This morning, my 15 year old and I were on our way to school, debating how many cars had to be in line at the Dunkin’ Drive-Through to warrant bypassing it. I was willing to give it 4–5 cars, but they said, “If there are ANY cars, we should skip it.” Because one car and five cars are the same, sometimes. It depends on who is working. We arrive, there are two cars.
“I’m game if you are!” I said.
“I’m in.”
We pull up to the speaker, and the voice says, “I’m sorry, because of staffing, we are running a little slow this morning. Do you mind waiting a few minutes?”
“Oh, I can’t this morning. School starts soon. No worries, see you later!”
And we leave. Because they have always been a little slow. We are used to that.
No worries. It’s just coffee. It’s just a normal day.
We drive across town. I take a slightly different route, because of the Dunkin’ Detour.
I missed seeing the police cars.
We turn onto Stafford Street, and slowly edge closer to the drop-off point. There is a bus in front of us, so we don’t see anything but it’s big yellow backside.
We don’t notice the students walking away from the school.
“You should probably just hop out now and walk. Looks like we are in a slow line.” I unlock the door.
“Yeah,” they agree. They gather up the backpack, and check to make sure they have all the necessary items:Phone, earbud, charger cord.
“Love you!” I say as they slide out the door. “Have a great day!”
“You, too!”
And I watch as they blend into the crowd of teenagers on the sidewalk.
The bus hasn’t moved.
I glance over to the sidewalk again, noticing that my kid’s bright red hair has stopped moving forward. They had paused, then turned around and started walking toward the football field, keeping the casual pace with the other kids. I briefly wonder what’s going on, and then the bus starts to move.
Right then, I notice the masked face of a child I recognize as one of my kid’s best friends. She is waving at me, trying to get my attention.
I roll down the window.
“Hey sweetie! What’s up?”
“Shooter drill! We’re all going to the football field.” She is clearly trying to reassure me, which I appreciate. I hadn’t even considered shooter drill. I assumed power outage. Which of course, didn’t’ really make sense. They wouldn’t empty the school for a power outage. But my next thought would have been chemical spill. Something not good, exactly, but nothing bad.
Weird time for a drill, I think. And annoying! I am mentally calculating the time, how soon I can be home. I have company coming, and I want to go the store first. I told my husband I would bring him coffee.
The lane that I’m in has stopped again, I’m now next to the parking lot for the front door. The lot is blocked off with a chain, there are no kids in the lot.
There is a police car blocking half the road, forcing all the traffic in both directions to alternate.
“Oh for fucks sake.” I think. THIS is what is taking so long. At least I’m through it now.
I see the bus turn, and notice it is still full of kids.
I go around the block and head down the road that eventually leads to my house. When I reach the corner, there are three police cars, and I see a female officer standing near the curb cut. I think about rolling down the window and asking, “Are all the shooter drills this crazy?” but my thoughts of solidarity over traffic were immediately replaced by the green light and the ability to turn left quickly.
I didn’t feel my phone vibrate when my kid called. I didn’t notice it at all until I was in the checkout line at the grocery, about to pay for my purchases.
The text that popped up said, “MA! PICK UP! I have some newwwwssss. It’s rlly fun and quirky.”
I immediately think about dropoff. I bet school is cancelled. I’m still betting on power outage. I finish the checkout, and after I put my groceries in the back seat, I Facetime them back.
“Hey sweetie! Sorry — was in the checkout line. What’s going on?”
“So, I’m fine, I’m at the park by the school. There was a shooter thing. No one is hurt. But I knew you’d be kinda upset if I didn’t call.”
“WHAT?! OH MY GOD! IS EVERYONE OKAY?!”
“Oh yeah, we’re fine. We’re going to CVS for food. I just didn’t want you to get mad because you didn’t know where I was.”
“Um…. Okay! Are you guys allowed to leave school grounds?”
“Oh yeah! They sent us to the park… gotta go byeeee!!!”
Huh.
I stand there for a moment, just staring at my phone. I’m not sure what to do. Finally, I turn on my police scanner app on my phone, and listen. It’s quiet, other than a sick woman a few blocks away, who needs an ambulance. Nothing about the school.
I text my husband. My friends. My mom. Just letting them know what little I know, reassuring them in case they saw it on the news.
“Yeah, I saw the email from the school.” My husband texts back. He doesn’t sound worried. I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about.
I go get coffee, scrolling my newsfeed as I wait in the line, looking for any details. There are none.
I get a text from my kid. School is closed. They are walking home. They are bringing friends.
A half hour later, my living room is full of teenagers, laughing, joking, happy for the surprise day off. Talking over each other.
“So there were three shooters, but they got them before they shot anyone!”
“No, I heard there was only one.”
“Three! But one was still in the school!”
I tell them I’ve been listening to the scanner, and checking the news, and that I was pretty sure it was just a phone-in threat. That they’ve been playing telephone with their friends.
One says, “Well, we were there.”
The skeptical look I give them prompts them to follow with, “Well, that’s what the other kids were saying.”
My kid comes over to me, wraps their arms around me, looks at me with puppy dog eyes, and says, “There was a school shooting, Mom! Can we get Popeyes?”
“What?! No! They aren’t even open yet.”
“Dang! But what about when they do? Can we, please? Please please please? I’m TRAUMATIZED! And we’re hungry!”
“You’re not traumatized. There wasn’t a shooting, just a call in. And I don’t want to think about lunch right now.”
And that’s when it hits me. They weren’t traumatized. They were nonplussed. Shooter drills are so commonplace now that even though it wasn’t a drill, it also wasn’t a big deal. It’s just a normal part of life in the suburbs.
And that was horrifying.
