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MidReal Story
The Boy Who Hated School
Scenario:A boy is walking to school when he feels his shoe rip. He doesn’t think that anything will happen until he starts feeling rocks in his shoe. He thinks that the rocks could rip his sock.
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Ethan
He is a young boy walking to school. He is curious, reflective, and cautious. Ethan experiences a minor mishap when his shoe rips while walking to school. He feels rocks and dirt enter his shoe, worrying about the state of his sock. His thoughts reveal his concern for potential consequences, such as getting in trouble at school or having to walk barefoot. Despite the tension, Ethan remains focused on reaching school on time.
None
She is another girl walking in the same direction as Ethan's initial thought of knowing someone. She is brief and becomes a fleeting image in Ethan's mind. Her presence contrasts with the first girl, adding complexity to Ethan's thoughts and emphasizing his interest in potential friendships.
None
She is a girl walking in the opposite direction of Ethan. She is unseen but becomes significant in Ethan's thoughts as a potential friend or acquaintance. Her presence causes Ethan to pause and wonder if he could know her better. Her existence adds a layer of social intrigue to Ethan's solitary moment, highlighting his desire for connection and interaction.
I was walking to school when I felt my shoe rip.
I didn’t think that anything would happen, so I kept walking.
It wasn’t until I felt the top part of my shoe come apart and felt rocks and dirt enter my shoe, that I thought something might happen.
I didn’t stop and kept walking, because I was running a little late and didn’t want to be late again.
My grandma runs the school and she wouldn’t be happy if I was late again.
She would get mad at me and I didn’t want that.
I kept walking until I felt the sole of my shoe come apart.
I knew that it would tear all of the way around my shoe, so I kept walking.
When I felt the sole of my shoe tear apart, I knew that my sock would rip.
I didn’t want to walk all of the way to school with a hole in my shoe, so I stopped for a second.
I looked around to see if there were any cars coming, but there weren’t any, so I took off running.
I ran until I got to the blacktop and then stopped again.
As soon as I stopped, I heard a car coming and looked over my shoulder to see a car coming in my direction.
I turned back around and started walking again.
I quicken my pace across the blacktop, feeling the sole flap against the ground with each step.
Small rocks keep grinding into my sock as I move, and I can feel a hole starting to form near my big toe.
The morning sun beats down on the dark surface, making it hot even through my damaged shoe.
I see the school building ahead of me, its red brick walls still a hundred yards away.
My shoe makes a tearing sound with each step now, the sole barely hanging on.
A larger rock wedges itself between my foot and the remaining shoe material.
I pause at the school’s front steps, my damaged shoe scraping against the concrete.
Small pebbles grind between my toes with each step, and I can feel a hole forming in my sock.
The morning sun beats down on the blacktop, making it hot even through my damaged shoe.
I watch as other kids file past me into the building, their footsteps solid and sure.
I lift my foot to examine the damage - the sole flaps open like a mouth, revealing my dirty gray sock underneath.
A larger rock tumbles out onto the step.
My shoulders tense as I hear the first bell ring, knowing that Grandma will be watching the hallway for late students.
I grip the metal door handle, my damaged shoe scraping against the concrete step.
Students rush past me through the entrance, their footsteps echoing in the hallway.
Through the glass door, I can see Mrs. Jenkins standing at the intersection of corridors, directing traffic and keeping a watchful eye on everyone.
It’s not Grandma, but she’ll definitely report me if she sees me.
The second warning bell makes me jump.
I scan the entrance hall quickly, looking for the quickest path around Mrs. Jenkins.
My torn sock catches on something sharp inside my shoe, making me wince.
"Hey, you okay?" a voice asks from behind me, and I turn to see my friend Alex, eyebrows raised in concern.
"Yeah, just trying to avoid Mrs. Jenkins," I reply, gesturing toward the hallway where she stands like a sentinel.
"Well, good luck with that," Alex says with a grin, "but if you need a distraction, I've got an idea that might just get us both out of trouble."
I hesitate, unsure if I should trust Alex’s plan.
But he seems confident, so I nod and let him explain.
"We need something to draw Mrs. Jenkins away from the hall," he says, his eyes scanning the area.
"Something that will give us a clear path to our classrooms."
He spots a large recycling bin near the front desk and a mischievous grin spreads across his face.
"I've got it," he says, already moving toward the bin.
"Stay here, I'll be right back."
I watch as Alex quickly knocks over the recycling bin, spilling its contents onto the floor.
Mrs. Jenkins turns her head at the sound, and I see her frown through the glass doors of the entrance hall.
She starts walking toward us, probably to investigate the mess.
Alex rushes back to my side and whispers, "Now's our chance. When she gets here, we make a run for it."
I nod, my heart pounding in my chest.
Through the glass doors, I see Mrs. Jenkins approaching with a stern expression on her face.
She’s probably writing down names of late students in her notebook.
My damaged shoe scrapes against the concrete as I shift my weight from one foot to the other.
I try to find a position where I can put my weight on my good foot without grinding rocks into my bad one. Alex stands beside me, hand on the door handle, ready to open it as soon as Mrs. Jenkins is close enough.
I grip the straps of my backpack tighter, muscles tensing in preparation for a sprint down the hallway despite my injured foot.
"Here we go," Alex says quietly, starting to count down from three under his breath.
"One..."
"Two..." I whisper back, feeling adrenaline surge through me.
"Three!" Alex yanks the door open, and we dash past Mrs. Jenkins as she bends to pick up the scattered papers.
My ripped shoe slaps against the floor tiles as we dart down the hallway.
Students jump aside, pressing themselves against lockers as we weave between them.
The rocks in my shoe stab my heel with each step, but I keep running.
Alex leads the way, his backpack bouncing behind him as he rounds the corner toward our classroom.
I stumble when my damaged sole catches on the floor, nearly falling into a trash can.
Ahead of me, the classroom door starts to close.
Alex reaches it first, grabbing the handle and holding it open for me.
I limp the final steps, gritting my teeth against the pain in my foot.
I stumble through the doorway, my torn shoe dragging across the linoleum floor.
The classroom buzzes with morning chatter as students settle into their seats.
My damaged sole catches on a desk leg, making me wince as I hobble past the first row.
More pebbles grind into my heel with each step.
The final bell starts ringing as I reach my desk in the back corner.
My legs shake from running as I drop into the hard plastic chair, letting my backpack thud to the floor.
I slump lower in my seat, sweat trickling down my neck.
My injured foot throbs as I try to hide it under the desk.
The girl in front of me turns around to pass back worksheets from Mrs. Peterson.
I quickly tuck my feet beneath my chair, trying not to draw attention to myself.
My sock squishes uncomfortably against my heel as rocks shift inside my shoe.
When she glances down, I see her eyes widen slightly at my torn shoe.
She opens her mouth to say something, but Mrs. Peterson starts taking attendance before she can speak.
I stare at the worksheet in front of me as Mrs. Peterson calls out names.
Each one brings her closer to mine, and I sink lower in my seat.
My damaged shoe scrapes against the floor when I shift, and the girl in front keeps glancing back at me.
When Mrs. Peterson finally reaches my name, I raise my hand weakly, trying to keep my foot hidden.
She pauses mid-check, her eyes fixed on the torn shoe visible beneath my desk.
The classroom falls silent as she points toward the door.
"Mister Waters," she says, her voice firm.
"Report to the principal's office."
I stare at her, my damaged shoe scraping against the floor as I shift in my seat.
The classroom falls silent except for the sound of my torn sole dragging when I move my foot.
"Why do I have to go to the principal's office?"
I ask, my voice cracking.
The other students turn to watch as Mrs. Peterson walks down the aisle toward my desk.
She stops beside me, pointing at my ripped shoe where the sole flaps open to reveal my dirty, torn sock.
"That's why," she says firmly.
"We don't come to school looking like that."
I grip the edges of my desk as she looms over me, her finger still pointing at my ruined shoe.
The silence in the classroom feels heavy, broken only by the sound of someone's pencil dropping to the floor.
My throat tightens as I look down at the dirty sock visible through the torn leather.
"We... we can't afford new ones," I force out, my voice barely above a whisper.
The words taste bitter in my mouth.
Mrs. Peterson's hand drops to her side, and I hear a few students shift in their seats.
She stands there, waiting for me to move, her shadow falling across my papers.
The rocks in my shoe dig deeper as I shift my weight, making me wince.
When I don't move, she walks to her desk and reaches for the classroom phone.
The whispers start as she lifts the receiver.
The thought of the principal coming to get me, or worse, calling my grandmother to pick me up from school, makes my stomach twist.
Before she can dial, I push back my chair with a screech and stand up.
"Please, Mrs. Peterson," I say, my voice trembling.
"I'll fix it, I promise."
She hesitates, her finger hovering over the buttons, then sighs heavily.
"Fine," she says.
"Get your things and go to the office. I'll call ahead and let them know you're coming."
I stand up slowly, my damaged shoe scraping against the floor tiles.
Mrs. Peterson watches me gather my books and papers, the loose sole flapping with each step toward the door.
The whispers follow me as I walk.
My backpack feels heavier than usual as I sling it over my shoulder.
At the classroom door, I pause to adjust my torn sock, which has bunched up painfully under my heel.
A small trail of dirt and pebbles marks my path across the classroom.
With burning cheeks, I pull the door open and step into the empty hallway.
I limp down the hall, my shoe leaving a trail of dirt and pebbles on the polished floor.
Each step sends a sharp pain through my heel as the rocks grind against my torn sock.
The office door is at the end of the corridor, its frosted glass window showing shadowy movement inside.
My hands shake while I grip my backpack straps, and sweat trickles down my back.
I pause at the water fountain to catch my breath, but the sound of approaching footsteps makes me move forward.
I drag my feet down the last stretch of hallway, my damaged sole leaving scuff marks on the floor.
The principal's office door looms closer, its brass nameplate gleaming under the fluorescent lights.
Each step grinds more rocks into my heel through the torn sock.
My reflection in the glass window shows hunched shoulders and messy hair from running earlier.
The secretary's desk sits empty, but I hear muffled voices behind the principal's closed door.
I stand before the door, staring at my trembling fist.
The footsteps behind me grow closer, echoing in the empty hallway.
My damaged shoe scrapes against the floor as I shift my weight, trying to avoid the sharp rocks digging into my heel.
Through the frosted glass, I see a dark shape move inside the office.
The secretary's empty desk offers no escape route.
My throat tightens as I force myself to raise my hand.
The brass nameplate gleams accusingly while I rap my knuckles against the wooden door, the sound weak and hesitant.
I lower my hand from knocking as the heavy wooden door slowly opens inward.
Principal Matthews stands in the doorway, his tall frame blocking the light from his office window.
His gray suit jacket stretches as he crosses his arms, and his wire-rimmed glasses catch the fluorescent hallway lights.
Without speaking, he steps aside and motions for me to enter with a sharp tilt of his head.
My damaged shoe drags across the threshold, leaving a dirty streak on the polished floor.
The loose sole catches on the doorframe, making me stumble forward into his office.
"Sit down, Ethan," Principal Matthews says, his voice calm but firm.
I hesitate, glancing at the chair before meeting his gaze.
I sink into the hard wooden chair across from his desk.
My damaged shoe scrapes against the carpet as I pull my feet back.
Principal Matthews sits down in his leather chair and folds his hands on the desk, his eyes fixed on me.
"Why are you here today, Ethan?" he asks, his voice calm but expectant.
I swallow hard, my voice coming out small.
"I broke my shoe."
He leans forward slightly, his brow furrowing.
"Show me."
I lift my foot hesitantly, the loose sole dangling like a broken hinge.
The dirty sock underneath has holes worn through at the heel and toes.
Bits of gravel fall onto the principal's pristine carpet as I move.
I stare at my shoe, the sole flapping pathetically as I try to find the right words.
My hands grip the chair arms tightly.
Principal Matthews waits silently, his eyes fixed on me.
The loose sole dangles and more dirt sprinkles onto the carpet.
When I finally look up, his stern expression makes my voice catch in my throat.
I swallow hard, forcing the words out.
"We can't afford new shoes," I admit quietly.
The words come out shaky and barely audible.
I shift in the chair, the rocks in my shoe grinding against my raw heel.
Principal Matthews' expression softens slightly.
His leather chair creaks as he leans forward, waiting for me to continue.
My damaged sole scrapes against his carpet, leaving another dirty mark.
The quiet hum of the air conditioner fills the silence between us.
"I tried to hide the tear this morning," I explain, my voice a little stronger.
"But it got worse on the hot blacktop."
More pebbles fall from my shoe when I move my foot.
I watch them scatter across his clean floor.
I watch Principal Matthews lean back in his chair, the leather creaking.
His stern expression melts away.
My damaged shoe scrapes against the carpet when I shift in my seat, and more pebbles fall from the loose sole.
He opens his desk drawer and pulls out a notepad, writing something down while I fidget nervously.
The air conditioner hums in the background as he tears off the paper.
When he looks up at me again, his face has changed completely.
I tense up as he reaches for his phone.
My damaged shoe grinds more rocks into the carpet.
He pulls out a worn manila folder with my name on it and flips through the papers until he finds my emergency contact sheet.
My mother's work number is highlighted in yellow.
The thought of him calling her at the diner during her busy shift makes my stomach twist.
I want to stop him, explain that she's working, but my voice won't come out.
Principal Matthews pauses, glancing at me with a hint of understanding.
"Listen," he says gently, "I know things are tough right now, but we have resources to help."
I blink in surprise as he continues, "We can get you a new pair of shoes, no questions asked."
I sink lower in my chair as he dials the number.
My damaged shoe scrapes against his carpet while the phone rings.
Through the receiver, I can hear the clatter of dishes and my mom's tired voice answering.
Principal Matthews speaks softer than before, explaining about my torn shoe and the dirt on his floor.
My mom's voice cracks as she talks about working double shifts but still not being able to afford basic things.
I stare at the dirt my shoe has left on the floor, my chest tight as they talk about how poor we are.
I stare at my shoe, the sole hanging off the bottom, as Principal Matthews talks quietly with my mom on the phone.
The sound of her exhausted voice mixed with the noise of the diner in the background makes my vision blur.
A hot tear rolls down my cheek and I think about how Mom has been working double shifts for months, but we still can't afford groceries.
Our fridge is almost empty and I've been wearing these worthless shoes for two years.
My hands shake as I wipe my face, but more tears keep coming.
The loose sole of my shoe scrapes against the carpet as I pull my knees to my chest, trying to muffle the sudden sob that escapes me.
Principal Matthews hangs up the phone and quietly places a new pair of shoes on his desk.
I stare at the new shoes through blurry eyes.
The sole of my current shoe grinds more rocks into the carpet as I reach for them hesitantly.
Principal Matthews gestures for me to try them on, but I just pick one up, feeling the stiff new material.
I pause, looking at my old shoes, which are still scuffing his carpet.
Even with the tear, they're already squeezing my toes.
Looking at the size tag inside the new shoe makes my heart sink - it's the same size as my old pair.
I lower the shoe back to his desk and gather the courage to speak.
"Thank you, but these won't fit," I say quietly, my voice barely above a whisper.
Principal Matthews frowns slightly, then nods. "We'll get you the right size; don't worry about it."
I glance up at him, surprised by his kindness.
He sits back down and picks up his notepad, jotting something down.
"Can you tell me your shoe size, please?"
I nod, then whisper my size.
He writes it down and looks up at me.
"Great. I'll make a note of that. The new shoes will be here by Friday."
My damaged sole keeps scraping his carpet as he explains about the school's assistance program.
The shoes are donated and then distributed to students who need them.
He says it in a gentle voice, like he's telling me a story.
When I start to thank him, he waves it off and pulls out a roll of duct tape from his desk drawer.
"Here," he says, handing it to me.
"This should help until your new shoes arrive."
I take the tape, feeling its sticky texture in my hands.
It's industrial-strength duct tape, not the kind you use for crafts or fixing things at home.
I hold the silver roll in my sweaty hands while he watches me.
The loose sole flaps as I lift my foot onto my knee, working carefully to wrap the tape around it.
Bits of dirt and small rocks fall onto his carpet as I pull the tape tight.
The industrial adhesive makes a loud ripping sound in the quiet office.
After three layers, the sole feels more stable.
I test my weight on it, then look at the remaining tape roll.
I place the roll back on his desk, feeling a small flicker of hope for the first time in months.
I leave his office with my taped-up shoe, feeling lighter even though the rocks are still grinding against my heel.
The hallway seems eerily quiet until rapid footsteps echo behind me.
Three classmates rush past, their faces pale with worry.
I grab Tommy's arm as he runs by, asking what's wrong.
He pants out an answer - Mrs. Peterson collapsed at her desk.
My stomach drops as I watch them sprint toward the office.
The duct tape squeaks against the floor while I stand frozen, remembering how she'd confronted me about my shoe just minutes ago.
I hurry back to the classroom, my duct-taped shoe squeaking against the floor tiles.
Through the doorway, I see students crowded around Mrs. Peterson's desk, their backpacks abandoned on the ground.
She slumps forward in her chair, head resting on a stack of papers.
Some kids whisper urgently while others stand frozen.
Sarah shakes Mrs. Peterson's shoulder, calling her name.
The rocks still grinding in my shoe remind me of our earlier confrontation about my poverty.
Tommy turns to me, his voice trembling.
"Do you think it was the stress? She seemed really upset earlier."
I nod slowly, recalling her worried expression, and whisper, "I think it might be more than just stress."
The school nurse bursts past me, her white shoes squeaking on the linoleum.
She rushes to Mrs. Peterson's desk, pressing two fingers against her neck.
The classroom falls silent except for the nurse counting under her breath.
When she announces that she can't find a pulse, my stomach drops.
The nurse shoves papers off the desk and starts chest compressions, her arms straight and locked.
"Call 911!" she shouts while pushing rhythmically on Mrs. Peterson's chest.
Sarah fumbles with the classroom phone, her hands shaking as she dials.
Tommy grips my arm tighter, his voice barely a whisper.
"Do you think she knew something was wrong?"
I swallow hard, glancing at the nurse's determined face. "Maybe she did, but didn't want to worry us."
I stand frozen near Mrs. Peterson's desk while Tommy pulls out his phone with shaking hands.
He dials 911, his voice cracking as he explains our teacher collapsed.
The nurse continues chest compressions, counting under her breath.
"Thirty-two... thirty-three..."
Mrs. Wilson bursts through the door, her heels clicking rapidly across the floor.
She surveys the scene before ordering us to gather our things and follow her to Room 203.
My duct-taped shoe squeaks as I grab my backpack.
Glancing back at Mrs. Peterson's still form, I hesitate at the doorway.
I walk behind Mrs. Wilson with my taped shoe squeaking against the floor.
I keep my eyes fixed on her rigid shoulders, the way her suit jacket hugs her tightly.
The other students shuffle along quietly, some wiping their noses, others clutching their backpacks tightly to their chests.
The hallway seems longer than usual as we move in a somber line.
Tommy sniffles beside me, and I want to say something comforting but can't find the words.
My damaged shoe keeps grinding rocks into my heel with each step, but the pain feels distant now compared to the weight of what we just witnessed.
We stand in Room 203, everyone silent and waiting.
The ambulance siren grows louder outside, its wail cutting through the stillness.
I move to the window, my duct-taped shoe squeaking with each step.
Outside, EMTs rush through the front doors with their equipment.
Tommy joins me at the window, his face streaked with tears.
We hear rapid footsteps in the hallway, voices shouting medical terms from our classroom.
Mrs. Wilson tries closing our door to block the sounds, but I catch a glimpse of EMTs crowding around Mrs. Peterson's desk.
Tommy turns to me, his voice trembling. "Do you think she'll be okay?"
I hesitate, watching the EMTs work frantically. "I don't know, Tommy, but they're doing everything they can."
Mrs. Wilson places a hand on my shoulder, her voice soft but firm. "Let's focus on staying calm and supporting each other right now."
I stand at the window with Tommy when three sharp cracks echo through the building.
Students around us gasp and drop to the floor, but I remain standing, gripping the windowsill.
My duct-taped shoe squeaks as I shift my weight, still watching the EMTs work on Mrs. Peterson through the window.
Mrs. Wilson rushes to lock our door, whispering urgent instructions for everyone to hide under their desks.
Tommy tugs my arm, begging me to take cover, but I can't stop staring at the hallway where the shots came from.
Principal Matthews' voice crackles over the intercom, his words strained and urgent.
"Attention, students and faculty. We have a shooter in the building. Please barricade your doors and remain hidden until further notice."
My taped shoe squeaks as I turn away from the window.
Mrs. Wilson is pushing desks and chairs against the door, her face pale with fear.
Tommy grabs my arm again, pulling me away from the window toward a hiding spot under a desk.
Other students scramble to follow Mrs. Wilson's instructions, their faces etched with terror.
I crawl under the desk next to Tommy, my heart pounding in my chest.
Footsteps echo down the hallway, growing louder with each passing moment.
I grab Tommy's hand, and we both hold our breath, crawling deeper under the desk.
The footsteps outside our classroom grow louder, each step sounding like a death knell.
My taped shoe squeaks softly against the floor, and I freeze, hoping it goes unnoticed.
Tommy's grip on my hand tightens as we press ourselves against the cold metal of the desk.
Other students huddle around us, their eyes wide with fear.
Mrs. Wilson whispers for us to stay quiet and still.
I huddle closer to Tommy, my hand clasped tightly in his.
The footsteps grow louder, and I can feel the vibrations of heavy shoes against the floor.
My taped shoe squeaks softly again, and I hold my breath, hoping it doesn't give away our hiding spot.
Tommy's grip on my hand tightens even more, and I can feel his heart pounding through his sleeve.
The footsteps pause outside our classroom door, and I can hear the sound of someone trying the handle.
My heart races as I wait for the door to open, but Mrs. Wilson's barricade holds strong.
The footsteps move on to the next room, and I let out a shaky breath.
Tommy squeezes my hand reassuringly, and I look up at him with tears in my eyes.
We both know that we have to get out of here, but we don't know how.
I huddle under the desk with Tommy, my duct-taped shoe squeaking softly against the floor.
Mrs. Wilson's voice is a low whisper as she tells us to stay put until Principal Matthews gives the all-clear.
Tommy's grip on my hand tightens as we listen to the sound of sirens in the distance and occasional shouts from outside our classroom.
Other students shift nervously around us, their breathing heavy in the tense silence.
I glance up at the barricaded door, hoping it will hold strong against whatever is waiting on the other side.
Mrs. Wilson's voice remains calm and steady as she reassures us that everything will be okay.
We wait for what feels like an eternity, listening to the sounds of chaos outside our classroom.
Finally, Principal Matthews' voice comes over the intercom again, his words filled with relief and urgency.
"Students, this is Principal Matthews. The police have arrived, and it is safe for you to come out of your classrooms. Please follow the instructions of your teachers and the officers. We will get you to safety as quickly as possible."
I let out a shaky breath as Principal Matthews' voice fades away, and Mrs. Wilson tells us to stay where we are until she gives the signal.
Tommy's grip on my hand loosens slightly, but I can still feel his tension as we wait for further instructions.
Mrs. Wilson moves quietly around the room, checking on each student and making sure everyone is okay.
I shift slightly under the desk, my duct-taped shoe squeaking softly against the floor.
Tommy looks at me with concern, and I give him a weak smile.
We both know that we are lucky to be alive, but we also know that we are not out of danger yet.
Finally, Mrs. Wilson tells us that it is time to leave the classroom.
She explains that we will need to follow her lead and keep our hands up so that the police can see that we are not a threat.
I nod nervously, my heart pounding in my chest.
Tommy squeezes my hand one last time before letting go, and we both slowly crawl out from under the desk.
The other students emerge from their hiding spots as well, their faces pale and their eyes wide with fear. We line up at the door, our hands held high in front of us.
Mrs. Wilson stands at the front of the line, her eyes fixed on the barricaded door.
She motions for us to stay quiet and still as she carefully removes the barricade and opens the door.
I hold my breath as she peers out into the hallway, her eyes scanning for any signs of danger.
Finally, she nods for us to follow her, and we slowly make our way into the hallway.
The air is cool against my skin as I raise my hands higher in the air.
I can hear the sound of sirens in the distance and occasional shouts from other classrooms.
We move slowly down the hallway, following Mrs. Wilson's lead.
I can feel Tommy's presence behind me, his footsteps echoing softly against the floor.
The hallway stretches ahead, and with each step, hope flickers back to life.
I huddle under the desk with Tommy, my duct-taped shoe squeaking softly against the floor.
The school lockdown continues, and we are all waiting for further instructions from Principal Matthews.
My breath is shallow as I listen to the sound of footsteps outside our classroom door.
Tommy's grip on my hand tightens, and I can feel his heart pounding through his sleeve.
Suddenly, a gunshot rings out in the distance, and I flinch at the sound.
Tommy looks at me with wide eyes, and I whisper softly to him, "Do you think that was a gunshot?"
He nods slowly, his face pale with fear.
We both know that we have to tell Mrs. Wilson about what we heard, but we don't know how to get her attention without making any noise.
I look up at Mrs. Wilson, who is standing by the door, her eyes fixed on the barricade.
I try to catch her eye, but she doesn't seem to notice me.
Tommy squeezes my hand again, and I know that he is trying to come up with a plan.
Finally, he whispers softly to me, "I'm going to try and get Mrs. Wilson's attention."
I nod nervously as Tommy slowly crawls out from under the desk.
He keeps low to the ground as he moves towards Mrs. Wilson, his eyes fixed on her back.
I watch anxiously as he gets closer and closer, my heart pounding in my chest. Just as Tommy is about to reach Mrs. Wilson, another gunshot rings out in the distance.
This time it sounds much closer than before, and I can feel the vibrations of the shot through the floor.
Tommy freezes in place for a moment before slumping forward onto the ground.
Blood spreads across his shirt, and I stare at him in shock.
I crawl towards him, my duct-taped shoe squeaking softly against the floor.
I can see the blood spreading across his shirt, and I know that I have to do something to stop it.
I press my hands against the wound, trying to put pressure on it.
Tommy's eyes flutter open, and he gasps for air.
I shout out for Mrs. Wilson, and she rushes over to us.
Her face is pale with fear as she kneels down beside Tommy.
She quickly assesses the situation and tells me to keep putting pressure on the wound.
Other students huddle around us, some of them crying softly.
Mrs. Wilson tells me to stay with Tommy while she searches for something to use as a bandage.
I crawl to Tommy, my taped shoe squeaking softly as I press my hands against his chest.
The shooter's voice echoes through the classroom, telling me to run or die.
I glance at the barricaded door, then back at Tommy, who is gasping for air.
Mrs. Wilson returns with some bandages, her hands shaking as she helps me apply pressure to the wound.
Other students huddle around us, some of them crying softly.
I hesitate for a moment, wondering if I should stay with Tommy or try and escape.
But then I hear the shooter's footsteps getting closer and closer, and I know that I have to make a decision quickly.
I press my hands against Tommy's bleeding chest, feeling his shallow breaths.
The shooter's voice echoes closer, demanding we run or die.
My taped shoe squeaks as I glance at the door, then back at Tommy.
Mrs. Wilson applies bandages with trembling hands while other students huddle nearby, sobbing quietly.
The footsteps grow louder, and I realize medical help might reach Tommy soon if I leave.
Torn between staying and risking death, I make a quick decision.
I press my hands against Tommy's bleeding chest, feeling his weak pulse.
The shooter's footsteps grow louder, and I glance at the door.
Mrs. Wilson bandages him with trembling hands while our classmates huddle nearby, crying softly.
My duct-taped shoe squeaks as I look between Tommy and the door, torn between staying and escaping.
The shooter's voice echoes threats down the hall, but I know paramedics can't reach Tommy until he's gone.
I press my hands on Tommy's bleeding chest, feeling his weak pulse.
The shooter's footsteps grow louder outside our classroom.
My duct-taped shoe squeaks against the floor while Mrs. Wilson applies bandages with trembling hands.
Our classmates huddle nearby, crying softly.
Suddenly, we hear shouting and rapid footsteps in the hallway.
The door bursts open, and police officers rush in with guns raised, scanning the room.
They quickly secure the area and call for medical help.
Tommy's eyes flutter open, and I finally breathe.
I press my hands against Tommy's b###g chest, feeling his pulse steady.
The shooter's footsteps fade, and I hear shouting in the hall.
Police rush in with guns raised, securing the room.
Tommy's eyes open, and I breathe a sigh of relief as paramedics arrive.
My duct-taped shoe squeaks as I stand to let them work.
While backing away, the bottom of my other shoe starts coming off.
Mrs. Wilson guides us out, her hand on my shoulder.
As we move through the hall, I try to keep my balance, the flapping sole making it hard to walk.
"Why did you come back for me?" Tommy asks, his voice barely a whisper.
"I couldn't just leave you," I reply, feeling the weight of my decision.
Mrs. Wilson looks at us both, her eyes filled with a mix of fear and relief, "You saved his life, you know."
I follow the officers' instructions, limping out of the building with my classmates.
My duct-taped shoe squeaks as we navigate through the crowded hallway.
Outside, the bright sunlight blinds me momentarily, and I squint to see the chaotic scene.
Emergency vehicles line the street, and worried parents wait anxiously.
Paramedics rush past us to tend to those still inside.
Scanning the crowd, I spot my mom, her face etched with concern.
She rushes towards me, and I hobble faster, my flapping sole slapping against the ground.
I limp toward my mom, my duct-taped shoe squeaking with each step.
The bright sun blinds me momentarily as I exit the school.
Emergency vehicles fill the parking lot, and worried parents rush to their children.
My mom spots me and runs over, her face etched with concern.
I try to quicken my pace, but my loose shoe sole flaps against the ground.
As I reach her, she envelops me in a tight embrace.
"Are you okay?"
I nod, my voice trembling.
She looks down at my duct-taped shoe and frowns.
"What happened to your shoe?"
"It broke," I reply, my voice barely above a whisper.
She guides me to a nearby paramedic, who kneels down to examine my foot.
Gently, he lifts my leg, and I wince as he touches the heel where the rocks have been grinding all day.
My mom watches anxiously, her hand squeezing mine tightly.
The paramedic carefully removes the duct tape and then my shoe, revealing my torn sock and bruised foot.
He cleans the wounds and applies a bandage while explaining that I'll need to rest and avoid walking on it for a few days.
"Mom, I have to tell you something," I say, my voice barely above a whisper.
She looks at me, concern deepening in her eyes, "What is it, honey?"
"I saw the shooter before it happened—I recognized him," I confess, feeling the weight of my words.
She furrows her brow, "Where did you see him before?"
I hesitate, then reply, "At the diner where you work. He always sat in the corner booth."
She nods, and just then, a police officer approaches us.
He holds a notepad and pen, ready to take my statement.
I point out the location of the diner and describe the booth where I saw the shooter.
My mom's eyes widen with realization as she connects the dots.
The officer scribbles down the information, thanking me for my help.
I limp beside my mom, my bandaged foot aching with each step.
She wraps her arm around me for support as we make our way through the crowd of worried parents and emergency responders.
We reach her car, and she opens the door for me.
I gingerly slide into the passenger seat, wincing as my foot brushes against the seat.
She closes the door behind me and hurries to the driver's side.
Starting the engine, she carefully navigates through the chaos in the parking lot.
As we drive away from the school, I stare out the window at the passing scenery.
The events of the day replay in my mind like a movie.
My mom's face is tense with worry as she drives us home.
The weight of what I know presses against the silence between us.
