The Foreign Service Journal, July-August 2009

30 F O R E I G N S E R V I C E J O U R N A L / J U LY- A U G U S T 2 0 0 9 Ellen called, “Someone’s com- ing!” Everyone scrambled to pick up their papers. Dwight struggled to get a pencil eraser out of his nose. I pushed desks around, while Tracy whimpered, “I didn’t write anything. What if she checks?” “Stop worrying. Just go sit down. Hurry!” The classroom door opened just as I got back to my desk. I slumped down low in the seat. Mrs. Cook didn’t say anything at first. Ian called out, “What’s up, Mrs. C? Talk to me.” “I’m afraid a civil disturbance has started down at the American embassy.” “What? No way, man,” someone yelled. I knew it. They’d taken hostages. My father was wrong, and now he was probably being blindfolded. My eyes met Ellen’s. “Wait, class. We don’t have all the facts yet. After sixth period, we’ll know more.” Tracy turned a paler shade of ivory and whispered, “Can I go to the nurse?” “Let’s just cancel school and go home,” someone else exclaimed. “If you have so much time on your hands,” Mrs. Cook said, “we’ll make it a 750-word report.” The bell rang and we jumped up. Pandemonium pre- vailed in the hallway. “OK, everyone,” Coach Connors yelled. “Into the auditorium, now. Let’s go!” “Can’t we just go home? It’s the last day of school.” The whole school crammed into the auditorium, from kindergarten to seniors. The teachers stood guard over us in the aisles, shushing everyone. I sat between Ian and Ellen. A few parents entered the auditorium, and pulled their kids out. My dad didn’t get off until 6, so I had to wait until they excused us to take the bus. “OK, settle down,” Mr. Kain yelled from the stage. “The buses won’t be running today.” “What’d he say? No way!” “Quiet! There’s a demonstration, and we can’t risk op- erating the buses.” “It’s our vacation! Come on, man.” “Yeah!” others yelled. “Your parents will have to pick you up,” Mr. Kain said. But what if I didn’t get picked up? Would my dad forget me in all the excite- ment? “In the meantime,” the assistant principal continued, “we’re going to watch a movie.” “‘North Dallas Forty!’” More laughter from the crowd. “‘Rocky II!’” “Yeah, Rocky rules!” Mr. Kain ignored us, as Mr. Roberts, Ellen’s dad, threaded the 1950s-era 8mm film of “U.S. Rodeos” through the projector. Ian went to his locker. Twenty minutes later, he re- turned in a rush. “Ronni, the embassy’s on fire.” “What?” Ellen grasped my hand. “You can see it from the school, and some French guy said everyone’s dead.” Ellen sobbed and her grip got tighter on my hand, so I felt nothing else. When I was 7, I’d seen “I Never Sang for My Father.” I couldn’t stop crying, afraid of losing my father. I’d changed; I didn’t cry anymore. My dad had shown me the world, but I never really saw him. And now he might be gone — forever. “It’s OK, Ellen,” I said. The lights came on. “We’re moving to the gym,” Mr. Kain said. In the gym, Coach Connor passed out basketballs. Ian took one while Ellen and I sat in the bleachers and watched. “They’re here! They’re coming to get us,” a little girl ran into the gym yelling. “Clear out. Everyone find a place to hide. Quick, move!” Coach shouted. We dashed into the locker room and closed the door. Students crowded into showers, restroom stalls, under the benches and in lockers. As I huddled with Ellen, my ears filled with the pounding of my heart and the hush of our collectively held breaths. There were loud voices, smashed objects, broken glass and a gunshot. I prayed, “Oh, my God,” and shoved my hand in my mouth to keep from crying out. Angry Arabic commands pierced the silence. After a few minutes, someone banged on the locker room door. F O C U S There were loud voices, smashed objects, broken glass and a gunshot.