(Our class was discussing Hemingway's Short Happy Life of Francis Macomber. Michelle Cooper was passionately criticizing the blatant misogyny of Hemingway when the announcement began, so I don't remember just how it started; Michelle, for whom discussion was a matter of waiting for the other person to concede that she was right, finished her point, realized no one was listening, and then finished with a surly, “Whatever.” After a moment, though, she grasped the dire gravity in the tenor of the principal, Mrs. McGullen; she understood it, could acknowledge that this was not some insipid notification, and immediately conveyed her remorse and humility with a set of downcast eyes. Yes, she apprehended it. Immediately. I did not. In hindsight, the principal’s voice now shoots ripples of goosebumps throughout my body; at the time, however, I thought it an operatic performance. Yes, a performance. Because that's how I thought of high schooclass="underline" a series of performances by students and teachers, by an authority figure with a job title that finds its root in the honorific bestowed upon Caesar and Octavian. So nothing was serious; it could not be anything more than a scene in the jejune melodrama of suburbia. And I was wrong. The bell rang shortly after the principal had everyone's attention, and most of the students in the classroom lost interest. She continued, though. At the time I was more concerned with making a Something About Mary reference, as Frankie, one of two friends in the class, had managed to get one of his folders stuck in the zipper of his bag. The two of us were met by Allison, the other person in the class I would have considered a friend at the time. I continued to make light of the situation as the three of us made our way toward the door. “Why does it matter? The World Trade Center's been hit by plane. It's a tragedy, sure, but it was just a fucking accident.” A severe look from the teacher. “Sorry, Mr. Heth.” “Accident? Why do you think it was an accident?” “It happens. I mean, the Empire State Building was hit by plane in the thirties…maybe forties.” “You're such a fucking know-it-all.” “Whatever Allie; I just don't see the point of playing Chicken Little.” “But this has gotta be pretty serious, man: The Gooch isn't going to—” “Frankie, don't call her that.” “Sorry, Allie. McGullen isn't going to interrupt class to tell us about some little accident.” “I just got a message from my mom; she's coming to pick me up.” “Why?” “Because it was a big plane. She said it was a seven-forty-seven. She's…” The four us, Katie Lynch, Allison, Frankie, and I walked into a silent hallway filled with cold, tile floors and purple lockers. The gravelly soprano of the principal echoed from the nearby rooms. The students were standing in subdued chaos, choking down mild epiphanies and revelations, attempting to grasp emotions and thoughts that were without signifiers or symbols. No, they were new, frightening. It was a moment in which nearly everyone appeared as though they were on pause, tableaux of confusion and deep, deep fear — without answers, without guidance — nested beneath speakers surrounded by wood paneling and a cottony shawl both the color and texture of a black dress sock. We would all later say that the experience was like a dream or a movie because we were not used to dealing with tragedies in waking, moving, unscripted life. “I'm going to remember this, aren't I?” “Dude, shut the fuck up.” The four of us took a few more steps into the hallway. Katie vanished. A few televisions became audible before receding into silence (the sound was not truncated, as the teachers, in their haste, did not bother looking for the mute button, just the little arrow pointing down). And then there was a huge gasp that resonated throughout the building, the sound that remains indelible upon my memory more so than anything else (like the smell of the Manhattan air that morning, as many people who experienced the event will attest). A few people could be heard taking the Lord's name in vain. Oh my…Can I please have everyone's attention: A second plane has just crashed into the other tower of the World Trade Center. Frankie turned to me. “Accident, huh?” And the aftermath: Looks of complete bewilderment, girls wailing, guys trying to look as though they are in control, arms around shoulders, heads buried in shoulders, dramatics that weren't feigned, profusions of sympathy and fear everywhere, manifested in several guises and poses. And as the shock waves began to reverberate around the world — those waves that would begin as fear and sorrow, but would eventually turn to vengeance and hatred — the three of us stood in that hallway without a semblance of direction. “We're getting out of here, Allie,” Frankie said. With everything in chaos, I figured there was no way we'd be caught, so I asked if I could come along. They were planning to head back to Allison's house. I knew this. Her mother was out of town for the week conducting business in Vegas, and the two of them had been dating for roughly three months. I knew they were not going there to simply watch television, but I didn't want to come back to play the part of the third wheel so much as I just wanted to get the hell out of school. In exchange for a seat in Frankie's car, I offered to smoke him up with a dime bag of what I thought to be decent grass, even if it was a little less than a gram of shake broken off from a chunk of Mexican brick weed. I can't remember if I bought it off of Stevens or that little wigger (or is it whigger?) kid who worker at the gas station. He called himself B-Rock. His real name was Bernard. He lived in the rich part of town, and was hated by most of the black people in the area, as his understanding of black culture rarely went beyond vulgar stereotypes. The white people didn't really care for him, either, although he always had drugs, which is why most of us were on cordial terms with him. As the three of us began making our way through the corridors of the building, the principal continued to address the school with a great deal of emotion, her words profoundly terrifying in their context. This is not an accident. Dave Wesson and some of the guys from the J.V. football team were cracking jokes about the Gooch's attempt at depth until one of the varsity linebackers, the only one to go on to play at a Division 1 school, picked him up about a foot off the ground, and pressed him against a locker. I don't remember the linebacker's name; I only remember that he was known for being one of those gentle giants. He had some legal trouble later that year because he assaulted some guy who thought G.H.B. was nothing more than the world's most potent aphrodisiac. Some of the rich, underclass girls looked as though they were about to engage in a photo-shoot. Most of the older girls tried their best to look composed, their tears both reluctant and earnest. Most of the young men didn't really have any idea how they were supposed to act, so they reverted to stoicism, rarely with success. It's important we stay calm in times such as these. Gurtz smoked a cigarette in the hallway in plain sight of about eight teachers. Being a sixth-year and all, no one really felt the need to reprimand him. He looked to Frankie with the expression one might expect upon a mechanic confronted with a blown transmission. “Fucked up, huh.” Once we got through the heavy-traffic of the main concourse, we cut through hallways completely devoid of people — labyrinthine paths of Cold War architecture, complete with dusty, maybe even disconnected, speakers that had been installed in order to harbinger in nuclear annihilation. I had never been down those hallways, and I'm fairly certain that I never stepped foot in them again. Teachers stood like beheaded totems vapidly staring at radios in the comfort of their classrooms. In some cases, there were no students there with them. When I peaked through the open door to the A/V room, I saw black smoke rising — plumeless and like the wings of a bat — from that pale-gray monolith. The Brooklyn skyline was rubescently hazed; above it, the skies became amber, and then the color of oxidized copper. My intestines felt as though they were caving into an abyss. I stood motionless until Frankie grabbed me by the arm, but then he, too, was struck by the sight. He shook it off quickly, however, so as to not let Allison know the extent of the damage. And then we were off again: chasing exit signs and the light of day. In those dimly lit corridors our footfalls cascaded above the din of the news programs coming from the classrooms and the Gooch's continued efforts to quell any potential panic. And I could see her in there, in her little office with that bulbous microphone on her desk, which looked like the love child of a sprinkler and an egg. I could see her there with her droopy face and those gullied wrinkles that brought to mind Maori tattoos or, to be less respectful and (moreover) honest, the grim face of Thantos. She wanted so much to maintain both her humanity and her authority, but she knew that it was only a matter of time before one of the two had to abandoned. Frankie led us through the long hall by the computer labs with his hand clutched tightly around Allison's. Allison kept looking to me with what appeared to be guilt. I still can't understand why. The Gooch was beginning to stumble upon her words as we ducked out through the east wing. We took that route because the guard at the door went way back with Frankie's dad. The guy, P.J., as he was known, told Frankie that a lot of kids were already being taken out of school. Indeed they were. The parking lot was a wasp’s nest of crying parents and praetorian older brothers; cars blasted voices broadcasting their ignorance. The reporters were so bewildered that they could only repeat about twenty seconds of information.