I Wrote That My Dad Drops Bombs For A Living 2014 The School Evacuated Three Classrooms
Part 2
Blaring sirens echoed relentlessly through the narrow hallways outside the principal’s office.
I could hear hundreds of kids shuffling quickly toward the emergency exits.
Teachers were practically shouting frantic instructions over the deafening electronic alarm.
Every few seconds, a different faculty member would peek through the small glass window of the office door.
They stared at me sitting in the leather chair like I was a highly dangerous wild animal.
No one bothered to explain what was actually happening.
Mr. Cole stood rigidly by the desk, arms crossed tightly over his chest.
His silent partner remained stationed right outside the doorway, physically blocking anyone from entering.
Principal Jenkins was sweating entirely through his light blue button-down shirt.
He grabbed his desk phone with visibly trembling hands.
Dialing a number I knew by heart, he held his breath.
Someone had finally decided to call my dad.
The harsh, authoritative tone Principal Jenkins used made it sound like I had committed an unforgivable atrocity.
He aggressively demanded that my father come down to the elementary school immediately.
There was no mention of a career day assignment.
There was no polite request for a standard parent-teacher conference.
Just a panicked, desperate order to report directly to the administrative office.
I sat there watching three grown adults completely lose their fragile minds.
Wondering if I had made a terrible mistake occupied my thoughts.
Maybe I should have just written that my dad works in a cubicle like everyone else’s boring parents.
At least then I wouldn’t be treated like a prime suspect in an international incident.
An agonizingly long half hour passed in tense silence.
The heavy wooden door eventually clicked open.
My dad walked confidently into the cramped room.
He was completely covered in a fine layer of gray concrete dust from his morning job site.
Heavy steel-toed work boots thudded loudly against the polished tile floor.
I immediately noticed exactly what he was wearing.
The word “DEMOLITION” was printed across the chest of his bright orange high-visibility work shirt.
The giant, reflective yellow letters took up his entire torso.
You would think that extremely obvious piece of clothing would have cleared things up instantly.
Apparently, basic reading comprehension is a difficult skill for highly educated adults.
Stopping dead in the middle of the cramped room, Dad took in the bizarre scene.
His sharp gaze flicked first to the two government suits glaring aggressively back at him.
Then his attention shifted toward Principal Jenkins, who was actively wiping another layer of nervous sweat off his shiny forehead.
Finally, those calloused eyes locked onto me sitting quietly in the corner like a heavily interrogated suspect.
I watched his rugged face cycle through a series of very specific emotions.
Confusion hit his features first.
Deep annoyance followed almost immediately after.
Within three seconds, his expression settled into a look of absolute, undeniable exhaustion.
He did not look like a man who was intimidated by shiny badges or fancy titles.
He simply looked like a man who was incredibly tired of dealing with complete idiots.
Letting out a long, slow breath, he shook his head.
His calloused hands rested casually on his tool belt.
The silence in the room was so thick you could physically choke on it.
How was my dad going to convince these government suits that the biggest explosion of his career was already on the schedule for Saturday morning?
