The morning of the school shooting started like any other.

I jumped into a loaded elevator in the art building at 9:30 a.m., scrambling to make it to my two-dimensional art tutorial. I was in the middle of cutting out a flamingo when a boy across from me said something.

I couldn’t hear it over the music blaring in my ear. Then everyone in the classroom started babbling. I looked up. People’s mouths were hanging open. Everyone looked shocked. I pulled an ear bud out.

“I’m sorry, what did you say?” I asked.

“There was a shooting on campus,” he said. His words were surreal paired with the upbeat folk music in my ear.

“These are the days I wish I brought my Taser to class,” a girl across the table said. She wore a taught bun on the top of her head and she remained intently focused on her precision cutting.

Art deco Jennifer Aniston stood up and shut the door. “The door only locks from the outside so…”

A boy spoke up. “Should we barricade it?”

Nobody stopped talking. Rumors started flying.

“They say there are two shooters.”

“A hostage too.”

“Now it’s in Adams.”

“Two are dead.”

The door flings open. We all jump. It's a boy returning from a bathroom visit. “Did you guys hear about the shooting?” he asked frantically.

We all laughed, nervous and relieved and annoyed. We stayed in lockdown in the art room for two hours. Morbid conversation eventually gave way to humor and small talk. We rearranged our collages over and over again.

“People are dying and we’re cutting out scraps of paper. What is life?” one kid said.

Eventually, a tall woman with a Russian accent flung open our door. “All is clear. Stay away from Gould, but you can leave.”

I walked out of the art building. I was surprised by the amount of people milling around. Instead of avoiding eye contact with fellow students on the sidewalk, everyone was clumping together like oatmeal. People were clinging to anyone remotely familiar. I was in this flurry when I notice the sound of heavy steps behind me. In the corner of my eye, I saw a trench coat. I tense up a little since trench coats are notoriously linked to streakers, shooters and generally nefarious behavior. I turn around to check my back a little too skittishly. It was just a guy wearing a heavy coat. He chuckled at my frenzied double take.

“A little jumpy?” he asked.

“Yeah, sorry. I thought you were a felon.”

He laughed. “I’m glad I’m not.”

“Do you know what’s going on?”

“Last I heard, they think the whole thing was a false alarm. Construction equipment backfired and sounded like gun shots.”

“Are you serious?” I asked. “I just got set free from lockdown. My whole family is panicked. My mom’s in Baltimore and it’s all over the news, there. If it’s fake, the whole country is going to think we’re idiots.”

“Well it’s better that than the alternative.” We reached the end of the sidewalk. “Have a good day and stay safe,” he said.

Yeah. You, too.”

Trench Coat turned out to be my sagacious guide through the roller coaster of emotions that day. I was so relieved that none of the rumors were true. But I was also embarrassed that our false alarm went national. And then I was happy. The transformation of the OU community before and after the shooting was tangible, campus wide. Before the lockdown, everyone stayed as isolated as possible. The more engaged we were with our phones, the better. Afterwards, everyone pulled together. This is not an unusual phenomenon in the face of adversity, but it was cool to see it unfold, firsthand.

Trench Coat was right. I’d rather have 1,000 false alarms rather than the alternative. Even though it caused utter chaos, I’m glad for it. We got the opportunity to band together as a school.