“PEOPLE, PEOPLE!”
Once we’re inside, we see Mrs. Green standing in the middle of the sixth-grade hall and clapping like she’s trying to scatter pigeons. “Get what you need from your lockers and head right down to the auditorium for a surprise assembly!”
Nooo! Not again!
As if on cue, Principal Coffin’s voice booms and crackles out of the speakers. “It’s Monday morning, and it’s Tiiiime for Safety!”
Principal Coffin throws these extreme-edition assemblies and drills all the time, and the whole middle school is forced to go. We never know when they’re going to happen. She likes to keep us guessing.
Rumor has it that some hideous catastrophe happened at her old school, and they were totally unprepared. So now it’s her personal mission to prepare us. Earthquake, fire, tsunami, flood, blackout, gas leak, first aid, CPR, stranger danger, bomb threat: you name it, we drill it at Peavey Middle School of Panic. I mean, being prepared is important, but Principal Coffin is over-the-top gonzo.
When I get to the auditorium, Joon’s nowhere in sight, and of course I end up stuck in the back row next to Kyle Keefner.
“Get away from me, Fart-in-bra,” he barks.
Kyle Keefner hates me. He decided to hate me back in kindergarten, and it’s been that way ever since. Joon figures Kyle will finally beat me up someday, and it’ll be over. But I think Keefner enjoys hating me too much for it ever to be over.
Up on stage, Principal Coffin’s talking with two firefighters. She’s a big plump lady with grizzled gray hair and a booming voice. She’s usually nice—but don’t get her angry, or she’ll go full-scale Hulk on you. At least, that’s what Cal says. Me, I’m too scared of getting in trouble to ever get in trouble.
Right now she taps the microphone, and I cover my ears. “Take your seats, darlins!” she says. “We have potentially lifesaving information this morning, so we need everyone’s attention immediately. I’m serious, chickens. This info could mean Life. Or. Death.”
Why does she have to say life or death all the time? Also, why does she call us chickens? We keep chickens at home—we have a coop with eight hens behind the house. Chickens are all right, but you should smell their poop. Ugh.
“Let me introduce these hometown heroes,” she says, pointing at the firefighters. “These brave folks have seen children just like you perish in fires. Terrible, painful tragedies. And why?” Principal Coffin cocks her ear to hear our answer. “WHY do people die horribly in fires?” Behind her on the projection screen, photos of burning homes flash.
I can already imagine flames leaping around my feet.
“What do I always tell you we need to be?”
“Prepared!” someone shouts from the front row.
“That’s right, my adorable, plucky little chickens!” Principal Coffin beams out at us. “Because they were not prepared. But we are not going to let that happen to anyone in Peavey Middle School! Peavey is PREPARED! Say it with me!”
Mrs. Coffin raises both arms up, casting a giant, evil-looking shadow on the burning-inferno screen behind her. “Peavey is safe! Peavey is prepared! Say it with me, people!”
A few loser kids mumble it.
“Now I need a volunteer to come up on stage,” calls Principal Coffin, shading her eyes with her hand and peering out at us. “To help in a little demonstration. How about one of you boys? In the back row, sticking out of the aisle, there, who’s that?”
Oh no—
“Is that Stanley I see? Little Stanley Fortinbras, come on up here, Stanley!”
Kyle Keefner, next to me, is shaking with glee. “Go on, little Stanley Fart-in-bra!” he snorts, giving me a shove.
Kids turn and stare. My stomach clenches. My heart rabbit-thumps against my ribs.
Red Alert!
Red Alert!
But there’s no way out. I hear deafening claps and cheering as I wobble forward in a daze. Kids’ hands reach out into the aisle to push me along, or try to slap me five. Why are they acting like I’m the lucky one or something? This is not a good thing! I—I can’t see—as usual, my glasses are smudged, so everything looks foggy.
Principal Coffin’s hand reaches down and pulls me up the steps. Before I know it, I’m standing under the stage lights. A firefighter slams a hat on my head, and another puts me in a giant coat that weighs a ton. Sensory alert! Sensory alert!
They hand me a stick of some sort. Everything’s muffled, like I’m in a dream. The lights and sounds have me in a sort of state of shock. Is that roar I hear coming from out in the audience, or from inside my own brain?
“Okay, kiddo, we’re gonna demo this here super-fast extinguisher. We’ll set that torch you’re holding on fire,” the first firefighter says into her microphone, looming toward me with a big red canister. “And then we’re gonna put you out! Fun, right?”
Wait—did she say “put it out” or “put me out”? Suddenly I have a gross metal tang in my mouth. The back of my throat is dry, and my hands feel tingly. All the faces out there in the dark, watching me, watching! Noise! Lights! Heavy coat! Heat! Can’t see! World is blurry! Are they planning to set me on fire? Has everyone at Peavey gone insane? Why, oh, why can’t I be homeschooled like that new neighbor girl, what’s her name?
My knees feel funny.
Woop! Woop!
My vision starts fading, turning black at the edges . . . My legs are Jell-O. . . .
Somewhere in a distant fog I think I hear Kyle Keefner shout: “Hey, cool, look! Fart-in-bra’s fainting! He’s goin’ down!”