At 10:33 p.m., distracted by an impromptu kitchen rendition of The Killers’ “Mr. Brightside,” a plume suddenly billowed from the microwave behind us. Was it steam?
We were paying attention. We were, really. I mean, maybe we had glossed over the box’s instructions (microwave for three seconds) in our rush to heat the Pop-Tarts.
Besides, Pop-Tarts aren’t flammable, right?
“PRESS STOP,” someone yelled.
“Open it—” I started.
“NO!”
I prayed the fire alarm wouldn’t go off. But I heard a loud BEEP from above. Then another. And another.
Cherubs sprinted from their rooms and lounges, fear amplified by a GroupMe message from a CAA that read, “Everyone evacuate.”
As we descended the staircase from the second-floor kitchenette, speculation spiraled. Did someone burn popcorn? Was there a real fire? Who did it?
Once outside, my Pop-Tart partner in crime and I came clean, confessing that we might be responsible. Though I worried people might be angry about the disrupted Izzybizza and Barcelogan birthday celebration, I found comfort in knowing I had an accomplice in the alleged alarm triggering.
Cherubs posed for pictures and laughed with friends. They seemed more excited by the fire truck and firefighters than angry about the evacuation. Some joked about the party being so “fire” that the alarm went off.
Then, as we walked back into Jones, I saw it. The microwave plate with four splotchily charred S’mores Pop-Tarts was held up for all to see. Cherubs laughed and took photos of the burned dessert. No hard feelings.
After I heard the alarm was triggered nearly every year (mac-and-cheese with no water, an instructor’s popcorn), I felt better.
Though I no longer use the microwave, my experience was more common than I’d thought. It was my cherub rite of passage.
