Chris Wakes Up by Sean Platt, David Wright Page A

were up front, as was the attention of the rest of the class. 
    Mr. Heller sat his briefcase on the desk, then straightened his shirt, which was uncharacteristically wrinkled and half untucked, with one tail spilling down below his waist. He looked nervous, or . . . scared.
    Milo turned to see if Manny had noticed. He had, making a face at Milo as if to say, “What’s up with Mr. Heller?”
    Katie wore the same expression, as did the rest of the class.
    Mr. Heller stood behind his desk, hands on either side of his closed briefcase, as though exhausted, too tired even to lift his head and look his students in their eyes. His hair, usually precisely combed in the exact same old-fashioned style, was all messed up; a sweaty mop atop his head.
    Class with Mr. Heller began exactly the same way every day. He’d wait for the students to settle down, giving them a full minute after the final bell before he stood up, turned to the whiteboard, and then neatly wrote the topic of the day’s conversation. Once the topic was recorded in neat black lines on the whiteboard, he’d turn to the class, and say something like, “Good morning, class. Today we’re going to discuss foreshadowing,” or whatever subject he’d written. Most days, he’d also throw in a terrible pun to kick things off.
    Mr. Heller was such a stickler for routine that Milo could easily imagine the man starting his weekend mornings the same way at home, in front of a whiteboard with the words “bacon and eggs” written on it. “Good morning, family. Today we’re going to have bacon and eggs. Here’s a little joke I heard. This one will crack you up.”
    Seeing Mr. Heller just standing there, staring down at his desk, was unsettling enough to send a shiver down Milo’s spine.
    “Are you okay?” Stephanie Blankencamp said from her front row desk.
    Mr. Heller said nothing.
    Instead, he turned around, grabbed a black dry erase marker, and started to scribble on the whiteboard. His handwriting, normally block-perfect and in a straight line, was wild and erratic, like he was writing in an angry rush.
     
    The whiteboard read: “Eleven”
     
    Eleven? What the hell? Is that how many beers he drank before class?
    Milo turned to Manny and Katie, the three of them exchanging quiet confusion. Milo then looked over to Jessica, who was staring back with the same bewildered and nervous expression.
    Mr. Heller turned from the whiteboard, finally meeting the eyes of the classroom. His face was clammy, and his eyes were bloodshot. His hands were shaking as he turned his head back and forth, as if he were counting students. . . or searching for someone.
    He looked down at his desk again, then opened his briefcase with a loud snapping sound. He stared into the briefcase for what seemed an eternity, as Milo, and probably the entire class, wondered what he was looking at. Had the class done so poorly on their reports the previous week that Heller couldn’t bring himself to pick up the stack of graded papers?
    Mr. Heller reached into the briefcase and pulled out a pistol. 
    Time stopped for Milo, even as a million things seemed to happen around him at once. 
    First, Manny laughed, like Mr. Heller was going to show them a cool trick or joke or something using the gun as a prop. Or perhaps it was the nervous laugh of a brain which hadn’t quite registered the threat. But someone else, Amber Riley, screamed. Several students gasped. 
    Mr. Heller aimed the gun and fired, shooting Tommy Hopkins, the school’s star rower, right in the face. The gunfire was thunder in the enclosed classroom, like an explosion in Milo’s ears as Tommy fell to the ground.
    Chaos erupted as Mr. Heller turned, as calm as a man choosing his doughnuts from behind the glass, and fired another shot, then another, barely audible over the high-pitched ringing between Milo’s temples. One shot missed one of the students and sailed through the wall into the next classroom. Milo heard muffled screams