It started with my 10th grade English teacher, Mr Baldwin, shown up late for class.

Before his arrival, several of my classmates had made the usual joke about being legally allowed to go home if Mr. Baldwin didn't show up after 15 minutes.

That's right, kids have been making that joke as far back as the 80s.

But after 15 minutes, and Mr. Baldwin still't shown up, a sense of a knees started to creep its way into the classroom.

No one left or got out of the desks.

We simply sat there and watch the clock tick away.

I guess teachers play hockey too, my best friend Owen said to me.

Owen Fielder was a sardonic and sometimes a loof boy with dark hair and fair appearance that I was envious of.

What do you suppose English teachers do when they play hockey Pete?

Do you think Mr. Baldwin is curled up with a dictionary somewhere?

It's not just him, I said. Mr Baldwin is curled up with a dictionary somewhere.

It's not just him, I said, suppressing a laugh and hugging a thumb behind me.

There was an empty desk there.

Larson never came today either. Hal Larson was a quiet boy.

He was genuinely good-humored, but always so quiet.

I had run into hell outside of school over the weekend and he had said something strange, but I tried not to think about that.

No one had showed much concern about his absence.

After all, students were absent all the time.

Kids got sick or played hockey.

But teachers, well, teachers were always there, weren't they?

And when they weren't, there was always a substitute to each other in their place, ready to prove themselves.

Maybe they're both dead, a boy sitting behind me said.

...