“It looks like a rally or something,” I say.
Rita leads me to a corner near the side exit. From here I can watch from a safe distance with a clear escape route if necessary. I lean back and let the wall hold my weight.
The man with the white beard steps up to the microphone. The audience goes silent.
“Thank you all for being here. As a community we need to address the growing violence in our city and discuss ways to combat the problem. In the past week alone there have been twelve home invasions, and last night the mall was looted clean.”
Rita and I glance at one another, horrified. I didn’t see that on the news. Then again, I’ve been avoiding it lately to help with my anxiety.
Rita pokes me and grins, whispering, “We could’ve grabbed so many clothes.”
I stifle a giggle. A woman nearby clears her throat and gives us the evil eye. Rita’s face changes from happy and defiant to mortified. At first I assume it’s because of the woman’s attitude, but when I follow her gaze, she’s not looking at the woman; she’s looking at the side exit near us.
Both of her parents are staring at her. Through her. Fuming. I am frozen. I don’t know what’s going on, but if they were cartoon characters, they’d have steam coming out of their ears and speech bubbles with symbols instead of words.
Her mother points at her and then points out the door. Rita flees the room, and I follow. As soon as she reaches outside, her mother grabs her arm and pulls her aside.
“Margarita Ann Bernardino!” her mother declares. “¡Mira!” Her mother points at her chest. “¿Qué es esto? ¿Qué llevas puesto?”
Rita’s face burns scarlet. She fumbles to button up her coat, but it’s too late. She crosses her arms in front of her shirt to block the slogan.
Her father doesn’t speak, but if looks could talk, he’d be swearing like my father on a bad night. Or any night.
“Mami,” Rita whimpers, her face pleading as it runs with tears and mascara. “ ¡Lo siento!”
Her mother continues to berate her. Some people stare. Some feign obliviousness. I’m not sure what’s worse: staring at someone’s demise or ignoring it. I’m watching the humiliation of my best friend, and even though there’s nothing I can do, I don’t want to be a witness to her destruction.
“Please,” I try to intervene, “Mrs. Bernardino, it’s not a big deal.”
“Not a big deal?” Her eyes bulge. “We don’t run our house like yours, Alexandra. We have God in our household, not guns and sex and violencia. Margarita, get in the car. No quiero mirarte.”
Rita jumps into the backseat of their car. As they drive away, I see Rita bawling in the backseat, hands on her forehead. She doesn’t look at me. I’m left on the sidewalk with my hands shaking and the familiar dread building in my stomach and chest. I know my body must be reacting to Rita’s mother, but an irrational worm has burrowed itself into my mind and won’t stop repeating: The tea. The tea in the shop was poisoned.
I pop a pill and sit on the curb, rocking and repeating to myself, Don’t get tricked by a thought. Don’t get tricked by a thought. It takes all the energy in my body not to flee to the hospital and demand a complete blood and urine analysis.
If Rita ever knew how much I forgot about her in that moment, she would hate me.
Rita's cell phone is non-responsive to my string of texts and phone calls. Dominick says she’s probably grounded. Maybe that’s true. I replay the last conversation we had at the restaurant. For better or worse. Was she being sarcastic? Did I ever say sorry? My fingernails become a minefield of missing polish. I’m a terrible friend. What else is new?
The next day, I can think about nothing but Rita and how she must still hate me, so when the doorbell rings and Dad answers it, I think nothing of it until I hear him yelling. I run to the living room and peek out the window. A crowd of people has gathered in front of our house.
“Go away,” he shouts through the half-opened door, the chain still in place. “We don’t have any food to spare. I have my own family to feed.”
A female voice responds, “But earlier this week a girl here gave us food. With long brown curly hair? Please, sir, we’re starving.”
“If you’re that desperate, go through a goddamn vertex and leave us alone.”
The door slams. “Alexandra!”
His voice has never sounded that sharp before, and that’s saying something. For a split second, I think of fleeing into the backyard like a two-year-old. But by the time I reach the kitchen, he’s behind me. I think of grabbing something to defend myself, but the only thing I see is a dishrag.
“Alexandra, did you give our food to people?”
It’s too late to lie. “Just one family.” I remember the hope and sadness in that little girl’s eyes. I had to do it. She would’ve had no fingers left.
“Alexandra, what were you thinking? I’ve stockpiled for a reason. To help our family. No one else’s.”
I attempt to nod, but my neck feels stiff. The oxygen seems to have left the room. I need to escape. I need air. My heart convulses over and over like it’s being squished in a vise. I grab onto the counter.
“Are you even listening to me?” he yells louder. “Sometimes I think you’ve got a good head on your shoulders. Other times you make the stupidest decisions.”
The room begins to spin, and I can’t hold on anymore. I feel like I’m having a heart attack. Dad catches hold of me and guides me over to the table to sit down.
“It’s okay,” he says. “Breathe.”
I listen. I try to focus on the chair, the wood grain in the table, anything other than what’s going on in my body.
“Alex, breathe. Where’s your medicine?” he asks.
“In my purse. On my desk.” My body is on fire. If Dad weren’t here, I would take off my clothes. I’m not dying. Ten to twenty minutes. Ten to twenty minutes.
He runs out of the room. I start tapping on each leg in a back and forth pattern. It’s not working. Dad returns moments later, and I swallow a small pill of hope. The wave of swelling panic starts to plateau after several minutes. Dad sits with me and rubs my back. I feel like a child again when he does it, but I still like it.
“Are you feeling better?” he asks.
“Yeah, it’s fading.”
“Good.” He pours me a glass of water, and I take small sips.
“We still need to talk,” he says and sits next to me. “Anxiety or not, you cannot give away our food.”
I drink a big gulp and manage to say, “They were starving. They had a little kid.”
He rakes his fingers across his face. “I get that. I do. How do I explain?” He stares off into space. “Do you remember that story of the grasshopper and the ant we used to read to you when you were little?”
“Yeah, the ant does all the work in the summer while the grasshopper plays music and goofs off. Then winter comes and the grasshopper is screwed.”
“Well, that’s what’s happening around us,” Dad explains. “I planned for the food crisis. Other families didn’t.”
“It’s not the same,” I say. “They didn’t know winter was coming for sure.”
“Fine. Okay, remember at the end of Titanic when the people on the lifeboats don’t help those in the water?”
“Yes, I hated that part.” An image of drowned carcasses invades my mind. I put my water down.
“Yes, but that’s survival. The people in the water would have flipped over the boats if they tried to help, and then more people would die. Is that what you want?”
“No. But I don’t want to sit in the boat feeling guilty, either.”
“Alex, we can either feed everyone who comes to our door for a week or survive as a family for a year. Once the UN defeats the comet—”
I roll my eyes at his government optimism.
“—once we defeat the
comet,” he repeats, “I’m not sure how long it will take to reestablish order. Food’s crucial.”
My mind understands what he is saying, but my heart still debates if it can watch people starve while I eat. Can I live at the expense of others?
Chapter 16
Day 134: December—1,213 hours to decide
Question: Do you have different races? Prejudices?
Answer: We are the human race.
On December 12, my family and I gather at city hall for Benji and Marcus’ wedding. Other brides and grooms fill the corridor waiting for their turn to take the plunge and bind themselves together. They must be triple-booking appointments. There’s an old man around seventy wearing a black tux with a girl no older than twenty-five wearing a white slip dress. I’d say she must be marrying him for the money, but since money is becoming irrelevant, I really don’t understand. Two older ladies in pastel pantsuits hold hands on a far bench, happiness radiating from their faces. Someday I hope to feel that happy.
Benji stands with his chest puffed out, attempting to look composed in his white dress shirt and red tie. Underneath his militant stance, I know he’s nervous. When most people are nervous, they pace or tremble. When Benji’s nervous, he’s as still as a statue. Marcus, wearing a blue dress shirt and red tie like Benji’s, sits on a bench. There’s no question that Marcus is nervous since his legs are shaking violently, and I respect that he lets it show. They look cute together, and the thought surprises me since I never would have considered matching Benji up with a guy, never mind my teacher. Go figure.
Benji said I could invite Dominick and Rita, but only Dominick shows. Since Mr. Blu was his all-time favorite teacher, he’s thrilled that he gets to witness his wedding to my brother. Rita is still missing in action. If I don’t hear from her soon, I’ll have to plan a rescue and apologize mission.
Mom and Dad meet Marcus’ parents and his older brother, Curt. Dad shakes their hands and acts polite as Mom presses her hand on the middle of his back. I’m not sure if it’s for moral support or as a push forward. Whatever, I guess. He’s behaving.
Both Benji and Marcus have invited their closest friends. Miranda, Benji’s date for prom and one of his best friends since elementary school, hugs me, and I introduce her to Dominick. Miranda is the opposite of Rita but just as likable. She’s soft-spoken and tends to dress sleek in all black and gray. She’s so laid back that I used to think she was on drugs all the time, but Benji swore that wasn’t true. I don’t buy it, but I still like her anyway. Benji also invited Tommy, his creepy friend who tried to kiss me once when he slept over. He winks at me from a distance. I pretend not to notice and grab Dominick’s arm.
No one introduces me to Marcus’ two friends, so I never catch their names. Both male, they are taller than Marcus and more athletic looking, but Marcus is definitely more attractive. He has the kindest face and eyes that light up over the smallest detail. I can see why Dominick admired him as a teacher. Since school shut down so quickly, I never really got the chance to like him.
The ceremony is as promised—low-key, short, but special enough. Dominick squeezes my thigh and leaves his hand there. I didn’t think I believed in marriage, but with the right person, maybe forever could be nice. I wonder if marriage would be in our future, if there is a future. It’s sad that it took world annihilation to let myself fall for him. Even sadder that it took world annihilation for Benji to get to be himself.
Throughout the short ceremony, I keep my eyes on Dad longer than on Benji and Marcus. Dad doesn’t seem to know where to put his arms: across his chest, down by his sides, hands clasped on his lap. He reaches into his jacket, pulls out his gun, opens fire. Oh, wait, that was only his phone.
Mom cries, but what mother doesn’t cry at the wedding of her child? If the wedding had taken place a year ago, she would’ve made them get married in our backyard and then thrown a reception there afterward. But with the worsening food situation, instead everyone is going back to the house for a homemade white cake, Mom’s gift to the couple. If the world doesn’t end next month, maybe they’ll get real presents.
By the time we return home, I’m so hungry I could probably eat the entire wedding cake myself. Dad heads up the front steps first to unlock the door. As he’s about to put the key in the lock, his back straightens. He backs away slowly, waving at everyone to shut up and back up in silence. For a split second I think it’s some sort of surprise party and we’re supposed to scream on his cue.
“What is it?” Mom asks, concerned.
“The door’s open.” Dad’s face changes. I can see the paranoid thoughts cloud his eyes.
“I probably left it open,” I lie. I can’t let him unravel in front of Dominick and the wedding guests.
“No, Alex, there’s damage to the frame.” Dad’s eyes still seem distant, searching for answers inside his turning brain.
“I’ll call the police.” Mom searches through her purse for her cell phone and frantically dials. Benji and Marcus arrive along with the other guests.
“Why’s everyone out here?” Benji asks.
“Break in,” Dad murmurs.
“Seriously?” Benji asks.
After Dad exchanges a few whispered words to Benji, Benji walks back to the car and returns with a handgun. Dominick pulls me back at the sight of the firearm. The sight of the gun doesn’t trigger my anxiety, but its location does. It’s supposed to be locked safely in the attic. Mom’s supposed to have the key. I turn to complain to her, but she’s on the line with 9-1-1.
Dad and Benji nod to each other and start to creep toward the house.
“I’ll go,” Marcus offers while hugging himself.
“No, wait here,” Benji says over his shoulder. “You don’t have training.”
Marcus doesn’t offer twice. Benji and Dad step onto the porch, automatically falling in line with each other. Once a soldier, always a soldier. As much as Dad might think they are different now, they are still the same.
Dominick wraps his arm around my waist. I rub the back of his hand but avoid eye contact.
“I hope everything’s okay,” Penelope says, applying more lipstick to her already pink, wrinkled lips. Mom sighs deeply in the phone.
When Dad and Benji don’t return after ten minutes, Mom starts pacing up and down the sidewalk.
“Maybe we should go inside,” Marcus says to his wedding buddies.
“I’ll come,” Dominick offers. I pull his arm and try to convey my not-on-your-life stance telepathically. Before Dominick and I have a chance to argue, Benji appears in the doorway with a hardened expression in his cheeks.
“It’s clear,” Benji announces flatly. “No sign of anyone. But all the food’s gone.”
I release Dominick’s arm and race inside. No, please no. On the dining room table where Mom left the wedding cake lies an empty platter of crumbs and smears of excess white frosting.
Dominick catches up with me and touches my shoulder. “The whole cake’s gone?”
Before I can respond, my disappointment in the missing cake dissolves as my mind goes into high alert about my bedroom and the basement.
“My stuff—” I fly down the hallway, and Dominick follows me into my room.
My television still sits on my bureau, the purple saucer chair poised companionless. Everything seems to be the way I left it. I wonder about the pile of clothes in the corner. I kick it to make sure no one is hiding underneath.
“Is anything missing?” Dominick asks, searching the space.
“I don’t think so.” I take a few deep breaths knowing my stuff hasn’t been stolen. I prepare myself for the scene in the basement.
“Wait here,” I command.
“Why?” he asks, and shifts his glasses back onto his nose.
“Please, just wait here.” I guarantee that Dad is in the basement, and I don’t want to subject Dominick to his unp
redictable reactions.
“Fine,” Dominick says with a slight attitude. “But I thought your dad didn’t want me in your bedroom.”
I shoot daggers at him. This is not the time. He slumps onto my purple saucer chair, faces his palms in the air, and adds, “Okay, okay. I’ll wait here.”
The basement door is wide open. I scramble down the stairs and find Dad with his eyes glazed over. The basement’s condition is the opposite of my bedroom. Strewn across the cement floor, the sheets lie flat like deflated ghosts.
Everything is gone. The canned soups, vegetables, juices, cereals, pasta, water, matches, batteries, gasoline. Picked clean. Like a giant eraser rubbed away our supplies, leaving behind the sheets as useless eraser shavings that we must brush aside and discard.
This is all my fault. Those people. I led them here. They knew we had food. Dad tried to warn me.
I want to reach out to him, but I can’t move. I can’t even feel my legs. I can’t console him. I can’t rescue him. I inadvertently touch my neck.
Mom runs down the stairs and gasps. She grabs the sheets and tosses them into a pile, trying to remove the evidence of the crime as swiftly as possible. By the time she’s done, they look like an innocent pile of laundry, not the reminder of Dad’s failed attempt to keep us safe.
She reaches out to him, and I flinch. When Dad’s not okay, I’m not okay. I’m the freaked out barnacle along for the ride.
I can’t watch. I must watch.
He won’t look at her. She puts her hand on his chest, over his heart. Kisses his cheek. I feel her lips. I hope he doesn’t strangle her, too.
“It’ll be okay,” she says softly, stroking his face with a feather of words.
It doesn’t work this time. He charges over to the pile of sheets, screaming and grunting like a beast trapped in the wrong cage, and throws them over and over at the cement walls with all his might. She gives him space.
Together we watch him explode.
It takes the police forty-five minutes to arrive. When we hear the sirens, Dad refuses to leave the basement and talk to them. Mom and I return to the front porch to see the cops with weapons drawn, screaming at Benji.
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