fear was clawing at me. I kept picturing Mr. Thompson’s stare, the way his keys jingled, the way he seemed to know every step I took. What if he was waiting for us?
Ms. Carter returned, her expression grim. “Security’s on their way to find him. I need you to tell me everything again, every detail, so I can report this properly.”
We repeated it all, my voice shaking as I described his comments in the gym, Emma adding how he’d lingered by her locker for weeks. As we talked, I heard heavy footsteps in the hall. My heart stopped, thinking it was him, but it was just a security guard. “We found him by the gym,” the guard said to Ms. Carter. “He’s got a notebook in his cart. You need to see this.”
They brought us to a conference room while they investigated. Later, Ms. Carter told us the truth, and it made my blood run cold. Mr. Thompson’s notebook was filled with pages of student names—mine, Emma’s, and dozens of others. Next to each name were details: class schedules, after-school activities, even places we went on weekends, like the mall or the park. He’d been watching us for months, maybe years, writing it all down. The police were called, and they found similar notebooks from his time at another school, where he’d been let go for “inappropriate conduct” but was hired here because no one checked his references.
The last day of school was supposed to be about saying goodbye, eating ice cream, and feeling free. Instead, it left me and Emma shaken, checking over our shoulders every time we left the house that summer. Even now, when I hear keys jingling or see a broom leaning against a wall, my heart races. I wonder how long he watched us, how much he knew, and whether anyone else is still out there, keeping track of where I go.
"Under the Desk":
I was slouched in my English class, doodling a lopsided cartoon dog in the margins of my notebook. It was the last day of school, and the whole room buzzed with that antsy, almost-summer energy. Kids were whispering about pool parties, road trips, and sleeping in until noon. The clock on the wall read 1:55 PM, ticking closer to freedom. My desk was shoved against the window, the blinds half-open, casting thin stripes of light across my paper. The room smelled like dusty books, dry-erase markers, and a faint hint of someone’s fruity perfume. My friend Emily, sitting to my left, was tapping her pencil in a rhythm, muttering about a new video game she’d been obsessed with all week. Her backpack was slung over her chair, one strap dangling, brushing the floor.
Mrs. Johnson was at the front, erasing the whiteboard, her bracelets jangling softly. She was talking about our summer reading list, but nobody was really listening. A couple of kids in the back were folding paper airplanes, giggling when one sailed into a girl’s hair. I smirked, adding a goofy hat to my doodle, when the loudspeaker crackled so loud it made me jump. The principal’s voice cut through, sharp and clipped, not like his usual cheerful announcements. “Attention, all students and staff. This is a lockdown. This is not a drill. Secure your classrooms immediately.”
The words hit like a bucket of ice water. My pencil slipped from my hand, rolling off the desk and clattering to the floor. Mrs. Johnson froze, her eraser dangling mid-air, a streak of blue marker still smudged on the board. The room went dead quiet, the kind of quiet where you notice every little sound—someone’s shoe squeaking, a backpack zipper catching, my own heartbeat thumping in my ears. “Under your desks, now,” Mrs. Johnson whispered, her voice shaky but trying to stay calm. She dropped the eraser and hurried to the door, her sneakers squeaking on the tiles. She fumbled with the lock, the click echoing in the silence, then yanked a piece of black construction paper over the door’s small window.
I slid off my chair, my knees bumping the metal underside of the desk as I crawled beneath it. The floor was cold, gritty with bits of dirt and pencil shavings. Emily was already under her desk, her eyes wide, her hands clutching her phone like it was a lifeline. “What’s going on?” she whispered, her voice so soft I had to lean closer to hear. Her ponytail was coming loose, strands sticking to her cheek.
“I don’t know,” I whispered back, my mouth dry. My backpack was still on my desk, half-zipped, my water bottle tipping over with a dull thud that made me flinch. Across the room, someone—maybe Lily—let out a small whimper, and Mrs. Johnson hissed, “Shh, please, stay quiet.” She flicked off the lights, plunging the room into a dim gray, the only light coming from those slatted blinds. The stripes of light cut across the floor, making everything look sharp and wrong, like a movie scene gone bad.
The silence felt thick, like it was pressing down on my chest. I could hear the building itself—old pipes groaning, the faint hum of the air vents shutting off. My legs were already cramping, curled up tight under the desk, but I didn’t dare move. Then we heard it: footsteps. Slow, deliberate, heavy. They were coming from the hallway, each step a dull thud that seemed to vibrate through the floor. My stomach twisted into a knot. I glanced at Emily, her nails digging into her phone case, her breathing quick and shallow. “Is that… someone out there?” she whispered, barely moving her lips.
“Quiet,” Mrs. Johnson said from her spot by the door. She was crouched low, her phone glowing faintly as she typed something, her thumb moving fast. The footsteps got louder, closer, until they stopped right outside our room. My heart was pounding so hard I thought it might burst out of my chest. I pressed my hands against the floor, the cold tiles making my fingers ache. The door handle jiggled, a sharp, metallic rattle that sliced through the silence. Someone gasped—too loud—and I bit my lip, tasting salt, trying not to make a sound.
“Is it locked?” a boy whispered from the other side of the room. I think it was Jake, his voice high and shaky, coming from near the bookshelves. In the dim light, I could just make out his sneakers poking out from under a desk.
“Yes,” Mrs. Johnson whispered back, her voice firm but thin, like she was holding herself together by a thread. “Stay down, all of you.” She adjusted her position, her knee cracking softly, and I saw her glance at her phone again, the screen casting a pale glow on her face.
The handle didn’t move again, but now there was something worse—a shadow. It slid across the blinds, tall and blurry, moving slowly, like whoever it was was standing just outside, maybe looking in. My breath caught in my throat, and I squeezed my eyes shut for a second, wishing I could disappear. Emily’s hand found my arm, her grip tight, her nails pressing into my skin. I opened my eyes and saw her staring at the blinds, her face pale, her lips trembling. “What do they want?” she whispered, so quiet it was more breath than words.
I shook my head, unable to answer. My mind was racing, pulling up every bad news story I’d ever heard—people showing up at schools, doing terrible things. Was that what this was? The not-knowing was the worst part, like a weight crushing my chest. I kept imagining someone bursting through the door, and I didn’t know what I’d do if they did.
“Mrs. Johnson, should we call 911?” a girl asked—maybe Ava, her voice wobbling. She was somewhere near the back, hidden under a cluster of desks.
“I already did,” Mrs. Johnson whispered, her eyes darting to the door. “They’re on their way. Just stay calm, okay?” But her voice cracked on the last word, and I knew she was scared too.
Then came a loud bang, sharp and heavy, like something slamming into a wall down the hall. I flinched, my head smacking the underside of the desk, pain shooting through my skull. Emily let out a tiny squeak, then clapped her hand over her mouth. “Was that a…?” she started, but stopped, her eyes huge. We all knew what she meant. A gunshot? A door? Something falling? My brain screamed “gun,” but I didn’t know, and that made it worse. I pictured the shadow outside, holding something heavy, something dangerous.
Minutes stretched on, endless. The room was so quiet I could hear someone’s stomach growling, another kid’s shaky breathing, like they were trying not to cry. My legs were numb now, pins and needles prickling my feet, but I didn’t move. I kept my eyes on the blinds, waiting for that shadow to come back. The building creaked again, and every tiny sound felt like a warning. I thought about my parents, probably getting an automated call or text from the school by now. Were they panicking? Driving here? I pictured my mom’s face, her worried eyes, and my throat tightened. I blinked hard, forcing back tears.
“Do you think they’re gone?” Jake whispered, his voice cutting through the quiet.
“Shh,” Mrs. Johnson snapped, sharper this time. She was still by the door, her phone buzzing softly. She glanced at it, her shoulders sagging a little. “Police are in the building,” she whispered. “They’re checking every room. We just have to wait.”
“How long?” Emily asked, her voice barely there.
“As long as it takes,” Mrs. Johnson said, softer now, like she was trying to convince herself too.
The waiting was torture. Every creak, every distant thud, made my heart lurch. I kept imagining those footsteps coming back, the handle turning, the door swinging open. I thought about my little brother, in his elementary school across town. Was he okay? Was this happening there too? My hands were sweaty, slipping on the tiles. I wiped them on my jeans, the denim rough against my palms.
Finally, after what felt like hours but was probably twenty minutes, the loudspeaker crackled again. “All clear,” the principal said, his voice heavy, tired. “Teachers, please escort your students to the gymnasium. Police will meet you there. Stay orderly.”
Mrs. Johnson exhaled, a long, shaky breath. “Okay, everyone, slowly,” she said, standing up, her knees popping. “Stay close together. No running.” We crawled out from under our desks, stiff and wobbly, like we’d forgotten how to move. Emily’s face was blotchy, her eyes red. My notebook was still open on my desk, that stupid cartoon dog staring up at me, like it belonged to someone else’s life. My water bottle had rolled to the edge, a small puddle leaking onto the floor.
We lined up, silent, and shuffled out of the room. The hallway felt too bright, too open, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. I kept my eyes on the back of Emily’s head, her messy ponytail bobbing as we walked. Police officers stood at the corners, their radios crackling with static. One of them, a woman with a tight ponytail and a vest that said POLICE, nodded at us. “You’re safe now,” she said, but her eyes were scanning the hall, like she wasn’t quite sure.
In the gym, other classes were already there, kids sprawled on the bleachers, some crying, some hugging, some just staring at the floor. The air smelled like sweat and rubber from the basketball court. I saw a friend from math class, his hands shaking as he clutched a water bottle, the plastic crinkling. A teacher was passing out granola bars, but nobody seemed hungry.
Later, we got the full story. A man had been spotted in the school parking lot, acting strange, holding something that looked like a weapon. A janitor saw him and called it in, triggering the lockdown. The police found him before he even got inside, just some guy having a bad day, maybe not even dangerous. They arrested him, no fight, no shots fired, no one hurt. But under that desk, hearing those footsteps, seeing that shadow, I didn’t know any of that. It felt like we were one second away from something awful.
That night, at home, my parents hugged me so tight I could barely breathe. My mom kept asking if I was okay, her voice breaking. I said I was, but I wasn’t sure. Even now, months later, I check the exits when I walk into a classroom. I notice shadows more, the way they move across windows. That last day of school was supposed to be about summer starting, about freedom. Instead, it’s the day I learned how fast everything can change, how fear can make every second feel like forever. We were safe in the end, but I’ll never forget how it felt to think we might not be.
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