“His name is Brent,” Mack reminds me.
Londyn snatches her copy from my hand. Probably trying to give me a paper cut, hoping I’ll slowly bleed to death.
“And a large-print version for you.” I give Mack two sheets.
“So he’s not really blind?” Wyatt whispers to me.
I don’t get a chance to react before Mack answers. I think it’s a rude question, but Mack doesn’t get upset.
“Dude, I’m blind and have been since I was born. I can make out stuff up close. Blindness is a spectrum. I prefer Braille or audio for books. My eyes don’t get as tired. But large print works too. And Elle doesn’t have a brailler.”
“Oh,” Wyatt says. He turns red from his neck to his forehead. Mack can’t see this, but I’m sure he senses it.
Londyn reads her sheet while everyone else shoves them into their bags. I remind them to be careful who they share this information with.
The substitute inspects the room. Once the beaker is put away, we’re free to leave. Mack grabs my arm above the elbow. We walk to the pickup line to meet his mom.
“Did we drink toilet water?” he asks.
“Yes.” I laugh.
We’re almost to the main doors when I hear Londyn running up behind us. I try to pull Mack along faster.
“Hey, hey!” Londyn yells. “Norie.”
I keep moving.
“Norie!”
“I think she’s calling you,” Mack says, and he stops walking.
I groan.
“What?” I turn to her and give my meanest look. I don’t want to talk to her anymore. I’m out of Londyn patience for the whole week.
“You wrote all this?” She holds up the paper I gave out.
“It’s mostly from the website.” I can’t tell what she’s after.
“No. I read that. This isn’t the same. It’s the same information, but it’s not the same.”
“Yeah, so?” Is she here to criticize my interpretation? Or is she going to make fun of something else?
“I like it.”
I stare at her face, looking for a hint of a joke.
“You should write more. I’ll help you. And we can hand them out.”
“No!”
“That’s a good idea,” Mack says. “Like a newsletter. We should be warning others. I’ve been saying that since the beginning.”
“And I’ve been saying no since the beginning. We can’t save the world. Email your friends the website or whatever.”
“What friends?” Londyn snaps. “I don’t have any friends.” She clears her throat. “This is bigger than friends anyway. Right?”
“Yes!” Mack says.
“We’ve gotta go.” I yank his arm hard and pull him through the front doors.
His mom’s Volvo is two cars back in line. I lead Mack to the car quickly so we don’t have to talk to Londyn anymore.
Mack folds up Candy and reaches for the car door.
“I think it’s a good idea. We need to do more.”
“No, we don’t.”
Like always, Mrs. Jefferson invites me to dinner. I say no thanks because I need to get home for my brothers. Mrs. Sweeney will drop them off at four, and then they’re my responsibility. I’d rather go to Mack’s house and eat a nice dinner and play on his Xbox 360.
Not two minutes after I get home, my cell phone rings. It’s not Mack, and it’s not Dad or Grandpa Joe. But it’s a local number, so I answer it.
“Hello?”
“We need to make a newsletter.”
“Londyn? How did you get my number?”
“If you used all your brain cells, you could probably figure it out.”
“I’m not writing a newsletter.” I squeeze the phone. I should hang up before I break it.
“I know you hate me,” she says.
“And I know you hate me,” I say louder.
Neither of us debates the facts.
“We need to do something,” she continues. “This is a big deal.”
“I am doing something. The Nature Club. Duh?”
“We can do more,” she says.
“We?”
“Yes. You and me.”
Never would I think of the word we to mean me and Londyn Diggs. We would more likely be used for me and Sasquatch or me and a unicorn.
“Why?” I ask.
“You’re even more annoying on the phone than you are in person. I’m coming over.”
“What?”
“Stop asking questions. I’m coming over. I’ll be there in twenty. You still live on Oakdale?”
“Yeah.” I’m not sure how she knows this.
“Okay.” Then she hangs up.
And I’ve got twenty minutes to move.
Mrs. Sweeney drops off my brothers before Londyn arrives. They bust through the front door arguing about Pokémon.
“Eat a snack, then do your homework,” I yell over their yelling.
They drop their backpacks and coats in the middle of the floor.
“And put away your lunch boxes.” I give them the same instructions every day. And Dad will call in an hour and tell them to do all this again. It eventually gets done.
“I don’t have any homework,” Edward says.
“Liar. You have to read for twenty minutes every night, even if you don’t have math or spelling.”
The doorbell rings while the boys are pulling off their shoes. Bubbles jumps off the couch, barks a few times, and then hides under the coffee table. She is useless in stopping Londyn from invading my life.
“I got it!” Edward shouts. My brothers run to the door, pushing and shoving each other the entire way.
“It’s for me,” I say. “And you’re not supposed to answer the door if it’s a stranger.”
Phillip ignores me and yanks it open. Londyn stands with arms crossed like she’s annoyed already.
“Who are you?” Edward asks.
“Who are you?” she asks.
“I’m Edward Dross.”
“I’m Phillip Dross. Are you Eleanor’s friend?”
“Nope,” she says.
And I’m glad we got that all cleared up.
“Are you a vampire?” Edward asks.
“Yes,” she says without looking surprised. Edward’s eyes grow wide, and Phillip laughs. She does resemble a Disney-like vampire. Long black hair with purple streaks, lots of black eye makeup, black nails, and layers of black clothes. All she’s missing is fangs. (Which I swear she’s just hiding.)
“Go do your homework.” I grab them both by the shoulders and pull them away. “Come in,” I say to Londyn.
“You invited a vampire into the house,” Phillip says, trying to sound serious.
“Phillip! Out!”
The boys finally disappear into the kitchen.
“Let’s go upstairs.” I don’t want Londyn in my room, but it’s the only way we can talk without the real monsters bothering us.
“Nice house,” she says as we head up, and I can’t tell if it’s a compliment or an insult. I think it’s safe to assume everything she says is meant to be a burn.
“How did you get here?”
“My bike.”
“Where do you live?”
“On Meadowlark.”
That’s only two streets behind me and in the same development. How did I not know we were neighbors?
“My mom and I are living with my aunt,” she says, maybe sensing my confusion.
We step into my room. I’m not sure if I should tell her to sit. Maybe if we stand, she’ll leave sooner.
“So?” I hold up my empty palms and shrug.
“I like your newsletter, Norie. More people need to see it.”
“It’s Eleanor.”
&nbs
p; “I know.”
I take a seat on the edge of my unmade bed. She pulls out the desk chair and sits in it backward.
“I can help you,” she says. “You write it. I’ll put it together, add some art. We’ll print it and hand it out in school.”
“I don’t understand why you want to do this?”
“I don’t understand why you don’t want to.” She wrinkles her upper lip.
“Seriously?” This girl is clueless. “It’s not my job to save the kids who’ve been ignoring me for years.” To everyone at that school, I’m either invisible or repulsive. Other than Mack, no one wants to be my partner in class. No one wants to sit with me. No one even talks to me.
“Being ignored isn’t so bad.” She shrugs.
“When they’re not ignoring me, they’re laughing at me.” I touch my hair and glance at my reflection in the mirror over my dresser. It’s still bluish. “So what if they all become zombies.”
“Wow.” She gives me a funny little smile. “Well, you do have a crappy haircut.”
“Shut up.”
She ignores me and continues. “I always got the vibe that you want to be alone. You don’t hang out with anyone but Mack. It’s just you and your boyfriend.”
“Ew! Not! My! Boyfriend!” I shiver. That’s like calling Edward or Phillip my boyfriend. So totally gross.
“I know he’s not your boyfriend.” She rolls her eyes dramatically. “But you have to know that’s not how everyone sees it. Especially the kids who didn’t go to elementary school with us. They watch you holding hands.”
“We don’t hold hands. He takes my elbow when we walk.”
“Whatever. You hold hands when not walking too.” She shrugs. “You only do stuff with Mack. I invited you to my birthday party. You didn’t come.”
“We were eight, and you invited every girl in Mrs. Ball’s class.” She makes it sound like she reached out to me personally and it mattered that I wasn’t there.
“You. Didn’t. Come.” She repeats it slowly. “And Megan invited you to her fifth-grade graduation party. A pool party. And you didn’t come.”
“I’m not into parties.” I cross my arms. “Why are we even talking about elementary school?”
“You’re not a people person, Norie. Everything about you says stay away.”
“What about you, vampire girl?” I gesture at her hair and clothes. “This screams, Stay away, or I’ll destroy you.”
“Mission accomplished.”
She doesn’t even try to hide how evil she is.
“Then why join our club or make a newsletter? Why help anyone?”
“Who said I want to help?” She tilts her head dramatically. “I want to scare the heck out of them. They need to know the world doesn’t revolve around them, and even if it does, it’s all going to end.”
I swallow hard. That’s not the message I want to deliver. No thanks.
“What’s wrong?” she asks. “You look like I killed your dog.”
If I hadn’t just seen Bubbles, I might worry that this was a possibility.
“I’m not really into terrifying people,” I finally say. I may not want to save everyone, but I’m not going to cause mass panic—not at school.
“So you don’t want to scare them and you don’t want to help them. Pick a side already! You can’t just avoid everything and everyone, Norie.”
“What are you even talking about!” It’s not fair to make me choose, but I do anyway. “Helpful is better than terrifying.”
She chews on her lower lip and looks at the ceiling like she’s deciding. “Okay. I still think terrifying is more fun. You be helpful. I’ll be realistically frightening. Our newsletter will have a nice balance.”
“What? No.”
“Listen. I’m doing this newsletter with or without you. And if I’m in charge, I’m going to terrify every student and teacher at Hamilton. There will be no tips for survival. It’ll be all doom.” She narrows her eyes.
“You can’t force me.”
“And you can’t stop me. This offer stands for five more seconds. Then I’m publishing the Doomsday Express on my own.”
“If you’re caught, you’ll probably get kicked out of school.”
“I won’t get caught. And does it matter? The world is ending in four, maybe five months. We’ll all be out of school.”
“Do you swear to be truthful and accurate?” I ask. Even if she says yes, I’m not going to believe her. Though she did drink toilet water, like she promised.
“Unless you’re on board, I swear to nothing. If you’re my co-editor, we can talk.” She taps her wrist like she’s wearing a watch. “Two seconds left, Norie. In or out?”
“Fine! I’ll do it, but there will be rules. We’re not doing this to make everyone panic. We’re doing it to share valuable information.”
“You do want to help people.” She laughs. “You’re so soft.”
I don’t know what I want anymore. With the world ending soon, I’m certainly adding to my problems, not eliminating them.
For the rest of the week, I try to come up with ways to get out of my arrangement with Londyn. Maybe faking amnesia will work. I promised to what? When did I say that? But she doesn’t bring up the subject of the newsletter either. Not that we’ve talked. Perhaps we’re actually on the same wavelength. A newsletter—and working together—is a bad idea.
Then in social studies class, we’re assigned a new project called Civilization in Crisis, and it feels like a sign. We need to write four pages and speak for five minutes on a civilization and its time of crisis. How did the people handle it? Were they successful?
After we’re given the rubric, our teacher brings us to the media center to research ancient civilizations.
This project isn’t done in groups or pairs, so I’m on my own. I can’t even help Mack and avoid my work, because his para-assistant is around to pull books for him. Then she either reads it while he takes notes on his iPad or she sends it to the braillist for him to read later.
I select one of the books that the media specialist, Ms. Richmond, has laid out for us, and then I find a spot alone at a desk against the wall.
I flip through the book. Too bad I can’t write about today’s humans. We’re in crisis, and hardly anyone knows. Maybe in a thousand years, some seventh grader will write a report about me. How I was one of the few surviving humans. How I was prepared, and how I helped my classmates prepare.
Like with a newsletter. It could be a valuable tool. Future seventh graders could use it as a source to understand the 2010PL7 asteroid disaster. Londyn and I need to do a kick-butt job. I want the class reports centuries from now to say, More people should have listened to Eleanor Dross.
I shove the book aside. I can research the Aztecs’ fear of the eclipse later. Now I want to do what’s important.
HAMILTON MIDDLE SCHOOL’S READINESS PAPER
All the information you will need to be prepared for the end of the world as we know it (TEOTWAWKI).
I don’t write my name or Londyn’s. This might make it harder for students in the future to identify me correctly and give me credit. We can add our names to the last edition. When we have nothing else to lose. Right now, my dad and the teachers don’t need to know about our special project. They will shut us down, and we’re just getting started.
With only two weeks until Christmas break, we need to get this first newsletter written and printed soon. I sneak my phone out of my backpack and send a message to Londyn.
ME: Wanna work on newsletter after school?
I start to slide my phone back in my bag when it vibrates. I look up to see if anyone else heard the rattling.
LONDYN: Ya. What bus?
ME: My bus?
LONDYN: Duh! We’ll work on it at your house
ME: OK. Bus
78
* * *
• • •
I usually have a seat to myself on the bus. Sometimes a kid will push onto my bench if something gross happens in the back—like a spilled Yoo-hoo or vomit. They never join me for social reasons.
Today, Londyn sits down next to me. This shouldn’t be surprising. She’s coming to my house.
“Hi,” I say, trying to be friendly.
“Hey.” Then she takes out her phone and ignores me. Her thumbs fly across the screen. Maybe she’s texting her friends—or whoever. I’m going to loser Eleanor Dross’s house. I’ll send you a picture of her dorky room and her dorky underwear.
My mind goes into overdrive imagining what dorky things she’ll want to photograph and share. When I can’t take it anymore, I slyly lean over to see what she’s writing.
But she’s not texting. She’s playing a game with a little man on a motorcycle who races through a city.
A feeling of stupidity quickly replaces my feeling of relief. I’ve got to stop thinking that everyone is out to get me. Only most people.
My house is the fifth stop, and I tap Londyn’s shoulder when we have to get up. She follows me without saying anything.
“Want a snack?” I ask when we get inside. “I’ll get my computer, and we can work down here.”
She looks in our cupboards, opening and closing every one. I run upstairs to get the laptop and some paper. When I get back, Londyn is petting Bubbles.
I glare at my dog, feeling betrayed.
“What’s her name?”
“Bubbles.”
“She’s awesome.” That’s the nicest thing Londyn’s ever said about anything. Maybe I should have recorded the moment.
“Yeah,” I agree. “I’ve taught her a trick. Wanna see?”
“Sure.”
“Bubbles.” She looks at me. “Bacon!”
The dog runs to the fridge and plops her butt in front of it.
“That’s your trick?” Londyn narrows her eyes.
“Next I’m going to teach her to attack.” I try to match Londyn’s harsh stare, but she’s had too much practice.
After I reward Bubbles with a strip of cooked bacon, I set up my laptop and open the website. It’s been a few hours since I checked it on my phone while changing for gym class. There was nothing new at eleven-thirty, but now there is.
The World Ends in April Page 10