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

One after another they dropped from the window, some landing better than others. A girl named Kesha landed hard on her ankle and had to be carried away by two firefighters.

Warren made it down without injury and immediately started helping the firefighters position their ladder toward our window. The ladder finally reached our window after seven students had already jumped.

A firefighter in full gear climbed up and poked his head through the broken frame, his breathing apparatus making him look alien. He assessed the situation, saw the smoke filled room and the remaining students, and started barking orders.

“One at a time onto the ladder!” the firefighter said. “Fastest way down is going to be me carrying the smaller students! Anyone who can climb on their own, go now!”

Daniela went first, climbing down the ladder with shaking hands while the firefighters stayed at the top to help. Behind her, a steady stream of students descended, some on their own, others being carried by firefighters who climbed up just to bring them down.

Patricia was still unconscious and it took two firefighters to get her onto a stretcher and lower her down the ladder. I was near the back of the line waiting my turn while the smoke got thicker.

The sprinklers had finally stopped, probably because the water main had been damaged by the fire. Without the water the heat in the room was becoming unbearable.

The wall that separated us from the burning hallway was hot to the touch, and I could see the paint bubbling. There were six of us left in the room when the wall caught fire—not slowly, but all at once, like someone had flipped a switch.

Flames erupted from the drywall, spreading across the classroom ceiling in seconds. The firefighter at the window grabbed the nearest student and literally threw them onto the ladder, then reached for the next person.

I was third in line and I could feel the heat on my back as the fire spread behind me. The ceiling tiles were dripping burning material and the posters on the walls curled and blackened.

Mrs. Garrison was last. She pushed the student in front of me toward the window and shouted at the firefighter to take them first.

I was right at the window frame, ready to climb onto the ladder, when I heard her scream. I turned around and saw that her jacket had caught fire from a falling ceiling tile.

She was slapping at it, trying to put it out, but the flames were spreading across her back. The firefighter reached past me and grabbed her, pulling her toward the window.

But she fought him, trying to push him away because she thought he should save me first. He ignored her protests and dragged her to the window, shoving her onto the ladder where another firefighter was waiting.

They descended quickly, leaving me alone in the burning room. The heat was incredible now, like standing inside an oven.

My hair felt like it was about to catch fire and I couldn’t see more than a foot in front of me through the smoke. The firefighter appeared back at the window, silhouetted by the light from outside, and reached for me.

I grabbed his hand and he pulled me through the window frame so hard I felt my ribs compress. He turned me around and put me on the ladder, then climbed down behind me with one hand on my back to keep me from falling.

The descent took maybe 20 seconds, but it felt like forever. My hands were shaking so badly I could barely hold the rungs, and twice I missed my footing and almost fell before the firefighter caught me.

When my feet finally hit the ground, my legs gave out and I collapsed onto the grass. Paramedics were everywhere, putting oxygen masks on students and checking for injuries.

I could see Mrs. Garrison being loaded into an ambulance, her jacket still smoking. The burn on her back looked bad, but she was conscious and talking to the paramedics.

Around me students were crying or sitting in shock or calling their parents. The fire had spread through most of the humanities building now and firefighters had given up on saving the structure.

They were just trying to keep it from spreading to other buildings. I watched the window we’d escaped from get swallowed by flames, and the entire third floor collapsed inward with a sound like thunder.

If we’d waited even two more minutes, none of us would have made it out. Daniela found me sitting on the grass and dropped down next to me, pulling me into a hug.

We just sat there shaking and breathing and being alive. Around us the chaos continued: fire trucks and ambulances and news crews setting up cameras.

A reporter tried to shove a microphone in my face, asking what it was like being trapped in there, but a firefighter physically moved her away before I could answer. My mom arrived 30 minutes later, running across the courtyard and crying so hard she couldn’t speak.

She just grabbed me and held on, checking me over for injuries like I was five years old instead of 17. My dad showed up right behind her and he was crying too, which I’d never seen before in my entire life.

They took me to the hospital even though I said I was fine. The doctor said I had smoke inhalation and needed to stay overnight for observation.

They put me in a room with Daniela and Warren, and we just watched the news coverage in silence. The fire had started in a chemistry lab where a student was working on an experiment without supervision.

A reaction had gone wrong, causing an explosion that ignited chemicals and quickly spread to the rest of the science wing. The fire department estimated that the flames had spread to the humanities building within six minutes of the initial explosion.

They showed aerial footage of the damage and I counted five buildings that had been partially or completely destroyed. The death toll was being updated constantly and every time they added a number, my stomach dropped.

The reporter said that one teacher and three students were still unaccounted for. I wondered if they’d been in rooms like ours, trapped by circumstances or bad decisions.

The next morning, a different reporter did a whole segment about Mrs. Garrison. They’d interviewed students who’d escaped and the story had gotten out about her locking the door during the fire alarm.