Second period. History class. We were talking about the Civil War. I was staring out the window, watching a black SUV circle the parking lot. It had tinted windows. It didn’t look like a parent’s car.

Suddenly, the intercom buzzed. But it wasn’t the principal’s voice. It was a robotic, automated voice that chilled my blood.

“Code Red. Lockdown. This is not a drill. Repeat. This is not a drill. Unidentified armed subjects reported in the North Wing.”

Mrs. Gable dropped her dry-erase marker. Her face went pale white. The laughter from yesterday was gone.

“Under the desks! Now! Quiet!” she hissed, killing the lights and locking the door.

We huddled in the corner, behind the teacher’s heavy oak desk. Jason was next to me. The tough guy who drove a Porsche in his dreams was shaking so hard his teeth were chattering. He was crying, silent, ugly tears.