It's the End of the World as I Know It

by Matthew Landis

  And that rolling steel door.

  My phone buzzes. It’s Tommy texting Hey Brock is here come over. I start typing and then delete it. He says U coming? and I stare at the screen until it goes dark, pretty much like the world is going to go dark. The End is coming and my friends don’t care.

  Nobody cares.

  I lie down on the cot and close my eyes. The movie in my head starts like somebody hit a giant PLAY button.

  I’m in a desert with mountains all around. It’s not hot, which is weird, because this is a desert, and the sky is blue. No clouds. I’m standing on a dirt road and now it’s rumbling under my feet, like an earthquake. Now lava is spewing out the mountaintops and running hard down the slopes and everything is on fire. The buzzing in my hands creeps up my arms to my face, like fire ants aiming for my brain. I grab the cot frame because the shed is spinning and try to breathe through my nose. Dr. Mike said I’m really good at tricking my body into thinking there’s an emergency by obsessing about The End and that if I stop doing that, I won’t have as many freak-outs.

  But I won’t stop because it’s not a trick. There will be an emergency on September 21. Probably a million different emergencies all connected to The Big One.

  The End.

  I roll to the floor and push the earth. Instead of counting, I run through the basic first aid. The buzzing goes away, but my face feels so hot and there’s tons of sweat. I crank out another twenty pushups before collapsing.

  I lie with my back against the floorboards. My head rolls to the side and I see this dark knot of wood sticking out from behind a food bin. I stare at it for a while and wonder why some idiot shed maker guy didn’t use a clean piece of wood. I look up at the hanging LED light until my eyes water, then I close the place down and walk outside.

  “Hey.”

  I jump.

  Misty comes out of nowhere wearing a bike helmet. Everything smells like sunscreen.

  “Hey,” I say.

  “Sorry I scared you.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “Do you have a bike pump?”

  “What?”

  Misty mimes pumping up a tire with both arms. “Bike pump.”

  “Uh. Yeah.”

  “Can I borrow it?”

  “Sure.”

  “Sweet.”

  I walk around to the garage and open it. Is she going to the beach? Smells like it. I dig out the pump from behind a snow shovel and give it to her.

  “Awesome,” she says.

  “You shouldn’t ride bikes at night. You could get hit by a car.”

  “Yeah.” She looks at me for a second. “You okay?”

  “Huh?”

  “You’re all sweaty and breathing hard.”

  I wipe my face with my sleeve. “I was doing pushups.”

  She looks at the shed, then back at me. Messes with the bike pump a little. “You see that bull’s-eye?”

  “Yeah,” I say, and she smiles. It takes up her whole face and I’m smiling too, and it’s not that awkward. There’s this weird feeling like we’ve done this before.

  And then she walks back to her house.

  1

  “Get some breakfast?” my dad asks me.

  I grab Pop-Tarts from the pantry and shove them in my pocket. “Yeah.”

  “Lunch?”

  “I’m buying.”

  “Do you need money?”

  “Claudia prepaid for the whole year,” I say, which was stupid because I won’t be eating lunch at school for very long.

  “Oh, right.”

  Claudia comes in the kitchen and pulls a hunk of chicken out of the freezer. “I’m grilling this tonight, so don’t pig out with the guys after work.” He raises his coffee to toast her. She snatches the Oreo from him and chucks it in the trash. “Heart disease is a real thing. Dinner at six.”

  “Got it.”

  She kisses his cheek. “Bye.”

  “Love you.”

  Claudia grabs the keys and asks me, “Did you text them?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “They’re ready.”

  “One second late and they’re back to taking the bus. I cannot be late this year.”

  “They know the new rules.”

  “Have a good first day, buddy,” my dad says.

  I nod.

  We throw our stuff in the trunk of Claudia’s Subaru wagon. I sit in the back because I don’t want to stare at that stupid Air Force sticker on the glove compartment she won’t take off.

  “You could be nice,” she says, backing out of the driveway. “He’s trying.”

  I see Misty and her sister climbing into their car. I guess she survived night biking. “Trying to what?”

  “To connect. Father-son stuff.”

  “Okay, Dr. Mike.”

  “You know what I mean. I’m not saying you have to go on a camping trip with him, but you don’t have to be such a jerk.”

  “Maybe I’m a jerk.”

  “No,” she says. “You’re not.”

  “Maybe I don’t have a lot to say.”

  “Think of something.”

  I roll down the window and put my hand out. It’s already humid and the Apocalypse Soon! weather alert on my phone says it’s going to be 91. There’s a legit chance Tommy dies of dehydration at soccer tryouts.

  “You know he talks about us on those Internet dating sites,” I say. “He didn’t log out of his email once and I saw it. He was talking about us to one of those women.”

  Claudia cranks up the AC. “So?”

  “So?”

  She turns down the next street toward Tommy’s house. “He has to talk to someone, and it’s not going to be me. It sure isn’t going to be you.”

  “They all probably hang out in some chat room and laugh at how messed up we are.”

  “I’m pretty sure that’s not happening.” Claudia slows at Tommy’s driveway. “I think whatever helps him is good.”

  I grip the door handle and think maybe I could rip the whole thing off if I really tried.

  “Bold first day outfit, Brock,” Claudia says.

  He slaps both of his arms that are sticking out of a neon-green tank top. “The Chief Hall Monitor must be bold. These seventh graders can’t find their classes alone.”

  She smirks at Tommy through the rearview mirror. “And what boarding school am I dropping you off at, Master Thomas?”

  He stares down at his brand-new polo shirt tucked into brand-new khaki shorts. “Kelly says I need to make a good first impression.”

  “Don’t worry,” Brock says. “I will protect you from any clothing-related bullying.”

  2

  The car line is super-long, so Claudia lets us out by the tennis courts. We walk to the bus loop, Tommy tripping while trying to read his schedule and Brock yelling at some seventh graders. I scan the building and count windows, hoping most of my classes are interior rooms. Wouldn’t take much of a windstorm to shatter those things and shower us all with razor-sharp glass.

  “Do you smell that?” Brock asks, taking in a big whiff of air as we head inside. “Fear. And deodorant being used for the first time. Some of them are probably using their mom’s.” He points to a tiny kid sagging under a giant backpack. “You there. Do you need help finding your homeroom?”

  “Uhhhhh,” the kid says.

  “Hall Monitor coming through,” Brock yells, guiding the kid down the hallway. “Move it or I will move you with my body.”

  I point the other way and say, “I got math.”

  “I have social studies,” Tommy says.

  “That sucks.”

  He sneezes once, real big. “It’s kind of crazy, like, not being on the same team. We don’t have any classes together this year.”

  The warning bell rings: Three minutes until first period
starts.

  “See ya, dude,” I say.

  He waves and heads the other way.

  Brock’s on Tommy’s team, so I lone wolf it through morning classes. All my new teachers say this year is going to be “far more difficult than seventh grade” and they expect “far more personal responsibility,” which is exactly what they said last year. On my way back from gym I see Misty hauling a giant instrument case that looks like a violin except the thing is five times her size and almost takes her down before the orchestra teacher shows her how to carry it.

  At lunch I grab three slices of pizza and find Tommy and Brock near the back of the cafeteria. They know to sit at the table farthest from the giant glass windows that could become deadly shrapnel.

  “I think I might puke,” Tommy is telling Brock. “Like, blow chunks.”

  “Tell him he needs to eat or he’s going to faint at tryouts,” Brock says to me.

  “You need to eat,” I say. “Or you’re going to faint at tryouts.” I shove my tray at him to take some pizza. Tommy bites his nails.

  “Then you gotta drink something,” Brock says, sliding him some Gatorade. “Electrolyte load.”

  Tommy takes a sip. “This kid Jack said the first three days are just running and that lots of kids pass out.”

  “Jack is a doofus,” I say. “You’ll be fine. Just keep drinking that.”

  “Boys,” says a voice behind us.

  “Hey, Mr. Killroy,” Brock says.

  Our hulking guidance counselor looks between us with this face like I am a stone-cold killer. “How was summer?”

  “Good,” we all say.

  “Stay out of trouble?”

  We nod.

  Mr. Killroy looks at the notepad he’s always carrying. “Hall Monitor, huh, Brock? That’s good stuff. We need more leaders.”

  “To protect and serve is my only mission,” Brock says. “Also, I’m in it for the free pretzels we get during Friday meetings.”

  “And Thomas: Saw you’re going out for soccer. Outstanding.”

  “I probably won’t make it,” Tommy says.

  “But you’re trying.” Mr. Killroy shifts his glare to me. “Derrick—what are you up to this year?”

  I chew my pizza. Tommy and Brock make faces like Uhhhhhh.

  But they’re worried for zero reasons: No way I tell Killroy about my shed. Big giant dudes like him could body-slam a hole in the shelter and steal everything.

  “Muscle mass,” I say. “Operation Bulk Up.”

  “He’s been pushing earth all summer,” Brock says real quick. “He can do sixty-five pushups in two minutes.”

  “I can dig it,” Mr. Killroy says. I think he flexes a little.

  Then he hands me a little square piece of paper. It’s a pass.

  Please report to the guidance office at 1:20 p.m.

  “Have a good first day, boys,” he says, walking off.

  3

  At 1:15 p.m. I show the pass to my social studies teacher, Mr. Hines. He pulls on his big black beard with one hand. “I guess I’ll see ya tomorrow.”

  I head to the front of the school and walk into the guidance office. The only good thing about this place is that it’s air-conditioned.

  “Hi, Derrick,” says Mrs. Ruth, the guidance secretary. Actually, she’s the other good thing about this place. Super- nice and always brings in homemade cookies. “How was your summer?”

  “Good.”

  Mr. Killroy comes out of his office. “Derrick. Come on in.”

  I follow him and sit in a chair next to his desk. Pictures of his kids and the basketball teams he’s coached cover the walls. A big filing cabinet along the window has a couple trophies on it.

  “So how’s your first day going?” he asks.

  “Good.”

  “Yeah? Tell me about it.”

  I shrug.

  He nods.

  “Last year I’d pull you in for a chat once in a while,” Mr. Killroy says. “I wanted to do the same this year. Your dad said that was okay.”

  “Okay.”

  “I know you don’t like it.”

  “It’s fine.”

  “How’s Dr. Mike doing?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You’re not seeing him anymore?”

  “No.”

  “How long has that been?”

  I shrug.

  Mr. Killroy waits a while. Feels like a minute. “Last year was rough. I know that.”

  I slouch and stare up at the tiled ceiling. There’s a watermark right above me that sort of looks like that black knot of wood in the shed. The maintenance guy should really see if there’s a leak there. “Uh-huh.”

  “I’m not a therapist,” Mr. Killroy says. “But I’ve met with a lot of kids over the years sitting right in that chair—right where you’re at. Some pretty hard things going on in their lives. I’m not saying you gotta come in here and tell me all about it, but if you need to talk, I’m here. You don’t need a pass, just come on down.”

  I hear the click of the PLAY button in my head. The desert scene flashes for a couple seconds and then shuts off. “Yeah. I’m good.”

  Mr. Killroy nods. He swivels his chair and pulls a picture from his desk drawer. “Recognize this skinny punk?”

  I take it. Looks like a school picture from eighty years ago. “No.”

  “That’s me in eighth grade.”

  “Whoa.” I see the face now, but it’s weird without all the muscle.

  “The kid in that picture had some issues. Anger, mostly, and it put him in worse places than the guidance office.”

  Prison? Maybe that’s when he started lifting weights. “Hmm.”

  “You said you’ve been bulking up—you look bigger.”

  “Just pushups.”

  “Stuff like that helped me blow off steam too. A coach got me to try out for the football team, and it turned things around—having a place to put all my anger.”

  “I don’t play sports,” I say.

  “That’s fine.” He hands me some kind of schedule. “My basketball players who aren’t on the football team work out after school a couple times a week. Nothing crazy, just staying in shape for the season this winter. You don’t have to be on the team to join them.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Think about it. You want to show up? Great. You can ride the sports bus home. It will definitely help you with your pushups. Maybe take your mind off some other stuff too.”

  “Okay.” But not a chance because no time. And my mind is on exactly what it should be.

  Mr. Killroy checks the clock on his wall and starts writing me a pass back to social studies. “And tell Mr. Hines to shave his beard. He looks like a fur trapper from the 1800s.”

  1

  “It says online that stretching is supposed to hurt.” Tommy is way down in a deep knee bend. “Which is good because, like, I’m in a lot of pain.”

  “Battery,” I say.

  He digs one out of my tool bag and gives it to me. “I think I pulled a muscle at practice today. It burns when I walk.”

  “What burns?”

  “Everything.”

  “You should be eating lots of carbs,” Brock yells. He’s on the other side of Tommy’s deck ripping out spindles. “Carb load.”

  “Kelly says carbs are bad,” Tommy says. “It’s over anyway. The roster is coming out Friday. I probably won’t make it.”

  The back slider door of Tommy’s deck opens and his mom comes out. “Boys—boys. Are you hydrating?”

  “Yeah, Mom,” Tommy says.

  I point to my cooler filled with water bottles. Tommy’s mom gives me that Oh you poor thing look that adults give me sometimes.

  “Derrick—Derrick.” She comes off her deck and puts a big, heavy arm around me. Tommy gets his cl
ose talking from her, probably. “Derrick—this is fabulous. You really know your deck repair. Everybody says so.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Just fantastic.” Now she’s got both arms wrapped around me. “How did you learn how to do all this?”

  “See that grip,” I hear Brock say to Tommy. “That’s what Pete wants to do to you. All the time he thinks about doing this to you.”

  “Just learned it,” I say. “From my dad.”

  “Right—right. Big construction manager.” She pats me a bunch of times. “Just fantastic. How much do I owe you again?”

  “I’ll email you the invoice when we’re done.”

  She laughs. “Invoice? So mature.” She kisses the top of my head. Brock pretends his hands are the jaws of a snake and eats Tommy’s entire head.

  I put on the new spindles and Brock and Tommy stain them. We eat a snack of no carbs and then go up to Tommy’s room and watch Pete doing nothing in his giant snake cage for a while. I push the earth fifty-six times in two minutes—not good. I’m tired from fixing Tommy’s deck, which I’m only doing so I have extra cash in case I need to buy stuff last minute.

  I’m at Tommy’s computer doing the invoice when we hear this big clunk outside.

  We go the window and see Misty in the middle of the cul-de-sac, hauling a big cinder block out of her red wagon and putting it next to another one on the pavement. Now she’s laying a big board on top like a ramp.

  “This is going to be interesting,” Brock says.

  Misty straps on her helmet and gets on her bike. She’s wearing all the pads you can wear—knee, elbow, wrist. Shin? I didn’t know they made those. She rides out of view and then blazes back, heading right at the ramp. But she’s sort of coming in crooked, so it rockets her to the left and she barely holds on for the landing.

  “Oh man,” I say. My stomach gets real tight. “That was close.”

  “Maybe we should, like, call someone,” Tommy says.

  “Who?” Brock asks.

  “I don’t know. Her mom. The police.”

  Misty rides around the jump a couple times. She stops to straighten the ramp out and then rides back out of view. This time she’s going even faster at the jump and her face has this huge smile like Oh man oh man this is going to be amazing.