My Burning School

Mostly, anyway.

It was first period, English, and our teacher was guzzling down several bottles of unspecified alcohol. With her cheeks unnaturally ruddy and gasping laughter tumbling out of her mouth, she attempted to tell us what our “incre-incre-AHAHAHAHAHA! difficult” midterm would cover. I was thoroughly absorbed in saving a failing pen, wildly ripping up papers and the students around me with the strangely sharp tip, hoping that the large amounts of ink still left would get flowing.

Suddenly, there was a loud alarm – the fire drill. At least, we thought it was a drill, but the insane laughter of our teacher quickly told us that it was, in fact, not. Whispering in excitement, we skipped out of the classroom, visions of hated teachers, despised textbooks, and generally the whole building going up in flames filling our minds. I gathered up the novel I was reading, a few favorite pens, a short story I was halfway done writing, and a sticker, before finally heading outside.

So, let me just say, it was freezing. Not literally, of course. It was WAY below freezing, about 18 degrees – although, in my measly sweatshirt and jeans, it felt more like -18 degrees. For fifteen minutes, I screamed at the bitingly cold air as I leaped up and down, trying to get the blood flowing, but it was only sliding about in my veins as little pink blocks.

“Calm downnnnn, childrennnn…AHAHAHAHA!” our teacher squealed. “The fi-fi-fire is com-com-coming…AHAHAHAHA!”

When the dreaded fifteen minutes were over, my shivers allowed my thoroughly frostbitten body to tumble back inside, where the warmth washed over me like a gallon of alcohol. Er, hot chocolate. My English teacher is getting to me.

Sighing collectively with relief, my class plopped its collective selves into its collective seats, and sighed collectively with relief one collective more time. Collectively, of course. Our teacher began sobbing, saying she wished she hadn’t di-di-died…AHAHAHAHA!

Just then, there was announcement. A tremulous voice declared, “A-attention students! There was an e-e-e-rror! You’re – you’re not supp-pp-pp-osed to go inside! The fire r-r-ages on!”

Groaning and screaming, shrieking and laughing, we leaped out of the windows and landed in what appeared to be soft blankets of snow.

They weren’t.

They were hard spikes of ice.

Our teacher still AHAHAHAHA’d at that.

Once everything was said and done, and we waddled back inside, frozen in our little cubes, the fire trucks finally arrived.

Naturally, everything was a false alarm.