Chicken Scratch

The Teenage Writing Site

The old lady. Sam remembers her because he almost hit her when he was driving to school this morning. She had stepped out into the middle of the street and he had had to slam on the breaks. She hadn’t even flinched! She just stood there in her black shawl, cawing angrily at him and muttering curses under her breath. Stupid old witch. Now he’ll be late for first hour.

He quickly finds a parking spot and rushes to class. He just barely makes it before the bell. Roll call; Anderson, Jake; Appre, Simon. Blah, blah, blah. Nowadays, classes are practically bursting, with about forty kids per class. After attendance, Sam starts to drowse. It’s English class and the teacher is droning on about some green light. The advantage of such big classes is that you never get called on. The bell rings, startling Sam out of his horrible dream. He shivers and heads to physics class, saying hi to a few friends on the way. In physics, he is more awake and begins to draw. There is an almost remembered picture from his nightmare, and he feels like this may be the most important drawing he ever does. He starts to sketch what he remembers, but he can’t get the hair right, so he stops.

After second hour, he has Latin: boring. Shoot! His homework! He’ll have to do it while the teacher is checking the other kids’. He should have plenty of time. “Sam, I see you didn’t do your homework.” Crap; now he has to come up with an excuse; “Sorry, I left it at school last night.” Please buy it. “OK, but try to remember it tonight.” Yes! “But you still have a detention. After school today.” Shit! The rest of Latin flies by while he quietly fixes the hair on his drawing and works on the arms. Forth hour: math. Ever student gets assigned a question from the homework: one through twenty-eight. Breezing through the simple quadratic, Sam sits back down and starts on the legs of his drawing. Weird posture, kneeling like that in the middle of a plaza. LUNCH!! Sam goes to sit with his friends, but he can’t find them so he eats alone. He doesn’t touch his drawing so he can’t get it greasy.

Sixth hour – chemistry. Sam tries to draw, but he gets called on three times during class. He hadn’t noticed the class was so small before. He does get the legs done, though. Next: study hall; he finishes his physics lab write-up, his chem notes, and his Latin homework. Then he perfects the posture of his drawing. The kid has his head thrown back, like someone screaming. All that’s left is the face. Getting up, Sam notices that the study hall is only about a quarter full; it must be flu season. He goes to history and begins trying to figure out how to capture the drawing’s face, but he’s called on almost immediately. Looking up, he sees that there are only eight other students in class. That’s weird, he thinks. Maybe all the Spanish kids went on a field trip. With so few kids, he barely gets any drawing done at all; he gets called on to answer twelve questions and read aloud eight times.

Ninth hour, band. He gets to band, but it consists of him, two flutes, one trombone, two saxophones, and a percussionist. The music sounds weird and empty, but nobody else seems to notice. What’s up here, Sam wonders. How can so many kids be missing? After struggling through band, he goes to psychology – the last class of the day. He gets to class, but he is the only one: in a class of forty-two yesterday, there is just one student today. But the teacher doesn’t notice. She gives the whole lecture as if everything was normal! Am I going crazy, Sam wonders. What’s wrong? When he asks the teacher about it, she looks at him like he’s wacko.

Bring. The final bell. Sam goes to the Latin room for his detention, but the teacher isn’t there. He doesn’t know how he could’ve missed her; the halls were completely empty. After finishing the face of the drawing, Sam decides to leave, now completely confused and a little scared. He walks through the deserted halls thinking about the drawing: a boy kneeling in a town square, looking at the sky and screaming. The whole scene looks familiar, almost like he had been there before. He steps into the crowded parking lot and stops dead; nothing is moving. In fact, none of the cars have any people in them. There are lines of cars idling at the stop signs, but nobody to be seen. Sam starts to run. He sprints home, where his five year old brother should be home from kindergarten. Gone. His mom. Gone. His dad. Gone. He grabs the phone and calls his mom. Answering machine. He dials 911. A recorded message. Sam dashes outside, through the congested but lifeless streets, into the town square. He looks around. The Gap – empty. McDonald’s – empty. The mall – empty. The fire station – empty. The town hall – empty. Spinning around, a sheet of paper falls out of his backpack; it’s his drawing. Looking at the picture, Sam falls to his knees in shock; the boy in the drawing is him. He starts screaming, louder and louder, until it feels like his throat will burst; then louder still, the scream exploding out of him, resounding around the empty square where hundreds of people are walking, echoing through the deserted rooms where thousands of people are working, surging around the world where billions of people are living, just one curse away.