by Edward Bloor
We were under attack?
I turned to Arthur. “Pennsylvania?”
He waved me off—“Shut up”—and continued to glare at the screen.
A plane had just crashed in Somerset County, Pennsylvania. Basically right next to us. It could have been in Haven County. It could have been right here—on our school, on my house, on the Food Giant.
Mr. Proctor looked at me and said, “Remember today, September eleventh. It’s going to change everything.”
He raised up the remote and clicked to different channels. The horrible news was everywhere, and it just kept coming. A car bomb had detonated outside the State Department Building in Washington, D.C. There were mass evacuations going on in New York City and Washington.
Then, just before 10:30, the second World Trade Center tower followed the first, disintegrating before our eyes, killing everyone still trapped inside, including all the firefighters and police who had run in to save people.
I turned around and looked behind me. Most kids just looked stunned, like this was way too much for them to handle.
That Ben kid kept saying stuff like “My dad’s gonna be really pissed. Supermad. Like furious.”
Jenny Weaver sobbed as she stared at the TV. “All those people, thousands of them, they all have families.”
And me? What did I feel? I know this is strange, but I was secretly thrilled by the reports. We had never been part of the big story, the news headlines. Never. And now we were part of the biggest story to happen in my lifetime. It was happening right here. “Pennsylvania,” the reporters kept saying. And I felt connected to the big world, to the real world, for the first time. This was happening to us, and it was being recorded in my journal.
At 10:45, an announcement came on for bus riders to go to the bus loop. At eleven o’clock, car riders were told to gather out front at their drop-off spot. I figured that Mom would be tuned in to all this and would be there, but she was not. Neither was Arthur’s mom, my aunt Robin.
I hung out with Lilly, not speaking at all. Then I heard Arthur’s voice behind me. “Payback time, cuz! This is it. Vengeance is ours, saith the Lord!”
Lilly asked him, “What are you talking about?”
“Vengeance. Payback. I’m talking about a military response. They’ll be needing a lot of men, and I’ll be one of them.”
“A lot of men to do what?”
“To get whoever did this!”
I shook my head in total confusion. I asked, “Who would do this, Arthur? And why? It seems so crazy.”
Arthur shrugged. “Who knows? Who cares? It’s a matter of honor now. We’re going after them. We’re gonna kick ass and take names, cuz. The wrath of God will descend, and the infidel will be slain. Amen.”
When I looked closer, I was surprised to see that Lilly had been crying. She asked me, “Does this mean they’ll close the Food Giant today?”
I shook my head. “People will be panic-buying. Who knows when there’ll be more food deliveries. All planes are grounded. Maybe all trucks—”
“Tom!”
“What?”
“Just yes or no. Will they close the damn store?”
“No.”
“That’s all you have to say.”
Mom pulled up at 11:15. She told us, “Your father called. He said the store is a complete madhouse.”
We drove straight to the Food Giant parking lot. It was crowded and chaotic. Mom eased the car into a parking space. “They say we may not be getting groceries for days. I have to stock up.”
As we wended our way through the lot, I saw Dad and Bobby corralling carts. I hurried over to join them.
As soon as he spotted me, Bobby pointed and cried out, “Tom was there! He told me to do it. Didn’t you, Tom?”
I had no idea what he was talking about. The planes? The World Trade Center?
But then it hit me.
“Oh my God!” I stopped and stood with my mouth hanging open. I had forgotten all about the prank on Bobby. I had forgotten to tell Dad.
Bobby’s stubby finger stayed aimed at me.
Dad maneuvered a train of carts my way. He looked really pissed off. When he got close enough, he said through clenched teeth, “Of all days to pull a stunt like this! With our country under attack!”
“It was yesterday, Dad. We didn’t know—”
Bobby screamed, “You did know!”
“I mean about the attacks.” I half whispered to Dad, “Oh my God. What did Bobby do?”
Dad snarled, “He did what he was told to do.”
I cringed.
“Mrs. Mercer came up to me at eight, before all … this happened. She told me that Bobby had said something inappropriate. Did you put him up to it?”
“No!”
“Did you know anything about it?”
“Yes, I knew,” I admitted. “And I meant to tell you. I just forgot. I’m sorry.”
I told Bobby, very sincerely, “I am really sorry.”
“You’re a liar! You’re like Reg the Veg!”
“No, I’m not. I’m not like Reg. And I’m not lying.”
“Yesterday! You lied yesterday. You told me it was the banana promotion.”
“No, I didn’t. I just … didn’t tell you that it was a lie. I just stood there. I let it happen. I’m sorry.”
Dad looked at me with great disappointment. “Did you really think that was a funny joke, Tom?”
“No. No, sir.”
His eyes swept the parking lot. “Well, we have more serious things to worry about now. Bobby, do you accept Tom’s apology? Can we all get to work?”
Bobby was quick to forgive. (He always is, except when it comes to Reg.) He shrugged. “I accept it.”
“Okay. Please, both of you, get these carts into the store.”
Dad took off, nearly running, and squeezed through the entranceway between clumps of shoppers.
Bobby and I threw ourselves into a frenzy of cart collecting, and bagging, and wheeling groceries out. All fifty carts were in use, and all were full of groceries, and all three registers were running.
The frenzy did not let up until 6:00 p.m. By then the shelves were about three-quarters bare. Dad and Uno had restocked them steadily throughout the day, but the stockroom, too, was now reduced to just a few cartons and lots of empty wooden pallets.
Mom came back at 6:05 and took Lilly home, but Dad wanted me to stay. (He was still mad about the Bobby prank.) I wound up working until 10:30, over ninety minutes after the store had closed. Uno (who was also in Dad’s doghouse) and I had to sweep the front, the storeroom, and the parking lot.
By the time we were driving home, though, munching on our deli sandwiches, Dad had let the Bobby thing go. He wanted to talk about something else. He said, “I had to fire Vincent this morning.”
“What? Why?”
Dad shook his head in mild disbelief. “He was stealing.”
“Stealing? Stealing what?”
“Cleaning supplies.”
“Really?”
“Yes. And over-the-counter drugs. Boxes of cold medications.” Dad pondered that. “Cleaning supplies and cold medications. Isn’t that a weird combination?”
I told him, “Yeah.” And I thought it was.
But I wouldn’t think so for long.
October
Monday, October 22, 2001
Mr. Proctor said September 11 would change everything, and he was right.
Everyone everywhere was freaked out all the time, waiting for the next terrible thing to happen—for the White House to blow up, or the Empire State Building to topple over, or Walt Disney World to go up in a nuclear mushroom cloud.
None of that happened, but it felt like it could happen. All of it. And other things that we had not imagined, like we had not imagined the jetliner attacks in New York, and Washington, and Somerset, PA.
The drama that unfolded over western Pennsylvania had become an instant legend: The passengers on the flight, all strangers to each other, hear
d on their cell phones what the hijacked planes were doing in New York and Washington. And they decided not to let it happen again. They banded together and stormed the cockpit. They overpowered the hijackers and prevented another devastating attack, and they gave their lives in the process. In tribute to them, thousands of people were now heading out to the remote farmland where the plane went down.
In homeroom, Coach Malloy actually rose to the occasion. He described the shock he’d felt as a child when President John F. Kennedy was assassinated. He described the shock his parents had felt when Pearl Harbor was destroyed by Japanese bombers.
In English class, Mr. Proctor focused more on the present. He talked about “the zombie-like tone” of the September 11 aftermath:
—New Yorkers wandering around, coated from head to foot with white powder.
—Xeroxed pictures of missing people stuck up on every lamppost.
—A monstrous pile of death—smoking and wheezing—in the heart of America’s greatest city.
We finished reading A Journal of the Plague Year. I didn’t like it very much because I couldn’t understand the language. Nobody could. Fortunately, Mr. Proctor explained what was going on.
“People were dropping like flies in London,” he said. “Death walked among them. Death stood on every corner. What was killing people so indiscriminately? They had no idea, no clue that it was fleabites and airborne germs. They would remain clueless about such things for another hundred years.”
I thought, Okay. They were stupid. But what about us? Are we any smarter? Are we any less clueless about what is killing us? Out of the sky? Out of nowhere? Not really.
It had been six weeks, and we still had no idea who had attacked us, or why, or when they might attack us next.
The drug-counseling meetings got suspended after September 11. When they started again, though, I was back in my seat in the conference room, staring at Wendy, hoping to talk to her.
Catherine Lyle opened the first meeting in October by saying, “Hello, everybody. Welcome back. We’ve lost a lot of time, so I’d like to jump right to Wendy’s research report. If you recall, I asked her to look into a powerful new drug that has appeared in Blackwater. The drug is called methamphetamine. Wendy?”
Wendy had a pocket notebook, too, just like mine. She opened it, but she never looked down as she launched into her speech. “Methamphetamine, as a street drug, is called ‘meth,’ and sometimes ‘crank.’
“Depending on what sources you consult, methamphetamine was first made in Germany in 1887, or in Japan in 1893. Farmers used it to feed cattle to accelerate their growth. Methamphetamine was first used by people during World War Two.
“Japanese kamikaze pilots took methamphetamine to psych up for their suicide attacks. German pilots and tank drivers used it for the same reason, calling it ‘flier’s chocolate’ and ‘tanker’s chocolate.’ Methamphetamine helped soldiers accelerate their fighting skills. It also accelerated their deaths.”
Wendy looked at her mother. “So what is methamphetamine doing here in Blackwater, Pennsylvania, in 2001? No one knows. The answer could be that it’s a very cheap way to get high. With some training, you can make it yourself out of easy-to-find ingredients, but the process for making it is very dangerous. The ingredients are highly combustible.”
Wendy paused, apparently finished, so Arthur interjected, “I hear people are stealing Sudafed and ammonia and other stuff to make it. They can get what they need right at the Food Giant, even the propane to cook it up with.”
“Who told you that?” Lilly asked.
“Uno,” Arthur answered.
She corrected him. “He wants to be called John now.”
Arthur shrugged. “Okay. No problem.”
Lilly shook her head and added, “Wow. Meth. That sounds like the worst drug ever.”
Several kids around the room agreed with her comment, including Arthur, who said, “Amen to that.”
In conclusion, Wendy Lyle produced some gruesome photos from her notebook. The photos showed meth users—people who had lost their teeth, and their hair, and were all covered with red sores. She held up one photo that I couldn’t even look at. It was a man or a woman—I couldn’t tell—who had tried to make meth at home and had gone up in flames. Horrible. Gruesome.
Mercifully, she stashed the photos away. No one spoke for a minute; then Mrs. Lyle changed the topic. “I have been speaking to Mrs. Cantwell about this group and about some things we could be doing. I am pleased to tell you that she has granted permission for us to take our first field trip.”
Arthur muttered, “Must be to that field her husband works in.”
Mrs. Lyle consulted her notebook. But before she could speak again, Ben Gibbons raised his hand. She looked at him and smiled. “Yes?”
Ben really changed the topic. He said, “I have pica disorder, Mrs. Lyle. Have you ever heard of that one?”
Catherine Lyle looked puzzled. “I’m not sure. Would you like to tell the group about it?”
Evidently, he would. “As a little kid, I ate a lot of crayons and pencils and chalk. I still do. I eat wood—nontreated wood. I eat coal—anthracite and bituminous. I eat plain old dirt.”
Arthur told him, “That is messed up, dude.”
“Yeah, I know. That’s why it’s a disorder.”
Catherine Lyle nodded. “I have heard of it. But do you know why it’s called pica?” she asked.
“Pica means ‘magpie,’ in Latin. I guess a magpie will eat anything.”
She thought for a moment. “Well, Ben, that is very interesting. But it sounds like an eating disorder, and this group is about substance abuse.”
Ben looked nervous, like he was afraid she was going to kick him out. “It is?”
“Yes.”
“Well, this pica thing could lead to substance abuse! Who knows what else I might eat in the future? Maybe pills or something.”
“That may be true,” she assured him. “It could be what we call a ‘gateway’ to other problems.”
Ben looked relieved. “Yeah.”
“Gateways are openings that lead to drug abuse. Think about it. Nobody just wakes up one day and says, ‘I’m going to become a drug addict.’ Do they?”
“No.”
Catherine Lyle continued: “The good news for drug abusers is that, with medication and with counseling, they can quit.
“The real problems occur after they quit. That’s when they must face their triggers. Triggers are the temptations that lead drug addicts back to using. A trigger can be as large as the loss of a loved one, or as small as the loss of a football game.
“The big question is, Why do these triggers exert such power over addicts? Why do people go back to drugs when they know they are destroying their lives, as well as the lives of those around them? These triggers must be very powerful indeed.”
She looked at the group. “Who can give us an example of a powerful trigger? Okay, Ben?”
“War!”
Everyone waited for more. Arthur asked him, “War what, dude? You mean like the Civil War? World War Two? Vietnam?”
“No. Like going to war.”
Catherine intervened. “Certainly. People who go to war are under tremendous stress, as are their family members. What are some others? What are some triggers that happen in your lives?”
A senior girl, who I had never heard speak before, suddenly blurted out, “Abuse.”
“Yes. Abuse at home causes tremendous stress.”
Ben asked her, “Do you mean getting hit by your parents? Like a punishment?”
There was a pause. I didn’t think she was going to respond, but then she did. “No. I mean sexual abuse.”
Everybody froze, including Mrs. Lyle. Then she picked up the silver pen and wrote something in her notebook. After a few more seconds of silence, she said quietly, “That is a very powerful trigger, yes.” She looked at the girl. “We should talk more about it.”
Then she looked at the rest of us, “Okay. C
an we name any other triggers?”
No one could, until Lilly raised one finger. “What about just … boredom?”
Mrs. Lyle seemed relieved to have a safer topic. “Yes! Boredom can be a trigger. And some people turn to drugs when they are bored. But that doesn’t work, does it? So what are some things that do work against boredom? Let’s hear some ideas.”
Nobody said anything for a few seconds. Jenny finally came up with one. “Jesus?”
“Okay. Good.”
Arthur suggested, “Football.”
“Yes. Those are two.” Catherine Lyle waited for a third, but it wasn’t coming. She finally took it upon herself to add, “Okay. What about dance? Or horseback riding? Or martial arts training, like tai chi or tae kwon do? What about learning how to play a musical instrument? Or taking up painting, or sculpture, or pottery?”
Arthur laughed ruefully. He spoke for the group. “We don’t have a lot of that stuff around here.”
Catherine Lyle didn’t understand. “What stuff?”
“Any of the things you said. We got, basically, football and bowling.”
That got a small laugh. He added, “And Jesus,” and got a bigger laugh.
But not from Catherine Lyle. She replied seriously, “Oh, I’m sure there are many things to do if you look. There certainly are things to do up by the university.”
She stopped there. I could tell by her face that she finally got it. She wasn’t “up by the university” now. She was twenty miles, and a whole world, away.
So she moved on. “Ben, as you suggested, one major trigger is a catastrophe, like a war. Or like what happened on September eleventh. Many people are still very stressed about the events of that day, especially the events that happened near here.”
She placed a blank sheet of paper on the table. “As a result, I have organized a field trip to the flight ninety-three crash site in Somerset County. If you would like to see that site—perhaps to pay your respects, perhaps to face your fears—please sign up for the trip. It will be after school on Wednesday.”
We then broke into our small groups. Wendy looked at me and smiled. “We’re going in my dad’s Suburban. That holds, like, twelve people. Do you want to come?”