Devonne Brown

“Get out,” her brain screamed inside her head and  her arms tingled, and her knees wobbled. She looked for the exit. The clock ticked.

There were twenty five people between her and the door. Forty-five minutes between her and the end of the session.

The room was silent save for the shuffle of the occasional foot or clearing of someone’s throat. She looked around the bright room. The fluorescent lights lit the bent and concentrating heads. Their furrowed brows were highlighted by the light reflected off of their computer screens. 

She walked around the room and passed out mints, and their wrappers crinkled and she collected them. Soft “thank yous” were said as she walked past. Eyes went back to the computer screens. 

She looked at the door and then to the clock. She was so close. “Get out,” her brain screamed again. Her arms tingled and her knees wobbled again. They’d be finished soon, and then what? Coloring books? Cut and paste? A movie? 

Twenty-five eleven year olds with pent up energy from testing had to be entertained. They weren’t allowed to do the one thing they wanted to do after the test, play games on their computers. She was supposed to entertain them with colored pencils and coloring pages of dinosaurs and airplanes, teddy bears and Barbie Dolls. Mandalas were out of the question, though they were suggested and even touted by educational experts who had no experience with eleven year olds, they were far too detailed. 

She eyed the door again. She prayed for fire, pestilence, a shooter, even death. 

She gave them another round of mints, “Run,” she thought as she passed the door. She’d let them play. There was no rule too big to be broken.