Just as our last Danish class are about to start, a message sounds over the intercom, calling all teachers and students to the meeting hall. We all make our way down there, talking among ourselves and wondering why the whole school is suddenly gathering together. As our exams are going to be published tomorrow, we assume it has something to do with that. Though it makes little sense to call the whole school together, instead of only the third year students.
It’s unusually quiet in the hall, since everyone are confused about the purpose of the meeting. I sit down beside a couple of my male classmates and one of them offhandedly comments:
“Did someone else take the ticket?” Less than two months ago, a second year student got drunk and jumped out from his hotel window during a class trip to London and died a few days later. That morning we were called together like this as well.
I pat his shoulder and says dryly that that is an untimely joke, in case someone actually had died.
That’s the moment our principal walks up on stage and inform us that one of our fellow students died from cancer yesterday.
After hearing the principal talk about the deceased for a while, and holding a minute of silence, we walk back to our classes. My classmate walks beside me.
“Touché.” He says. “I’m going to Hell.”
“Yeah…” I say quietly. “You are.”