The rabbit is loose!

I wrongly assumed a case of lice would be the worst of our day. A few times a year, my school invites white coated nurses into our school to carefully comb through every student’s hair—braided, curly, buzzed, or knotty, no coif avoids the nit-picking sessions. The kids love the process, and drool a little as the women comb through their hair inch by inch. Yesterday, upon hearing from a parent volunteer that the Licenders were speedier than usual, my class squeezed into an earlier time slot and I was hopeful that we could quickly filter in, filter out, unscathed by eggs, nits, or creepy-crawlers.

The kids who had been checked and cleared stood along the wall, chatting noisily with each other while I made small talk with some of the parents. I knew their volume was rising and that I should probably dampen the racket with a threat of no choice time, when all of a sudden two teachers burst through their classroom doors. Oh boy, I’m in trouble, I thought, assuming my animated, loud third graders had disrupted the teaching going on around us.

“Bring all the students in here. Now! Get them all into my room!” one of the teachers exclaimed. “The rabbit is out of its cage. Get all the students inside! The rabbit is out of its cage.”

I started looking around my feet and down the hallway. “Did one of them lose their class pet,” I wondered. Not having much time to think clearly, I herded my kids standing against the wall and those in the middle of being checked for lice, and corralled them inside the teacher’s classroom. Luckily her own students were in music at the time so the small room accommodated all of us just fine--the kids, nurse, parents, and nearby teachers. You know, just the normal reaction to a free wielding animal! My kids encircled me, asking whose pet escaped, what color rabbit it was, and why we had to lock ourselves in Ms. Thompson’s classroom if it was just a little rabbit. Good points all around!

“Don’t worry, the school just takes this type of thing very seriously. We’re fine, we’re fine. Think of this as a little, unexpected free time. Enjoy yourselves!” I didn’t know what else to say, since I was just as confused by the drastic measures being taken to protect us from a furry friend. But I shrugged and smiled, doing my best to remain somewhat in control during this lice-gone-wrong moment.

I turned to Ms. Thompson and asked, “What’s going on? How did you know a rabbit got loose?”

“The assistant principal got on the loudspeaker and said, ‘Attention teachers and students: The rabbit is loose. I repeat, the rabbit is loose.’ You know what that means, right?”

“That there’s a rabbit loose?”

“No! It’s our school code for ‘a dangerous person is in our school!’ An unidentified person in the building and could be dangerous. You’re so funny! You thought there was an actual rabbit?”

Yes, obviously I did. Call me literal. “Oh, wow! So someone is loose? Are we safe in here?” I worried.

“I hope so!” she said.

I gazed at my innocent, playful children skipping around the room, hovering around picture books, and whispering secrets in each other’s ears. The weight of my responsibility to protect and care for these children blanketed my own anxiety about the ‘loose rabbit’ and I knew that whatever happened, I was there for them. However, why our school has such a bizarre code for such a serious crisis was beyond me.

“Let’s sit in a circle and play a game,” I said, congregating the twenty-five eight year olds. “Let’s play Follow the Leader.” Shrieks of joy rang through the room, and they squeezed into the tight ring of bodies, hoping to find a spot next to their current BFF. As soon as the game was about to start, a voice boomed through the loudspeaker on the wall.

“Attention teachers and students. Sorry for this second interruption, but I’m happy to announce that the rabbit is safely tucked inside its cozy little cage. I repeat, the rabbit is back in its cage. Thank you for your patience.”

My students let out an audible, collective sigh, relieved the class pet was out of harm’s way but disappointed their impromptu fun time was now over. They arranged themselves in two neat rows, Ms. Thompson unlocked the door, and we thanked her for letting us wait in her room while the search and rescue commenced outside. “I’m so happy the bunny’s alright,” one of my little friends confessed.

“Me too!” I said, and I gave her a little hug. The kids instantly divided and assembled themselves into their pre-checked, being-checked, and post-checked groups. Many of them shared how relieved they were that the tiny pet was resting comfortably in its cage, and I was relieved that my tiny peeps were comfortably at ease back in the hallways of our questionably safe building.

As soon as the nurses and kiddies and parents were back into the smooth swing of licending, Ms. Thompson tugged at my arm and pulled me aside. “Guess what I just heard? Turns out the rabbit was a Mystery Reader!"

"What?!"

"He was in the boy’s bathroom, wearing a cape and a mask, when a boy came into the bathroom and screamed, ran down to the main office, and yelled that a strange man in a mask was using the bathroom! Can you believe it? A parent,” she shook her head and laughed. “Better safe than sorry, I guess.”

So, our unidentified and dangerous stranger was a parent in disguise. Bad move using the boy’s bathroom, and an even worse move telling the boy not to say anything! But apparently, even the most well-intentioned masked avenger can shut an entire elementary school down for half an hour.

When all was combed and done, the children were deloused and only mildly distressed. What started as a quick trip to the first floor nurse’s station, turned into a would-be terror threat. I learned our school code for ‘Save yourselves!’ and I think the kids learned a lot, too—the next time they hear a wooly bunny has escaped from its cage, the best thing to do is lock themselves in the nearest room, stay calm, and wait until the coast is clear. That shouldn’t require too much therapy!