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

“This is your fault,” she said. “You did this. If we die in here it’s because you locked that door.”

Mrs. Garrison’s mouth opened and closed, but no words came out. She looked around at all of us like she was seeing us for the first time, not as potential cheaters or grade statistics, but as actual human beings who were in danger because of her choices.

She turned and grabbed the classroom phone from the wall, punching in numbers, but the line was dead. It was probably because the fire had damaged the infrastructure.

She slammed the phone down and turned to the windows. “We have to break them,” she said. “It’s the only way to signal for help and get fresh air. The fall won’t kill you if you hang from the ledge and drop. It’s only about 10 feet that way.”

Isaiah grabbed the chair Daniela had been holding earlier and swung it at the window. The glass spiderwebbed but didn’t break.

He swung again and this time the window shattered outward in a shower of glass. Fresh air rushed in and we could hear sirens and people shouting below.

Warren leaned out the broken window and started yelling, waving his arms to get the firefighters’ attention. Students crowded around the windows, trying to breathe the outside air while avoiding the broken glass still stuck in the frame.

Below us in the courtyard people were pointing up at our room now. I could see firefighters turning their hoses toward our building, finally noticing that the fire had spread from the science wing to the humanities building where we were trapped.

But the smoke was getting worse, not better. Even with the window broken, the smoke from the hallway was overwhelming the fresh air.

We were all coughing constantly now and Patricia had passed out in the corner. Two students were dragging her to the window, trying to get her closer to the fresh air.

Mrs. Garrison was helping them, her earlier authority completely gone, replaced by desperate guilt. Through the broken window I could see a fire truck positioning a ladder, but it was moving so slowly.

The hydraulics were raising the ladder foot by foot while smoke poured out of our window. The firefighters were shouting something through megaphones, but I couldn’t understand them over the sound of the fire and the sprinklers and everyone coughing and crying.

Isaiah didn’t wait for the ladder. He cleared the remaining glass from the window frame with his jacket wrapped around his hand, then sat on the ledge with his legs hanging outside.

Mrs. Garrison grabbed his shoulder and tried to pull him back, but he shrugged her off. “I’m not dying in here because you’re worried about liability,” he said. “I’m jumping.”

He turned around so he was facing into the room, holding the window frame with both hands. Then he lowered himself until he was hanging from the ledge by his fingertips, his feet dangling maybe 12 feet above the ground.

He looked up at us one last time, said, “See you on the ground,” and let go.

I watched him fall, his arms windmilling as he tried to control his descent. He hit the wet grass and rolled, and for a horrible second I thought he’d broken something.

But then he stood up, limping but upright, and gave us a thumbs up before security guards rushed over to pull him away from the building. That broke the dam.

Three more students immediately lined up at the window, preparing to follow Isaiah’s lead. Mrs. Garrison tried to stop them, grabbing arms and saying the ladder was almost here, but they ignored her.