I Am Not a Martyr, a Victim, or a Refugee

2:46 The potted plant is the first thing to quiver. Mrs. Gotterson advises us to duck underneath our desks. I throw a chair out of my way, more for flair than functionality. “This one’s bigger than most others I’ve felt.” “It’s lasting so long.” Mrs. Gotterson dashes out of the door. N. looks as though she’s about to cry underneath the fifth computer from the left. M. stands up, lifts his arms parallel to the floor and says, “Whoa, I’m surfing!” 2:49 Students have been clambering out from under their desks. They see people funneling through the hallway outside our classroom. Mrs. Gotterson releases us, and we slip out the door into the fray. The hallway is the interior of a small boat in a large storm; rolling right to left, left to right. 2:53 Subduing hundreds of adolescents is an ambitious goal, and the administrative faculty’s desperate use of the megaphone is a highly entertaining. There’s not much to do once we find our assigned line but sit and talk about the quake. And worry, fleetingly, about our mother at home - the cell connection was clogged. She was okay though. I felt it. My main concern was my bare arms and impending boredom. 3:22 Someone emerges from the book-locker room with jackets and sweatshirts for the needy. I bounce on over in my usual way and grab the last item left: it’s a down parka with a furry hood. The zipper pull is an ornate “J”. I’m feeling classy. Score. I slip my arms in and zip it up. Wow, I am stunning in a fitted designer jacket. Warm, too. I turn around to a smug tap on the shoulder. “Uhh...that’s mine,” says Jackie Parr. 4:30 The ball that H. and I are throwing is confiscated by a purple-clad woman with a megaphone. We are told half a minute later, through that same megaphone, that we are now permitted to board the buses. 4:42 Bus Three is a community. I am not a bus monitor yet, but I help them with their jobs. There wasn’t much to do, given that the elementary school students were at home (Thank goodness). A. lends me his Nintendo DS. The camera application earns us about thirty to forty-five minutes of entertainment. 5:23 A. has packed the DS away. I was being obnoxious with the camera effects. I sidle on up to J. and ask him why Jack White is so freaking awesome. J. and I begin discussing rock music and our future in it as The Ghost Pirates. 7:16 We fantasize about hopping out of the bus and walking home. That dream’s killed when we realize it would require energy to navigate the sidewalks crowded with castaways. Another vision is nullified when I notice that the bicycle stores have been cleared out. 7:54 “Are we there yet?” 8:30 Someone’s hungry. The monitor tells them to suck it up. I feel bad. I bounce on over to the middle, past rows of empty seats, and grab everyone’s attention. “It is time for a Bus Three game of charades!!” I cry. There is muffled excitement in the crowd (I imagine). Somebody says “okay.” It is enough. The game begins. 8:33 The game has fallen apart. There is silence throughout the bus, as riders get annoyed with each other and fall asleep. My conversation with J. is the only sign of life among the puke-yellow seats. 9:15 The Ghost Pirates are disbanded. Our respective solo projects are now stationed in opposite corners of the back row. 10:07 “Are we there yet?” 11:21 Bus Three arrives at its first stop in Shirogane-dai, and the majority of riders unload, stretching their legs with a chorus of “ahhhh!”s. 11:27 My brother and I arrive home to encounter our mom in the kitchen. “Oh, it’s good to see you home! I made pizza!” 11:34 Pizza turns to ash in my mouth as death further North renders these moments embarrassingly insignificant.