We All Know

“Aneska! Pojďte si se mnou sednout!” I turn on my heel to face Natálie, my best friend. It’s ethnic day at United Academy, so for lunch, we have authentic Chinese food, courtesy of our Chinese chef, Madame Lu.

Pressing my tray against my chest with my left hand and grabbing a Doctor Pepper with my right, I follow Natálie to the table. Setting my food down, I slide into the booth. Natálie is at ease, but I glance nervously towards the staff who are in the cafeteria, watching for any tone of distress. Then I turn back to Natálie.

Natálie and I are both Czech, but she immigrated to America when she was twelve; I’m just here to study at United. Students who actually live abroad make up 43% of United’s student population. Compared to the twelve students from Spain who attend, the Czech population- just Natálie and me- is measly.

Broccoli isn’t my thing, so I pick through the broccoli chicken and put the chicken on a separate area of my plate, designated for eating. I internally debate putting some other vegetables with the chicken, but really, vegetables in general aren’t my thing.

“So, what did you think of the fire drill earlier?” Natálie tosses back her head and consumes the last of her Pepsi, which she just opened not five minutes ago.

“Ugh. I thought it was too early,” I snort, chewing on a piece of chicken and removing a stray piece of pepper before swallowing a second. “I mean, I understand that they want us to be ready if there’s a fire during the night. But getting everyone up at three in the morning, marching them outside in 41-degree weather, and then telling them ‘okay, go back to bed’ seems kind of pointless to me.”

“I agree,” Natálie is saying when suddenly the fire alarm goes off again.

I chuckle nervously, but not for the reason anyone would suspect. “Uh, that’s just a fluke, right? Maybe Shelby Anton pulled it as a prank?”

“Uh, no, Shelby’s sitting over there,” Natálie points her pinkie finger towards the girl, her other fingers holding a fortune cookie. With her wildly curly head of voluminous, untamed hair, Shelby’s like a clone of Merida in Brave. She isn’t responsible for the fire alarm though.

“Out, out, tout le monde dehors!” The cafeteria monitor and AP History teacher, Madame Lachlan, gestures with her arms, a clear representation of get out of the building, made even clearer by the incessant ringing of the fire bell. Most of us have picked up quite a few words of her native French, but she repeats it in English anyway. “Out, everyone out!”

The student body stands, universally cranky- we just went through a drill this morning, this mistake is annoying- and shuffle out the cafeteria door.

We stand in the mandatory silence for several minutes in the chilly November air before we start whispering amongst ourselves. Usually, we get the all-clear less than a minute after evacuation. By now, it must be occurring to everyone that maybe, this isn’t a fluke.

“Madame Peterson, do we have an all-clear?” Madame Lachlan speaks insistently, with growing trepidation, into her walkie-talkie. Every staff member has one and is required to respond, but there is no reply from Madame Peterson, our headmistress.

“Everyone, absolutely silent!” Madame Campbell orders sternly. She’s the algebra and geometry teacher, and deeply caring, but authoritative when called for. Unofficially, she’s Madame Peterson’s second-in-command. We comply. No one flouts Madame Campbell’s expectations and remains happy with their choice. Usually, no one flouts at all. Except maybe Shelby Anton. But she’s quite a character. The United class clown.

The firetruck arrives momentarily, but we can’t see or smell any fire or smoke. Six firefighters bustle inside.

The walkie-crackles to life after twelve minutes and three seconds of being outside.

“Students and staff of United Academy,” Madame Peterson intones, “This is not a drill. And this is not a false alarm. There is a fire in the main building, but it’s being put out by the firefighters right now.”

The hush continues for five more minutes until we begin to smell smoke. The rumble of nervous chatter turns into frightened jabber. A minute more and we can see tongues of fire, licking through the roof. It’s too far away to see the exact room the fire is located in, but I know it’s in the first-floor supply cabinet, stocked with paper.

Alarmed shouts ripple through the throng of students, but the teachers remain as stony-faced as ever. They know better than to display distress.

“Students, the fire is put out,” Madame Peterson declares over the walkie an hour later. I sigh. “But there is damage, and you’ll be studying in your dorms until repairs are done.”

“Do they know what caused it?” Shelby asks. Other students repeat the question insistently until Madame Campbell asks Madame Peterson over the walkie.

“The fire was deliberately set,” she announces, and I can imagine her setting her jaw angrily. “We have a student on camera, throwing a match into the supply cabinet.”

The talking that statement provokes is rampant and unquietable.

Later, at the dorms, I’m anxiously flipping through my Bio textbook when Madame Peterson and two police officers appear at my doorway. My roommate, Felicia, is watching Food Network on the television and lounging on her bed.

The police officers enter the room and tell me to turn around. I gulp nervously and comply, even when they snap the cuffs onto my hands. Felicia is gaping wordlessly and I smirk at her reaction. I bet no United student has ever been arrested on campus before.

“Aneska Dvoracek, you’re under arrest for arson. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law...”

I don’t protest as they led me into the cruiser and take me to the police station. There’s no point.

Because we all know I’m guilty.