The lights in room 138 were more blinding and obnoxious than the lights in any other room. Something about their greenish fluorescence at 8 a.m. irritated me more than it should have. The teacher at the front—a thin, tall man, whose nervous eyes and awkward presence made it evident he’d done nothing but study for the past thirty-five years—seemed just as uninterested in his own lesson as the entire class was. The boy next to me had drawn about thirty frogs of various shapes and sizes in the margin of his illegible notes. The girl on my other side was copying chemistry formulas onto her leg, hidden by her skirt for the test next period. A boy across the room sat slouched way down in his chair, his pile of dark curly hair covering his disengaged expression. He raised his hand and made some comment—“hadn’t the Romans already invaded there?”—or something along those lines; truthfully, I wasn’t sure what century we were in. The teacher droned on in the same monotonous tone, pulling the energy of the room closer and closer to sleep. As I watched the industrial lighting reflect off the ancient flooring, my eyelids inevitably began to droop. 

Just as I began to consider taking notes, or attempting to follow whatever story this man was trying to tell, a deafening boom echoed through the hall. The class went silent. The slouching boy bolted upward, staring with wide eyes at the door not two feet away from him. The sounds of panicked breathing and pounding hearts slowly filled the room. No one dared to move; to break the suspense; to end what was possibly our blissful ignorance to whatever terror awaited outside that door. With tears coming to my eyes and an unsteady breath that I struggled to silence, I pressed the heels of my hands into my eyes, hoping I’d disappear. I felt the gazes of others shoot across the room, desperate to make eye contact, to convey their fear to one another.

Moments passed, but they dragged on like hours. After an eternity, the speaker bolted to the corner of the ceiling crackled to life and a voice filled the room, the stress in it palpable. “Attention please, a pipe has burst in the girls bathroom in the 100s wing… uh, students and faculty in that wing, please move to the gymnasium, and uh, all students avoid that area when switching classes. Thank you.” 

The silence returned. Several moments passed before the room filled with the sounds of chairs squeaking away from their desks and students shuffling into the hall. My hands slowly unclenched and moved from my eyes to grip either side of my head. I inhaled deeply, as if I hadn’t for hours, sucking the stale air into my lungs and reminding myself I was still there. The lights in the room were off now, framing the scene of the hallway in a dreamlike darkness. I watched as a hundred students shuffled past, all silent. Everyone had the same thought, said the same prayer, imagined the same alternate reality.