Free Breathe for Me by Rhonda Helms

better job studying, especially since this is just the beginning of the school year. This isn’t going to cut it.”
    I force myself to focus on his words for the rest of the period. When the bell rings, I gather my stuff and head toward the door.
    â€œIsabel, I need to speak to you,” Mr. Morris says.
    I turn around and go to his desk, forcing my eyes to stare at the massive piles of paper spilling all over. It makes me uncomfortable to look at his face because all I can see are the numbers hovering above his head, their unsteady descent getting faster and faster as the days go on.
    â€œThis was not your best work,” he tells me, his tone thick with disapproval. “I’m not pleased.”
    I dare a glance at him. Mr. Morris shakes his head at me. His lips are pinched. He swallows.
    â€œI’m sorry.” I hope my words will appease him. “I’ll do better next time.”
    â€œYou’d—” He stops and coughs lightly, pressing a hand to his chest. “You’d better. Because it’s all too easy to drop grades in here.” His brows furrow, and he draws in a shaky breath.
    â€œAre you okay?”
    He nods his head. “Fine. Anyway…” He pauses, and an intense flash of pain etches across his face. He grips his chest and groans for several long seconds, slumping back in his chair. His eyes flutter shut.
    â€œOh, my God!” I cry out, reaching for him and shaking his shoulder. “Mr. Morris, wake up!”
    He doesn’t respond. His chest appears to not be moving up and down, and the numbers above his head have rapidly increased their race toward zero.
    My heart is pounding hard, and I grip my hands together. What do I do? I can’t give him mouth-to-mouth because it’ll instantly kill him. I can’t even lean close or try to hear if he’s breathing, in case I accidentally brush up against him and burn his skin. There’s nothing I can do to save him myself.
    â€œI’ll be right back!” I yell, hoping he can hear me, then dart out of the room. The hallway is empty by now, so I run to the class on the right of ours and fling its door open.
    The teacher, a middle-aged woman in a dark blue pantsuit, jerks when the door whips wide open, shocked at the intrusion. She glares at me, her wrinkled brow even more lined from her aggravation. “ What is going—”
    â€œI think Mr. Morris is having a heart attack,” I spill out, “and I’m not sure if he’s breathing or not.”
    The teacher runs toward the door and follows me into Mr. Morris’s classroom, the rest of the class hot on her heels. She gasps when she sees him, presses her ear against his mouth for a few moments. “He’s not breathing.” She rips the tie off his neck and proceeds to give him mouth-to-mouth.
    Another teacher enters the room, shoving the students out and shushing them. He grabs his cell out of his pocket and dials, his voice steady as he relays information to the 911 operator. I turn my attention back to Mr. Morris, whose face is eerily pale and still as the teacher tries to force air into his unresponsive lungs.
    â€œYou need to leave,” the male teacher tells all of us. “We’ll handle this.”
    â€œBut I just want to make sure he’s okay,” I say. Even if I can’t help him, I need to make sure he’s going to live.
    â€œWe’ll handle it. Students, go to your next class, please.” He waves toward the door.
    With a heavy heart, I shuffle my way out of the room. The image of Mr. Morris’s lifeless face is burned into my mind. I press my gloved hand to my mouth, my stomach suddenly heaving. I have to leave this place, now. On shaky feet, I run toward the front door and head into the hot sunlight, leaving the school behind.

    Several hours later, a hard pounding on my front door wakes me from my bed. The room is dark—it was still light out when I fell asleep.