The World Ends in April Read online

“Excellent,” Grandpa Joe says. “But be careful of the weight. If you can’t bug out with a vehicle, you’ll be walking. And you could be walking for days.”

  “Got it.” Phillip salutes. Then he selects his dinner.

  “You’re up, Private Eleanor.” Grandpa Joe turns to me.

  “Go, Elle! Go, Elle! You got this.” Mack cheers like this is a game.

  “My bag is a disaster,” I admit, just to get the lecture over with. “Do you want me to drop and give you twenty?” There’s no way I could do twenty push-ups. I want to make Grandpa Joe laugh. I love him. I just don’t love bug-out drills and prepping and MREs.

  Grandpa Joe removes his hat and runs a hand over his head. He has some hair, but it’s so short and so white that it can only be seen in certain light. “I don’t want to lecture you. I want to keep you safe and give you skills you will one day need to survive.”

  He gently takes my bag and opens the top. He pulls out one dress shoe that doesn’t even fit, a couple of headbands, some old school papers, and a tangle of rope.

  “At least I have my rope,” I say. “Together, as a family, I think we would survive.” I smile wide, trying to outshine Grandpa Joe’s disappointment.

  He sucks in a big breath. “This bag is unacceptable, soldier. I want it repacked when you get home. Understood?”

  I nod.

  He fishes around in my backpack until he finds a foil pouch. “And it looks like you’re eating chicken chunks. It’s the only food you’ve got.”

  “I’m not hungry.” Chicken chunks are the worst MRE option. They look like canned dog food. I don’t even know how they got in my bag. Then Edward giggles, and I know. He switched it out. The chili and macaroni should be mine.

  “I’ll eat it.” Mack rocks in his seat.

  “This is Eleanor’s,” Grandpa Joe says with a stern face. “I got extras here for you, Mack. You in the mood for chili with beans, buffalo chicken, or maple pork sausage patty?”

  “What do you recommend, sir?” Mack asks.

  Grandpa Joe gives him the chili.

  “Wanna trade?” I whisper to Mack.

  “Don’t do it!” Edward says. “Chunks are the worstest.”

  Bug-out drills are the worstest. I tear open my MRE, certain that training for the end of days has to be worse than the actual end of days.

  We all survive the survival drill. When we drop Mack off, he thanks Grandpa Joe for an experience of a lifetime and even suggests we do it again. I butt in and tell him you can’t have an experience of a lifetime twice.

  As soon as I get home, I brush my teeth three times and gargle with mouthwash. The chicken chunks don’t seem to want to move through my digestive tract.

  “You okay?” Grandpa Joe asks through the closed bathroom door.

  “Yes.”

  “Can I help you repack your bug-out bag?”

  “Nope, I got it.” I head to my room and plunge into my closet. Everything I need is on the floor. Bubbles and I sort through the mess. She has a knack for finding dirty socks.

  I pull out two MREs, both chicken chunks.

  “Edward!” I shout. “Give me back my MREs!”

  He doesn’t hear me, or he ignores me. I take the chunks downstairs to the basement and trade them out for slightly tastier options: spaghetti with beef and sauce, hash brown potatoes with bacon, and chicken pesto pasta. Grandpa Joe gave us a case of MREs a few years ago. We keep the box on a shelf near our holiday decorations and a broken toaster that Dad thinks he can fix.

  After I finish repacking my BOB, I let Grandpa Joe inspect it.

  “Perfect,” he says. “You make this old man feel better when I know you’re prepared for anything.”

  “That’s me. Always prepared.” Not that I’ve done my math homework for tomorrow.

  He raises an eyebrow. “It wasn’t that long ago you actually liked bugging out and growing crops and eating freeze-dried ice cream.”

  “There’s a big difference between chicken chunks and freeze-dried ice cream.”

  He laughs. “True, true. I try to make survival training fun for you and the boys because it’s important.”

  I take a deep breath and concentrate on not rolling my eyes.

  “Eleanor. I’ve seen war firsthand. Hurricanes. Tornadoes. My granddad told me stories about the Spanish flu. Terrorist attacks are on the news all the time. Bad stuff happens, and it’s my job to protect my family.” He slaps his palm to his chest.

  “I know,” I say, then add, “Dad says you take it too far.”

  “That boy has known better than me for forty years.” He laughs again. “I look forward to the day he thanks me for getting y’all ready for the inevitable.”

  Now I raise my eyebrows. “You look forward to it?”

  “Not the disaster part. But the thank-you part won’t be so bad.”

  “Can I just thank you now on behalf of all of us? And then we can avoid the apocalypse.” And preparing for the apocalypse. And eating for the apocalypse.

  “You’re welcome, soldier. Now put your BOB somewhere safe.”

  “You mean where Edward can’t get to it.”

  I stand on my chair and place my bag on the top shelf of the closet. I know Edward and Phillip could still reach it if they wanted to. Those boys could break into FBI headquarters or out of a maximum-security jail. They can’t be stopped.

  “Good night, soldier.” Grandpa Joe wraps me in a bear hug that makes me feel safe and guilty. I shouldn’t give him a hard time. He thinks he’s helping. Like when Edward washes the dishes and Dad or I have to rewash them because he does a crummy job and leaves food stuck to the plates.

  After Grandpa Joe lets go, I kiss his cheek. He tells me not to stay up too late and then goes downstairs.

  I should finish my math or actually read The Outsiders, but instead, I turn on my laptop. Bubbles and I crawl onto my bed.

  “Ten minutes and then I must do homework,” I say to Bubbles.

  I search the internet for end-of-the-world memes. Maybe I can find something funny to print out and share with Grandpa Joe. After a few minutes—probably more than ten, if I’m honest—I come across a website that is meme-free. The page is pretty crappy. It looks like someone threw it together on a slow school computer.

  But the headline’s interesting.

  WORLD TO END NEXT YEAR

  There’s only one picture. It’s of a white guy with gray hair, a beard, and thin glasses. He’s wearing a blue shirt and a red tie and looks like a normal, boring adult. Under the picture is his name. Martin Cologne, PhD. Astrophysicist.

  I start reading because even though it’s not a meme, I want to know what this nerdy-looking man is talking about.

  Urgent! Asteroid 2010PL7 will strike Earth next spring. 2010PL7 is an Apollo Class NEA and is more than 5 km across. Because of the size, this asteroid will not burn up in the atmosphere. This impact will have significant consequences for life on Earth regardless of where it strikes. This is a 10 on the Torino Impact Hazard Scale. Code red. Certain collision. Expect global catastrophe.

  And that’s it. There are no links for more information. But there’s certainly stuff to Google.

  I start by researching the author. Dr. Martin Cologne isn’t some wacko. He teaches at Harvard, and he’s written three complicated-looking books on space and physics. He’s won awards that I’ve never heard of, and he’s published in about a million science journals.

  Next, I look up 2010PL7. According to NASA, it is an asteroid, and NEA stands for near-Earth asteroid. The agency also lists values for things abbreviated as e, a, q, I, peri, M, and Q. I don’t understand any of it. Nowhere does NASA say 2010PL7 is headed toward Earth. It’s actually listed as a “removed object” on the Sentry: Earth Impact Monitoring system. That’s good, assuming the NASA scientists know what they’re talking about. />
  Why do you want to scare people, Dr. Cologne?

  I know the internet is filled mostly with lies. My dad’s profile on social media says he’s married, and Mom died seven years ago. Maybe an impostor used Dr. Smarty’s name and picture. There are typos on the website. Someone who teaches at Harvard should be a better speller.

  Before closing the site, I bookmark it. Then I go back to searching for memes. If Dr. Cologne had listed his email, I would send him a cartoon of dinosaurs taking selfies while an asteroid flashes across the sky behind them. The professor could probably use a laugh.

  The next morning, I manage to get through breakfast without one word from Grandpa Joe about the end of the world. Then I go to school and experience the three ways a gym class can be made even worse than it already is: having an overexcited substitute teacher who played some college sport, being partners with anyone other than Mack, and playing basketball.

  Our sub insists on being called Coach Holmes, not Mr. Holmes. He’s at least ten feet tall, and he twirls a basketball on his finger the whole time he talks.

  “Line up by height,” he yells. “Make eight teams.”

  Usually, I’d join Mack, the other special-needs students, and their teacher on the far side of the gym. Ms. Stuckley, our PE teacher, lets me partner with Mack. Sometimes we run together. He holds a sliding handle on a rope or my elbow. Sometimes we play soccer outside with a beep ball.

  But I’m not about to ask this man, who’s probably closer to fifteen feet tall, for special consideration. Plus, Mack isn’t even in class today. I hope the MRE isn’t seeking revenge on his digestive tract.

  I slide into place near kids who are about my height. We count off, and then we’re ordered to different locations across the gym. Each team is given an orange ball that’ll be used for today’s torture.

  Coach Horrible blows his whistle, then yells, “Warm up with some passing.”

  My team includes Graham Engle, Terrell Rodgers, and Londyn Diggs. They chuck the ball at each other and ignore me. I’m not complaining. Every few passes, Londyn glares in my direction. Her eyes are circled in dark makeup, which enhances her I-want-to-punch-you-in-the-throat look.

  “We don’t have enough for a team,” Graham says.

  “The three of us are enough,” Londyn says. She bounces the ball between her legs and then passes it from behind her back. It’s only impressive if you care about basketball.

  Londyn is skinny and tan, and everyone always compliments her long, curly dark hair with its purple streaks. Most people would describe her as pretty and popular. I’d say she’s pretty evil.

  “Eleanor is on our team too,” Terrell says, a bit clueless.

  Londyn sighs. “She’s not going to play. She never does.”

  “Give her a chance,” Terrell says as he throws to Graham. Then Graham turns suddenly and bounces the ball to me.

  I jump out of the way just in time.

  “It’s not dodgeball. You’re supposed to catch it,” Londyn says.

  We all watch the ball roll across the gym.

  “Should I go get—”

  “No, balls usually come back on their own, like boomerangs.” Londyn gives me a tense look like she’s trying to shoot lasers at me from her eyeballs.

  I jog across the gym to get the ball. I carry it back to the group and gently hand it to Terrell.

  “Nice pass, LeBron,” Londyn murmurs.

  The ball goes around their triangle a few more times before Coach Holmes blows his whistle.

  Please make us run laps. Please make us run laps. I’m certain I’m the only kid in class reciting this little prayer in my head. Then I think of a better idea.

  Please have a fire drill or an intruder drill or any drill that doesn’t require a stupid ball.

  “Team one versus team two.” He points to a basket. “Three versus four. Five versus six. Seven versus eight.”

  I follow my team to our court. My plan is to stay out of the way and not draw attention to myself. This is always my plan when it comes to sports or any class participation. I’m basically an armadillo during school hours. If you don’t move, you become invisible.

  “Guard him,” Londyn orders me. She nods toward a big kid. I have no idea what she expects. But I move closer. He smells like breakfast sausage.

  The other team starts with the ball. A boy I’m not guarding dribbles. He takes about two steps, and then Londyn steals the ball from him. She dribbles to the basket and scores.

  Terrell and Graham give her high fives.

  This time my guy starts with it. He dribbles. I watch.

  “Defense!” Londyn yells. But I don’t know what she wants me to do. I shuffle my feet and wave my arms like a baby bird flapping its wings uselessly after it’s fallen out of the nest. The boy shoots, and I duck. I assume he misses, but my eyes are closed. I can’t confirm.

  When I refocus, Londyn has the ball again. And she scores again. She pumps her fist in the air but doesn’t smile. She actually looks angrier than before. I wonder what her reaction is when she misses.

  “Four to nothing!” Graham yells.

  I step to the far corner of the court. My team doesn’t need me. It doesn’t need Graham or Terrell either. Londyn is some kind of basketball wizard. I focus on the clock, not the game. We still have ten minutes left.

  Coach Horrific wanders from court to court. As he nears ours, I slide back into the mix, hoping he doesn’t notice that I’m as helpful as one of the orange cones that we have to sprint between.

  Londyn scores again.

  “Pass the ball around. Use your team.”

  Now Londyn glares at the coach.

  The next time she gets the ball, instead of dribbling toward the basket, she hurls it. She hurls it at me!

  I’ve heard the expression my life flashed before my eyes. This isn’t quite like that. It’s more like I see the future. I imagine the impact, being escorted to the nurse’s office, the pain, the ice pack. I also imagine an asteroid hitting Earth.

  And that’s what it feels like.

  I fall back on my butt. My eyes water so hard that I can’t see. This is what happens—I play with the sighted kids one time, and I go blind. At least I don’t have to endure any more of Londyn’s nasty glares. My time in gym class ends about five minutes early. I’m not complaining.

  * * *

  • • •

  I sit in the office with a half-melted ice pack on my face. My nose has finally stopped bleeding. My dad was called, but the nurse assured him my injury didn’t require X-rays, a ticket home, or any sympathy at all, really.

  “Ready to go back to class, Eleanor?”

  “No.”

  She ignores my answer and hands me a hall pass. As I leave, I see Mack standing outside the guidance office. His parents are with him and some white guy in a suit. The adults shake hands and seem to be saying goodbye.

  I round the corner toward the seventh-grade hall and wait for Mack. A minute later, I hear the tapping of his cane. He calls it Candy, which seemed clever in first grade. This one isn’t the original Candy, because he outgrows canes—like shoes, his mom says. He’s had Candy Two and Candy Three, but around Candy Five or Six, he lost track and just went back to plain Candy.

  “Hey, Mack.”

  “Elle, what are you doing out here?” he asks. “Shouldn’t you be in science, young lady?” He does an awful accent that I think is supposed to be our teacher Mrs. Walsh.

  “I’ve been in the nurse’s office with a broken nose. Londyn Diggs tried to knock my head off with a basketball. I’m lucky to be alive.”

  He laughs.

  “What were you doing in the guidance office?”

  “You spying on me, Elle?” He holds out his hand, and I give him my elbow. “They had a dude come in from the Conrad School to talk with blind stud
ents and our parents.”

  “What’s the Conrad School?”

  “I’ve told you. The Conrad School for the Blind and Visually Impaired.”

  “The high school?” Mack has mentioned it before—a boarding school for the blind, somewhere near Raleigh. He went there once for a week in the summer and hated it. Well, as much as Mack can hate anything. I think he said it was “all right.”

  “No. It starts in sixth grade and goes through high school.”

  “Sounds like a waste of time,” I say.

  “It wasn’t a waste. They had hot Krispy Kreme donuts and orange juice. I ate like six.” He pretends to burp. “And it was cool. The Conrad School has a lot more activities than I thought. It has a band and an orchestra.”

  “You don’t play any instruments.”

  “And lots of sports,” he continues. “I could be on the swim team.”

  “You could be on the swim team at Hamilton.”

  “And there’s every class you can think of. I could live in a dorm with a roommate.”

  I stop walking and turn to face him. The more excited he gets, the harder it is for me to breathe.

  “Wait. Are you thinking about going?”

  “Not today or anything.”

  “When?” In that one word my voice breaks.

  “Maybe next year, or the year after. I don’t know. The future is full of possibilities.” He mockingly sings the last part. It’s like he doesn’t even realize I can’t go with him.

  It’s only October, but I imagine next year without Mack. I could go days—weeks, maybe—without talking to anyone. Except for teachers, and they don’t count. No one would be my lab partner or save me a seat at lunch or invite me over for taco night. I’d basically disappear.

  “Dude, come on. We’re already late for science.” Mack says. “I don’t want to stay after school.”

  But all I hear is I don’t want to stay.

  For over a week, all Mack talks about is the Conrad School—at lunch, on the phone, when we run the track. If I’d been paying attention, I’d know the number of students, the address, the name of the dean, and the school’s mascot. But I tried to block it all out. (The mascot is a train engine named Steamy. That’s hard to forget.)