*Disclaimer–not everything in this story is true

October sixth, two thousand and twenty two–the day of The Great Groton Exodus. Remember the date. 

The grand schoolhouse sat stoic. The polished hallways untrod, the classrooms abandoned, the forum hauntingly quiet, and the library truly quiet for the first time since Groton’s conception. Wait, look! A lonely lightbulb in the Dean’s office, a scarce sign of vitality. Mrs. Petroskey is hunched over a desk, poring over the endless list of names, frustrated. With a defeated sign, she picks up the clipboard and reluctantly trods towards the glass gates, each step heavier, heavier, and heavier, as she prepares to pass judgment on all.

Screams! Yelling! Crying! Begging! Loud music devoid of any lyrical quality! The odd impression of Mr. HD’s Spanish.

The students descended upon her like vultures feasting on a carcass, questions ricocheting in the crisp fall air:

“Mrs. Petroskey, are there spaces left?”

“Mrs. Petroskey, all my friends are already on the bus!”

“Mrs. Petroskey, will there be more buses?” 

It was a sight to behold, mountains and oceans of Groton students surging towards the Athletic center, jumping over rocks, running on walls, swinging from trees. Packs of 2nd formers, hordes of third formers, mobs of 4th formers, and the impending cloud of seniors. Oh, bless the poor soul who loses his footing amidst the stampede. 

Curiously, as Mrs. Petroskey approaches the three buses, whose engines have long since been drowned out by the maelstrom of noise, the students parted. Like the Red Sea before Moses, they parted. 

Names were called. One by one.

Soon, the three buses are packed–seats filled four to a row, bathrooms jammed, students squatting in the central aisle, and the odd teen lying in the overhead compartment. The hydraulic doors slammed shut. Remaining students on the sidewalk threw themselves desperately at the bus, to no avail. The bright yellow paint of the bus mocked them as they slumped to the ground, tears trickling down their faces. You’d think they’d been left off of Noah’s Ark, doomed to die in the impending flood.

The engines roared, the students screamed, the buses took off. The students stormed behind the rear lights with fraught urgency. 

Some jumped on moving trains, some packed six or seven into a hijacked 4 seater, the rocketry club even shot Sam Winkler in a rocket. Some students trailed along the highway aimlessly, condemned to Groton for all eternity. Some students set out with food, water, and camping equipment eastbound.

And legend has it that Will Vrattos himself ran all 37 miles to salvation (Boston).

The Great Groton Exodus 10/6/22