Don't Think Too Much

The beginning of a new semester. I have been placed in a drama class packed with stupid people, taught by (God help us) Mr. Bennet. Fed up with his inneffective teaching, I spy a blue mat that is slanted to provide a very nice slide. I crawl towards it, finding that the floor is slanted in tiers, like a very steep ramp, or an auditorium. I have difficulty making my way up it, elbowing people aside. They begin to follow me, seeing that the slide looks like fun.
Justin Prentice pokes his head out of a side door. He beckons to me, knowing that I want to get out of this place, away from these lemmings. I let them all pass me, then slip through the door.
It is an attic-like room. It is dusty and crowded with the sort of things people can't bear to give away, but can no longer keep in their living space. A rocking horse, faded photographs, old linens. Justin, Cynthia and I gather ourselves for a few minutes, then decide to slip out the window and away.
The window is narrow, but I slip out sideways and crouch unsteadily on the roof. Below is a guard, meant to keep the students confined. I bearwalk along the slanted roof to the opposite end, where the guard can no longer see me. I lower myself from the gutter, past a kitchen window, where I can hear the cooks chatting busily, and onto the ground. Sneaking over green grass and gravel roads, I head up the mountain.

Having found what I needed on top of the mountain, I fashion a bobsled out of a garbage can and slide back down, shooting past the camp where I was held captive (I hope Justin and Cynthia made it out) and into the forest.

I find myself in a sort of desert-designed cluster of bulidings, all concrete and whitewashed. Someone leads tours of the complex while the sun sets over a wasteland. We see the piping laid for an external shower system, or perhaps a watery playground. It looks like fun.
We enter a testing building, the inside of which is dusyy and dim. The decor is primitive - a dirt floor, crude wooden counters and shelves. Here, a myriad of rats are held in small cages. I was not there long, as I found it extremely cruel, but I remember that one very large and vicious white rat was put in a cage with a number of smaller, brown rats. It killed many of them, while sparing a choice few.

I head for the exit of the compound in disgust. A moon has risen in a dusky sky. The buildings are still lit with a rosy glow from the west. As I walk past the open door of a classroom, the professor calls me in. He says, "Miss, maybe you can help us solve these questions." I hesitate, as the symbols on the board mean absolutely nothing to me. But he seems adamant, so I seat myself, all thirty eyes of the class on me.
I set to work on the first problem, recognizing a few concepts from calculus, but soon I am stumped. He writes the second question on the board:

"Am I afraid of Industrialism? Or am I afraid of Priests?"

Priests came before industrialism, so obviously one is more scared of them. But that makes no sense.

I give up, confused and humiliated. I am not their calculus saviour. In the back of the class, I seat myself to the brother of an old friend of mine. He is now fat, smelly and creepy. He asks me invasive questions, I make my excuses and leave hurriedly.