When the Alarm Rang, Our Teacher Said “Nice Try” and Locked Us In

The fire alarm went off during finals, but our teacher locked the door and said, “Nice try, but nobody’s getting out of this test.” I was halfway through question 17 on my AP chemistry final when the fire alarm started shrieking.

The sound was so loud it made my teeth hurt, and everyone’s head snapped up from their exam papers at exactly the same moment. People started gathering their stuff automatically because we’d done this drill a hundred times before.

The protocol was simple: leave everything except your phone and wallet, line up at the door, and walk to the designated assembly area outside. Mrs. Garrison stood up from her desk at the front of the room and held up both hands like she was stopping traffic.

She didn’t head toward the door or reach for her emergency folder. Instead, she walked over and turned the deadbolt lock with this deliberate click that echoed even over the alarm.

“Nice try, but nobody’s getting out of this test,” she said, her voice cutting through the noise. “Return to your seats immediately. You have 43 minutes remaining.”

I looked around at the other 26 students in the room, and everyone had the same confused expression. My friend Daniela, who sat two rows over, mouthed, “What the hell?” at me while pointing at the door.

The alarm kept screaming and Mrs. Garrison walked back to her desk like nothing unusual was happening. She sat down and started grading papers from another class, completely ignoring the sound that was making it impossible to think.

A kid named Isaiah stood up near the back and said he was pretty sure we had to evacuate during fire alarms. Mrs. Garrison didn’t even look up from her grading.

“Every single year some student thinks they’re clever and pulls the alarm during finals week,” she said. “Last year it was during the AP Biology exam and the year before that it was during pre-calculus.”

“I’ve been teaching for 19 years and I’m not falling for it anymore,” she continued. “You all stay right here and finish your tests.”

The alarm continued for another 30 seconds before cutting off abruptly, leaving this ringing silence in the room. But even without the noise, nobody moved to start working again.

We were all just sitting there looking at each other and at the locked door and at Mrs. Garrison, who was acting like this was completely normal. I could see smoke coming under the door from the hallway, just a thin gray line at first, barely visible against the tile floor.

I thought maybe I was imagining it because my eyes were tired from staring at chemistry equations for an hour. But then Daniela stood up and pointed at it, and once she did, everyone could see it.

The smoke was getting thicker, turning from gray to darker gray, creeping across the floor like fog. “Mrs. Garrison,” Daniela said, her voice getting higher. “There’s smoke. We need to leave right now.”

Mrs. Garrison finally looked up from her papers, squinting at the door like she needed glasses but refused to admit it. She stood and walked over, bending down to look at the smoke, then straightened up and waved her hand dismissively.

“It’s probably from someone vaping in the bathroom,” she said. “You know how the ventilation system pulls air through the hallways. Everyone sit down and get back to work.”

“You’re wasting precious test time with this nonsense,” she added. But the smoke kept coming, and now I could smell something burning, not like paper or wood, but something chemical and sharp that made my throat feel tight.

Isaiah walked toward the door despite Mrs. Garrison’s order, and three other students followed him. They tried the handle, but it didn’t budge because she’d locked it.

Isaiah turned around and said they needed the key. Mrs. Garrison crossed her arms and shook her head.

“You’ll get the key when the test time is up, not one second before,” she said. “I’m not going to let you all cheat by looking up answers on your phones during a fake fire drill. Now sit down.”

That’s when the second alarm started, except this one was different. It wasn’t the fire alarm with its steady wailing; this was the lockdown alarm, the one that meant active threat.

It was the one we drilled for after the shooting at the school three counties over last fall. The sound was this pulsing tone that made my whole body tense up, and a recorded voice came over the intercom.

“Lockdown initiated. This is not a drill,” the voice said. “All teachers secure your classrooms immediately.”

Everyone started talking at once, voices overlapping in confusion and fear. Half the class stood up and moved toward the windows, which were those old-fashioned kind that actually opened.

Mrs. Garrison’s face went from annoyed to confused for just a second. But then she set her jaw and said louder, “Everyone in your seats now! I don’t care what the intercom says, this is clearly students coordinating to disrupt finals. Sit down or you’ll receive a zero on this exam.”

The smoke was now thick enough that the far corner of the room was getting hazy. I could hear something in the hallway, footsteps running and someone yelling, but I couldn’t make out the words through the door.

My phone buzzed in my pocket, which shouldn’t have been possible because we’d all turned them off for the test. I pulled it out and saw 15 missed calls from my mom and a text.

“Big fire at school. Get out now. News says whole building,” it read. I held up my phone to show Mrs. Garrison. “My mom says there’s a real fire. It’s on the news. We need to leave right now!”

She walked over and snatched the phone from my hand, looking at the screen with narrowed eyes. For a moment I thought maybe she’d finally believe us.