The Day The School Burned Down: A "True" Account by Mrs. Clarke

Let me set the record straight from the start: I’m not some doddering, easy-to-fool teacher. If you think that, you don’t know me. Thirty-five years in education has left me with a nose for lies so sharp it could slice through a steel beam. Which is why, when this “incident” happened last Wednesday, I wasn’t exactly surprised—just, well, mildly amused.

It was sixth period, history class. We were reviewing the Treaty of Versailles, and I called on Peter to explain what reparations meant. Peter’s bright, but prone to flights of fancy. And I could tell, just from the way he was fiddling with his pencil, that today was going to be one of those days.

He raised his hand, eyes wide like an innocent lamb. “Mrs. Clarke, I don’t have the homework,” he announced, voice trembling with what can only be described as poorly executed fear.

“Well,” I said, eyebrow raised. “That’s unfortunate. Why don’t you enlighten us with the reason?”

He straightened, clearly gearing up for the performance of a lifetime. “There was a fire.”

“A fire?”

“A fire,” he repeated solemnly, nodding. “The entire school was engulfed in flames last night. Right after I finished my essay.”

Now, I’ve heard some good ones in my time. Cats peeing on worksheets, magical disappearing textbooks, even an "alien abduction" once. But this? This was reaching new heights.

“Oh, really?” I said. “Please, go on.”

“Yeah,” Peter continued, his eyes darting around the room for any sign of doubt. “I came back to school after hours. It was about... 7 PM. I forgot my textbook, you see. And as I walked through the halls, I heard this noise, like... crackling.”

“The sound of fire, you mean?” I prompted, leaning back against my desk.

“Exactly,” he said, gaining momentum now. “The whole science lab was ablaze! I tried to call for help, but my phone battery was dead, and the landlines were all burnt up. I thought fast, though, and grabbed a fire extinguisher.”

“The one from the janitor’s closet?”

“Yeah, that’s the one. But as soon as I started spraying, the flames got bigger. It’s like they were... fireproof or something!”

I crossed my arms, enjoying the show. “A fireproof fire?”

Peter didn’t miss a beat. “Exactly, Mrs. Clarke! And right when I thought all hope was lost, the janitor burst in with a hose. We fought the flames together, like heroes, side by side, water spraying everywhere.”

By now, the entire class was riveted, staring at Peter as if he were recounting a grand battle scene from a movie.

“And the homework?” I asked, steering us back to reality.

He glanced down, momentarily faltering. “Ah, the homework. Well, after the fire was out, I went back to the classroom to retrieve my essay. But it was too late. The smoke had—had disintegrated it!”

The room erupted in a stifled chorus of laughter, but I kept a straight face. “Disintegrated? Well, I suppose we’ll have to file a report with the fire department, then.”

Peter’s face paled, realizing his tale had backfired. “Um...”

“Yes, Peter? Should I call the headmaster? I’m sure he’ll be keen to investigate a fireproof fire.”

He slumped in his seat. “Maybe... maybe it wasn’t that bad of a fire. Just a... spark?”

“Or maybe,” I said, leaning forward, “it was a figment of your very active imagination.”

The class roared with laughter, and Peter’s red face told me I wouldn’t be hearing about any “fires” in the near future.

But I’ll tell you this: of all the students who’ve tried their hand at bending the truth, Peter might be the most creative. Maybe there’s hope for him yet... just not in fire safety.