The Well's End by Seth Fishman

feel sorry for him; coming into Westbrook junior year and trying to find a way through all the unspoken rules must be a nightmare. And considering how he fared last night, he’s probably worried about putting himself out there again. That or he’s sitting near us because of Jo. I always have to keep her in mind when it comes to vagrant boys. She notices him too, grabs my arms and squeezes hard, and suddenly I’m wishing I didn’t look like a burned-out marshmallow.
    â€œWho’s that one?” she whispers to me.
    â€œI met him last night. Didn’t you see him?”
    She smiles knowingly at my tone of voice, and I roll my eyes. How quickly do the worries of the world disappear when there’s a new boy involved?
    â€œWhat’s his name?”
    I shrug. “I don’t know . . .”
    Rob leans over me and whispers to the new kid. “Hey, newbie, what’s your name?”
    I try to sink into my chair to distance myself from Rob, but the new kid glances at me anyway, a hint of a frown on his face, causing the scar on his chin to flare white again.
    â€œBrayden,” he says, giving a small wave that jiggles the yellow band on his wrist. “I’m Brayden.”
    â€œCool,” Rob says, and then leans back in his seat, not offering his name or ours. He tugs his sideburn again and leaves it to us. Typical Rob.
    â€¢Â â€¢Â â€¢
    Just then, a door near the front of the stage opens, and out come the professors. All of them. The procession is odd, like we’re in some sort of dictatorial regime, because they seem to march to preappointed spots around the room. Mr. Banner is there; he takes a place at the end of our aisle and shoots Jo a smile and a wink.
    Dean Griffin steps onto the stage and in front of the podium, a single piece of wood with the school’s emblem, a mountain lion, carved into its face. We at Westbrook are fond of carving things from single pieces of wood.
    The dean taps the microphone, sending feedback through the speakers, and my head reacts like a tuning fork just went off in my ear. I squeeze my eyes shut, and when they open, the place is still. It’s the gravity in his voice that gets my attention.
    â€œStudents of Westbrook, for the moment, we are not fully apprised as to why we were asked to sound the siren.”
    Jo’s forehead wrinkles and she looks at her father, who shrugs, clearly thinking his natural gas story had been true. There’s a release of breath in the room; now that there’s nothing to be reported, everyone can stop caring. As if to emphasize the point, Eric, the guy who mooned me in the pool, raises his arms and goes, “Wooo hooo!” and everyone laughs, but the dean shouts so loud spittle flies from his mouth and past the podium, almost to me.
    â€œSILENCE!”
    The place settles, curious more than scared. But there’s a growing tension here—it’s palpable—and a good chunk of the student body feels it.
    â€œSilence, I say,” he continues. “You don’t seem to understand the severity of the situation. I wonder about the merits of full disclosure, but I’ll not have your parents assuming we did anything but. We have been, for reasons currently unknown to me and the faculty, ordered by the military to shut down campus activity and classes. I have no news from Fenton, and am not entirely sure whether they are under the same restrictions we are, but I have been informed by several faculty members that our phones and internets are down.” There are some snickers at his obvious lack of modern web understanding, and the dean pauses long enough for them to settle. I imagine him thinking,
Maybe it’s just as well. Let them think there’s nothing wrong; this might be easier.
He steels himself for what must be the really bad news. “This means that, for the time being, no one is to leave the school grounds and we are to place ourselves in