Final Breath

'Shit,' she muttered. A few people in nearby seats shushed her. The man and his buddy were frowning and shaking their heads.

Flustered, Erin grabbed her purse and retreated up the aisle toward the lobby. Ignoring the filthy looks from several people seated along the aisle, she pressed the Talk button on her phone. 'Hello?' she whispered, pushing at the door with her shoulder. She stepped into the narrow, dimly lit foyer. The door swung shut behind her.

'Hello?' Erin repeated, louder this time.

She heard a click. Frowning, she checked the caller ID: NUMBER NOT LISTED.

With a sigh, Erin headed into the Harvard Exit Theater's lobby. They showed mostly foreign and independent films. Erin got a waft of popcorn smell as she wandered through the large lobby. It had a fireplace, a grand piano, and worn, antique parlor furnishings that were true to the building's 1920s architecture. The concessions stand was in the far corner, and beyond that, a stairway to the restrooms and another theater on the third floor.

Erin paused at the foot of the stairs. She dialed Molly's number and got her machine again. Erin clicked off. She'd already left three messages. They'd arranged to meet in front of the movie theater tonight. But Molly had never shown.

Molly was one of the most popular girls in Erin's class. She was thin and pretty with gorgeous, long, black hair that was right out of a shampoo commercial. Molly wore designer glasses, and somehow managed to look chic--even in just a sweater and jeans. Molly's stock only went up after what had happened last week. Erin's stock soared, too. Suddenly, she mattered.

The day before yesterday, Molly had asked if she wanted to hang out after school. They went to pick up a new pair of glasses for Molly at this store on Capitol Hill. The glasses had square lenses with tortoiseshell frames, slightly nerdy, very funky. Only someone as popular and pretty as Molly could have worn them without looking like a total dork. While in the optical shop with her new friend, Erin wished she had weak eyes so she could get glasses like Molly Gerrard. Afterward, they had Diet Cokes and shared a plate of cheese fries at the Broadway Grill. Erin ate only seven fries and was still hungry, but it didn't matter. She felt so cool, hanging out with Molly.

Kim was an okay friend. But Molly was queen of the 'A' crowd, and being friends with her put Erin in the 'A' crowd, too. She was devastated Molly hadn't shown up for the movie tonight. Erin wondered if she'd done something wrong. Maybe Molly didn't want to hang out with her and Kim. Kim wasn't 'A' list. But no, that wasn't like Molly; she was nice to everyone.

Erin was still trying to figure out what must have happened when she glanced over toward the lobby and spotted one of the older guys who had been sitting behind her. It was the man's friend, the slim Asian guy. He seemed to be headed for the concessions stand, but his eyes suddenly locked with hers. He passed by the concessions counter and came toward her.

Erin automatically turned and started up the stairs. She wasn't afraid of him; she just didn't feel like hearing another lecture about movie theater etiquette. Halfway up the stairs, Erin figured she could duck into the women's room and avoid him altogether. But the cell phone slipped out of her hand and skipped down a few steps.

The man paused on the landing--in front of a huge old poster for An American in Paris. He retrieved her cell phone, climbed the stairs, and plopped the phone in her hand. 'Well, I know you couldn't live without this now, could you?' he muttered.

Her mouth open, Erin didn't reply.

Brushing past her, the man started up the next flight of stairs--probably to the men's restroom on the third floor. But he paused and glanced back down at her. 'A thank you might have been nice,' he said. 'You know, you're very rude.' Shaking his head, he continued up the stairs.

Erin wanted to say, 'Well, screw you!' But instead, she just retreated into the women's room. It was dimly lit and slightly creepy. The partition housing the two stalls was painted dark green, and the floor was old, chipped black-and-white tile--little hexagons. The old sink had separate faucets for the hot and cold water, and there were rust stains on the porcelain.

Erin could hear people laughing in the smaller theater upstairs. Some comedy from Italy was showing.

She caught herself frowning in the bathroom mirror. She flicked back her auburn hair. That guy who had just called her rude would have been asking for her goddamn autograph if he knew who she was. Obviously, he hadn't seen the newspaper last week. They called her a hero for what she did. A hero.

It had happened last Tuesday in Mr. Gunther's fifth period study hall. Only about half of the students actually studied or did their homework in study hall; the rest napped, doodled, or tried to pass notes to each other. Gunther, a short, wiry, balding, forty-something wannabe-jock, wouldn't let anyone talk while he lorded over the classroom. He was a real hard-ass. He sat at the front of class with his nose buried in the Seattle Times sports section.

Erin was at her desk by the windows in the last row, listlessly paging through her Us Weekly. Gunther was such a Nazi, he'd assigned seats and wouldn't let anyone switch. Erin was stuck with a view of the faculty parking lot on one side and squirrelly Warren Tunny on the other.

Warren sat hunched over his sketchpad. He was always drawing these weird cartoon monsters that looked like a cross between SpongeBob SquarePants and Godzilla. Erin never admitted it, but she found his drawings fascinating--gory, graphic, and oddly funny. No one else appreciated Warren's artwork--except maybe his geek buddies, if he even had any buddies. Erin couldn't see what he was drawing at that moment. His arm and shoulder blocked her view. He was probably protecting his sketch pad. It was new. The previous week, while Warren had been at his locker, one of the guys had grabbed his old sketch pad out of his hands and torn it up in front of him. Erin hadn't seen it happen, but she heard Warren had cried.

The guys were constantly picking on him and the girls made fun of him. Warren was skinny, with a pale, splotchy complexion and ugly, kinky, rust-colored hair that he parted on the side. Some of the guys called him 'Pubes' because of that awful hair. Erin felt sorry for him, but the guy was definitely weird. Warren wore the same green army jacket to school every day--even in warm weather. And he kept it on all day long.

Bored, Erin tried to peek at what Warren was drawing. She still couldn't see the sketch pad. But she noticed something shiny inside Warren's fatigue jacket. It looked like a gun.

Erin gasped.

Warren stopped drawing and stared at her.

Quickly, she turned away and did her best to look bored. With a shaky hand, she flipped through a few pages of her magazine. After a minute, she swallowed hard and stole a glance over at Warren again. He seemed focused on his artwork once more. She could clearly see it now, the gun handle sticking out of his inside coat pocket.

How the hell had he smuggled a gun past the metal detectors?

Biting her lip, she helplessly glanced around the classroom--at the other students and at Gunther up in front. None of them had a clue.

She was the only one who knew Warren Tunny had a gun.

Squirming in her chair, Erin wondered if maybe--just maybe--the gun was a fake. She tried to catch another glimpse of it. Just then, Warren leaned back, and Erin saw his sketchpad--and what he'd been drawing.

It was a very creepy, detailed rendition of a smiling skull, with a caption underneath it: THEY WILL BE SORRY. Then, below that, he'd drawn a circle with a strange, tilted 'V' inside that circle. Below this cryptic image, he'd written in even bigger letters than before, embellished with vines winding around each consonant and vowel: PREPARE TO DIE.

Warren sighed, glanced up at the clock for a moment, and then went back to his drawing.

Erin looked up at the clock, too: 1:05.

She suddenly realized, the tilted 'V' inside the circle was supposed to be the hands of a clock. Her mouth open, she watched Warren draw the clock digits around the inside parameter of that circle--1:10 was the time on the clock in his picture. Just five minutes from now.

Was that when he planned to start shooting?

She could be wrong. Still, she wasn't about to wait until he pulled his gun out to know for sure. Her heart pounded furiously, and she could hardly breathe. She had to do something. Her cell phone was in her purse. Gunther didn't allow people to use them during his study hall, and she couldn't pass anyone a note. Warren was her only neighbor.

Biting her lip, Erin glanced around the classroom again--at all her classmates, looking so bored, so unaware that within minutes there could be screams and blood and chaos. Erin glanced at the clock on the wall again: 1:07. Hunched forward, she took her spiral notebook out of her purse, opened it, and jotted down a few words. She