A. Homes - Music for Torching

She hangs up and tries his secretary; she gets voice mail. "Fuck you. Fuck everyone." She runs out of the house.

A single police car is parked in front of the school.

Two by two, in long narrow lines, the children are being led out of the building and up the sidewalk to the farthest edge of the playground. It is a practiced procedure, like a fire drill or an Easter parade.

"Hold on to your buddy," the teachers call out.

Excited by the unexpected disruption, the children giggle, they wiggle, they dance.

"Don't let go," the teachers say. "Hold tight."

Elaine rushes up the front steps. The janitor blocks her. She tries to duck around him. Children are streaming out on either side. He holds up his broomstick, brandishing it like a sword. "This is an emergency evacuation," he says. "You can't go in."

She turns, spinning full circle, sweeping through a whirl of anxiety and indecision. Behind her is the semicircular driveway, the parking lot filled with cars. In front of her is the redbrick two-story school building. And Sammy. She hurls herself forward. The janitor puts his body between Elaine and the door. The children keep coming out, squeezing past them. He shakes his head no.

"I was called here. Let me in. I need to come in. I need to speak with someone."

"I'm sure they'll be with you directly," the janitor says.

Another group of students slips out.

"What grade is that?" Elaine asks.

"That's the fifth grade," the janitor says.

"Where is the fourth grade?"

"I don't know where anybody is," he says.

It is hot. She is panicked. She sweats profusely. "I'm the mother." She tries to sound authoritative. She stops one of the teachers. "Who's in charge? Where's the principal?"

The teacher points to a side door. Before the janitor can do or say anything, Elaine is in. It is cool and dark. There is the echo of a hundred small feet racing down the cinder-block halls. Controlled chaos. She sees the principal in the hallway ahead of her. The same bulletin boards that a few days ago were filled with hope and promise, celebrations of the future, things to come, now seem cold and menacing: RITES OF SPRING, SUMMER SAFETY TIPS.

"Where is Sammy? Where is my son?" Elaine yells.

The principal waits to answer until they are closer. "We believe they are in the cloakroom," the principal says, leading Elaine back outside.

"Believe?"

"Well, that's where the teacher saw them go."

"Can't someone go in and look?"

"We can't take any chances. He told us to go away. He threatened to shoot."

"Who?"

"Nate Warshofsky," the principal says.

"Nate?"

"I called his mother. She's not home. She doesn't have a job, does she? There's not a work number for her, is there?"

"No," Elaine says.

The principal is old. A couple of years ago there was a petition to force her to retire. Elaine fought against it. She thought the principal's age, her kindness and good faith were impressive qualities. She liked the way the principal ran the school, like a family rather than a corporation. The principal is shrinking; she is only about four foot ten. Her silver hair is twisted into a bun; it sits on top of her head like a brioche.

"When did this start?" Elaine asks.

The principal looks at her watch. "Less than an hour ago. I hoped we could handle it ourselves. Over the PA I asked Nate and Sammy to come down to the office. I said we would talk about things. I got no response. I went down the hall and knocked on the door and asked if I could come in. That's when he said, 'Go away, idiot.' I had Mrs. Goldmark, the teacher, try, and he threatened her even more explicitly."

Elaine looks bewildered.

The principal gestures to her breasts. "It's an issue."

Elaine nods.

"And so I called the police," the principal says, as though that's what logically follows.

"Did you offer them anything?" Elaine asks.

"Like what?"

"They're little boys. How about asking if they'd like to come down to the kitchen and have ice cream? I bet that would get them out right away. They both love ice cream."

"The boy is armed, people saw strange lumps under his clothing, he's got your son Sammy in the cloakroom. It's a hostage situation."

"Surely you have ice cream in there somewhere," Elaine says, not letting go.

"Let's not minimize the situation," the principal says.

"The batteries on the bullhorn are dead," the school secretary informs the principal. "But I found this." She waves a cone, like the kind cheerleaders use. She turns to Elaine. "I spoke with your husband; he's on his way." The secretary holds a clipboard filled with class lists, charts, plans, pressed close to her chest.

Elaine overhears the librarian talking to the gym teacher. "Why doesn't someone just march in there and tell him to behave? Hell, I'll do it. He's not going to shoot me," the gym teacher says. "I'll put him over my knees and give him what for-the trouble he's causing."

"The word no means nothing today," the librarian says.

Two more police cars pull up.

"What's the story?" the top cop asks.

The principal defers to the teacher, who apologizes in advance. "I'm a little rattled," Mrs. Goldmark says. "I've never seen a gun before."

Elaine can't help but notice that she's got huge breasts-tits like torpedoes, high and hard, mounted on her chest. Elaine doesn't remember her having a chest like that before. She guesses it's new. You get what you pay for-more for the money.

"It was a perfectly normal day," Mrs. Goldmark says. "They'd just come back from lunch and were settling down-they're always a little wild after recess. I noticed Nate was wearing a longsleeved flannel shirt. 'Aren't you warm?' I asked him. 'No,' he said. 'I'm hot, like I'm on fire, like I'm going to explode.' And then he laughed. 'Well, take a layer off,' I said. Then I turned away and wrote something on the blackboard. Next thing I know, he pulls out a gun, points it at Sammy, and says, 'I'll show you what history is.'" The teacher continues, "Then he grabbed the little girl next to him and kissed her."

"She'd never been kissed before," the school secretary says. "She's with the health aide now."

Elaine is listening to what they are saying, fitting one line into the next like Legos, trying to get it to add up. She stares; Mrs. Goldmark and her torpedo tits look like something out of a James Bond movie-and her roots are coming through, black beneath the blond.

Mrs. Goldmark goes on, "He told us all to get out of the room, and then he led Sammy into the cloakroom. He's definitely got something under his shirt-I don't know what, but there's something there. I instructed the children to remain calm, to collect their things, and to file out into the hall. They ran like maniacs."

"Did he bring anything unusual to school? Was he carrying anything this morning?" the cop asks.

"They all have knapsacks and gym bags," Mrs. Goldmark says, shaking her head. "The ones who go back and forth between parents sometimes come with suitcases."

"What's the status of the school?"

"We're evacuating, I've called for an early dismissal, we've ordered buses and crossing guards, and we've activated the telephone tree to notify parents."

"Which window is the classroom?"

The principal points to one on the first floor. "Four-B, fourth grade, second section."

The cop rubs his head. "I'm not very good with kids. I always say the wrong thing. How old are they?"

"Nine," the principal says.

The cop gets on his radio. "We're going to need backup down here. Find Macmillan and tell him I'll him call from a landline in a couple of minutes. I'm going to need to use your phone," he tells the principal. "I'm gonna call the Bomb Squad, and if I go on the radio with this, every nut-ball in hell will be here in ten minutes." He turns to the younger cop. "Search it,