Better one than two

I spent my high school fire drills a little differently than most students did--I spent most of them chilling in a second floor stairwell with my best friend, waiting to see if the security guards would remember to come by and note her presence for evacuation purposes, or in one memorable case, watching her be carried down the stairs by two male staff members. None of my teachers ever appeared to notice or care that I didn't make it outside with rest of the class and the security guards, when they saw us, were always friendly, so it never seemed to be a big deal. We would pass the time by creating fantasy teams of firefighters in our heads--primarily made up of hot young actors. (She was recently "rescued" by a team of Chicago's finest firefighters who, while hot, were not celebrities. Very disappointing.)

After one drill, we were summoned to the office. We were both good girls so this was very unusual. We went into the new vice principal's office and were subjected to a lengthy lecture on how fires burn. Having sufficiently explained that the stairwells would act as chimneys for air feeding the fire and hot air from the fire, he explained that it was not acceptable for me to wait with her. Our protests that my presence there would likely prevent any loss of life were cavalierly dismissed. After all, as he told us, "it is better for one student to die than two."

And in one of my few acts of high school rebellion, his request was ignored. I continued to wait through the last few fire drills of my best friend's high school career in the comfort of the stairwell, planning how Dean Cain, David Lascher, Leonardo DiCaprio (not mine!), and George Clooney were on their way to rescue us.