3
It was the morning
of July 17th, 1974. We had been trapped
at the school for three months. In a few
short hours, as bad as we thought things were, the true nightmare would
begin. But we didn't truly know what day
we were headed for, as the dawn broke, and we lay outside under the
disappearing stars.
There we were,
many of us having spent the night outside, waiting for the breaking dawn, some
huddled under blankets. There was a
sense of hope and anticipation. We were
there to observe the rocket launch, the one that the group that included Randy
Sherman and the Physics teacher Mr. Cairn had been working on. We were in a group of roughly a hundred who
sat in a field about two hundred yards away from the launch. Some of us had been out there all night.
I had been there all night with Lisa, holding
each other under a warm blanket. So had
Artie and Ginny. I cannot tell you it
did not bother me to see them cuddle, but it was now just a little twinge, and
not deep heartache. Tom and Sue also were there, cuddled, and at times last
night, their level of intimacy was surprising given we were out in the open,
and there were a few teachers out there with us. Jim and Mary were there, but they had not
used the blanket, and spent the night quietly whispering to each other. It was the most talking that I had ever seen
the quiet, strong Jim Kurrash ever do.
There were many
others there, including Robert Bond (Artie's oldest friendship), Wilbur Jones
(my student council rival) and Cathy Summers (beauty pageant winner). There was also Morgan LaDona Tigh and Mark
Granite, completely submerged under their blanket and now just coming out to
greet the dawn. Their activity was so
intense that Mrs. Fordress, an English teacher, had to poke their blanket and
tell them to cease. Mark Granite peaked
long enough to give her a cold, withering look, and she backed off. Poor Mrs. Fordress must not have gotten the
memo that there were different rules to be applied when it came to our state
track champion and his girlfriend.
Also there was Bob
Short, standing with a microphone, preparing to speak, ready to record this
moment for better or worse. Our cameras
were big and bulky studio cameras, and could not leave the TV studio. But Phil Irman had a home movie camera he had
gotten from the art teacher, Mr. Lopez.
Sue Boschman
excitedly came over to Lisa, whom my arms had been around. She eagerly stuck out her hand to Lisa, and
then they were both up, squealing and holding each other. Sue had on a car washer on the fourth finger
of her left hand, and it had an industrial diamond carefully melded into the
center of it. Tom Bodell had made her a
ring. Our very conservative conspiracist
had just gotten engaged to our resident mechanical genius.
This took many of
the rest of us aback. The idea of
getting engaged while being trapped seemed outside of the realm of our normal
considerations. Not to mention that Tom
and Sue were just juniors in high school.
Yes, it was true that in many cultures people did marry that young. It was not completely unknown even in our own
culture. But it was still
unexpected.
I looked at Linda
and it made me wonder if that was something she was expecting. As much as I liked her, I don't think I could
ever take that step. I looked at Ginny
and Artie and I thought, my God! They
might do the same thing sometime! How
would I feel then?
My speculation was
interrupted by a smattering of applause.
Dawn was fully up and the rocket was being wheeled into place. Teachers let Bob Short and Phil Irman move in
a little closer than the rest of us. Bob
Short began to talk.
In the distance I
could see Randy, Larry and others prepared the rocket. They set its position, so that's it's
trajectory would shoot it past the tree line.
I wondered if it might land on Burger Chef, or go farther and set fire
to Vayman's IGA or even, god forbid, Estill's Pharmacy. Of course, none of these businesses could we
see anymore. We should at least be able
to see Burger Chef, but somehow that was shrouded to us.
Mr. Cairns lit the
fuse, and his team backed way. We all
held our breath as the fuse burned down.
When it looked like it had burned completely down, for a brief second,
nothing happened. We all feared it was a
failure.
Then the back of
the rocket started belching flames out of its back end. We cheered!
And the rocket took off; it's sleek red cigar shape piercing the
sky. Past the tree line it roared, past
where any known trap barrier, and on. It
worked! We all listened to hear it land
or explode, but that sound didn't come.
There was wild
cheering! There was a way out! The trap did not extend upwards past the
trees! I hugged Lisa, and before I knew
it, we were in a deep kiss, as if we were celebrating Victory Day at the end of
world War II.
As the roar of
happiness started to die down, I heard a big harrumph and sound of disdain next
to me. It was the self-appointed genius
and planner of the tunnel, David Yankovich, standing there in his long, unkempt
brown hair and serious face, his arms folded, looking as if he had just watched
toddlers make a mud pie. "It's not going to work," he said. "What a waste of time."
"But it broke
the treeline! How can you say it won't
work?' I asked.
He looked at me
like I was a babbling idiot.
"You'll see," he said, and then walked away, not deigning to
explain himself.
Tragically, later
on, I did see. But how David knew, and
how he figured it out, I'll never know.
Because although I got to see, David never did.
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