WEIGHTED DESKS

“Gun!” someone screamed.

The next round was closer. Deafening.

Dut-dut-dut.

James saw two teammates–Chaz and Curtis—jerk violently and collapse against a locker. Then another student, and another. James didn’t think; he bolted to a nearby classroom.

“Hold the door!” Phillip yelled.

The door didn’t just close; it slammed with a heavy, final thud that made the floorboards vibrate. Phillip barely got his hand in the gap before James threw the bolt.

“Let me in!” Phillip hissed, his voice in a panic.

James stared through the rectangular glass window; his face was ghost white and unrecognizable. He hesitated. For a moment, Phillip thought he was going to be left in the hall. Then, with a muffled curse, he yanked the door open and pulled Phillip inside by his sweatshirt. The second the lock clicked, Phillip spun and knocked down laminated posters.

James stumbled back, hitting the cabinet with a dull thud. “What the hell!”

The boys swung on another before stepping back, exhausted.

“You were going to lock it,” Phillip gasped, lungs burning. He slumped against the brick wall, legs shaking. “Behind me…they went down.”

James wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He stared at the smear of red. The metallic, salty taste of friends' blood on his face. “I have to think about my own life, Phillip! Take a hint!”

His hands were shaking so hard he could barely steady himself with a chair.

“Lights,” Phillip whispered, his Debate Captain brain forcing the words out. “James, the lights. Now.”

The room grew dark, casting a grey shadow. They dragged the desks in silence, metal legs screeching against linoleum like a neon sign pointing right at them. The pathetic stack of piled desks held against the door. Phillip scrambled to the window and fumbled with the latch. It swung open, letting in the smell of wet grass and a spray of autumn rain. The cold, needle-like droplets prickled against his skin, slicking his knuckles as he gripped the frame, but his heart sank.

“The bars,” he groaned, his forehead hitting cold iron.

“Fucking bars,” James said, his voice cracking. “They’re bolted into the masonry. We’re caged, Phillip. We’re fucking trapped.”

A rhythmic pop-pop echoed from the hallway. Distant screaming followed, then a silence so thick it was suffocating.

The heavy footsteps stopped directly outside. The doorknob slowly turned. Both boys dropped to the floor. Phillip pressed his face into the dusty floorboard, praying his heartbeat wasn’t loud enough to be heard. He could see the shadow of boots through the gap at the bottom of the door.

Against Phillip’s advice, James crawled across the floor and scrambled under the teacher’s desk. He let out a sharp exhale and quickly covered his mouth. A sharp, bitter scent filled the space. Phillip noticed the dark, wet stain spread across James’s grey sweatpants. The “Popular Jock” was gone; a terrified kid took his place.

The shooter was standing right there. A minute passed like an hour. Then the footsteps slowly receded, followed by the distant thunderclap of more rounds going off.

“It’s Alex,” James whispered, uncovering his mouth. “I saw him. He shot them. They were right next to me.”

“Alex? The baseball captain?” Phillip asked, trying to ignore the smell.

“He got cut Friday,” James said with a hysterical laugh. “No team, no scholarship. His ride to State is gone. And I teased him. I told him he was a ‘walk-on.’ I told him I’d break his record next year. It's my fault, Phillip.”

“My mom is the reason your parents are getting divorced,” Phillip said. The words crashed into the quiet. “That's why you’ve been an asshole all year. That's why you hate me.”

James looked up, eyes bloodshot. “I don’t give a damn, Phillip. I don't care about my dad’s midlife crisis. I just want to go home. I want to play baseball.” He wiped his nose on his sleeve. “It’s my birthday today, man. I'm seventeen today. I just want to eat cake and ice-cream.”

“I saw her engagement ring,” Phillip whispered. “They're getting married in the spring.”

James froze. He stared at Phillip through the dark. “So, what? You think I should be nice to you now because we’re going to be brothers?”

“I think we might die in this room,” Phillip said, his voice terrifyingly flat. “And I didn’t want the last thing I said to my future brother to be a lie. My dad died when I was seven, James. Military. My mom...she’s been alone for a long time. She's happy with your dad. I just wanted you to know that.”

“Yeah, well. You hit like a girl.”

They shared a laugh. Then, the shots grew closer. Heavy boots thudded in the hall, stopping right outside the door. James fumbled for his phone, turning the brightness down until the screen was dim. He hit his mother’s contact, whispering into the receiver.

“Mom? If you can hear me...I’m in Room 309. He’s getting closer. I tried my best to secure the room. I’m sorry. I love you.” The phone vibrated against his palm with the sound of his mother’s frantic voice, but he just held it tight.

Phillip hit his own mom’s contact. “Mom,” he breathed, ignoring her frantic crying. “I’m with James. We’re in Mr. Aryn’s class. I love you so much. Tell...tell Bruce that he has my blessing. I love you.”

A round of gunfire exploded outside. Then, the hallway went deathly quiet. The doorknob jiggled. The pile of desks shifted an inch as someone pushed from the other side. Both boys froze, holding their breath.

“Anyone here? It’s the police! Open!” a muffled voice barked.

It could be a trick. It felt like a trick. They stared at the door, paralyzed.

A heavy thud hit the door.

Phillip let out a sound—a sob or a choke; James couldn't tell.

A silver shield pressed firmly against the window, reflecting the dim light. Together, they stood up with their hands raised.

Alizé Bland is from Philadelphia, PA. When she is not writing, she can be found practicing yoga or taking pictures of her cats, Swiss Cheese and Salem.