locked out of Heaven, to be so desperate that I longed to die.
School is a complete waste of time. The only classes I have are English and history; all my other teachers
have vanished. In English, Mr. Clifford reads out loud, short stories and poems. Ms. Hammish tries to put
things in historic perspective for us, but half the time someone in class starts crying. I haven’t cried in
school yet, but I’ve come awfully close. When we’re not in class, we wander around the school building and
exchange rumors. One kid said he knew where there was a Dairy Queen still in business but he wouldn’t tell
us where. Another kid said she heard that we were never getting electricity back, that the scientists were
working on perfecting solar energy. And of course lots of kids say the moon’s getting closer and closer to
earth and we’ll all be dead by Christmas. Sammi seems convinced of that.
At lunch today, Megan tore her sandwich in two, and gave half of it to Sammi and half to Michael.
She looked at me when she did and winked.
June 8
Lately I’ve been trying not to know what’s going on. At least that’s the excuse I’ve been giving myself for not caring about all the stuff that’s happening outside of my little section of Pennsylvania. Who cares about earthquakes in India or Peru or even Alaska?
Okay, that’s not fair. I know who cares. Matt cares and Mom cares and if there were any baseball players involved, Jonny would care, too. Knowing Dad, he cares. Mrs. Nesbitt, too.
I’m the one not caring. I’m the one pretending the earth isn’t shattering all around me because I don’t want it to be. I don’t want to know there was an earthquake in Missouri. I don’t want to know the Midwest can die, also, that what’s going on isn’t just tides and tsunamis. I don’t want to have anything more to be afraid of.
I didn’t start this diary for it to be a record of death.
June 9
The next to last day of school, whatever that means.
One day this week when we had electricity, someone took advantage of it to print a few hundred flyers, telling us if we wanted to bring in blankets and food and clothes for the people in need in New York and New Jersey, we should do so on Friday.
I liked getting that sheet. I liked the idea of helping someone. I guess we can’t get stuff down to the people in Missouri because gas is up to $12 a gallon and there aren’t that many gas stations still open.
I put the sheet in front of Mom, who was sitting at the kitchen table staring out the window. She’s been doing that more and more lately. Not that there’s much else she can be doing.
The flyer caught her eye. She read it all the way through, then picked it up and tore it into two pieces, then four, then eight. “We’re not giving anything away,” she said.
For a moment I really wondered if she was my mother, and not some pod person who’d taken over her body. Mom is always the first to give stuff away. She’s the queen of food drives and blood drives and teddy bears for foster kids. I love that about her, although I know I’ll never be half as generous as she is.
“Mom,” I said. “We can spare a blanket or two.”
“How do you know that?” she asked. “How can you possibly know what we’re going to need this winter?”
“This winter?” I said. “Everything’ll be back to normal by winter.”
“And what if it isn’t?” she said. “What if we can’t get any heating oil? What if the only thing that keeps us from freezing to death is a single blanket, only we don’t happen to have it because we gave it away in June?”
“Heating oil?” I said. I felt like a total idiot, only able to parrot her. “There’ll be heating oil by winter.”
“I hope you’re right,” she said. “But in the meantime, we’re not giving anything away to anybody who isn’t family.”
“If Mrs. Nesbitt felt that way, we wouldn’t have shared her eggs,” I said.
“Mrs. Nesbitt is family,” Mom said. “The poor unfortunates of New York and New Jersey can get their own damn blankets.”
“Okay,” I said. “I’m sorry I brought it up.”
That was the moment when Mom was supposed to snap back to herself, when she was supposed to apologize and say the stress was getting to her. Only she didn’t. Instead she went back to staring out the window.
I tracked Matt down, which wasn’t hard, since there’s nothing for him to do, either. He was lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling. I guess that’s what I’ll be doing starting next week.
“Heating oil,” I said to him.
“Oh,” he said. “You know about that?”
I wasn’t sure whether to say yes or no, so I just stood there and shrugged.
“I’m surprised Mom told you,” he said. “She must figure if we can’t get any, you’ll find out by fall, anyway.”
“We can’t get any heating oil?” I said. Just call me Ms. Parrot.
“So she didn’t tell you,” he said. “How’d you find out?”
“How are we going to survive without heating oil?” I asked.
Matt sat up and faced me. “First of all, maybe the oil reserves will be back by fall,” he said. “In which case we’ll pay whatever it costs and get the oil. Second, people survived for millions of years without heating oil. If they could, we can. We have a woodstove. We’ll use that.”
“One woodstove,” I said. “That keeps the sunroom heated. And maybe the kitchen.”
“And that’s going to leave us a lot better off than people without a woodstove,” he said.
It seemed silly even to me to suggest electric heat. “How about natural gas?” I asked. “Practically everyone in town heats with natural gas. The gas company supplies it. Couldn’t we convert the furnace to gas?”
Matt shook his head. “Mom already spoke to someone at the gas company. They’re making no guarantees about having any gas next winter. We’re lucky we have the woodstove.”
“This is ridiculous,” I said. “It’s June. It’s eighty-five degrees outside. How can anybody possibly know what it’s going to be like in the winter? Maybe the moon will warm things up. Maybe the scientists will figure out how to turn rocks into oil. Maybe we’ll all have moved to Mexico.”
Matt smiled. “Maybe,” he said. “But in the meantime, don’t tell Jonny, okay? I’m still not sure how you figured it out, but Mom doesn’t want any of us to worry any more than we have to.”
“How much do we have to?” I asked, but Matt didn’t answer. He went back to staring at the ceiling instead.
I went to the linen closet and counted our blankets. Then I went outside and waited for the warmth of the sun to stop me from shivering.
June 10
The last day of school. The last peanut-butter-and-jelly-on-increasingly-stale-white-bread sandwich.
Actually today it was an open-faced sandwich. I guess the cafeteria has run out of bread, which is as good a reason to end the school year as any.
Megan cut her open-faced peanut butter and jelly sandwich into four pieces. She offered me one, but I said no.
“I’ll take her share,” Sammi said. “I’m not too proud to.”
“You don’t have to beg,” Megan said, and gave Sammi two pieces. Brian and Jenna got the other pieces.
Sammi looked like a pig, eating one and a half sandwiches.
After lunch, most everyone went home. There wasn’t much point staying in school once the food was gone. I went home, changed into my swimsuit, and went to Miller’s Pond. The weather’s been warm enough for swimming for a couple of weeks, but the pond is still pretty cold. Swimming laps and shivering kept me from thinking about hungry I was.
But when I got out of the pond and dried myself off, I began thinking about the peanut butter and jelly jars. Were there any left? Did the cafeteria run out of bread but still have peanut butter and jelly stockpiled away? Did the teachers get the leftovers, or the janitors, or the cafeteria sta
ff? Did the school board get the peanut butter and jelly? Was there more peanut butter left or more jelly? Maybe there wasn’t any jelly left, just peanut butter, or maybe there were jars and jars of jelly but no peanut butter. Maybe there was even a lot of bread left, only they just weren’t going to give it to the students.
For supper tonight we had a can of tuna fish and a can of green peas. I couldn’t stop thinking of peanut butter and jelly.
SUMMER
Chapter Six
June 11
Dad called. Or rather he called and got through. He’s been trying the call, he said, several times a day for the past two weeks. We all believed him because we’ve been trying to call him and never get through.
It was great to hear his voice. He said he and Lisa were fine, and there were no problems with her pregnancy. He said the supermarkets in Springfield were all closed, but the two of them had a fair amount of food in the house. “So far so good.”
Mom also got a call from Jonny’s camp today, and they’re still planning on being open. So the plan remains for Jonny to go to camp, and then Mom and I’ll drive up there, get him, and she’ll drive us to Springfield. Dad asked Matt if he’d be coming, also, but Matt said he thought Mom would need him around in August so he’d be staying home.
I know that hurt Dad, even though it’s probably true and Dad probably knows that. Anyway Dad said maybe Matt could come along for the drive and at least see him and Lisa. We could all have dinner together. For a moment we forgot that all the restaurants are closed. For a moment, things were normal again.
Matt said that sounded like a good plan to him, and Mom said she’d enjoy having the company on the drive home.
Jonny asked if Dad had heard anything about the Red Sox. Dad said he thought they were okay, but he really didn’t know. I feel like Dad should have known Jonny was going to ask, and he should have been able to answer. He could have lied, after all, and said they were all fine.
Although knowing what a Yankee fan Jonny is, maybe Dad should have just said Fenway had floated out to sea.
June 12
Peter dropped by this afternoon, bringing us a can of spinach.
“I know it’s good for me,” he said. “But I really can’t stand the stuff.”
Mom laughed, like she used to. “Stay for supper,” she said. “I promise I won’t serve spinach.”
“I can’t,” he said. “I shouldn’t be taking time off now, but I needed to escape, if only for an hour.”
We all sat in the sunroom, happy to have a visitor. But it was obvious Peter wasn’t relaxing.
Finally Mom said, “If this is a house call, at least tell us what we’re sick with.”
Peter laughed, but it was the kind of halfhearted laugh I’m used to hearing these days. “You’re not sick with anything,” he said. “But I did want to tell you to start using Off or any other kind of insect repellent you might have. And if you still know a place where you can buy some, do. Pay whatever it costs, but get it.”
“Why?” Jonny asked. I don’t think Mom or Matt or I really wanted to know.
“I’ve seen three cases of West Nile virus in the past week,” Peter replied. “I’m hearing from other doctors that they’re seeing cases, too. I’ve heard rumors of malaria. Friend-of-a-friend stories, but that doesn’t mean they’re not true.”
“Mosquito-borne illnesses,” Matt said.
“Exactly,” Peter said. “The mosquitoes seem to be happy, even if no one else is.”
“I know I have some Off left over from last summer,” Mom said. “But I don’t know how long it’ll last.”
“Cover yourself up,” Peter said. “Wear socks and long-sleeved shirts and pants when you’re outside. No perfume. And if you even think you feel a mosquito, swat at it.”
All of which I’m sure is very good advice, but I still plan on swimming at Miller’s Pond. I don’t know what I’ll do if Mom tries to stop me.
June 15
It rained for the past couple of days, bad thunderstorms. No blackouts, though. No electricity at all, so no blackouts.
This morning the electricity came on for a few minutes, and when it did, Jonny said, “Hey, it’s a black-on.”
This is what passes for humor around here.
Actually it was kind of cozy in the rain. We couldn’t go anywhere, so we stayed in and read books and played games and pretended not to worry. It was like being snowed in only without any snow.
But today the sun was shining and even though the moon glow is disconcerting in the daytime, the sun was still a pleasant relief. No humidity, temperature in the high 80s, just about perfect weather.
So without telling Mom, I slipped my bathing suit on, put on jeans and a shirt over it, and went to Miller’s Pond. I got there around 10, and there were already a few other people there, taking advantage of the good weather.
Dan was among them, and it was great to see him. We swam laps, raced (he won, but not by much), and played water tag with a few other swimmers.
It felt like summer vacation.
After we got out of the water, we dried ourselves off in the sunlight. It’s a little marshy around Miller’s Pond, and we had to swat at mosquitoes, but even that felt like summer.
Dan and I talked as we laid in the sun. First we tried to talk about unimportant stuff, but of course these days there isn’t much unimportant stuff.
“Next year I’ll be a senior,” he said. “Assuming there’s school next year. Assuming there’s a next year.”
“There’ll be a next year,” I said. At that moment, it was impossible to think otherwise.
Dan grinned. “I notice you’re not guaranteeing there’ll be a school,” he said.
“With my luck, there will be,” I said, “and my grades from this year’ll count.”
“My parents and I were going to look at some colleges this summer,” he said. “Check out some schools on the way to my grandparents’. They live in Florida.” He paused for a moment. “Lived,” he said. “We saw their names on a list.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“They liked it down there,” he said. “They kept real busy. We think it probably happened fast with the first tsunamis. Their place was right on the ocean, so that’s probably what happened.”
“My mother’s parents have been dead forever,” I said.
“Since Mom was a little girl. Her grandparents raised her, right where we live now. My dad’s mother is in Las Vegas, and we’re pretty sure she’s okay.”
“I try not to think about it,” he said. “What’ll happen next, I mean. But of course I do. And I get so angry. I know it’s nobody’s fault, but the government should have done something.”
“Like what?” I asked.
“It could have warned people,” he said. “It could have evacuated people from the coastlines. Even if it turned out to be a false alarm. And there’s got to be something they could do about electricity. And gas prices. And food. Somewhere there’s got to be supplies of food that aren’t getting to us.”
“I guess I don’t think it does much good to be angry,” I said.
We both swatted at mosquitoes and suddenly we laughed. It was balletic, swatting in unison. And then Dan said the most amazing thing.
“If there is a world,” Dan said, “and if there is a school, would you go to the prom with me next year?”
“I insist on a corsage,” I said. “And a limo.”
“A stretch,” he said. “And orchids.”
“You in a tux,” I said. “Me in a formal gown.”
“We’ll be King and Queen of the prom,” Dan said.
“I’d be honored, your majesty,” I said.
Dan bent over and kissed my hand. Our faces met and we kissed, really kissed. It was the most romantic moment of my life, and it would have been even more romantic if some little boy hadn’t yelped, “Oooh, kissing, yuck,” which ruined the mood.
Dan walked me home and we kissed again at the back door. “It’s a date,” he said.
“I’ll see you before then, won’t I?” I asked. “The prom won’t be for another year.”
He laughed. “Meet me at the pond tomorrow,” he said. “At ten if it isn’t raining.”
“I will,” I said, and we kissed good-bye. It was a completely magical moment, so naturally it was spoiled by Jonny.
He opened the door, caught a glimpse of Dan, and said, “Mom’s on the warpath. Better talk to her.”
I found Mom in the sunroom. “Where were you?” she shouted.
“Out,” I said. One of the great all-time answers: Out.
“I know that. Where out? What have you been doing?”
“Swimming,” I said. “At Miller’s Pond. Which I intend to keep doing all summer long, so don’t give me any lectures about mosquitoes, okay?”
I don’t think I’ve ever seen Mom look so angry. For a moment, I actually thought she was going to hit me, which she’s never ever done.
I’m not a complete idiot, so I apologized. “I’m sorry,” I said. “What exactly did I do wrong?”
“You left here without telling me where you were going or how long you’d be gone,” Mom said.
“I didn’t realize I had to,” I said. “I’ve gone out without telling you for years now.”
“These are not normal times,” she said, but I could see she’d calmed down if only a little. “I thought you were old enough to realize that.”
“And I thought I was old enough to go out in broad daylight without it being some kind of crisis,” I said.
“Age has nothing to do with it,” she said. “How would you feel if you turned around and couldn’t find me and had no idea where I’d gone or why or when I’d be back? Think about that, Miranda. How would you feel?”
So I did think about it, and my stomach clenched up. “I’d be terrified,” I admitted.
Mom half smiled. “Good,” she said. “I’d hate to think you wouldn’t miss me.”
“Mom, I’m sorry,” I said. “The truth is I was afraid you’d tell me I couldn’t go. And I wanted to so much. So I snuck out. I really am sorry.”
“Why would I tell you you couldn’t go?” she asked.
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