Blades of Grass

         On the third floor of the near-ancient school, grass grew from beneath a third story door. Unused for so many years, that elderly wing of the school had become filthy and decrepit; the dusty cobwebs are as old and forgotten as the broken wooden school desks piled in the dark corners. Locked, cracked, and curious, the door in question bore the word “EXIT” painted boldly on it in warning, green letters. From under the door, blades of green grass and young seed heads poked through.
         Once I thought that maybe a bunch of cut grass had blown inside when someone had opened the door. But weeks after I first discovered the door and its grass, the blades were still alive and emerald green. On occasion I’ve put my ear to the door. Barely audible, yet understandable, I’ve heard the tinkling of water and the rustling of wind blowing through a tall grass field. I even dared a peek into the keyhole once. All of a sudden I became aware of the acute silence surrounding me and the way my heart pounded fiercely against my ribs as if to escape its enclosure. Taking a quick breath, I ducked down and gazed into the keyhole to see…nothing. Something was blocking the keyhole.
         Before I attempted to tamper with school property, I decided to do some research. Ignoring the librarian’s suspicious glances, I withdrew a copy of the school’s latest blueprints. The smell of fresh, chemically treated paper wafted up as I unrolled the plans. On the other side of my door (well no one else claimed it) was a layer of bricks and then the wall of the new addition. But it was what I didn’t see on the blueprints that surprised me the most. An idea in mind, I quickly fumbled with an older set of blueprints—the ones that were drawn up before any remodeling had been done. On these plans I found the same thing. Or rather what I didn’t find—my door. Every other door, window, and bubbler appeared on both set of plans, but my door, the third floor door marked exit, didn’t show up on either blueprints. Chewing on my already tattered lip, I pushed a lock of honey brown hair behind my ear and set my chin on my hands to do some thinking.
         On my excursions to the door, I’d never noticed any signs of previous visitors. In fact the air there hung still, and a musty odor always lingered. Only my footprints were fresh in the thick carpet of dust. But surely others had at least noticed the door.
         Once I had tried to ask my best, and only, friend at school, Sabrina, about the door while trying to sound casual.
         “Hey, Sabs, every been in the old wing?” I had asked while picking at the dreaded bologna and mustard sandwich.
         Without looking up from her latest teen-scene magazine, she had replied, “Oh sure, it’s great atmosphere for scaring the piss out of freshman...literally. My dad, the principal, you know, let’s me have lock-ins in that creepy science lab.”
         “Yeah, the lab’s pretty freaky. Who knows what mad science teacher once lurked there,” I had laughed, then continued while nonchalantly stabbing holes in my sandwich with a plastic straw, “but that locked door kitty-corner from the lab is even spookier.”
         Bestowing me with a quick, confused glance before returning to a picture of some half-naked celeb hunk, Sabrina had inquired, “What locked door?”
         “The one with exit painted on it.”
         “What are you talking about? There’s no door like that in the whole school. And I should know, my dad’s the principal after all”
         “Oh, well, uh...” I trailed off. Before Sabrina could get too suspicious, I had promptly changed the subject to something I knew she deemed more deserving of her attention: clothes and boys and music and boys and movies and boys. I never even tried to ask anyone else about the door, as I was afraid that teachers would find out and forbid anyone from going into the old wing. If I got banned from the old wing before finding out what’s behind that oh-so-intriguing door, I’ll end up graduating with a nervous tic from curiosity overflow.
         Finally I decided to clear the keyhole—after all I was actually fixing school property, not vandalizing it. Stopping in front of the door for a few last thoughts on the punishment for ruining school property, I began chewing on my lip as usual. (I used to chew on a strand of hair, but my mother always yelled at me when she caught me, so I chew on my lip instead.)
         “What are you up ta missy?” a scratchy voice echoed up the corridor. Whirling, I saw it was one of the senior janitors. He had the Irish accent like Scotty from Star Trek, except this guy looked a lot meaner. Arms swinging, he sauntered to where I was standing. While he appeared scraggly and gnarly, the arms below his rolled-up, oil-stained sleeves were knots of sinewy muscles.
         Looking up to meet his gleaming, cobalt eyes, I replied innocently and truthfully, “Just thinking. I’m not doing any harm just standing here, am I?”
         “No, but yer up ta somethin’. I can see it—you can’t fool me. Just keep yer nose in yer own business, missy. It’s not safe for you ta be sniffing around the ol’ wing.”
         “What are you talking about? There’s nothing up here but dust and desks.”
         “It ain’t the dirt or the timber that you should be fearin’.”
         “But I still don’t under--”
         “Mind me, missy,” he paused for emphases, “Some doors shouldn’t be opened. Some doors are locked for a reason.”
         And before I could ask or argue or even get another word out, he turned around and sauntered back down the hallway in his worn blue coveralls. Mulling over the abrupt conversation, I thought his words were more pleading than threatening. Then again, who knows what the crazy loon meant. I gave myself one last chance to back out, and turned the offer down.
         From my back jean pocket I pulled out a rusty tool. The one-eyed, three-fingered, short-tempered shop teacher had said the tool was called an awl. Approaching the door, I forgot about the dust and got down on one knee. The shaft of the awl fit perfectly in the dark keyhole, and I began to maneuver it around inside the lock. After a series of dinks and clanks, the awl pushed through suddenly. Just then, I heard a soft thud from the other side of the door. Jerking the awl back in haste, it flew from my hands, skittered across the grimy floor and thunked against the opposite wall. Forgetting the awl’s very existence, my attention focused on the now-clear keyhole. From the keyhole wafted a perfume of lilacs, honeysuckle, and summer breeze. Summer was hard to remember during the blustery ice storms of January that currently battered the school. Before I could hesitate, I peeked inside. The keyhole gave view to a grassy meadow edged by flowering bushes. Running horizontal across my field of vision flowed a small gurgling creek. A few handfuls of downy clouds swam lazily across the turquoise sky. This was the world where the grass beneath the door had come from. With a paradise like that, why would those blades want to push up under the door into a rundown, abandoned wing of a school? Who knows? After all, grass isn’t exactly an intelligent being.
         Reluctantly, I pulled my eye from the keyhole and blinked a few times. How long I had been enthralled by the view, I didn’t know, but it felt like hours. Forgetting the pleading cries of pain from my neck, back, and knees, I contemplated about how to unlock the door. Then I recalled the thud I had heard when had I shoved the awl through. What came to mind were scenes from movies where the captor locks his prisoners in a room and then leaves the key in the lock. I was positive it was the key that had fallen on the other side of the door. Scrambling, I snatched up the awl. In the back of my mind I heard the shop teacher preaching about handling tools with respect as I bent the tip of the long-shafted awl. By pushing the tip at an angle on the floor, I succeeded in gouging the dusty tile and, more importantly, curving the awl to resemble a hook.
         Keeping in mind that the doorknob was on the right side of the door, I pushed the awl under the door about two feet from the right doorjamb. I discovered I was a little too eager when I smashed my thumb into the bottom of the door. Swearing under my breath, I began to carefully work the improvised hook to the right, sliding it an inch at a time. Just as I was about to doubt my logic…clank! Ah ha! First lifting, then turning the hook, I pulled down and back. Dragging the key, I slid the bent awl out from under the door. For a second, the key or the hook caught on something, then tada! The key stuck out from beneath the door on top of a few broken blades of grass. In one sweep, I seized the key and flung the awl aside.
         For a moment I simply sat and gazed at the key. It was very plain. In my hand rested a piece of shaped and cut copper tinged green from age. Shrugging at its unexpected insipidness, I thrust the key into the keyhole. As I began to turn the key, I heard an imaginary drum roll rumbling softly yet building in intensity the further I turned the key. Click. No flash of light. No hallelujah chorus from the heavens. A bit disappointed, I removed the key, turned the dusty knob, and tentatively pulled open the mystery door. A ray of sunlight plunged through the opening as a playful breeze stirred up the dust in the corridor. After a swift look-around to make sure the coast was clear, I eased around the open door and slipped inside. Before I went any further, I pushed the door closed and locked it, leaving the key in the lock.
         Inhaling until my lungs felt as if they would burst from my chest, I filled myself with sweet summer air. The sun was gentle as it warmed my upturned face. The slight gust of wind played with my hair. The sound of water burbling over smooth rocks reminded me of pleasant chiming. What was there to fear here? Why would anyone or anything want to leave this place?
         I giggled as the grass began to tickle my toes…but how could that be if I was wearing shoes? Looking down, it took a moment for my brain to process what was happening. My feet were gone—somewhere below the surface of the ground. My ankles and legs where turning green, and the green continued to spread upwards like a rash in fast-forward. I struggled to pull my feet up and out, but every attempted step resulted in a tearing pain. All my effort only landed me on my butt. My fingers then began to take root. Rivulets of tears streamed down my face as I strived to cry out. But the only sound that emerged from my open, greening mouth was the sound of grass rustling in the wind.
         As the hell in heaven’s clothing absorbed me, I realized the real origin of the grass under the door. Those blades of grass that stuck out beneath the door were a warning…not an invitation.