Virginia requires a schoolwide fire drill once a month every month during the school year. There are, including August but not June, approximately ten months in the school year. By the first day of our freshman year of high school, we have already participated in ninety drills, give or take a few.

The purpose of these calculations, besides blowing your mind with my sophisticated mathematical understanding, was to drive home the concept that, if ever there really was a fire, we would all know what to do.

We all know so well that even the teachers groan when the piercing wail permeates the peaceful discussions of the classroom. Dragging me out of the “warmth”–don’t even get me started on the feeble attempts to warm this institution–into icy winds doesn’t drill an escape plan into my mind. Half the time, I don’t even know if the alarm is signaling the tediousness of another drill or the emergency of a fire, thus removing the urgency from the situation. Students drag their feet, step into bathrooms, chat with friends and ignore any remnant of a crisis the drill might have held.

When we hit high school, students are done with fire alarms. The system is the same; the only difference is the building, but even that isn’t hard. You just follow the flood of students escaping unenthusiastically towards the exits. And the likelihood of an actual fire occurring during a class that you’ve practiced evacuation for previously is low.

Thus, the drill is no longer a necessity. It doesn’t evoke worry or determination in the occupants of the school. It’s not something that holds any importance to us.

They need to stop happening.

Not altogether; I understand that they hold some importance for somebody, somewhere. But ten a year? Try four. Once a semester, our short-term memory will be reminded of what the banshee caught in a little red box stands for. We will leave the building, we will be praised for getting out three seconds faster than three months ago, and everyone leaves, safe, unburnt and happy.