“Can you help me with this?” she asks.
I spend the next several minutes showing her how to regroup numbers. When we’re done, I look for the twins, but they’re still not back.
“Class, keep working. I’m going to check on Marcus and Troy.”
I’m three steps from the door when the fire alarms start blaring.
You’ve got to be kidding me.
The kids cover their ears against the shrill sound. A few of them jump from their seats, but I hold up a hand.
“Stay in your seats. I’m sure it’s a false alar
m.” Wouldn’t be the first time, and I’m sure it won’t be the last.
The junior high kids are the worst. At least once a month one of them gets the wild idea to pull the fire alarm in hopes of going home early. Unfortunately, it usually works. By the time everyone evacuates the building and the local fire department sweeps the house, it’s usually time to leave.
Normally it doesn’t take long for the teacher of the offending kid to figure out what happened and shut the alarm off, but tonight that isn’t the case. I stride across the classroom and yank open the door to find out what’s going on, and that’s when I catch the faint smell of smoke.
Kids are running through the building—a few of them crying, others covering their mouths with their hands—and that’s when I realize this isn’t a false alarm.
One of the other teachers comes barreling down the hall yelling, “Fire! Fire! Everyone out!”
Shit.
I spin around. “Leave your bags. We need to get out of here,” I say as calmly as I can.
But it’s too late, my kids are scrambling toward the door, knocking Tara over in the process.
“Slow down,” I holler, rushing after them. I lift Tara into my arms and race after the kids. The smell of smoke is getting stronger, and a few of the kids are coughing. We make it to the closest exit, which happens to be the back door. Sirens bellow through the air, alerting us that help is on the way.
Setting Tara on her feet, I usher her out the door, along with the other students.
It’s chaotic to say the least, with kids running around screaming and a few of them pulling out their cell phones while the teachers struggle to keep everyone in one area.
“Ethan, get over here!” I yell, moving my group away from the building. I snag his wrist before he can run off, and then I scan the group to make sure all of my kids are present.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight.
Eight.
Shit.
I count again, this time looking at faces rather than counting heads.
Christopher. Ethan. Josephine. Tara. Eleanor. Cecelia. Ava. Phillip. Drew.
Eight.
Shit. Troy and Marcus!
“I need you guys to stay here, okay?” Their little heads nod while I reach for the arm of one of the high school students. “Stay with this group. There are eight. Don’t let them out of your sight. Got it?”
Before she can answer, I’m running through the yard, scanning the crowd in hopes that the boys ran out when they heard the alarm. My eyes sweep left to right, and when I don’t immediately find them, panic sets in.
My heart pounds violently in my chest as I look at the house. I don’t see flames, but smoke rolls from a few of the windows, and my adrenaline kicks in as I dash toward the door.
I can’t leave the boys in there.