By Zara Quiter, TIWP Student

On November 12, at 11:46AM, my friend and I left our class at Piedmont High School, and walked down the street into the office at the middle school, like we always do. We checked in at 11:50, and then walked to our English class. As always, we’re slightly late, due to the difference between the high school and middle school schedules, so we walk in quietly and sit in our seats.

All is normal.

A week ago exactly, in that same class, we had a lockdown drill. Mr. Finnigan had us all sit against the wall, and we barricaded the two doors in the classroom. To us, it was all a joke. It was this concept that we couldn’t even comprehend because truly, deeply understanding it would be too painful.

Back to November 12. Only a few minutes into class, and then the loudspeaker turns on. “Attention, Piedmont Middle School, you are in shelter-in-place. Do not leave your classrooms.” And that was all.

The class was silent for a moment. And fifth period english is never, ever silent. This silence lasts for a millisecond, but then we quickly get out of our seats and sit against the wall.

Many of us grab our phones, including me. Most of them are playing games or on Instagram, but I texted my mom. 

“There is a lockdown at PMS.

Have they communicated with you at all and told you why?”

My mom responds, “Are you ok?

Nothing.”

We text for a few minutes. We get another overhead announcement saying, “This is not a drill.”

At 12:11, I text my best friend. 

At 12:25, PMS sends our parents a vague email. 

At 12:32 and 12:33, two of my classmates message their parents on my phone.

One girl’s mom texts,

“I love you.

Don’t worry too much. Shelter in place is almost always just because of an issue at another place nearby.

If it were at your school it would be a lockdown.

But I wish I could come and give you a hug.

I love you so much.”

At that moment I wanted to cry.

Minutes later, we get another overhead announcement.

“Attention, Piedmont Middle School. You are now in lockdown. Do not leave your classrooms.”

My legs go cold. Mr. Finnigan looks out the window and sees police walking on the front patio. Kids grab desks and bookshelves and barricade the door and windows. I have my water bottle in hand, ready to throw at any moment. 

At 12:34, I text my neighbor who works at the high school. His texts are just as vague as the email sent to our parents. And while they are positive, there is a smidge a falseness in there that just makes me worry even more. 

I text my mom and tell her. I put in earbuds and listen as she speaks on the phone. I can’t say anything because we aren’t supposed to talk. She says, “I love you.” and then I have to hang up.

A kid in my class sees on Instagram that the Piedmont police department posted that there was a shooter reported outside PHS at 11:59.

My heart freezes for a moment. I do the math in my head. I left my classroom on the third floor at 11:56. I walked right in front of the high school and checked in to the middle school office at 11:50. During my high school class, I was going to talk to my teacher about homework after class, but I decided to do it a few minutes before the bell rang. If I had left maybe only a few seconds later, would I be dead? Very, extremely dead?

The girl sitting next to me, Asha, is crying. Her sister is at the high school.

I don’t exactly remember how things went after that. At some point, they issue an all clear. My brain was fuzzy. Throughout the day we get more and more updates, and eventually we scrap together that there was no real shooter. It was all a sick joke. And not a funny one.

I wished I had recorded what was happening. I want an audio recording of how I felt in those exact moments because I don’t know how I felt. Later that afternoon when I wanted to be sad, I drowned out my thoughts with Gracie Abrams. Even this writing is so dry, so empty of emotion, because I’m scared that if I open up the gates of what I felt, it won’t just rain onto the pages, it will pour onto them; drown them.

Just like the Tuesday before the lockdown, I couldn’t process what happened through writing. My surgical skills that I use to dissect every thought and feeling have been overloaded in the past few weeks. I have too much to write, so I can’t pinpoint what actually needs to be processed.

The schools and city also are the same. So many issues, so many complaints, and not enough time and resources and people to deal with them. And I’m not the type of person to forget things. I have to do something about them.

So how do I pour just the right amount of fear and anger and happiness onto my stories? How do I not clog these words with emotion?

Because for now I’m just skimming the surface of what I feel. Maybe as I’m getting older, my heart has a wider range of feelings, and my writing isn’t quite ready to deal with what this world has become for me yet.