One Minute to Noon
Just Before the Lunch Bell Rings
“OK, guys!” I screech over the macaw-like chatter in my sophomore English class. My students are sharing mementos they accumulated during summer vacation. The assignment is to interview each other and write an expository essay about another student’s treasure: Misty’s coquina shells and sand dollars from Florida, Ruth’s two Navajo pottery mugs from New Mexico, Roxy’s perfume from Paris, Kevin’s chocolate from Hershey Pennsylvania, a picador’s sword from a bullfight in San Fermin Spain, where one of my favorite students, Manny Pérez, ran with the bulls at festival.
“Sorry, Miss Minette, I think Mr. Bourdain is playing Patton again for his history class. It’s kinda loud so we’re kinda loud.” Manny explains. He reminds me of a compact question mark, short and thin, always eyeing the ground ahead of him, like he’s searching for the path that leads him from boyhood to manhood. His blue-black hair is short and Brylcreemed away from his face. It’s longer in front of his ears to mimic sideburns he can’t quite grow yet, and the gooey, errant strands stick to his temples like splayed spider legs preserved in acrylic. He’s emulating his great-grandfather, Manuel Benítez Pérez, El Cordobés, the famous bullfighter with brilliantined hair. “It’s the part where the Nazis pull off a surprise attack and George C. Scott stands in the street shooting at them with his ivory-handled revolver,” Manny says.
Not pearl-handled, I remember, those are for cheap pimps in New Orleans whorehouses, Scott once said. But ivory or pearl, the gunfire doesn’t seem right. It doesn’t seem recorded and played with Mr. Bourdain controlling the volume.
“It’s one minute to noon and you all can head for the cafeteria once you get everything put away,” I say.
The explosions continue. It dawns on me through the fog of considering details about my upcoming wedding and how all my students are acclimating to sophomore year that I can smell the acrid smoke from Patton’s revolver. No. That can’t be right.
Almost simultaneously, the horror of recognition dawns on everyone in the classroom, and we all stand in place to listen. Mingling with the sound of gunshots exploding down the hall, spent shells ping off the floor. The copper smell of blood begins to tinge the air. Anguished screams precede the bullet sprays. Silence. Two classrooms away, Mr. Bourdain’s, I am sure.
My students, wide-eyed and slack-jawed, look to me to tell them what to do, to give them a reasonable explanation about how an improbable horror can be happening while they collect their coins for cafeteria pizza. Silence. It seems like an eternity, but it’s only 45 seconds to noon.
Hysterical screams are cut short after another volley of bullets. The staccato click-click of cleated boots grows louder on the polished old wood floors. Some of my students begin to cry. Some ask Jesus to intercede. Others remain frozen in shock. Think, I think; Jesus apparently has no plans to intercede today. One classroom away.
“Students, I need you all to stay calm. Take cover under your desks, arms shielding your heads,” I say. “Just do it. We can cry later.”
If we live, I hear a student whisper through her sobs. They obey me. Think, I think.
“Miss Minette, I can help. You can’t defend us by yourself. Let me help,” Manny Pérez says.
“Manny, under your desk.”
I grab Ruth’s mugs from New Mexico and fill them with Roxy’s French perfume. If I am shot and have the time to close my eyes, I will think of dying in a garden filled with ylang-ylang, May rose, and jasmine. I search my purse for matches. (If I live, God, I promise to quit smoking). More shots and screams. The handle of my classroom door shudders as the latch bolt clicks, releasing in the face plate. There are no locks on classroom doors.
I light the golden perfume, its oils fueling the dancing orange and blue flames. I carry the mugs to the door. It opens outward, so the shooter must push down on the handle and pull it before regaining his shooter’s stance; my only chance to catch him at less than attention with my tranquil garden remedy. He is outside my door. I stand just inside. Silence at 10 seconds to noon.
Swiftly, he grabs the handle, depresses it, and yanks the door open. He is slightly off balance with his assault rifle pointed at the floor. He is just a boy, a troubled former student who dropped out last year. I try to remember his name, but it escapes me as he struggles to regain his balance and lift the rifle to the shoulder of his oversized leather trench coat. Angry red pimples dot his face, his black eyes vacant and shiny beneath a backward baseball cap. I am profoundly sad for what I have to do. He is just a boy.
I gauge his height and throw the fiery perfume into his pimpled face. He screams and drops to his knees. Manny rushes to my side, the bullfighter’s sword raised above his head. With both hands, he plunges it into the boy, burying it to its red leather hilt between his neck and shoulder, exactly as a matador like his great-grandfather would have done to the bull during the Fiesta de San Fermín Pamplona. The boy makes a hissing sound, his face still lit with a gentle fire from the perfume, like a scented candle melting while his features congeal into a dripping pool of human wax. Nearby, police sirens wail for all the lost children. The noon bell clangs, announcing it’s time for the cafeteria ladies to serve lunch. You are safe, I tell my students. You are safe. We can cry now.
Author's Note: This story is in memoriam for the victims of the Columbine school shooting on its 25th anniversary, and all those victims who have followed.
About the Creator
Lacy Loar-Gruenler
Lacy Loar-Gruenler worked for a decade as a newspaper journalist and editor. In March 2023, she completed an MFA in Creative Writing and Literature at Harvard University.
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Comments (25)
This was an awful read Lacy, if that's the right way to express it. Heartbreaking, and the tonal shift is delicately, but abruptly done. Thought-provoking, and terribly sad. "He reminds me of a compact question mark, short and thin, always eyeing the ground ahead of him, like he’s searching for the path that leads him from boyhood to manhood. "- love this description!
Hello Lacy! Caroline Craven recommended I check out your work on here (she's having you check over the first chapter of her novel, I believe, haha) and goodness, I can't believe how well written this is. Not to mention how heavy the premise is. You gave value to every line! Very nicely done and, though late, congrats on Top Story.
Gosh this was so heartbreaking and devastating. Congratulations on your Top Story! 🎉💖🎊🎉💖🎊
great work
My God, how did I miss this story! Well wrought, very thought out for how to stop him and such a unique way. Loved it. This world is ... crazy, running on crazy. I loved the comments about the students, Hershey, PA, the coquina shells... thoughts meandering until the acrid smell of ..... I hate bullfighting so I was a bit stressed until he helped save the day! TOP STORY for sure!!
So sad, everyone should join nations who ban guns. But, like AI and such, guns are here to stay. Guns don't kill people, tired, unhappy, evil and sometimes misunderstood people kill people. Reality is a monster. Congrats.
Congratulations on your top story.
I am shivering! What an excellent read!
Hi there Lacy Congratulations on the TS! I am new to you as a writer and have Subscribed. I look forward to reading more. I feel no need to echo the praises below. I have added my insights above so I hope this helps me express what I am finding difficult write in words. The Columbine school shooting was horrifying. But have these tradegies stopped? I do not and will never understand the gun culture in the USA. To use the Constitutional right to bear arms is absurd. Constitutional reform anywhere is challenging. It is an incomprehensible truth that the NRA has such political power to deny any reform. I absolutely appreciate that the USA and Australia are vastly different. However I would like to make a comparison to where I live. Brisbane, Australia. We had a mass execution in Tasmania, at Port Arthur on 28 April 2016. Yet this ONE extraordinary event lead to ground breaking gun reform from our then Prime Minister. A article from our independent news service: https://www.theguardian.com/world/2016/mar/15/it-took-one-massacre-how-australia-made-gun-control-happen-after-port-arthur What I would have very much appreciated was a ‘Content Warning.’ Pauline 🌸
I was sure I had left a comment on this excellent intense piece, I have now
Congrats on top story!! I loved this!
Yaaaaaaay! Lacy! Top story! So well deserved!
Congrats on top story! ❤️♥️
Wow wow wow! I am dumbstruck, very well written. Profound!
Wow! This is incredible writing. I was hooked from the start, and near tears by the end. Excellent!
Incredible writing, Lacy L-G. Incredible. I felt my entire body tense when I read these words: "It dawns on me through the fog of considering details about my upcoming wedding and how all my students are acclimating to sophomore year that I can smell the acrid smoke from Patton’s revolver. No. That can’t be right." And your story held me until the final period. Dear friends of mine were devastated when their daughter was murdered at Virginia Tech in a school shooting. They remain devastated, as am I and as are countless others. Difficult story to tell but you handled it with integrity and I applaud that. Congratulations on Top Story, but even more so for telling this story and keeping it in the public eye.
A terrible tragedy, brilliantly evoked, Lacy. A horror that should never have happened and yet does, over and over again. I liked the empathy that you brought from the teacher. The description of a simple "show and tell" lesson being interrupted by something so hellish. And Manny, offering to help and emulating his grandfather. This was exemplary. Tragic.
Hi-Lg - So now they are having Teachers carry guns - whew a hard-hit to reality....such a shame. Thank you for your kind thoughts; I'm back with vigor. Left a mesage under my story 'Wedded~Bliss' written on my pad in Hosp - Better than just twiddling my thumbs. - Always my Pleasure - Jj.in.l.a.
Oh, Lacy, so much of this reads with accuracy, especially the peak into Miss Minette's psyche. Perfume in a mug would not instinctively be the means for stopping an active shooter; however, as a high school English teacher, at one school we were specifically trained to find any distraction that we could, any knickknack or surprise that could disorient the shooter just long enough to buy our students some time to get out. I had the feeling as I read this that this was a smaller school, since the teacher already knew her students, and that the story perhaps took place a few decades ago, since the students were counting quarters for lunch (my students don't use cash anymore). Am I correct? I especially loved the details about Manny. The adolescent boy who is like a question mark, inching toward his future. Brilliant.
You’ve captured one of my worst nightmares in this. A very suspenseful and tragic story! Well done, Lacy!
I know this is a phenomenal story because I felt really upset reading it. School shootings terrify me. You’ve captured this fear so well. Great entry Lacy. I really hope this places.
Wow, Lacy. You wowed me, that’s for sure!
Excellent story… so much in 60 seconds. Such empathy for the shooter… ‘I am profoundly sad for what I have to do. He is just a boy.’
👏✍️👏 Lacy!!! I am still reliving this American horror with a last minute save! You hooked me from the first seconds - a realistic beginning that I remember from teaching days - and you pushed me to the edge of my seat when you heard the bullets. And that innovative ending was pure Lacy - feminine ingenuity. I am cheering! Kudos, My Gifted Friend!!! 🧡🔥🧡
Wow! That was pretty intense. So glad the teacher was quick to think on her feet. I can't imagine being faced with this situation. Great storytelling, Lacey!