Fault

Part 1

Fallon Connelly, September 22nd 10:34 a.m.

A roar swallows my teacher's voice, heavy thunder mixed with screeching metal. The floor shakes. Full swings from side to side as the floor rises up. I'm thrown right out of my desk. People scream and clamber for the door, pushing others out of the way. I get up, try to follow, but can't stay on my feet.

The windows buckle, glass explodes.

My palms press the cool tiled floor and nausea takes over. I close my eyes, swallow it back. I need to move. Need to get my legs and arms to work...but they won't. Fear won't let go.

Others crawl through the doorway. The mug on the teacher's desk slides off and breaks inches from my face. I gasp, rolling until I'm on my back. Pieces of the ceiling fall in clouds of white dust. I grip the leg of the large wooden desk. It shudders. How long has it been? Two minutes? Six hours? Another blast, the lights go dark and everything sways—the desks, the walls, the ceiling. Screeching and tearing and screams, terrifying screams, drown out everything, even my breath.

Cal. Where is Cal?

Six years ago, when Cal and I were eleven and he was the new kid, I walked the halls with the hope that I would blend into the lockers. That's where I found him on his first day. In a locker. He whispered his combination through the grate and when I swung open the door his slender frame was folded inside like a wad of tissue. His watery blue eyes were wide and when they met mine we instantly became each other's responsibility.

The shaking stops and dust thickens what is left of breathable air. Pieces of the ceiling now sit with remnants of the walls. Glass shards lay halfway into the room, washing the floor in reflective light. They're proof that the morning sun still shines outside. I lay still, listening to my breathing in my ears, assuring myself that I'm okay as long as air keeps passing through my lips.

Car alarms ring out from the streets below. My hair is in my eyes, the same loud red color as my dad. I use the back of my hand to brush it away and feel a sharp sting of pain across my forehead. The casings over the dark florescent bulbs swing loose, the hinges squealing. I watch it sway once, twice, before dragging my eyes around the room. A cement chunk split a desktop in two, down the middle. Another cracked the beige tile into pieces a couple feet from my face.

The intercom's wire intestines are exposed and sparking. A wall between two classrooms crumbled and the rubble carries pieces of rebar like candles on a birthday cake.

My hands were clean a minute ago. Now dust and blood find crevices and highlight them. Is that my blood? Where did it come from? My fingers shake as if the ground were still doing the same. The blue of my nail polish is unnatural against the more serious tones of red and black.

Like ten wildflowers in a barren field.

Dad bought the nail polish after one particularly brutal fight between Mom and me. I burst into his office, skipping class, sobbing about how dumping Mom's vodka in the sink got me a smack across the face that cracked my jaw. I begged to live with him, but he said his job took him away from home too often. He called me out of class and we spent the day together.

When he bought me the nail polish it felt like a promise. Someday things would be better.

I lay my palms on the debris-ridden floor, hoisting myself into a sitting position. It looks like I'm alone in the room, but there is so much dust in the air I can't be sure. Why am I the only one who didn't make it out? It's a struggle to stand and I brace myself heavily against the wooden desk. Mr. Berson's wall map unhooked on one side, and Maine is pointing to the floor.

The hallway is a war zone. Lockers are separated from the walls. Classmates lean up against them, staring at the floor, the ceiling or their own hands. At the far end the hall the south stairwell is full of people. There is daylight bursting from behind me, casting my shadow forward. I pivot to the north end, where my locker is, and a thick white plume clears to show that twenty or thirty feet from where I'm standing, the floor just stops. The walls stop. The ceiling stops. There is open air where the second half of the building used to be. Cal's homeroom is in that side of the building. I try to remember if I saw him this morning. We fought the night before and fighting with my mom made me late for the bus this morning. I assumed he was already in school when I slid into my third period class as the bell rang. I stumble back, my hands over my mouth to keep the bile down.