Rain poured down outside my car, windshield wipers cleared my view—though it still didn’t feel like I was seeing straight. I was driving fast, faster than the weather and the speed limit warranted, but for good reason. When school faculty are the ones telling you to go, drive, get home safe—you listen.
I still remember the song that was playing: Robot Stop by King Gizzard and the Lizard Wizard. An insane name, I’m perfectly aware, but I swear it’s a good song. Maybe not quite the vibe you’d be expecting for eight in the morning, while driving away from an apparent bomb threat, but its fast pace matched my frantic energy, and its persistent bassline grounded me, keeping me from careening off the side of the road.
Cops were blocking the road in front of the school, so I drove the long way home. As I doubled back on my route to head towards my street, I kept thinking about how I was getting closer to the high school again. I wondered if I would hear it if there was an explosion. Some logical, cynical part of me didn’t think so.
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There was something surreal about driving home that day at eight in the morning. I still remember the rain, the roads, the song playing as I was speeding with a frantic urgency. The cops were blocking the street right in front of the school when I’d driven away, so I had to take the long way home, which doubled back towards the building. As I drove, I wondered. I wondered if my classmates were right. I wondered if they were safe. I wondered if I’d hear it from where I was if the building were to go up in smoke. I doubted it.
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The quiet in my car was deafening. Despite the music and the rain and the traffic, I was still waiting to hear the destruction.
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Driving, waiting to hear the bomb.
