Avogadro's Number

Jake swings the door open and slips away from Ms. Elizabeth’s classroom, sinking into the sea of students flowing toward the end of the Language Arts hallway. The school bell echoes off the stark-white concrete walls, mingling with the chatter of his peers. Pressed toward the side of the hallway, he sees greasy handprints already marring the freshly painted walls. Stepping through the door at the end of the hall, the ceiling becomes ten times higher and the walls a million times farther apart.

“It’s a franken-school, Jakey. Like eighteen schools sewed together, reanimated, and designed to make you miserable,” his sister had told him. He understood her now. Nothing within the school made sense. Construction only occurred when the student body outgrew the previous space and necessitated a quick fix. He pushes along with the sea of students until he sees a clearing by some chairs in the cafeteria.  He doesn’t want to take his backpack off and look weird, so he awkwardly reaches his arm around and pulls out his schedule. It’s the end of the first week, and he still isn’t acquainted with the swing of High School. Things are odd here; classes let out at 2:02 on some days and 4:02 on others. Jake’s sister graduated last year and is taking general courses at the community college. On the days when school lets out later, she picks him up out by the parking lot.  He unfurls his schedule. Sure enough, English is his last class, but Fridays end at 2:02, so he’s taking the bus today.

Jake looks up from the schedule and notices that the other kids have left without a trace. He starts walking toward the bus lane, unsure of its exact location. Usually, Jake shuffles along with the crowd until it appears before him. He heads down the hallway, passing through the foreign language hall. He sees Senora Mysterio’s classroom. She has a real-life luchador mask fastened to the door, and its blue sparkles glimmer at Jake. He stares into the luchador mask’s hollow eyes, their rims covered with rhinestones. 

At the end of the hallway, there is a fork. The right hallway is marked “Performing Arts,” and the left is marked “Social Sciences,” but neither sign points toward the bus lane. No dice. He thinks, then he really thinks: the kind of thinking he does when he can’t even fathom what a test question is asking of him. Which way does the crowd usually go?  His brain is of no help. His gut told him to head down the performing arts hallway, where he had a few classes. He maintains hope right up until he reaches the end of the hall. He swivels on his back foot, flipping direction rapidly. 

Returning to the social sciences hall is an option, but he doesn’t want to risk being wrong again. He scans his surroundings and, looking past the abundance of drama mask coloring sheets pinned to the corkboard strips on the walls, finds Mr. Andre’s classroom. He trudges over. The door is propped open and adorned with a faded Darth Vader poster. Listening intently, Jake hears murmuring within. It must be someone hanging around to ask a question. Everyone loves Mr. Andre.  He can’t make out what they’re saying but he doesn’t have time to wait for the other students to leave. He presses the door open, praying not to be seen as intrusive.
The lights are off, and through the haze of darkness, Jake sees a towering figure, easily seven feet tall, standing at the chalkboard. Lanky and pale, the figure freezes under Jake’s gaze. The thing is stuck with its arm outstretched, its skin matching the shade of white on the freshly erased whiteboard. Searching for an answer, Jake finds the students sitting at their desks. He stares at the back of their heads, begging for an explanation. They turn to face him in unison, their faces pale and gaunt. A chill shoots through Jake, freezing him in place, his heart pounding, each beat echoing the instinctive cry of flight buried deep within him. Suddenly, the things open their mouths impossibly wide and begin to wail at him.

Finally unfrozen, Jake bursts from the room, slamming the door behind him. The wailing reverberates off the walls, a haunting echo that wraps around him like a vise. He sprints down the performing arts hall, the sound of heavy footsteps thundering behind him, closing in with every frantic step. He veers into the social sciences hall, the bright sunlight ahead offering a glimmer of hope. At the end of the hall, he spots the door to the parking lot. He pushes through it, the cool air hitting his face as he continues to run, adrenaline coursing through him. His feet pound against the pavement of the empty parking lot, each step a desperate bid for escape. Just as he nears the edge, a familiar white sedan careens into view, his sister's head poking out of the driver's side, concern etched on her face.

“Jake, you dumbass, Mom is worried sick about you. Why are you still here?” She asks. Jake looks behind himself, and the pale figure is standing still, right behind him. Blood is wooshing through his ears. Can’t she see it behind him? Surely, she can, it’s not like he’s capable of blocking it from sight. He motions toward the thing behind him with urgency, tears streaming down his face.

“Can’t you see? It’s right behind me!” He cries.

“See what? Are you okay? You’re freaking me out.” She replies, looking around frantically. 

“I… don’t know. I’m sorry, I am an idiot. Let’s just go.” He replies and walks toward the passenger side, sensing the creature follow his every step. He gets in the car. His sister looks at him like he’s crazy, and maybe she’s not wrong. As they peel away, he looks in the rearview mirror and watches as the pale thing sprints to keep up with them.