Free This Is Not a Drill by Beck McDowell Page A

listen to me. What are you talking about?” I shout above his crying until he finally hears me.
    “I found them. They’re mine.”
    “You found them where?”
    “Outside.”
    “You brought them in from outside? When?”
    “This morning before school.”
    “How did you bring them in?”
    “In my lunch box.”
    I look at the trail of ants. It definitely leads to the cubbies in back where the kids’ lunches and coats are stored.
    “Why would you do that?” I ask.
    “Joey Hopper has an ant farm and I didn’t never have one.”
    I let go of Lewis long enough to follow the ant line, which ends at a Spider-Man lunch box. I lift it gingerly by the handle and lay it on the table. When I unlatch the lid and open it, there’s a little pile of dirt, several clumps of grass, and an awful lot of ants—who are pretty disturbed about the sudden change of habitat. I slam the lid on the angry insects.
    “Oh, Lewis, you shouldn’t have done that. Did you get bitten, sweetie?”
    He holds up his hand and shows me several small bites on his fingers. “Just a little. But it’s okay. They didn’t know I was trying to save ’em.”
    “Where is your lunch?”
    “My mom gave me money to buy it. I just brought my lunch box for the ants.”
    “Get that thing out of here,” Stutts growls, impatient with the whole mess. “Get rid of it.”
    I look up helplessly.
    “Throw it out the window,” he orders.
    “No, no, no.” Lewis sets up a howl. “Don’t throw my ants out the window!”
    “Here.” Jake picks up a big plastic storage tub from a shelf and pops the lid off. He dumps some blocks out and throws the lunch box—dirt and grass and all—into the empty bin.
    “But what about them ants that got out?” Lewis yells, pointing to the floor.
    “We’ll get them. Don’t worry.” I grab a couple of sheets of paper and begin scooping the ants up with them. The irony is not lost on me—that I’m suddenly expending all kinds of energy saving a bunch of ants when a few minutes ago I was worried about children getting killed. You do what you have to do.
    I toss the papers into the plastic bin with the rest of the ant paraphernalia.
    “But how are they gonna breathe in there?” Lewis whines.
    “There’s plenty of air inside the bin,” Jake tells him with a look that dares him to complain. Lewis takes the hint and pipes down.
    Then Mason starts up again. “He hit my lip. He made my teeth hurt.”
    “There’s no blood, Mason. You’re fine,” I tell him. Several other kids chime in with their versions of the fight.
    “These kids are driving me crazy,” Stutts yells. I can tell he’s about to go ballistic over the noise and chaos.
    Suddenly I clap out a rhythm—just like I’ve heard Mrs. Campbell do. Magically, the kids respond immediately, stopping all noise and clapping back a matching pattern. Mrs. C. does it to keep from yelling over the noise to get their attention, and they love it. Some patterns are simple and others more complex, but she changes them up so they have to listen to repeat them. Several of them look up at me, smiling, and I’m glad I’ve given them something familiar to hang on to.
    “Reading time, everyone,” I tell them, changing gears after a few minutes. Their attention spans are so short. “Everyone move back to the reading corner.”
    “Will you read
Giraffes Can’t Dance
?” Janita asks.
    “No, read
Strega Nona
,” Alicia says.
    “Whoever’s quietest gets to pick the book,” I tell them, herding them back to the carpeted corner lined with bookshelves. I get them seated and start passing out books. Jake takes one to Patrick. “Everyone can just look at the books for a bit, and then I’ll read one to you,” I say.
    Lewis is lying on the floor under a nearby desk, but I decide to pick my battles, so I leave him there.
    “I want
Interrupting Chicken
,” Nick says, throwing down the book I’ve handed him.
    “Nick, it doesn’t matter which one you get right now,” I