Something was wrong. I could feel it. I think the whole class could feel it. The room had been completely silent for bordering on five minutes, ever since the announcement over the loudspeaker told us to go to advisory when class let out.
"Oh, God", Madame Hanlon said, sitting down at her computer.
"What?" we all asked.
"Do you remember Mrs. Brennan?"
Maria Renna crossed herself.
By this point, I could feel the tension in the air. Now I know what it's like when authors describe tension that's so thick it could be cut with a knife. That's when the silence started. Madame Hanlon signalled for us to pack up and wait for the bell. She wouldn't tell us what had happened. The silence was finally broken by the electronic buzzing of the bell ten minutes later, then the sound of two girls murmuring "Au revoir, Madame" as the students dumbly filed out of the classroom.

When I reached Mr. Lohstreter's room, he confirmed my fears. Mrs. Brennan, my honors Biology teacher, the victim of a stroke and a cancerous brain tumor, had died that morning. I looked around the room at my friends to guage their reactions. Why was I the only one who seemed ready to cry? We knew she wasn't going to recover. The doctors assured us of that. We knew she was slowly deteriorating. We didn't even know if she knew that she had visitors. My mom and I had bought her sympathy cards two weeks previous, with the intention of getting the class to sign them and sending them to her husband, who would in turn read them to her. They were supposed to go once a week, for six weeks. Only one card had gone out.

When I arrived in class, there were only two others. Dr. Fishel, head of the science department and our substitute teacher, noticed my expression and asked if I was going to be OK. I said I was fine. She asked me if I wanted the cards back. That's when the tears came. It wasn't a flood or a deluge. It was just a trickle, easily controlled by a series off strategically used blinks, but they were still tears. Mrs. Brennan was the first person close to me to die, and I had no idea how to deal the situation. I sat in class, silently writing down how I felt in the French notebook I forgot to put back in my locker, ignoring my friend Mariam's annoyance at her inability to find the answers to the homework in the Jesus Lizard textbook. The class slowly filled in, one by one, nearly everyone silent. Dr. Fishel knew that we weren't going to have class that period. Ours was the only honors biology class Mrs. Brennan had taught. After about thirty minutes of akward discussion on the subject of twins, she dismissed us. I have no idea how I'm going to concentrate during play practice today. I can barely even think straight now. If you're still reading this, thank you.