sun.
“Something weird is happening outside,” said Trevor from the back of the classroom. He’d been playing with a metal compass but now dropped it on his desk with a clink. “Something really weird.”
“If you have something to say, Trevor, please raise your hand,” said Mrs. Pinsky. She was preparing the rest of our lesson on a transparency. A cooler breeze had begun to blow. I could hear the squeak of her pen on the plastic, the hum of the projector’s fan. She preferred the old technology over the computers that all the other teachers were using by then.
“Holy crap,” said Adam Jacobson, whose desk was closest to the windows. “Holy shit.”
“Adam, watch your language,” said Mrs. Pinsky.
We could hear voices rising in the neighboring classrooms too.
“Come look,” said Adam. “It’s getting dark.”
The windows were on one side of the classroom, and we all rushed to that side like objects sliding across the deck of a listing ship. I couldn’t see much over the heads of the taller kids, but I sensed the changing light. A strange gloom was moving in like a storm, but this was no storm. The sky was cloudless. The sky was clear.
The rest happened quickly—thirty seconds.
“Return to your seats,” said Mrs. Pinsky. But no one did. “I said return to your seats.”
She stepped outside to see for herself what was happening. Back in the classroom, she snapped into emergency mode. “Okay,” she said. “Okay. Stay calm. Everyone just stay calm.”
She grabbed the whistle and the bull horn, the master keys and the walkie-talkie. These were the supplies for fire drills and earthquake drills and drills to practice what to do if a shooter started shooting at our school.
All the colors of the spectrum had collapsed to a few dusky grays. There was a paleness in the classroom. That light was the light of the last small moments of a day, the thin wedge of time just after the sun has set but just before you reach for a lamp. A sudden sunset at high speed. It was 1:23 in the afternoon.
Kids began to leak out of classrooms, a trickle at first, then a flood.
Someone grabbed my wrist. I looked up. I was shocked to see that it was Seth, his sharp features even more lovely in the halflight.
“Come on,” he said. His palm on my wrist felt electric. Even then I noticed it, the sweaty warmth of his hand on my arm.
We burst outside together.
“Come back here,” said Mrs. Pinsky, but no one was listening. She said it again, this time shouting it through the bullhorn. Not a single kid turned her way. We were running in every direction, most of us rushing up the grassy hill behind campus.
Within a few seconds, it was as dark as dusk outside and growing darker. The sky turned a brackish evening blue. An orange glow ringed the whole horizon.
Seth and I threw ourselves on the grass, sensing it was safer to lie low.
“This might be it,” he said. I thought I heard a thrill in his voice.
All around us, kids were screaming. I heard someone sobbing in the dark. Camera phones were clicking and flickering in the blackness. We could see the stars in the sky.
On the road beside campus, dozens of cars were stopped. Drivers stood in the streets, car doors flung open like wings, headlights flipped on in the dark. Every eye was on the sky. A cool night wind was blowing across the grass.
At the bottom of the hill, Mr. Jensen was yelling from the doorway of the science lab. He was waving his hand. I could not hear him over the screams of the crowd, but I could see that he was frantic. If even Mr. Jensen was panicked, what chance was there for the rest of us to stay calm?
Seth reached for my hand, our fingers interlaced. I’d never held hands with a boy this way. I almost couldn’t breathe.
My cell phone buzzed in my pocket. I hoped it might be Hanna, but when I saw that it was my mother, I ignored it.
“What if this is how we die?” whispered Seth. He sounded serious. He did not seem afraid.
We all grew
“Something weird is happening outside,” said Trevor from the back of the classroom. He’d been playing with a metal compass but now dropped it on his desk with a clink. “Something really weird.”
“If you have something to say, Trevor, please raise your hand,” said Mrs. Pinsky. She was preparing the rest of our lesson on a transparency. A cooler breeze had begun to blow. I could hear the squeak of her pen on the plastic, the hum of the projector’s fan. She preferred the old technology over the computers that all the other teachers were using by then.
“Holy crap,” said Adam Jacobson, whose desk was closest to the windows. “Holy shit.”
“Adam, watch your language,” said Mrs. Pinsky.
We could hear voices rising in the neighboring classrooms too.
“Come look,” said Adam. “It’s getting dark.”
The windows were on one side of the classroom, and we all rushed to that side like objects sliding across the deck of a listing ship. I couldn’t see much over the heads of the taller kids, but I sensed the changing light. A strange gloom was moving in like a storm, but this was no storm. The sky was cloudless. The sky was clear.
The rest happened quickly—thirty seconds.
“Return to your seats,” said Mrs. Pinsky. But no one did. “I said return to your seats.”
She stepped outside to see for herself what was happening. Back in the classroom, she snapped into emergency mode. “Okay,” she said. “Okay. Stay calm. Everyone just stay calm.”
She grabbed the whistle and the bull horn, the master keys and the walkie-talkie. These were the supplies for fire drills and earthquake drills and drills to practice what to do if a shooter started shooting at our school.
All the colors of the spectrum had collapsed to a few dusky grays. There was a paleness in the classroom. That light was the light of the last small moments of a day, the thin wedge of time just after the sun has set but just before you reach for a lamp. A sudden sunset at high speed. It was 1:23 in the afternoon.
Kids began to leak out of classrooms, a trickle at first, then a flood.
Someone grabbed my wrist. I looked up. I was shocked to see that it was Seth, his sharp features even more lovely in the halflight.
“Come on,” he said. His palm on my wrist felt electric. Even then I noticed it, the sweaty warmth of his hand on my arm.
We burst outside together.
“Come back here,” said Mrs. Pinsky, but no one was listening. She said it again, this time shouting it through the bullhorn. Not a single kid turned her way. We were running in every direction, most of us rushing up the grassy hill behind campus.
Within a few seconds, it was as dark as dusk outside and growing darker. The sky turned a brackish evening blue. An orange glow ringed the whole horizon.
Seth and I threw ourselves on the grass, sensing it was safer to lie low.
“This might be it,” he said. I thought I heard a thrill in his voice.
All around us, kids were screaming. I heard someone sobbing in the dark. Camera phones were clicking and flickering in the blackness. We could see the stars in the sky.
On the road beside campus, dozens of cars were stopped. Drivers stood in the streets, car doors flung open like wings, headlights flipped on in the dark. Every eye was on the sky. A cool night wind was blowing across the grass.
At the bottom of the hill, Mr. Jensen was yelling from the doorway of the science lab. He was waving his hand. I could not hear him over the screams of the crowd, but I could see that he was frantic. If even Mr. Jensen was panicked, what chance was there for the rest of us to stay calm?
Seth reached for my hand, our fingers interlaced. I’d never held hands with a boy this way. I almost couldn’t breathe.
My cell phone buzzed in my pocket. I hoped it might be Hanna, but when I saw that it was my mother, I ignored it.
“What if this is how we die?” whispered Seth. He sounded serious. He did not seem afraid.
We all grew
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