It looks like a classroom, but today there'll be no maths, English or history. It is a Wednesday towards the end of 2016's final term, and no ordinary school day. Today's curriculum will be taken largely from life experience, and the lessons will revolve around confronting simulations of what these students' lives might be like if they don't think before they act.

This group of about 30 year 10 students from St Peters Lutheran College, in the inner-west Brisbane suburb of Indooroopilly, has travelled across the city to the Royal Brisbane and Women's Hospital (RBWH), at Herston in the inner-north. All aged 15 or thereabouts, the boys wear short-sleeved white shirts with maroon ties, grey shorts and black shoes, while the girls wear long white dresses with vertical maroon stripes.

Just like in any average high-school classroom, the front row of seats is empty – other than two teachers overseeing the group – and the back row is mostly occupied by boys, who provide a constant stream of whispered wisecracks to one another.

Today, the hospital is hosting what's known as the PARTY Program. The acronym stands for Prevent Alcohol and Risk-Related Trauma in Youth. It's a concept licensed from an initiative that began 30 years ago at Sunnybrook Hospital in Toronto, Canada, and now operates out of 15 sites across Australia, including every state and territory besides the Northern Territory. PARTY began at the RBWH in 2010, and since then, 51 schools and more than 3000 students have participated in a day-long, intensive itinerary of hands-on activities and talks designed to open these bright young eyes to some of the difficult situations and decisions they'll be exposed to as they edge from adolescence into young adulthood.

"Some of the things that you see, hear, feel and smell today may give you some feelings you haven't had before," says statewide program coordinator Jodie Ross. "It's quite normal that you might feel a bit off at points. If you feel a bit ill, or feel that you might faint, please let us know, and don't run away to the toilet. We have had a young boy who fainted in there, and it was really hard to get him out." At this, she is met with a few chuckles. "Today, we want you to learn from other peoples' poor choices, because we want to see you come back here as doctors, nurses or allied health people – but definitely not as patients."'

Ross has worked here as a nurse since 1996, and still puts in the occasional shift with the trauma team when needed, but coordinating this program at hospitals and schools across Queensland is her full-time job. Laidback in nature, the 41-year-old mother of two marries a warm presence with a wry sense of humour, yet some of what she has seen inside this building across two decades has informed her own parenting. "I have a 13-year-old boy and an 11-year-old girl, and they already know they're never allowed to ride a motorbike, or even think about getting on one," she says with a laugh. "I think I've scared them off, which is great."

The morning's first guest speaker is Danielle Brown, a paramedic who has been with the Queensland Ambulance Service for more than a decade. She wears dark green cover-alls, pink lipstick and bright red fingernails. "I'm here to tell you about consequences," she says, as the screen behind her flicks onto an image of a car wrapped around a pole, surrounded by emergency services workers. "If you ever do find yourself in a situation with us, please just know that we're not here to make things worse for you, or get you in trouble. We're here to look after you."

When she asks whether any of the students have visited the emergency department, a few of the boys raise their hands; all sporting injuries, as it turns out. Brown talks about alcohol and drug use, and about assault injuries. "Aggression isn't cool," she tells the group before she leaves. "For those guys out there trying to impress girls, can I just tell you – we're really after the gentlemen, the funny guys. There's no point in trying to impress someone by being 'tough'."

Ross moves onto discussing sexually transmitted infections, and the kids crack up at how she frames the lifelong consequences that can come from a few minutes of fun, such as having to tell every sexual partner from that point on, "I've got a bit of herpes – hope you don't mind!"

Although none of these students have their learners' licences yet, she dwells on the topic of road safety for some time – which makes sense, since the Queensland Department of Transport and Main Roads is the program's primary funding source: in August, it provided an additional $1.54 million to keep the statewide initiative topped up for another three years. During this part of the presentation, the screen shows dashcam footage from cars where teenage drivers were distracted by their phones. These videos are horrifying to watch: the drivers' eyes remain in their laps, even as the car veers outside the painted lines and towards needless trauma.

When Ross asks whether any of the students' parents send text messages while driving, and a few hands are raised, one of the boys in the back row whispers to his mate, "Snitches get stitches!". They are told that the sensible antidote is to put your phone in the boot, so that you're not tempted to look down at it if a text message arrives. "And now," says Ross, leading two of the three colour-coded groups outside into an adjoining courtyard, "we're going to get you drunk."

The method of delivery in this case is an ingenious bit of technology called Fatal Vision. When worn, these goggles warp the students' sight to mimic the effects of being intoxicated with a blood alcohol concentration (BAC) of between 0.15 (three times the legal limit for "open-licence" drivers) and 0.2. (The legal BAC for learner and P-plate drivers is zero.) The goggle-wearing students struggle to complete basic tasks such as playing catch at a short distance, or walking toe-to-toe along a straight line painted onto the pavers.

It's more likely than not that some of these kids have been drunk before, but between the laughter, there's a strong message. "While that was a bit of fun, there is a serious side to it," says Ross when the group is back inside. "There are people driving on our streets who are seeing like that. If your friend has had a few beers, would you want to get in the car with him if he was seeing what you were just seeing then?" As one, the students answer with a resounding no.

Before breaking for morning tea, there's a visit from a softly spoken emergency physician, who says that she spends half of each workday looking after people who have experienced trauma. "Please don't think, 'It will never happen to me,' " she tells them, with a twinge of sadness, before returning to the never-ending stream of patients that flow through the RBWH's emergency department doors: on average, about 200 a day, many of them young people.

The Canadian emergency nurse who created this program back in 1986 is named Joanne Banfield. Sick of seeing adolescent patients admitted to Sunnybrook Hospital with preventable injuries, she envisaged a hands-on learning environment to fill a gap in traditional classroom education, to help Toronto's teenagers connect cause with traumatic effect. Her solution? Show, don't tell.

"She's a very motivated and inspiring person," says Ross, who has met Banfield at conferences in Canada and Australia. "She wanted kids to be able to experience what it's like, rather than just being taught what it's like, and that's what has happened internationally." The program now operates out of more than 100 locations, having been taken up in Japan, Brazil, Germany and the United States as well, and its website claims that the message has been delivered to more than a million young people across 30 years.

At the RBWH, five of the St Peters students have red dots affixed to their visitor lanyards. On joining Ross at the front of the room, they learn that they'll be temporarily disabled during morning tea to simulate the effects of being on crutches; in a wheelchair; blinded by a head injury; and having an arm amputated, or an arm broken – all possibilities if they happened to be travelling in a car that hits another object at high speed.

During this break, they are momentarily robbed of some of their independence, and have to rely on their friends to help them. The boy who is temporarily blinded by a bandage, for instance, has to be led around by the hands of his female classmates – though, being a teenage boy, perhaps that part is a nice bonus. "It sucked so bad!" he says, not entirely convincingly.

There is a fine line between offering information and lecturing, and the adults who address the PARTY Program are careful to frame their knowledge in practical terms, rather than browbeating or being condescending to their young charges. They don't deny the allure of drinking alcohol or drug use – both reasonably common activities among curious minds seeking to experiment with altered states and social acceptance – but encourage caution, moderation and risk-mitigation.

"A lot of these students are either potential leaders, or have already shown leadership," says Rachael Turnbull, year 10 coordinator at St Peters, explaining that spaces on the program are limited. "I tried to get a boy and a girl from each form class, so that when we go back, they can influence others to make better choices. We're trying to maximise what happens in here, to spread that message out. They'll be able to have the most impact to influence others in a positive way."

A slight girl named Emmerson Bartlett sits in the row in front of Eli Flynn, who constantly flicks his dark fringe away from his eyes. Emmerson occasionally turns to glare and shush Eli and his mate. She is quick to shield her eyes from the gory photos that maxillofacial surgeon Dr Howard Cho flashes up on the screen during a matter-of-fact presentation about the effects of fists and glass on the human skull. "We fix broken faces," Cho tells them. Emmerson's eyes remain focused on the floor until Ross announces that the bloody images of split eyeballs and exposed nasal cavities have finished.

From there, it's a swift, nurses'-pace walk to an elevator large enough to fit the green colour-coded group of nine students – six girls, three boys – and their adult guardians. Inside a room dedicated to treating trauma patients who arrive through the emergency department, machines beep at regular intervals. The ambient temperature is warmer than the airconditioned spaces elsewhere, while on a whiteboard near a door are some notes hastily scrawled in green: "Ped vs car. 16yo. Head injury." Their guide for this activity is Rhys Higgo, a registered emergency nurse, who has a bushranger's beard, a styled haircut, and a right arm that's held in a sling: a genuine injury, not a fake one.

Higgo breaks the students into small teams with specific roles: airways, procedures, circulation, team leaders. They all don yellow disposable scrubs, and then the "patient" – a dummy – arrives on a trolley pushed by trauma nurse practitioner Michael Handy. "He's intoxicated, and he was hit by a car," says Handy. Switching gears, Higgo begins imparting a sense of urgency to mimic the frantic pace of an actual trauma room. "This chap is not too well," he says at a fast clip. "The first thing we need to do is get rid of that shirt. I don't like it anyway."

The boys jump in and get hands-on quickly, adapting to the new situation – one of them uses surgical scissors to cut the shirt away – then move on to checking the pulse. Some of the girls hug the walls, overwhelmed. In order to perform a full physical examination, they need to roll the patient onto his side, where they find bloody wounds on his back. "He's got some bark off here," says Higgo, pointing at damaged skin on knees and lower legs. The patient's heart rate has dropped below 30 beats per minute, and so the students line up to take turns performing CPR, with Handy loudly encouraging them to use significant force on the chest, as they would with a real person.

"We're losing him!" says Eli, clapping his hands and grinning. "Let's go!" He's performing the well-worn tropes of any Hollywood ER scene, and apparently enjoying himself. But he's right: the students are losing the patient, who is not responding to the chest compressions. Higgo explains that the paramedics found his wallet in his pocket, and in the meantime, the local police have found his place of residence and contacted his parents, who have been notified that their son has been in a serious car accident.

"For argument's sake, we've been doing CPR for quite a long time – when do we stop, guys? Where do we go from here?" asks Higgo, who is met with a few beats of silence. "Bit of a moral dilemma, isn't it? Hard one." Handy asks the team leaders – both girls, who have been rendered timid by the sudden reality of this situation – to initiate the conversation among the team, and if everyone is in agreement, it's up to them to call the time of death: in this case, 11.44am.

Then comes another hard one: notifying the "parents" – who are waiting just outside the room – of the death of their son, and then preparing for them to see the body, once the team has preserved the patient's dignity by removing tubes and cleaning up the blood. "This is the last time the parents will see him," says Higgo quietly. "They will need to identify the body, and say goodbye. We give them as long as they need. This room's a no-go zone until the parents are ready."

Higgo shows them a dark-green body bag, which is exactly the same as the ones used for the RBWH patients who don't make it, and who are kept in cold storage in the morgue. Given the circumstances of the 16-year-old's death, this will be a case for the coroner, says the bearded nurse. "Bit tragic, hey?" he adds, as the dumbfounded kids take it all in. "Pretty ordinary. This chap was 16. He had a fair bit of grog, and ended up in quite an ordinary predicament."

Eli and his mates aren't making jokes now. One of the girls suddenly leaves the room with a teacher. She looks flushed and stressed. Maybe it's the raised temperature in here. Maybe it's something else.

In the early afternoon, Jodie Ross tells the group that they're now due elsewhere in the hospital, where they'll meet with a raft of therapists to learn a bit about how trauma patients learn to walk, talk, speak, eat and function again. "We're going to take the stairs," says Ross. "Do you know why? Because we can."

As the clock nears 3pm, there are two more unfamiliar faces to look upon. Peter de Wet pushes his wheelchair-bound daughter, Charmaine, into the room. "I'm here to give you a message of hope, and I'm going to give you a bit of a reality check," he begins. De Wet is a stocky bloke with white hair who was born in South Africa and works as a high school teacher. He is used to speaking with young people, and he has told this particular story many times. Up on the screen flashes an image of Charmaine on a beach before the trauma: grinning, vibrant, full of life. Seventeen years old. She could be any of the girls in this room, or perhaps an older sister. "Charmaine was a patient here, going on five years ago," he tells the group. "She had a catastrophic motor vehicle accident, in which the car fell on her head, and she lost half her brain.

Then the screen depicts a series of images showing Charmaine's wrecked face against the dull white of a hospital pillow, after she rolled her car in a singlevehicle accident one night in February 2012 while driving home alone, just 12 days after getting her licence. "She spent 53 weeks here, and at the Princess Alexandra Hospital," says her dad, looking up at the screen. "She was given a three per cent survival rate, and we were told that she'd never eat, walk or talk."

Today, Charmaine is 21. She has long, curly brown locks, a cheeky smile and bright yellow shoes. She can eat, and she can walk – in short, shuffling bursts, as she demonstrates to applause – but her communication is stilted, relying on single words or simple phrases, eagerly cheeped out in practised response to Peter's brief summary of their last four-and-a-half years.

"Whose mum or dad took him or her to the bathroom this morning?" Peter asks the group. The only raised hand in the room belongs to his daughter. At times, when he becomes emotional, she reaches out her hand to comfort him. "We all do dumb things," he says. "Sometimes we get away with it." Charmaine didn't. "If I could turn back time, I'd lock her in her room until she was 30," he quips, smiling.

Measuring the success of this program is tricky: how can Ross count the absence of teenagers being admitted to emergency departments? How do you quantify the traumas avoided because a 16-year-old chose not to drink, r prevented a drunk friend from driving? Questionnaires filled out at the start and end of the day show a significant shift in attitudes towards positive decision-making, and that shift is sustained during follow-up surveys issued to the students four months later.

What the program seeks to hammer into participants is that while everyone will go through trauma at some point in their life – grief, loss, injury, depression – some of it can be avoided by making better decisions. But one of the biggest – and perhaps unanswerable – questions is this: how will they share stories about this experience with their friends and family? Will Eli and the boys choose to make jokes about what they saw? Will Emmerson and the girls talk about the sad bits that made them cry? The PARTY Program has provided a stage for these conversations to take place. It's now up to the students to step up to the microphone and speak.

Before they go, Ross distributes to each student a small, two-sided card. It's a "Contract For Life". Ross and her team hopes that every attendee will show this card to their parents or caregivers. They hope that together, child and adult will have a discussion about it, pen in hand, and then fill in the blanks.

The adult's side reads: "I [blank] agree to come and help you at any hour, any place, no questions asked, or pay for a taxi to bring you home safely. We will talk about this situation at a later time. And if I or the person driving me is impaired, I agree to seek transportation home. I promise. [blank]."

The child's side of the Contract For Life reads: "I [blank] agree to call you for advice and/or transportation at any hour, from any place, in any situation, where I feel uncomfortable or unsafe, or am impaired, or with someone who is in a similar condition. I promise. [blank]." 

Kids Helpline 1800 55 1800; Lifeline 13 11 14.