Stuyvesant Experiences Insane Blackout!

Today, on top of the usual 104 hours of homework, 99 tests, and 1000 new freshmen, Stuyvesant had another surprise in store. Right in the middle of fourth period, which is unfortunately my lunch, all the power in the building shut off.

In a retelling of the blackout, a freshman told me, “My AP Biology teacher was handing out a pop quiz and I heard a crash, but that was just some kid fainting at the sight of a pop quiz. Then, the lights started to dim, just like how my chances of getting into Harvard are dimming.”

I look at him blankly. “Bro, you’re a freshman on your first day of high school…”

“Yeah, and now my chances of getting into Harvard are gone. And so is the power in this building,” he replies, while holding up his phone flashlight to his face.

“You’re giving a newspaper interview, not telling ghost stories around a campfire,” I scoff at him.

“Ooh!! Ghosts… good idea.” As I stare at him in confusion, he grabs a curtain, cuts two holes in it and puts it over his head. Then, he runs out of the room, still waving around his phone flashlight. Disclaimer: We are not responsible for any students affected by any ghosts.

After leaving my previous interview, I decided to scour the hallway. While writing her college essays, one senior agreed to speak to me. The only light during our interview was her computer. “I don’t really care. I mean, this is basically every day at Stuy at this point. Last year, we had like 10 fires and a semester of snail Wi-Fi. So, how is this really any different?” she asked me.

“Fair, I guess,” I responded. We sat in silence for what felt like three hours, listening to her (honestly) very good typing ASMR. “Um so, what is your essay about?” I ask.

“My essay? Yeah, so it’s about the meaning of…” she stops for a second. I look at her attentively, trying to seem interested in the meaning of uh, something. Suddenly, she screams, “NO NO NO PLEASE” as she hits her computer a couple of times. Interesting addition to the typing ASMR.

“Huh?” I remark in confusion. Then, her computer dies and turns black. “Oh…” I say out loud in realization.

“My 23 page essay… gone. My light source… gone. And, oh my god…” she stops for a moment to wail. “Harvard… gone” she cries. Okay, somehow, we’re back to Harvard. 

I attempt to comfort her and thank her for her time. I try to make a joke (Humor Department representation!), telling her that “getting out of here is going to be fun” as I force a laugh and try not to trip as I get up.

“No, it won’t,” she says depressed. 

As I leave our interview, I spot a beam of light in the distance. Am I going to heaven? Or… wait, did someone bring a lamp to school? “LIGHT!!” I shout, waving my hands to get their attention. 

They look up. “That’s not my name,” they reply, giving me a death stare.

“Uh yeah, I know. I mean, light. There?” I point to the lamp.

“Do you not bring a lamp to school?” they ask me confused.

“No…? Why would I?”

Suddenly, the doors to all the classrooms open and 1000 tiny freshmen step out into the hall, including the ghost guy from earlier. They’re each armed with a large lamp that’s probably double their size. The pole is in each of their hands and the light is pointed toward the ceiling. They all begin to tilt their lights to me, as if I’m the main character (because I am). I blink, trying to adjust my eyes to the light. Suddenly, they all speak in unison, “YOU DON’T BRING A LAMP TO SCHOOL?” Weird.

“I DON’T BRING A LAMP TO SCHOOL, OKAY?” As I finish my sentence, they all begin chasing me down the hall, with their lamps in hand. I manage to whisper, “Um, it’s nice to see the freshmen make friends, I guess?” as I run down the hall. 

I sprint by the senior, who is laughing at my suffering. “I told you getting out of here wouldn’t be fun,” she yells. Maybe she’ll have a new essay topic, at least?

I consider my options. I could run down to the pool, hoping the freshmen will either stop chasing me, or chase me into the pool and get electrocuted with their own lamps. Yeah, that might get me kicked out of The Spectator. Okay, maybe I could lock myself in a bathroom until the power comes back on, hoping they leave eventually? I know, that sounds like a really great plan. 

I spot a bathroom and look back. I have a good 15 feet between them and me. I quickly open the door to the bathroom, run into it, and then pull it close. Almost suddenly, I hear clawing at the door.

“Come out…” one of them, who I think is the ghost guy, says creepily. “We only want Geometry test answers.”

“Yeah, and to get you a lamp!” another calls.

“No, I think I’ll stay in here,” I responded, sitting on the cold nasty floor of the fifth floor girls’ bathroom in fear.

“Then we’ll stay here!” they yell, once again, in unison.

Seriously? I move closer to the door to perhaps eavesdrop on them. I need something for this article. Anything, really.

“Do you think she knows the cause of the blackout?” one of them whispers. Great, this’ll be juicy, I hope.

“No… I didn’t tell her,” another replies.

“WHY DID WE DO THIS AGAIN?” someone yells. 

“Shh! Whisper or she’ll hear you,” they scold. 

“Okay, remember the half floor? It’s so nasty and small. We took all the lamps in the school to put in the senior atrium,” their leader mumbles. So those weren’t even their lamps? But, the senior atrium? Why?

Almost hearing my thoughts, someone yells, “WHY THE SENIOR ATRIUM AGAIN?” Must be that same kid from earlier.

“SHH! Remember, flooding the senior atrium with light would have driven the seniors from the atrium to the half floor. Then, we could get the atrium and they would have the half floor,” they answer. Well, I guess their plan worked because they drove out the whole school.

“Why don’t we go to the atrium now? There’s no one there,” someone suggests.

“NO! We have to get rid of every last senior. Otherwise they might retake the atrium! IT’S JUST US AND YOU LIL BRO!” they yell at me, pounding on the door.

“I’m not your lil bro!” I yell back. 

“We’re not leaving, lil bro!” they say. 

How unfortunate. Realizing I have to stay in here, I sink to the floor further and sigh in desperation. Well, at least I should be somewhat productive here, right? I whip out my computer and balance it on one of the toilets. Well, at least I think it’s a toilet. I can’t see in here but hey, it definitely smells like one. Don’t judge me… it’s basically a desk.

I then pull out the document for this Spectator article and start typing. I have about a 53% success rate with typing in the dark. I blame it on the sound of 1000 freshmen clawing at the door and my existential fear of them. So, as I type out this final paragraph, I am calling to you, a kindhearted Stuyvesant student to please come rescue me. I am still in the fifth floor girls bathroom, alone, frightened and frankly, very annoyed. I beg of you, please.