White gas roiled up and wafted toward them as the students watched in disbelief. By the time the visible cloud reached the front row, the entire class was coughing and rubbing their eyes.
“Augggh!” cried Carl, in tears. “It’s concentrated dog fart!”
The odor was pungent and extremely unpleasant. Barbie choked. Carl was wrong: dog farts smelled better.
“Anybody study the material?” Pauling asked. “Hope so, for your sake.”
“Hydrogen sulfide?” Barbie asked tentatively. Juan nodded.
“This substance is, of course, extremely unpleasant to breathe,” said Pauling with a chuckle. “And oh yes, it could in fact kill you.” He reached into a cardboard box on the floor and pulled out two containers and a rubber gas mask. “We have here two chemicals with which I’m sure you are all quite familiar, as you have just read Chapter Twelve. Each chemical will react in a different way with the element I’ve just liberated into the air. One should neutralize its effects; one may create a substance even more noxious than the one you’re breathing right now.” He chuckled.
“Hey-hey. If you’re guessing, your odds of staying alive are fifty-fifty. If you studied last night, your chances improve.”
His face disappeared beneath the gas mask. Then he jumped up on top of the counter, pulled his shirt-tails out of his pants, and shook his hair down over his face. He bent his knees and played an invisible guitar. A familiar voice echoed from the gas mask, singing. “No one is ever too young to die….”
“This is no time to entertain us,” yelled Carl, tossing a half-full can of Pepsi at the Cobain impersonator.
“Mr. C! Don’t do this!” screamed Minerva. “It’s not fair!”
“Life isn’t fair,” said the man who looked like Linus Pauling. “You twerps have the attention span of fruit flies. Solve the problem, or you’ll have their life expectancy too.” He adjusted his gas mask. “This is it. Give me the answer or die trying.”
The fumes from the spilled chemical were becoming unbearable. Barbie felt as though her nose was on fire, and her eyes stung. It was the second time in two days that a guy had tried to suffocate her, which kind of pissed her off. Then she noticed that she couldn’t actually smell the stuff anymore, though her nose still burned. Maybe it shorted out, she thought. Did noses do that? She was starting to feel sick.
Suddenly, T’Shawn grabbed her wrist, and they both rose to the ceiling. She sucked in a deep lungful of untainted air. The chemistry test, heavier than air, was roiling below. Some of the students were trying to get out, but the door was locked and the windows were barred. “Are they all going to die?” she asked.
“Don’t worry,” said T’Shawn. He leaned in close to kiss her. “We’ll take care of it.”
It was exciting to be near him like that, unnoticed and apart from the pandemonium below. She slid her hands around his waist and drew him closer. He put his mouth on her earlobe, and she suddenly understood about ear nibbling: your ears were hotwired to your twat. Electricity spread throughout her body.
They were both breathing hard. He reached up under her shirt.
“Don’t,” said Barbara. “I mean, there’s all these people.”
“I don’t think they’re paying any attention,” said T’Shawn. He reached between her legs, and for a moment all she could think about was getting him inside her. His hand, his cock, whatever.
She fumbled with his belt buckle, trying to get it undone.
“We’ve got time,” he said. “We can do it and get out. We’ve got time.”
“I never flunked a chemistry test in my life.”
He laughed. The sounds of coughing below grew louder.
“What the fuck,” yelled Carl, from the floor. “Anything’s better than just standing around with our thumbs up our asses.” He reached for a canister, without even bothering to read the label.
“All right!” said T’Shawn. “Acetic acid.” He laughed.
“No,” said Barbara. “We really have to help them.”
“Not yet,” he said. “We’ve got a couple of minutes.”
Minerva was choking and sobbing.
“I’m sorry,” she said, and let go of him. She took a deep breath, and dropped to the floor. She made her way to the front of the classroom, eyes watering, and found the canisters that Mr. C had set out. Hydrogen peroxide — that would do it. Oxidize the hydrogen sulfide and stop the reaction. She grabbed the h2°2 and baptized the burette.
The production of caustic gas stopped, and Mr. C gave her a thumbs up, then unlocked the door and opened the windows. He smiled genially. “Barbara, you did very well, though it took you a bit longer than I expected. A+ for you. Carl, you were about to toss acetic acid into the burette, which would have liberated the hydrogen sulfide more quickly, raising it to lethal levels. I’m afraid you flunked. The rest of you will be graded on the curve. Take five megs of vitamin C and get a good night’s sleep away from nuclear fallout. Next time I tell you to study for a quiz, I’ll expect better results.”
“Way to go, Carl,” said Minerva hoarsely.
“Asshole,” said Angela. “Class president. Hah. Class turd.”
Carl was studying his shoes. He didn’t look up.
Friday was the day of the Celebration of Life for Mrs. R. The bus from Cobain Magnet High lumbered through the gates of the cemetery. Inside, Barbara looked at a hillside marked with uneven rows of oddly shaped tombstones. Grey granite plinths, long red chaises-longues like swimming-pool furniture, low cement scrolls with lambs lying on top, Japanese garden lanterns. It wasn’t a nice tidy cemetery where all the headstones were set flush with the ground so they didn’t get in the way of the lawnmowers. It was a little wild-looking, with weird bits — kind of like Barbara’s hair, actually. There were weeds.
A row of huge cement boxes blocked the road beyond the sign. They were maybe eight feet long, four feet square. Not recyclable. These boxes were built to last, and to keep whatever was inside from getting free. Barbara wondered what they were. Then the bus stopped abruptly and the rude truth about cemeteries hit home. Duh.
“He-e-ere we are!” said Mr. Simmons, the death sciences instructor. He got up from his seat and stood in the aisle, facing the special-skills students. Nobody paid any attention to him, except for Barbara, who wished she’d gotten a seat further back with her friends, not that she had any.
Mr. Simmons jangled his key-ring against a bronze plaque that was bolted to the back of the driver’s seat. At one time it had read “Sponsored by Microsoft — Boeing,” but someone had lasered it to say “Sponsored by Microsoft — Boring.”
The class quieted down. “Everybody out for Eternity,” said Mr. Simmons cheerfully.
The students dragged themselves out of their seats and fought for standing room in the aisle. Carl was first off the bus, of course. He leaped into the grey November chill and scoped out the terrain.
“Note the cement bunkers to your left as you exit the bus,” said Carl. “If anybody starts shooting, get those bunkers between you and the guns as fast as you can.”
Barbara wondered if she could project her thoughts to bounce off the sides of the boxes, like billiard balls. Risky, but she thought she could do it. She rounded her thoughts into a ball, smoothed off the clues to who she was, and flung them at an angle between two cement boxes. “They’re tombs, not bunkers, you sphincter!” She blanked her mind and tried to look nonchalant.