Hide and Seek

by Danielle Woodgate

Intercom static disrupts our morning routine. I’m sitting with my preschool class, their tiny bodies squirming on the shaggy rug. We’ve just begun our hello song. Trusting faces peer up at me. They’re surrounded by colorful posters of numbers, wooden blocks, and animal books.

“This is a lockdown.” A lapse in the announcement allows my fear to root itself. “Please follow lockdown procedures.” My assistant gives me a look of annoyance — she probably thinks I forgot to prepare her — but there wasn’t a drill on the schedule. The children watch me for guidance, although we have practiced this “game” before.

We tried to fend off this day, our superstitions growing. Practice runs, locked doors, hidden cameras catching each misstep, identification to move beyond the office, metal detectors and armed security.

Only band-aids on a wound screaming for stitches.

It was always a possibility. I knew even with all our preparations we might not avoid this event. My breathing grows shallow, lungs responding to the panic with a sharp cry for oxygen. The memory of terror tensing my muscles, readying my flight.

* * *

I think back to high school. It wasn’t my school, but I had been there the previous weekend for a softball game. I heard whispers in my classrooms. Students didn’t know the details and the rumors grew, yet time insisted on continuing at its normal pace. At home, my mom sat in front of the television, hypnotized, its bright picture reflected in her eyes as she bore witness.

“What’s happening?”

She pulled me into her arms, “Something horrific.”

I sat with her, a shared vigil. The police around the high school, quiet like the eye of a hurricane. Then teenagers jumping from windows, children like me. Flinging themselves from a building whose only sin before was pop quizzes and library fines. Their desperate attempt at survival.

The world was digesting their terror, preparing it to fuel its own agenda.

* * *

“Remember, we’re playing hide and seek.” My voice is a breath in the eerie silence of a school locking down. The children wiggle from their spots, the hint enough to get them moving. They huddle behind my desk, hiding in the forbidden corner, excited to break a rule at my urging. I check the door. It’s locked, fireproof and heavy, the window covered by black construction paper now faded to gray. Flipping the light switch, we are dropped into darkness.

* * *

When I was a senior in high school, they coached us to run, zig-zag, like a running back avoiding the opposing team. When my children were toddlers. we attended school playgroups. During drills they told us to stay in the room where parents shared snacks and stolen moments of childless conversation. Be quiet, stay calm, trust the teachers to protect our babies.

This time I am serving as the last defense against an unfathomable act.

* * *

I know the kids think of this as a fun interruption. “Don’t giggle. You want to stay hidden and win.” We taught them it was a game to play; one with winners and losers, no mention of survivors.

A finger rests across my lips, reminding them to stay quiet. They mimic the sign and squeeze together making space for me. The only light my open laptop reflects in their innocent faces.

My body becomes an obstacle between the children and the door. The corner of my desk cuts into my arm, grounding me in this moment. If needed, I will stand up, make myself large enough to shelter all their little bodies. A duty I will perform even though it isn’t listed on my job description.

There’s no doubt I will, because I expect teachers to do the same for my own children.

The door handle jiggles, breaking the silence. The lever was placed 20 years ago; I wonder how strong it remains. Forcing a smile, I try to keep the kids relaxed and quiet. We are safe when we are silent. We cannot be found. They cover their giggles with closed fists, focused on the game they think we are playing. Only as I continue to convey calmness, do I realize that some are shaking from tears, not laughter.

A squeak on the linoleum outside our door startles me. One child grabs my shirt and buries her moist face against my side. We must stay unheard, still like fawns stowed in shadows, while a predator patrols nearby. I inhale. Footsteps move away. I exhale, my breath filled with adrenaline.

I give the kids a nod as I pray to a god I am not certain is listening anymore. Trembling, I wait for a sign we are safe.

To run.

To escape.

To find home base in a game of tag where the violence cannot reach us.

A voice breaks over the intercom: “The lockdown is over. We apologize for the disruption. There was an issue with the security door.” A chorus of feedback. “We decided to take this opportunity to test our drill responses. Great work following protocol.”

Great work. As if that erases the possibility we might lose the next game. The kids cheer and gallop around, their faces full of the same joy and terror I might have after riding a rollercoaster.

Knees shaking, I stand. “I need to use the restroom,” I say, voice cracking. My assistant nods, encouraging the children to find their seats on the brightly colored alphabet carpet.

Knowing how quickly this game can turn deadly, I collapse in the bathroom. A sob slips from my clenched jaw. Struggling to pull in air, I think about the world in which these children are growing up, where they learn to stay safe with a recess game. I wipe my eyes, flush the toilet and splash cold water on my face.

Tonight the preschoolers will go home. They will tell their parents with excited gestures about the fun we had in school today. Not realizing that no one wins this game of hide and seek.