The best thing about Achilles, though, is he’ll do the killing Blue won’t. That and the little leather hood he wears. You have to see it to believe it. The goats are cool, and the does are ridiculously cute, but my sister really does have the most kick-ass pet in The Nest. Maybe the state.
It’s too late to have her change, so I toss her the hand sanitizer we keep in the wagon’s ashtray. “Open your window and air yourself out.”
I look at Birdie one more time and see her rummaging through her EDC. I hope she’s making sure she has everything she needs because there’s no way I’m turning around.
I charge down the dirt road to the main, kicking up dust like the riffraff everybody at school imagines we are. In a couple of miles we pass Tashi Garcia’s house, followed by Camilla Clarke’s, then Annalise Ackerman’s, and all the other Nest households. We turn left, away from the road that leads to The Burrow. I spy Birdie staring longingly in hopes of seeing Daniel Dobbs. The lovestruck subordinate dressed in thrift store fatigues from the local AMVETS that’s become my sister’s soul focus. That’s not a misnomer.
At school we’ll go our separate ways, to classes in different parts of the building, passing each other in the hallways here and there. But I know where my sisters are at all times. I know every exit, entrance, and access point to the school. And so do they. Sometimes, one or more Nesters or Burrowers pull out ahead or behind us and we’ll drive to school like a caravan of outcasts. Ripe for being ostracized by people who think the brands of makeup or clothing they wear are their biggest obstacle to survival. For them, they probably are. Surviving high school is as far and wide into the future as they can think. Not that it matters. Today is a good mirror day.
We can handle them. My sisters and I can handle anything.
EDC
EVERY DAY CARRY
THE CHEMISTRY EXPERIMENT in Mr. Whitlock’s class today is simple. Fill three balloons. One with hydrogen, one with oxygen, and one with seventy-five percent hydrogen and twenty-five percent oxygen, to see which will cause the biggest explosion when lit with an extra-long torch.
I already know the answer. We have hydrogen and oxygen tanks stored at home for bunker air quality and fuel cells. I have an A in this class, but it’ll still be fun to end the experiment with a bang.
Mother would be so pleased.
Our teacher always has us work with a lab partner, and this time Mr. Whitlock stuck me with Shawna Mooney, effervescent president and founder of Elkwood High School’s Baking Club. I do a threat assessment of her in fifteen seconds.
THREAT ASSESSMENT:
SHAWNA APRIL MOONEY|5’6” WEAK TO AVERAGE BUILD|OPEN SOCIAL GROUP|TRUSTING
MOST LIKELY TO: cry in nurse’s office over unworthy boy who didn’t like her cupcakes.
LEAST LIKELY TO: hit that popularity status she’s striving for with the same said cupcakes.
9/10 WOULD IMPEDE GROUP SURVIVAL IN EMERGENCY SITUATION.
CASUALTY POTENTIAL: high
“Can you light them?” Shawna asks. “The only thing I’ve ever torched is crème brûlée. This seems more like your thing.”
My thing.
I guess Shawna’s made an assessment of her own.
“Sure. I do like to blow things up, shoot them, nail them to a tree trunk with an arrow, then field dress them for dinner over an open fire. Maybe I can bring you some goat’s milk from our mini farm. You can show me how to make crème brûlée from fresh goat’s cream, and I can teach you how to stop acting like lighting a balloon on fire with a three-foot-long torch is an assault on your feminine sensibilities.”
“Geez, Honey, you could try being as sweet as your name once in a while.”
Shawna pulls her copper-red hair to the front on both sides, like having it close is a comfort to her.
Hair pulled up and away from an open flame in a chem lab is what’s a comfort to me.
“Shawna, did you know bees make honey for survival? They store it in their honey bellies for the winter. When we try to steal it from them, they see us as marauders and sting us. People discovered honey was sweet and disrupted the social order of bees for personal gain, using smoke like a drug to calm them down. There’s nothing sweet about that.”
Shawna’s jaw drops, just enough to make it clear she’s out of comebacks.
“‘If I be waspish, best beware my sting,’” I whisper softly.
A random snicker makes me turn my head to see who was listening. Rémy Lamar. Of course. He’s working at the lab table behind us, clearly eating up this exchange. He smirks when our eyes meet and the misplaced dimple in his brown upper cheek throws me off my game for a second.
Ignore the obvious threat.
Disengage.
I roll my eyes at him right as Mr. Whitlock shows up to light the torch I’m holding like a javelin.
You have no idea how many times in the last few weeks I’ve written a letter to Bucky, asking what to do about the attention I’ve been getting from Rémy Lamar. But Bucky Beaverman is just our imaginary friend from childhood, so the answers actually come from inside me. Still, it’s good to get it out on paper. Dear Bucky is a lot less odd than Dear Diary. We all have our separate ways of coping. Birdie uses him in the comic strip she draws. Blue turned him into a furry creature she stitches into her needlework like a signature. The only one who doesn’t remember our obsession with him is Mother. She insists he didn’t exist, even as a figment of our imaginations. We all think that’s a strange and unnecessary stance. I mean, what’s the harm?
“Is it true, Mr. Whitlock?” Shawna asks. Whines, actually. “What Honey said about the bees?”
He blinks blue eyes twice, three times, four, like he’s flipping through index cards in his brain for facts. “I teach chemistry and biology, Miss Mooney. And although I have no doubt Miss Juniper knows a thing or two about bees, the fact is after the female honey bee stings it dies. They have to be careful who they choose as a viable threat if they want to survive long-term.”
He lights my torch with a quick nod before moving to the next table.
“Ouch. Roasted by Mr. Whitlock?” Rémy says. “That had to—sting—a little.”
Shawna giggles, of course. And it is funny, if I’m being honest. But when I glance Rémy’s way, I make sure my eyes and thoughts are aflame to dissuade him.
THREAT ASSESSMENT:
RÉMY LAMAR|5’11” AVERAGE–STRONG BUILD|CLOSED SOCIAL GROUP|TRUSTING
MOST LIKELY TO: marry a ridiculous trophy wife.
LEAST LIKELY TO: seduce me with his charms during art class.
7/10 WOULD IMPEDE GROUP SURVIVAL IN EMERGENCY SITUATION.
CASUALTY POTENTIAL: medium
Mr. Whitlock interrupts my mental evaluation by announcing we’ll need to use ear protection for the experiment. I like Mr. Whitlock and I think he likes having me as a student. Was he roasting me? I don’t know. He’s young and new this year. I know a lot about what it’s like to be new at a school. I doubt the initial feeling of uncertainty changes whether you’re a student or a teacher. I think he was just making a point.
I pick up the rigid earmuffs while Mr. Whitlock instructs us to proceed balloon by balloon, starting with oxygen and making notes along the way.
“I wish I could just use my Beats,” Rémy says. I don’t know what that means, but I think he’s talking to his lab partner, so I ignore him again.
“You’re on notes, then,” I tell Shawna.
She nods and we secure our earmuffs. Shawna probably wasn’t trying to be a jerk before. I just read her comment that way. I do that sometimes. Maybe too much, like it’s part of my ingrained survival instincts. The Reaction part of the three Rs.
I can’t get the earmuffs to rest flat on my head because my messy bun is getting in the way. I have to push the big topknot out of position to get the earmuffs fully secure.
Messy bun. My big effort for fitting in with the Outsiders today. That and a gray lace-trimmed tank top, fully exposed. We can’t wear loose clothing during labs,
so I had to ditch my oversized burgundy cardigan. Let it be known that just because I wear loose clothes and Doc Martens doesn’t mean I sport underwear made for grannies.
I can make an entire dinner start to finish from what’s growing or living in our backyard. I think that’s something grandmothers used to do. Maybe they still do. I wouldn’t know. I don’t have any.
I hear Mr. Whitlock say, “Fire when ready.”
These earmuffs are NRR 26 dB, meaning I can hear seventy-four percent of all sound.
“You ready?” I ask Shawna.
She nods again and fiddles with her gold, heart-shaped pendant as I inch the lighted torch toward the droopy red oxygen-filled balloon. When the flame makes contact with the latex, it pops like a tiny pistol firing. Easy. And oddly satisfying.
Balloons are popping all around us, followed by gasps and ahhs. Shawna and I remove our earmuffs at the same time as Mr. Whitlock, following his lead. He explains oxygen is denser than hydrogen and asks if we think the hydrogen-filled balloon will make a bigger or smaller explosion.
I know the answer, but I’m much more inclined to pop the fully erect hydrogen-filled balloon and let it speak for itself. Everybody puts their earmuffs back in place before giving the next balloon a go. I wait for Shawna to finish jotting down notes before bringing the torch into contact with the swaying white balloon. It pops at least twenty times louder than the oxygen-filled balloon. Flames burst into the air with a whoosh above our heads and dissipate quickly, making Shawna’s green eyes pop in shock. I, on the other hand, love it.
This time, when Mr. Whitlock asks about the chemical reaction, I decide to answer. “The hydrogen in the balloons is reacting with the air we breathe. When we add heat into the mix, it makes water, only the reaction is happening so fast it causes a small explosion.”
A+ assessment if I do say so myself. My lab partner is going to freak when we get to the combo hydrogen-and-oxygen-filled balloon.
“Correct,” Mr. Whitlock says. “Now let’s see what happens when you combine oxygen and hydrogen.”
Yes. Let’s. I start to put my earmuffs on but hesitate when Mr. Whitlock pumps his hand like he’s dribbling an invisible ball. A similar explosion reaches us from another class. Then pop, pop, pop. I wasn’t aware there was another chemistry class doing this experiment at the same time. It sounds like the Fourth of July. What I don’t get is why our teacher looks so stricken.
My answer comes from an unexpected buzz blasted over the loudspeaker that startles everyone in the room.
Principal Weaver’s strident voice. “This is not a drill. I repeat, this is not a drill. Follow full lockdown protocols. Authorities are on the way.”
Mr. Whitlock rushes to the classroom door and locks it. He peeks out the rectangular window before pulling the shade and moving to the bigger windows on the opposite side of the classroom, doing the same.
Reactive.
In under ten seconds, everything clicks into place. Those pops weren’t balloons. This is the real deal. I get my own butt in gear.
“What’s going on?” someone asks.
“Were those gunshots?” another student inquires.
Fireworks and popping gas-filled balloons can both sound like gunfire. I don’t have time to wonder who’s asking questions because I’m already digging through my EDC for my flashlight and multi-tool. Calmly. Steadily. Reactive and Ready. Following my training, even though my head is playing out active-shooter scenarios.
I remind myself I have one objective. Meet Birdie and Blue in the room most equidistant for fifth period. I can’t let my fear slow me down. I tune out the classroom panic and chatter to think. Birdie will be in PE and Blue is in geometry, which means our meet-up point is in the northeast stairwell that connects the academic buildings to the gymnasium. Getting there will take me ten minutes tops overhead.
I slide into my bulletproof vest, sling my EDC onto one shoulder, and place a metal stool on the lab table before climbing up beside it. The expression dotting the faces of my classmates is one of abject horror.
In a split second, I understand they’re afraid of me. They think I’m part of whatever is happening outside of this room, like it was planned. People are ducking under lab tables, cowering, hiding behind each other. Even Mr. Whitlock is holding up his hands like I might reach for a gun and start shooting.
“Whatever you’re thinking, Honey, don’t do it.” Mr. Whitlock’s tone is pleading. “You can talk to me. Let me be your confidant.”
What in the ever-loving hell?
I read his thoughts about me all wrong. The shitty thing is, I’ve never been anything but cooperative in this class, in any class. I’m on merit roll, for god’s sake.
I climb onto the aluminum stool and start unscrewing the chipped and peeling ventilation shaft cover halfway up the wall with my multi-tool.
“Honey!”
I glance at Mr. Whitlock over my shoulder and keep turning out screws. He makes a motion to grab me but thinks better of it and reaches for his cellphone. He knows it’s against school rules to touch students, which gives me a necessary advantage.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Whitlock. This isn’t about me, or you, or anyone. I just have to find my sisters. I know what I’m doing.” I hesitate for a second and offer my best advice. “I don’t care what protocol is for this school. Don’t stay in this room. It’s harder for someone to hit a moving target. Get everyone out of here and make sure they run and weave.”
I keep my eyes trained on our teacher as I sling my EDC into the air shaft. My gaze shifts ever so slightly, and I see my lab partner go completely cross-eyed behind him a split second before she stone-cold passes out and crumbles to the floor.
THREAT ASSESSMENT CORRECTION:
SHAWNA MOONEY
10/10 WOULD IMPEDE GROUP SURVIVAL IN EMERGENCY SITUATION.
Mr. Whitlock mutters, “Christ,” under his breath and goes to see if she’s okay.
And then, I do the dumbest thing. I hesitate and look for Rémy Lamar. I don’t know why. I don’t care what he thinks. But I do care that he’s watching me through the lens of his camera like I’m a sight to be recorded, for personal entertainment not posterity. Photos are forever once they make it online and I’m not allowed that level of exposure. Thank god Mr. Whitlock collects cellphones at the start of every class or I’d already be all over the internet.
I hold a hand up in front of his lens. “Don’t. This isn’t what they think.”
He lowers the camera and I pull myself into the ventilation shaft, sliding onto my belly.
“Honey, stop! Miss Juniper. It’s not safe,” Mr. Whitlock calls after me, his unvarnished voice dulled by the building material separating us. As if his usual politeness can keep me from following my own protocol.
A few seconds later I hear him say, “Mr. Lamar, get down. Don’t even think about following her,” and he isn’t as nice about it with Rémy.
Rémy trying to come after me is shocking. Mostly because I didn’t think he had it in him to go against the rules. But there’s no time to contemplate his reasoning now. Rémy Lamar is not one of us.
I cough and try not to inhale too deeply. The square, aluminum shaft is clothes-dryer hot and stuffy and filled with clots of gray dust and insects both dead and alive. Spiders. Flies. There’s only six inches of space around me for wiggle room as I push my EDC forward and army-crawl toward the first visible opening. Students in the classrooms below me lift terrified eyes to the ceiling as I pass. I know they can’t see me—Honey Juniper, that weird chick with the Sarah Connor vibe—and I can’t stop to assuage the sobbing and assure them I’m not the threat. That I’m not any threat during daily life as we know it to anyone but myself. A few more pops and minor explosions reach me. I scooch fast as possible over more and more classrooms, trying to avoid banging the metal shaft like a drum. I don’t want to draw more attention to myself.
Thick gray clots of accumulated dust are tucked against the sides of the passage, along with the black pellet
droppings left by clever mice that figured out a way to remain out of sight. I’d rather be a mouse than a rat. Different connotation.
The air shaft turns sharp right. I have to wriggle my body so I’m three-quarters sideways to make the turn before I can roll onto my stomach. I reach forward to break a spider’s web spun corner to corner, artfully woven to catch anything that flies unwittingly into its path, including me. My left knee snags on an uneven seam where two sections of sheet metal meet and the razor sharp edge tears through the fabric of my thin, stretchy jeans. A searing sting zips from my nerve endings to my brain without delay and I bite down hard on my bottom lip to avoid letting profanities fly. You can tell just by the pain sometimes what’s gone too deep and will bleed. Add this gash to the list of scars and scrapes I’ve gotten while training for doomsday over the past year.
I remind myself this isn’t an exercise and to get moving. It doesn’t feel like an extinction-level event on a global scale, either, but that doesn’t mean lives aren’t on the line, including Birdie’s or Blue’s.
TOBYISMS FOR ACTION
1
CHANGE YOUR LIFE
MY CANISTER OF spray paint is mocking me tonight. Hissing and hushing like it’s trying to silence my thoughts and actions all the way up until the last particles discharge from the nozzle with my signature. I step backward and let the sharp smell of acetone and liquefied petroleum gas dissipate, but the chemical cloud hangs tight in the air around me. I snap a quick photo with my phone. One and done. There’s no extra time to admire my work. I have to flee the scene or risk getting caught. I’ll drive by tomorrow to inspect it in daylight. Jonesy says most criminals return to the scene of their crime. It’s one of the reasons we’ve never moved. That said, will my return make me an artist, a criminal, or just someone interested in pointing out the truth?
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