Out Of Sight, Out Of Mind - Treebros

Chapter 6: "The Strangest Place"

Friday, October 5th

 Chatter packs the room, not all of it related to the topic Mr. Abdul had given us. Which was to be expected when you give a bunch of teenagers 20 minutes to talk. We had been told to turn to our partners and each think of one event that was regressive for literature and one event that was progressive and explain why.

 "The burning of the Library of Alexandria," Connor says. I nod in agreement, absentmindedly scratching my pencil on my paper. 

 "Definitely, definitely." 

 "Because a bunch of information got burned and destroyed and lost and stuff," he elaborates, chin propped up in the palm of his hand.

 "Yeah," I sigh. World Lit is normally the highlight of my day, but today is one of those days where I feel on edge for no reason. I don't necessarily want to go home. There is nothing waiting for me there. 

 But that didn't mean I have to make Connor to deal with me. It isn't his fault. So I sit for a second, mentally combing through historical tragedies to find a suitable answer.

 "The Holocaust probably," I supply, and Connor nods, clearly more into the discussion than I am. 

 "Because they destroyed all of the books by Jewish people and that had information that they wanted censored?" he asks. I smile tiredly, thankful that he explained it for me. 

 "Exactly," I say, rubbing exhaustion from my eyes. 

 "Okay, and then we say an event that was progressive for literature," Connor says, clearly wanting me to go first.

 "Yep," I answer. Today is not the day for me to be wracking my brain. But he stays silent, waiting for me to say something.

 "So what was an event that was progressive for literature?" I ask, and he rolls his eyes.

 "I just went, it's your turn."

 "I- I hate you. Okay, uh. Maybe... the invention of the printing press?" I answer. Even to me it sounds mediocre, but I'm counting on Connor to just go with it.

 "That doesn't count, because you can say the invention of anything and say that it progressed society and therefore literature," he says, letting me down. 

 "Okay, well then you think of something!" I complain, and he glares at me, unimpressed. I ignore him, choosing instead to stare at my lap and pick at my nails.

 "Um. William Shakespea-" he starts, before being cut off by an awful screeching noise. A red light on the ceiling blinks, and everyone ducks and covers their ears. A monotone automated voice blares from the ceiling

 "Code red. Please lock all doors, turn off all lights, and find shelter."

 Before I even register what's going on, my hand's in my pocket and my phone is off. All trace of my lethargy from earlier is gone.

 "What?" I faintly hear Connor ask. The blood's drained from my face, and I frantically remind myself that it's just a drill. Even though drills never involve this awful alarm and warning. But when I look at Mr. Abdul, he looks just as frightened as the rest of us.

 "Is this a drill?" someone asks, and we all look to Mr. Abdul, praying that he'll tell us that it's not real. 

 "If it is, they didn't tell me," he says, obviously trying to keep his cool for our sake. That doesn't mask the fear in his eyes and uncertainty in his face.

 "Code red. Please lock all doors, turn off all lights, and find shelter."

 The lights get shut off, and I'm holding the edge of my desk with an iron grip.