The World Ends in April

by Stacy McAnulty

  “Look at this! Another expert is talking about the asteroid.” I read the new post aloud. “ ‘Dr. Gene Yukofski is a former engineer with the European Space Agency. He’s worked on the International Space Station and several satellites, including the Pythagoras and the Rebel. He retired twenty years ago and has been following—’ ”

  “Ugh,” Londyn interrupts. “I don’t need to hear his résumé. What’s he got to say?”

  I scan down a few paragraphs. “ ‘He’s confirmed the orbital path of 2010PL7. It is on a collision course with Earth. His calculations have impact in April.’ ”

  “Does he say where?” She comes up behind me with Bubbles in her arms.

  I read the last few sentences. “No.”

  “Darn. I want a location.” She sits down. “We should say something like twenty miles west of Hamilton in our newsletter.”

  “Twenty miles? If it’s within one hundred, we all die.”

  “Really? That’s terrifying. Print it.” She smiles and wiggles her eyebrows.

  “No.”

  “Come on.” She gives an exaggerated sigh. “We can always change it later.”

  “No. We’re not doing that.” I lean back in the chair. “This is really, really real. April. That’s not so far away.”

  I use Google to calculate the days until possible impact. “April first is one hundred thirteen days away.”

  “I hope it’s after spring break,” she says.

  “Why?”

  “Wouldn’t you rather have our last days at home rather than in the classroom? You don’t seem like a school-loving nerd.”

  “School is not my best subject. Plus, it’s not going to come to that. I bet by the beginning of March the whole world will know. They’ll be talking about it on the news and the internet. And everyone will be rushing to the store to buy supplies.”

  “Guess I should get my bread and milk now,” she says. I think she’s joking but it’s hard to tell.

  “Here.” I hand her two pages of notes. She sets Bubbles on the floor.

  “Norie, we’re not writing a novel.” She grabs a red pen from her bag and starts circling things on my list. When she’s done, she shoves it back to me.

  “Write about these. And I’ll make some art.”

  She’s picked the scariest parts. Her focus is the impact, the possible destruction, the loss of life, and the aftermath that could last decades. All of it’s true. And all of it is the stuff of nightmares.

  “And I hate your title. Hamilton Middle School’s Readiness Paper.” She fake gags.

  “This is not going to work!” Five minutes ago, I was proud of what I wrote, and now she’s ripping on it. “I warned you. There have got to be tips and real advice. Or I’m not doing it.”

  “Okay,” she says through gritted teeth. “We’ll put the truth on the front. An asteroid is speeding toward Earth. It’s going to kill billions.”

  “Probably less.”

  “In April. There will be floods, famine, droughts, plagues.”

  “Are you writing a Bible story?” I roll my eyes.

  She shakes her head. “The front page is the headlines. It’s got to get everyone’s attention. You can give your useless tips and tricks on the back.”

  “Not tips and tricks. And not useless.”

  “Chances are, we’ll be blown to smithereens.” She claps her hands together.

  “Not true! The chances are actually slim that we’ll be blown to smithereens. Less than five percent.” Dr. Cologne wrote about the odds last week. Any one location on Earth has less than a five percent chance of being instantly evaporated. “We can’t worry about a direct hit. That’s a waste of time. We need to survive after.”

  “By drinking toilet water,” she says.

  I shudder.

  “That was so gross.” Londyn laughs—a sound I’ve never heard before. “I can’t believe you did that.”

  “I can’t believe you did that,” I say quickly.

  “I’m a woman of my word.” She holds up her chin. “If you say you’re going to do something, you do it. Simple.”

  Either she takes toilet water very seriously, or she’s talking about something else.

  “Well…um, we have toilet water here. We also have Coke. Which do you prefer?”

  Londyn snorts. Her left hand quickly covers her mouth like I’m not supposed to see her natural smile.

  “Yeah, I guess Coke is fine.” She tries to say it seriously.

  I get the sodas and two small bags of potato chips. Londyn selects the barbecue, leaving me with sour cream and chive.

  “Hey, I looked through your cabinets,” she says as she opens her snack. “I expected a thousand cans of tuna. Your pantry looks like a normal pantry. Aren’t you a prepper?”

  “No. Well, sort of.” I shake my head. “My grandfather is the real prepper. My dad isn’t into it. We’ve got some stuff.” I stare at her dark-rimmed eyes, ready to defend my family.

  “But not like a whole room full of provisions?”

  “Nope.” I lead her to the pantry and push aside a box of trash bags on the ground to reveal the four dusty buckets of dehydrated meals that Grandpa Joe gave us for one Christmas. “We got these. They’ll last us about a month.”

  “Hmm.” She looks down her nose at me. “I expected you to be more prepared.”

  “I’ve got time.” I cross my arms.

  “You’ve got nothing. Practically.”

  Part of me is saying, Be careful. Don’t do this. Do you trust her? But the other part of me reacts first.

  “This way.” I wave for Londyn to follow me to the basement.

  “You’re not going to murder me, are you? Is this where you bury the bodies?” She creeps down the steps until I turn on the light.

  “No dead bodies yet. Do you want to see what I’ve got or not?”

  Half the basement is a garage, and the other half is a walled-off area that we call the playroom. It’s got shelves of games, baskets of old and broken toys, dusty cases of MREs, too many spiders, and my secret stash of TEOTWAWKI supplies—thanks to Grandpa Joe and his retirement savings.

  I move the Barbie house and pull out the big blue bin.

  “I always wanted the Dream House.” She runs a hand over the pink roof.

  “You can have it. I hardly play with it anymore.”

  She laughs, and I’m relieved she didn’t think I was serious.

  Dramatically, I pull the blanket off the plastic bin, like a magician revealing his assistant.

  “What do we have here?” There’s excitement in Londyn’s voice. She kneels and starts rummaging through my supplies. She pulls out five bottles of aspirin.

  “Medicine will be like gold after SHTF,” I explain. “My grandfather has tons of antibiotics. That and insulin will be worth the most.”

  “What about my chewable vitamins? Will they be worth anything?”

  “Pre- or post-chewed?” I ask, and she rolls her eyes but laughs again.

  Londyn takes her time going through everything. She looks at each item and then lines it up on the floor. She needs to hurry because I want to put everything back before Edward and Phillip get home.

  “I’m impressed, Norie. You seem almost ready.”

  “Thanks?” I don’t sense that she’s making fun of me, but I’m only like 90 percent certain. “And this is nothing. You should see my grandfather’s basement. He’s got more food than some grocery stores and all the survival gear you’d ever need. Machetes, parachutes, life jackets, these pots for melting metal.”

  “Whoa! Why does he need parachutes?” She looks up at me.

  “I think he only has one. He likes to go to these military surplus stores. I guess when you have everything else, you buy a parachute.” I shrug.

  She starts p
utting stuff back neatly.

  “Seriously, Norie. When the asteroid hits, I’m coming here. Do you think Mack will mind if I’m your BFF just for the apocalypse?”

  The first newsletter is almost done, and it’s not bad. Londyn drew a scary asteroid to go across the top. It looks like a flaming meatball, but I didn’t tell her that. The official title is Doomsday Express. She insisted.

  On the front, I write up what we know so far. And the back has the basic survival information. We use my computer to create the final draft.

  “Make the title bigger.” Londyn points over my shoulder. We’re sitting on my bed. The boys are home, so we can’t work in the kitchen.

  “Better?”

  “Yes. Print one out.”

  We read over the hard copy. I’m sure it’s filled with spelling mistakes, but we don’t care. It’s not for teachers, and kids aren’t into that stuff. We even have a few emojis—which are definitely not allowed in school reports.

  “This is killer,” Londyn says.

  “I know.” We agree for maybe the second time in history. “It’s so good. Wish we could put our names on it.”

  “Right! I want everyone to know it’s me telling them their world is ending. I’m behind this.” She does her evil cartoon-villain laugh.

  “An asteroid is behind this. You’re the artist and editor.”

  She shrugs. “How many should we print? At least three hundred.”

  “No! That’s too many. Twenty-five. Kids can read it and then pass it on to others.” Grandpa Joe has promised to take me to the office supply store later to run copies. My printer always jams after four or five sheets.

  “You can’t go viral with only twenty-five copies.” She rolls her eyes.

  “Can anything on paper go viral?”

  “Two hundred. At least.”

  “I’ll try.” I play with a strand of hair behind my ear. “What do you think will happen if we get caught? Remember that kid last year who created a website about Hamilton’s worst teacher? He got suspended.”

  “He deserved to be suspended. It was a crappy website. He had a picture of the eighth-grade math teacher and a lot of unimaginative rumors.”

  “Didn’t he say the teacher was holding kids hostage in his basement?”

  “Yep, unimaginative. Boring.” She waves the papers in my face. “This is brilliant, A-plus work, ten out of ten, five stars.”

  “How are we going to distribute them? Shove them in lockers?”

  “That’s a stupid idea. It’ll take too long and there are cameras. I suggest the bathrooms.”

  “Huh?”

  “We’ll put some in each bathroom. The school can’t record in there. We’ll place stacks by the paper towels with a sign that says TAKE ONE.”

  I nod. “Okay. We can cover the girls’ bathrooms. What about the boys’?”

  “Mack can help us out.”

  “There’s an obvious flaw with this plan,” I say. “He has a big mouth. He’s not the best guy for top-secret operations. Maybe we can get Spencer.”

  “Or we’ll sneak into the boys’ bathrooms. Meet me before homeroom near the gym.”

  “Okay.”

  “Tomorrow, we scare the heck out of Hamilton Middle.”

  “At least we’re clear on your motivations,” I say.

  “Yep.” She gives me a cheesy smile and two thumbs up.

  * * *

  • • •

  Grandpa Joe loves our newsletter. “I can’t wait to meet your co-conspirator. Londyn’s her name? Like the city?”

  “Yeah. And she wants to meet you too.”

  We make one hundred copies. Grandpa Joe keeps a few for himself. (I can imagine him hanging one on his fridge near the “I Love Grandpa” poem I wrote him in first grade.) He even offers one to the cashier as we leave, but I snatch it out of her hands.

  “Private Eleanor, I think what you’re doing is important and dangerous work,” he says as we walk to his truck. “I’m happy to play a small part in your covert operation.” He throws his big arm over my shoulder and kisses my forehead.

  “Thanks for your help.”

  The next day, Londyn and I decide to put the newsletters in only the girls’ bathrooms because we have a small first batch. We each take half. She assigns me the art and music hallway, and she hits up the ones near the cafeteria and the seventh-grade wing.

  Sneaking the stacks into the bathrooms should be no big deal. But my heart still races, and my palms get sweaty like I’m about to give a report. The place is empty. I set my pile on top of the paper towel dispenser. Then I take out a pen and write FREE: TAKE ONE on a sticky note and place it in front. I draw an arrow pointing up, so kids don’t think I’m advertising free paper towels.

  Later, as we change for gym class, Londyn comes up to me.

  “Did you distribute them all?” she whispers.

  “I still have a few.” I open my backpack and show her. I’m not sure why I kept some.

  “Your bag is full of evidence. You’d better get rid of them in case they start questioning us and you get searched.”

  “Who is they?” I twist my paracord bracelet.

  “The administration. The police. The FBI.” She’s trying to be scary, but her mouth twitches into a smile.

  “We haven’t committed any crimes.” I close my bag. “Have we?”

  “Wearing a tank top is a crime in this school. It doesn’t take much to get in trouble. I’d be careful if I were you.”

  In the hallway before lunch, kids are reading the Doomsday Express. Seems like everyone has one, even though we only made one hundred. I also spot a teacher with a copy. As I pass, I imagine him grabbing my arm and saying, “You’re under arrest.”

  I’ve never moved so fast in my life. This probably makes me an obvious suspect. I’m breathing hard when I get to the cafeteria.

  I sit down next to Mack.

  “Hey,” he says. “Did you make a Braille version of your newsletter?”

  “Here.” It’s not Braille, but I did print a special edition for him with a font size of twenty-four. “And shh. Don’t talk about it.”

  Then something odd happens. Londyn comes to sit with us. She squeezes in between Ajay and Dominic.

  “Our newsletter is a bestseller,” she says.

  “Shh.” All I do is shush people. “And it can’t be a bestseller. We aren’t selling anything.”

  “Do you think we could sell them?” Her eyes grow big. “How much would you pay for a Doomsday Express, Spencer?”

  “A dollar?” he says with a mouthful of chicken nuggets.

  “Can we not talk about it at school? Please.”

  But that’s all anyone can talk about. My head is spinning as I try to listen to all the conversations around me. I eat my sandwich as fast as I can, then shove the rest of my lunch in my bag and get up. I need some space.

  “Where are you going?” Londyn asks.

  “Media center. I’m doing extra-credit work.”

  “She’s lying,” I hear Mack say as I walk away. “She never does extra-credit work.”

  In the library, I sit at a round table near the morning-announcements studio. I’m alone for less than five minutes before Mack and Londyn barge in and surround me.

  “We’re done talking about you know what, Norie,” Londyn says. “We’re sorry.” She pinches her lips like she’s trying to keep from laughing.

  “Sorry to stress you out, Elle. Let’s talk about something else.” Mack holds out his hand. I don’t take it.

  “What should we talk about?” Londyn strums her fingers on the table. “End-of-year testing? No, the world will be over by then. The NBA championship game? No. That’s after too.”

  “Can’t talk about hockey and the Stanley Cup either,” Mack adds. “That’s post-ap
ocalyptic. No one is going to be skating when there isn’t enough food to eat.”

  “No Mother’s Day, no Father’s Day, no graduations, no summer break.” Londyn counts off the list on her fingers.

  “No new Marvel movie. They always come out in the summer.” Mack does a fake cry.

  They laugh, and I want to strangle them both.

  “And no going to the Conrad School,” I blurt out, not sure where that came from.

  “No school at all,” Londyn says.

  I wish Mack would say something like, “No way I’m going to the Conrad School now.” Or “I was never going there anyway.” He doesn’t comment about the stupid school at all.

  “You know what we need to do?” Mack says.

  “What?” Londyn ask.

  “We need a bucket list. A list of all the things we want to do before the world ends.”

  “You and this dumb bucket list. This isn’t the end end,” I say. “And I’m not getting a tattoo.”

  “A bucket list is a good idea, Mack,” Londyn says. “I want to order one of those kitchen-sink sundaes from Molly’s Ice Cream Shop. It has like fifty scoops of ice cream in it.”

  “That’s awesome, dude,” Mack says. “Write it down.”

  Londyn snatches a mint-green sheet of paper from the desk behind her. On one side is last month’s lunch menu. On the other, she starts the list.

  “The kitchen-sink sundae is gross,” I say. “All the flavors melt before you can finish, and it becomes a soupy mess. My family couldn’t even finish it.”

  “Well, I’ve never had it.” She shoots me one of her evil looks. It’s been about a day since I’ve seen one. Good to know she’s still got it. “There’s not going to be ice cream after April. No electricity. No freezers. No ice cream. This is our last chance.”

  “The world will rebuild eventually. You will have ice cream again. Or at least flavored snow. We’ll probably experience a mini ice age.” I’d hate to think I’d never have another Klondike bar.

  “I want to zip-line,” Mack says.