Of pyrotechnics and terrorism

"I was born in South Africa, but the government says I'm not allowed to check 'African' on the census. Apparently 'African' is a term you call black people!" Tim's potent white rage spills forth and floods the back of the classroom with racial tension. It is a Thursday afternoon and the Experience Science participants are scattered about the classroom, milling around and experiencing little more than social anxiety as Mr. Job rummages around the supplies room for the constituents of a kitchen pyrotechnics lab.

I watch as Michael Daly oscillates playfully between two tables, and much of my conscious thought is occupied by the sour jelly beans stowed in my bag and how I am going to eat them at some point this session. Preparation takes a while, and by the time everything is ready I have already touched Jane inappropriately, mentioned something about Jamaicans to Kinross, spotted a guy who bore uncanny resemblance to the local Guy Ritchie and held a denial-wracked conversation with Jason about a bio presentation.

With everything in order, Mr. Job stands before a table while the rest of us collect around him, interested in his next move. I establish myself as an onlooker by wedging myself between Nick and Ernie.

"This," says Sir, brandishing a plastic container of white powder, "is icing sugar." Conveniently absent from this introduction is the bit that indicates the hazardous substance the sugar is laced with. Nevertheless, several people elect to dip their fingers in the container to test that it contains real icing sugar, and not some cheap, black-market substitute.

"Who has a good memory here?"

"Me, me!"

"You're going to have to remember that this is icing sugar. You'll need to be able to tell me what this is when I ask you -"

"Ask him tomorrow, sir!"

"- within the timespan of Now."

During this exchange I find myself being gradually pushed back by Ernie's imposing presence. I opt to bite his shoulder, after which everything seems to spin slightly and I am required to massage a lump on my head. "What you were hit with was the equivalent of the Northern Hemisphere in sheer head size, Mary," states Timothy resourcefully. It takes about five seconds for Ernie to process this and then become offended by it.

"Ow," I say. "Why is your head so big?"

"Shut up! Serves you right for biting me!"

I bite Nick after this to demonstrate that his head poses a much lesser threat than Ernie's, and also that his hoodie is tastier than a dress shirt.

Sir picks up a small plastic bag filled with a white powder that resembles the icing sugar. "This," twirls it in his hands, "is saltpeter. They use it in pyrotechnics, and -"

"That's two rand fifty a bag, sir."

"Rob is obsessed with saltpeter! He's always burning the stuff in his room..." But Rob is obsessed with many things, Tim. Saltpeter isn't the first, and definitely won't be the last.

Sir lights the Bunsen burner, tears the baggie open and pours some onto a tile. He tips the burner so that the flame touches the small white pile.

"Amazing," someone gasps. Their caustic sarcasm lingers in the air as the saltpeter sits on the tile, oblivious.

"As you can see, hardly impressive," says sir. But he is already spooning icing sugar into a mortar. "Three parts sugar to two parts saltpeter," he mutters, mixing said ingredients in the mortar and beating them into submission with the pestle.

Upon ignition, the mixture fizzles and sputters, producing a lovely tongue of yellowish flame.

Sir motions to the various bottles of substances lined up on the table and explains how photons released by electrons in ions have different wavelengths, producing different colours. He also mentions why he will not be using a substance that harms asthmatics and a substance that injures people who are allergic to shellfish.

"We're using that, though," he points gleefully to a bottle of orange powder. "But that'll just cause cancer."

Many minutes and several demonstrations later, we are left to make our own pyrotechnic mixtures.

I hover around with my beaker, purposefully walking into people as I search for interesting things to dump into the vile lumpy mass already present in my glass. The most interesting thing turns out to be the charcoal as I heap gratuitous spoonful of it into my beaker in appreciation.

“You like the charcoal, don’t you?” observes Guy-Ritchie lookalike.

“Oh yes,” I mumble. “I’m a big fan of it. Charcoal, yeah. Burnt wood...carbon, yes. Great stuff.”

Just then, a piercing yell rips though our collective consciousness. “I’ve got it on my hands! I’ve got it on my hands!”

“It’s just magnesium powder, you won’t die or anything,” I say to a distressed Rowan, who is soiling himself in horror as he stares at the purple powder mottling his hands.

"You tried to wedge that stuff out with the spoon, didn't you?" I grin. "Ha. I did the same thing. Stupid hard magnesium."

A series of otterlike lowing indicates that Dominic has again produced up to five seconds of unbearable laughter. I cast a glance in his general direction, discovering that he and Jane have formed a tag team for putting ethanol into their beakers, resulting in an intriguing, sludge-like substance. I manage to contain some of my distaste as Dominic snickers hatefully. "I hope this thing'll set alight," he laughs, blissfully unaware that the potential explosion may severely impair his ability to do it ever again.

"Where's the cancer-causing stuff?"
"Um sir, is the beaker supposed to heat up?"
"Mine's going to be the coolest EVER!"

After a few minutes of milling around the lab concocting cool sparkly stuff, we are finally ready to test our mixtures. Rowan opts to go first, eagerly tipping his mixture onto the tile as a couple of other people prepare the Bunsen burner. Pushing the burner into the powder seems to yield the much-desired effect of nothing happening, but Rowan, wrapped in denial of his mixture's lack of enthusiasm, seeks to try again and again until what does happen is something other than 'fuck-all'. This point in time is never reached, even after substituting the Bunsen burner for a candle.

The rest of the group, dismayed with the absence of ignition, seek to burn their own cocktails, secretly pleased that the proverbial bar has been lowered to being nonexistent. Various powders are lit with varying degrees of success, the effect of which are fluctuating levels of envy as the sparks range from "awesome" to "retarded".

Some people, annoyed at the crowd gathered around the tile, decide to break off and form their own faction for blowing things up. Soon most of the club is gathered around one of the back tables and not the sink.

A couple of members cast some longing glances at the tile, which by now is having a big, malcoloured seizure in the corner. Sir translates curiosity to genuine concern for the tile's wellbeing. "Don't worry about it," he assures us, "it'll be fine."

The dramatic irony in his words only manifests later when the tile against the wall bursts into angry pillars of flame that reach heights of at least 40cm.
"Eeek!"
"Holy shit!"
"We're going to die!"
The sights and smells of panic and alarm saturate the smoke-filled air. I hover around, ambivalent about the chaos.

"Make way!"

Sir hurries to switch off the gas and, uncertain as to where he is headed, I take a step back, positioning myself exactly between sir's trajectory to the mains. This proves somewhat disadvantageous to the lifespans of the people in the school. Thankfully, sir gets to the mains in time, resulting in local newsagent having one less scandalous story to consider for the headlines of tomorrow morning's paper.

An autopsy of the incident reveals that Nick, seeking to turn the gas off the one outlet, had instead turned the gas on full-blast in the other outlet. This sounds suspiciously removed from an accident, and Nick is branded as the pariah of the day in addition to being an arsonist. My swift, maldirectioned move stamps me as his accomplice and a terrorist of a lesser caliber. The ball of fire leaves its mark on the classroom as a black, 2D spike in the topology of the stukkie wall near the back sink. The wooden box is also tainted with soot, but fortunately its shape and contents are unaffected.

"At least you left your mark on the school," Tim tells Nick, as most of the other members leave the vicinity. The entire lower level of the building is now filled with opaque, art-film-esque smoke.

"Ooh ooh! Did you get a video?"

"Yeah...but Daly got in the way. Did you see him? The thing goes "BOOM" and instead of moving away like a rational person, he goes and stands right in front of the fire!"

"You never know. Maybe he has a subconscious death wish."

"No. How about, he has a subconscious wish to RUIN A PERFECTLY GOOD VIDEO?"

"You seem a lot angrier at your mediocre video than his potentially lost life. I see where your priorities lie."

"Well, at least that was an interesting session."

"How does it feel like to be an arsonist?"

"Argh, I'm never going to hear the end of it from sir."

"How do you know?"

"I asked."

Nick snaps a picture of sir walking into the distance, fading to white.

I do not get around to eating my jelly beans.