The Last Place on Earth

by Carol Snow

  Their king-sized bed was made—not as precisely as I would have expected, but the olive-green spread had been pulled up. There were two shiny wood dressers, one tall, one short. The tall one had a wedding picture of Mr. and Mrs. Hawking. Henry looked like his mother when she was young. Immediately, I wished I could undo that realization.

  Their walk-in closet, filled with clothes and shoes in subdued colors, all neatly arranged, appeared undisturbed. The bathroom was likewise tidy, dark green towels hanging stiffly from a rod.

  There were two more bedrooms between the master and Henry’s. One was used for storage and the other was supposedly for guests, though the family had had no visitors since I’d known them. School portraits of Henry lined the walls. No one else: just Henry. He had a few relatives in other states, but he never saw them. Not even on his walls.

  Henry’s door stood open. Weirdly, going in there felt like a bigger invasion of privacy than checking out his parents’ bedroom. I’d been in this room so many times, but never alone. Henry would sit in his desk chair, spinning this way and that. I’d lounge on his bed, hanging my head over the side till the blood rush made me dizzy. We’d talk about school or music or movies or friends or teachers or where we wanted to live when we grew up or what jobs we wanted to have.

  Well, I talked about jobs I dreamed of: children’s book illustrator or film editor or travel photographer. Henry maintained that he was going to “marry well and be a kept man.” But we both knew it was a joke. Henry was brilliant. He just hadn’t figured out how to channel his energies. But he would someday. Of course he would.

  Henry’s room was as tidy as the rest of the house, but it had more personality. Unfortunately, the personality was “eight-year-old boy.” His bedspread was blue-and-orange patchwork, dotted here and there with ball, glove, and bat appliqués. “Art” signs (quotes important) on the wall said SLUGGER and HOME RUN and GO TEAM.

  Henry had never played baseball. He didn’t even like watching it.

  The biggest nonbaseball touch, Henry’s guitar, stood in its usual spot, in a stand in the back corner of the room. For someone who’d never had a formal lesson, he was really good. Of course, he practiced all the time, especially on days when he was supposed to be in school.

  If Henry had left for good, he would have taken his guitar with him. At once, I felt relieved and embarrassed. What would he think if he could see me sneaking around his house? What would his parents think?

  Henry was fine. He hadn’t been taken by aliens or invaders. His communications freeze stemmed from embarrassment over my reaction to his attempted kiss. He’d be back any day now. His family had taken one of their wilderness trips. Or, who knows? Maybe his father had to fly off somewhere for work, and he’d taken his family with him. The big black SUV could be in a parking lot at LAX. Henry could be in London or Paris or Hong Kong. It could happen.

  A piece of paper lay on the middle of Henry’s desk. I’d already invaded his privacy this much; a quick peek wouldn’t hurt. And then I’d leave: set the alarm, sneak out through the garage, and wait, wait, wait till Henry came home to me.

  I’d tell him about my fears. I’d confess to breaking into his house. We’d laugh. At least, I hoped we would. And then we’d talk about the thing that started all this madness: our almost-kiss in the murky darkness on that night next to the pond.

  The paper had been ripped out of a spiral notebook, the edges rough and curly. In the center, in blue ink, Henry had written two words in his precise, tiny printing: SAVE ME.

  Seven

  “I DON’T UNDERSTAND why you’re so worried,” my mother said, filling a pot at the kitchen sink. She hauled the pot over to the stove and placed it on a front burner. My mother didn’t cook very often, and when she did her brow clenched in such concentration, you’d think she was about to perform an organ transplant.

  “Henry’s in trouble. Why else would he leave me that note?” Sitting at the kitchen table, I tapped a pen against a blank page of my English notebook. I had an essay outline due on Monday, but I couldn’t focus.

  “It wasn’t a note. Henry wrote a couple of words on a piece of paper and left it on his desk. Could be anything. A song title, a poem…”

  My mother turned a knob. The stove made a clicking sound but didn’t light. “I thought this burner worked.”

  “Nope,” I said. “Only the front left and the back right.”

  She moved the pot and turned the front left knob. Immediately, a flame leapt up to lick the bottom of the pot. She jumped back as if shocked to discover that something in this house actually worked.

  “I think we should call the police,” I said.

  She turned. “And say what?”

  “That we want to file a missing persons report.”

  She shook her head. “You don’t know that they’re missing.”

  “I know it in my gut.”

  “That won’t be enough for the police to go on.”

  It was awful when my mother made actual sense. It didn’t happen very often, and it always threw me. I swallowed hard. My eyes stung. At least she hadn’t given me any grief when I’d told her about breaking into the Hawkings’ house. My mother believes that anyone who installs an alarm system deserves to be broken into.

  Softening, she said, “I can ask Randy for his law enforcement opinion.” Randy was my mother’s latest Man-Fran. That was what Peter and I called her relationship objects, because when the parade began, I was too young to pronounce “man friend” properly.

  “I thought Randy was a security guard,” I said.

  “He is, but he attended the police academy. Applied, anyway—there were issues. But he understands how the system works.” She opened the pantry door. “Do we have pasta?”

  “Peter finished it yesterday.”

  “Oh.” She closed the pantry. “Huh.” She stared into space, increasingly baffled by the dinner challenge. Then she stared at the not-yet-boiling water, wondering what she could possibly put in it. “Maybe I’ll just send Peter out for Mexican.”

  I shrugged. Normally I’d push for burgers, but tonight I didn’t care.

  “Speaking of Randy,” my mother said. “He invited me to go on a cruise. Mexico. Leaves a week from Saturday.”

  “That’s kind of soon.”

  “I know it may seem that way, but Randy and I have been together almost two months and—”

  “No, I mean that’s not a lot of time to plan a cruise.”

  “Oh! Yeah, it was a last-minute bargain—leftover cabins sold at a huge discount. That’s the only way Randy could swing it. You’re okay with me going, right?”

  “How would I get to school?”

  “Peter will drive you.” When I raised my eyebrows, she amended, “Or you could walk. Or … maybe you can get a ride with Henry.”

  “Henry is missing,” I reminded her.

  “Surely he will be back by then. The universe will look out for him. Now … about dinner. Do you want Peter to get you a burrito or some tacos?”

  Eight

  PEOPLE WERE DISAPPEARING. First Henry, then Gwendolyn. Now Mr. Vasquez, our history teacher, was gone. “I hear he is quite ill,” the substitute told us when we walked into class on Monday.

  “Probably the plague,” someone joked.

  The substitute frowned and pointed to the assigned reading listed on the board. I opened my textbook and flipped to the necessary page. Around me, people sniffled and coughed. It was too early in the year to be catching a cold. I slid down in my seat and tried not to inhale.

  In math class, I looked around for the pinch-faced drill team girl, hoping to pump her for more information about Gwendolyn, but she was out, too.

  Walking across the classroom, Hannah Branson caught my eye. If she wore a verb T-shirt, it would say, GOSSIP or SUCK UP. “What’s the deal with Henry? He’s been out forever.” Hannah was a good five inches taller than I was, plus she had this habit of tilting up her pointy chin, which meant I got a view up her nostrils that I co
uld have done without.

  “He’s … I’m not sure.”

  “Is he camping?” She tilted her chin up a notch higher. It bugged me that Hannah knew that Henry’s family liked to camp, but then, pretty much everything Hannah did bugged me.

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “So … did you guys break up?”

  I blinked at her. “We were never going out.”

  “Really?” Her chin finally dropped, and her eyes popped a little.

  “Truly.” I forced a smile.

  “Everyone thought you were.”

  “Everyone was wrong.”

  “So … you’re not going to Homecoming with him?”

  “No. I’m not.” I had no intention of going to the dance with anyone, not that it was any of her business. Homecoming was the last thing on my mind right now.

  “Oh.” Hannah pressed her lips together and flitted to her seat.

  We had two schoolwide dances every year: Homecoming and Winter Formal. Last February, during biology lab, I was partnered with a small, intense boy named Rudy (verb T-shirt: STUDY) when the whole dance and dating thing first crossed my radar.

  “You going to Winter Formal?” Rudy had asked. We were sharing a microscope. Examining bacteria. Love was not in the air. The only thing in the air was the smell of rotting leaves and hand sanitizer.

  “Nah.” I squirted some goo on a slide. Going to the dance had never occurred to me. It would require tickets, a dress, shoes … all kinds of stuff that cost money. Plus, aside from a particularly gorgeous senior water polo player whom I worshipped from afar, no boys in this school interested me. And also, I didn’t like being in large groups of, you know. People.

  Rudy took the slide and stuck it under the microscope. He peered through the viewfinder and adjusted the lens. “I was thinking the dance might be fun. You want to go together?” His tone was super casual, like he was asking me to join a study group. He kept his eye on the bacteria.

  “No, thanks.” I jotted down a couple of notes. “I’d rather just stay home. Watch movies or something.” I would have said no to a study group, too. I only liked doing homework with Henry.

  It wasn’t until Rudy looked up, his face bright red, that I realized that he had been asking me out. Like on a date. While examining bacteria.

  “I thought he meant in a group of friends!” I later told Henry. He thought the story was hilarious. Of course he did. “Why does Rudy even like me? I hardly know him.”

  It’s not like I wanted to go to the dance, but I felt bad about being so rude.

  “Oh, Daisy,” Henry said, still laughing a little. “You don’t get it.”

  “What?”

  “You’re cute. Guys notice you.” He kept his tone completely matter-of-fact, like he’d said, You’re right-handed or You have brown eyes.

  “All guys?” I asked.

  He gave me what can only be described as a Dad Smile. “Only the ones with good taste.”

  The Dad Smile actually made me feel better. If Henry thought I was cute, if Henry asked me out—ugh. It would be worse than awkward. I’d be out a best friend.

  The day before Winter Formal, a Thursday, I was checking Netflix on Henry’s smartphone. (He had a better phone than I did.… Well, he had a better everything than I did.)

  I said, “We on for a Friday night movie? My turn to pick.”

  “Can’t do tomorrow. Let’s say Saturday. And just so you know, I refuse to watch Message in a Bottle again.” (I wasn’t going to make him watch Message in a Bottle for the second time. I was going to make him watch The Vow for the third.)

  “You got something going on with your parents tomorrow?” I asked.

  “Uh—no.”

  “Then why…” I met his eyes. My stomach dropped. Just like that, I knew. “The dance?”

  He tried to smile, but he got this weird embarrassed look I’d never seen before. “Hannah Branson kept hinting that she wanted to go with me. You know, saying things and texting. So I asked her. Why not.”

  “You’re going to Winter Formal. With Hannah Branson.” I had to say it to believe it. And still I didn’t believe it. Hannah was in our English class. She had highlights and a fake laugh and … that was pretty much all I’d ever noticed at that point. Her gift for gossiping and sucking up to teachers caught my attention later.

  I was angry. I had no right to be angry. And yet …

  “Was this before or after Rudy asked me?”

  “Around the same time.”

  “Henry.”

  He wouldn’t meet my eyes. “After.”

  I nodded, too afraid I’d cry if I tried to speak. Why would I cry? It wasn’t like I wanted to go to the dance with Henry. But still. I didn’t want to share him.

  “So are you and Hannah … a couple?”

  His brown-black eyes bugged out, and then he burst out laughing because the idea was so absurd. All at once, I knew it was okay. Hannah would get him for one night, and then he’d be mine again.

  That was how it played out, too. He texted me five times throughout the evening:

  Bored.

  Still bored.

  Was I supposed to buy a corsage?

  No one told me you had to dance at a dance.

  This is no fun without you.

  We never mentioned Winter Formal again.

  * * *

  Forty-five minutes later, I had absorbed approximately no new math knowledge, but I found myself wondering about the latest missing person. I didn’t even know the pinch-faced drill team girl’s name.

  When the bell rang, I sprang from my seat and caught Hannah on her way out the door.

  “You know the girl who sits behind you? She’s on drill? She’s out today?”

  She thought for a minute. “You mean Bethany?”

  I said, “I don’t know her name. She’s kind of…” I made a sour look with my face. Which wasn’t very nice of me, I know, but it was all in the name of saving Henry.

  “Yeah, that’s Bethany.”

  “You know her last name?” Hannah knew everyone and everything, a quality that I normally did not appreciate.

  “Bratt,” she said. “Two t’s.”

  “Thanks.” I turned.

  “Why do you want to know her name?” she asked, not missing a beat.

  “Henry wants to ask her to the dance,” I said.

  Nine

  “SUPERSIZE ME,” PETER said, grabbing a huge bag of chicken-and-waffles-flavored potato chips.

  We were at the drugstore, standing in the junk food aisle. Peter’s chauffeuring charges were putting a dent in my babysitting money.

  “Don’t be greedy.” I tried to snatch the giant bag out of his hands, but he pulled it away with a loud crinkle.

  “This Bethany girl lives like two towns away,” he said.

  “And you have something better to do?” As soon as the words were out, I regretted them. It wasn’t Peter’s fault that he had no life. Okay, it kind of was, but it was still a sensitive subject.

  I looked away so I didn’t have to see the hurt in his eyes. “Fine. I’ll get you the big bag. But I’m not buying you a soda.”

  “Don’t have to. Mom already gave me grocery money for when she and the Man-Fran are on their cruise.” He trotted over to the soda aisle. After some consideration, he got an orange Fanta.

  I opened the next fridge case over and plucked out an iced green tea. “Think this thing with, what’s his name, Randy, will last?”

  “You mean forever?” Peter looked like I’d asked if he believed in fairies.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I mean for the length of the cruise.”

  He considered. “Seven days. Small cabin. Not looking good.”

  I didn’t have to use tax records to track down Bethany’s address because her last name was unusual—either there weren’t a lot of Bratts to begin with, or the rest had enough sense to change it—and I found her parents listed in at least ten online directories. Thanks to Google
Earth, I was able to view a satellite picture of her large house and pool. It’s too bad I would never want to spend time with Bethany, because the Santa Ana winds were blowing hot and dusty, and I could use a friend with a pool.

  The drive took maybe fifteen minutes—not long enough to justify Peter’s supersize chip upgrade, but enough time for every sweat gland in my body to go into emergency mode. The car’s air conditioner worked, at least in theory, but it had run out of coolant over a year ago, and Peter couldn’t be bothered to get it refilled.

  At least there was no community gate to deal with. We pulled right up to Bethany’s house, which looked smaller from the street than it had from the satellite.

  Peter pulled over to the curb and turned off the car. He hauled the potato chip bag onto his lap and ripped it open.

  “She’s not going to be home,” I said, peeling my legs off the seat. A droplet of sweat slithered down my neck.

  “How’d y’know?” Peter asked through a mouthful of salt, grease, and artificial flavors.

  “Because people are disappearing. One after another. Without a trace. Like…”

  “They’ve been abducted by aliens?” Crinkle, crinkle. Peter reached back into the bag.

  “Well … yeah.”

  “Awesome.” Peter peered at the house with sharpened interest. His face shone with perspiration and perhaps the first infusion of potato chip oil.

  At last I got up the courage to leave the car, walk down the path, ring Bethany’s bell, and face … silence.

  Alien abduction. Come on. There had to be a better explanation for why people kept disappearing. But what?

  I was squinting up at the hot, bleached sky, looking for evidence of other life forms, when Bethany opened the door. The house’s air-conditioning hit me like a bucket of cold water.

  “You’re here!” I blurted out.

  “I live here.” She looked awful: red nose, dirty hair, circles under her eyes. She was wearing pajama bottoms and a faded pink T-shirt. But at least her hair wasn’t stringy with sweat like mine was.