Life as We Knew It

  "You didn't tell Mom any of this?" he asked. "Why not?"

  "She has enough to worry about," I said.

  Matt was silent. "The guards are probably right," he said after a little bit. "You and Mom shouldn't go out alone anymore. I guess it's safe going to Mrs. Nesbitt's, but no farther."

  "So we're prisoners," I said.

  "Miranda, we're all prisoners," Matt said. "You think I want to be living like this? I can't go back to Cornell. I don't know if there is a Cornell anymore, but even if there is, I can't drive there and I can't bike there and I can't hitch a ride there. I'm stuck, too. I don't like it any more than you do."

  I never know what to say when Matt admits he's unhappy. So I kept quiet.

  "You're right about high school," he said. "It's not a good idea to go to town anymore. I'll go to the post office and library from now on. But if you want to go to Maple Hill, I'll go with you in the morning and pick you up in the afternoon."

  I thought about it. It isn't like I was all that excited about going to school. On the other hand, it makes me mad to think of being forced to stay home. I may never leave Howell again. I'd like to at least be able to leave my house.

  "Okay," I said. "I'll try Maple Hill. But don't tell Mom what happened. I don't want her to worry any more than she has to."

  Matt nodded.

  I guess tomorrow is my first day of school. Whoo-whoo.

  FALL

  ELEVEN

  August 31

  When Matt and I got to school this morning, I saw kids divided into three groups waiting to get in. K through 5 were in one group (by far the biggest), 6 through 8 were in a second, and 9 through 12 in a third.

  I said good-bye to Matt and went into the third group.

  The high school group counted itself and there were 31 of us. I recognized a few faces, but there was no one there I remembered taking any classes with, let alone being friendly with. Our informal survey showed 16 freshman, 7 sophomores, 4 juniors, and 6 seniors.

  "I guess we won't have to worry about class size," one of the seniors said, which of course turned out to be completely wrong.

  Eventually they opened the doors and we went in. The younger kids were told to go to the cafeteria, the middle school kids to the gym, and the high school kids to the music room.

  When we got there, there weren't enough chairs for us, and what chairs there were, were mostly meant for 7-year-olds. So we sat on the floor and waited. And waited. And waited. Of course I have no idea how long we waited but it felt like forever.

  Eventually Mrs. Sanchez walked in. I nearly wept, I was so happy to see a familiar face.

  Mrs. Sanchez smiled at us. "Welcome to Maple Hill High School," she said. "I'm pleased to see each and every one of you."

  A few kids laughed.

  "I know how difficult this is for you," Mrs. Sanchez said. "And I'd like to tell you things are going to get better, but of course I can't be sure that's true. All I can do is be honest with you, and trust you to make whatever decisions are right for you."

  "There isn't going to be high school?" one of the younger kids asked. I couldn't tell whether that made him happy or sad.

  "As you can see, not many of the high school age students have come here," Mrs. Sanchez said. "We've heard that forty-four ninth through twelfth graders are at the high school now. Obviously many families have moved away, and I suppose quite a number have decided to homeschool this year."

  What we all knew but nobody was saying was that quite a number just didn't care about school anymore. And I guess some may have died. We certainly didn't say that.

  "So we're it?" a kid asked.

  "We don't know that for sure," Mrs. Sanchez said. "Not every parent attended the meeting. We certainly hope more students will show up."

  "You should have offered free food," a girl said, and we all laughed.

  "How many high school teachers are here?" the senior girl asked. "How are we going to be divided up?"

  Mrs. Sanchez had that uncomfortable look I've come to associate with grown-ups. "That is a problem," she said. "There are four high school teachers at the high school. There's a chemistry teacher, a Spanish teacher, a math teacher, and a biology teacher. Here we have an English teacher and me. I'm certified to teach history, although I haven't since I became principal."

  "Wow," the girl said. "Put all of you together and you practically have a faculty."

  Mrs. Sanchez ignored her sarcasm. "Of course it won't be school as any of us remember it, but we should be able to cobble some kind of curriculum together," she said. "But that will only work if we're all in the same building."

  "So we're not going to go to school here after all?" one of the younger kids asked.

  "We think it makes more sense to put all the high school students in the high school," Mrs. Sanchez said. "Of course we'll be sharing the building with other students, but we'll have our own space. The idea is to teach two groups of ninth graders, and have the sophomores, juniors, and seniors take classes together. We'll know better after we've done it for a while."

  I thought of the gang, of the two guys with guns. My stomach clenched.

  "What if it isn't safe to get to the high school?" I asked. "I'd have to bike through town to get there and I was told by an armed guard that girls shouldn't go anyplace without protection."

  I like Mrs. Sanchez and I know it wasn't fair to put her on the spot like that. It wasn't even sensible. Not everybody has to go through town to get to the high school. And I had Matt to protect me. But I couldn't shake the image of those two guys with the guns.

  "We all have to decide for ourselves what's best," Mrs. Sanchez said. "There are no good answers to this situation. You do have the option of homeschooling. All you have to do is go to the office, tell someone there what courses you'd be taking, and your textbooks will be provided. That's the best we can do, I'm afraid."

  "This is crazy," one of the older boys said. "I've been working my butt off so I can go to a good college. That's all I've ever heard. Get into a good college. And now you're telling me there are maybe a half dozen teachers, and I don't even know what level they teach. Are any of them AP math? AP history? AP physics?"

  "What difference does it make?" another boy asked. "It isn't like there are any colleges left."

  "I know how unfair this all is," Mrs. Sanchez said. "But we'll try to do our best for you. And we'll support any decision you make. If you do decide to go to the high school, please stay here. Anyone else, please go to the office and get your textbooks. I'll leave you now so you can discuss things freely among yourselves."

  Most of the kids continued sitting. A few left with Mrs. Sanchez.

  "How dangerous is town?" a girl asked me. "I don't know," I said. "I heard there were guys with guns."

  "I heard there are girls missing," one of the younger girls said.

  "They could have just left town," I said. "Lots of people are leaving."

  "Michelle Schmidt is missing," one of the girls said.

  "You're kidding," I said. Michelle was in my French class. "She was walking home from church with her little sister and some guy grabbed her," the girl said. "That's what I heard." Three more kids got up and left the room.

  I don't know why I didn't go with them. I knew I wasn't going to go to high school. But it felt good to be sitting there with kids my own age, at least pretending to go to school. I was with people and not just Mom and Matt and Jonny and Mrs. Nesbitt.

  I wanted that feeling to last as long as it could. Because high school had turned into Springfield, just another stupid dream.

  "You'd think somebody would do something," one of the older girls said. "Call the police or the FBI or something."

  "There aren't any more police," I said.

  "I don't think there's any FBI, either," another girl said. "My mother knows someone who knows someone in Washington and he said the government isn't there anymore. The president and everybody went to Texas. Texas is supposed to have gas and electricity and p
lenty of food."

  "Maybe we should all move to Texas," I said.

  Another two or three kids got up and left.

  "So this is it?" the senior boy asked. "Are we all planning to go to the high school?"

  "I guess so," one of the other boys said.

  "I have to ask my parents," a girl said. "They didn't want me to go to the high school, but I don't think they're going to want me at home, either."

  "Does anybody else ever wonder what the point is?" a girl asked. "Why are we pretending there's a future? We all know there isn't."

  "We don't know that," another girl said. "We don't know anything."

  "I really think if we pray hard enough, God will protect us," one of the younger girls said.

  "Tell that to Michelle Schmidt," a boy said.

  Suddenly I felt like I was surrounded by death, the way I feel when Peter gives us a new thing to worry about. I really didn't need to know kids were missing.

  So I got up. I felt if I was going to die anyway, I'd rather do it with my family around.

  I walked to the office, where I saw a woman looking very frazzled and not at all happy.

  "You going to be homeschooled?" she asked. "High school textbooks are over there."

  I went to where she pointed. There were piles of textbooks scattered around in no order.

  I realized I should take textbooks for Jonny as well as myself. I started with his, because it made me feel like I was doing something positive and not just running away.

  Of course I didn't know exactly what Jonny was planning to study. At first I thought if I was stuck with French, he should be stuck with French. But then I decided he'd probably prefer Spanish. There are more Spanish-speaking baseball players.

  I took both. I took earth science and biology textbooks and two years' worth of math textbooks and world and American history and four different English textbooks, just for Jonny. I wouldn't have taken any textbooks home for myself except I knew I'd never get away with that. So I selected a French III book and math and chemistry and an English textbook. I threw in an economics textbook and a psychology textbook because at some point I'd thought maybe I'd take them.

  I piled the books up neatly and went back to the main office to see if I was supposed to sign for them or something. The frazzled-looking woman was gone.

  Then I did the strangest thing. I saw boxes of school supplies, pens and pencils and blue books and notepads, all just sitting there.

  I walked over making sure nobody could see me. I emptied my book bag and filled it with blue books and pads and pens and pencils.

  For all I know, I'm the only person in the world keeping a journal of what's been going on. The journal books I've been given over the years are all full, and I've been using Mom's typing paper. I haven't asked her permission and I'm not sure she'd give it to me if I did. At some point, she might want to start writing again.

  I can't remember the last time I was so excited. It felt like Christmas filling my book bag with supplies. Better than Christmas, though, because I knew I was stealing and that made it even more exciting. For all I know, taking a blue book is a hanging offense. Assuming there are any cops around to hang you.

  I kept wanting to take more. I ended up with another half dozen blue books tucked in under my belt. My clothes are too big for me anyway, so I figured the blue books would help me keep my pants on. I filled my pocketbook with pens and pencils.

  Then the frazzled woman came back in. I scurried away from the supply room and went back to my pile of textbooks.

  "I'm going to need help carrying these books out," I said. "I took for my brother and me."

  "What do you expect me to do about it?" the woman snapped.

  Actually I didn't expect her to do anything. I carried the books in four trips to the front door and waited until Matt showed up. We divvied the books between us and biked home.

  When we got there, I told Mom what had happened. She asked why I didn't want to go to the high school.

  "I think I'll do better at home," I said.

  If Mom disagreed, she didn't have the energy to put up a fight. "I expect you to work hard," she said. "School is school no matter where you go."

  I told her I knew that, and went up to my room. Sometimes I feel like my room is the only safe place left. I wonder if Megan feels that way, if that's why she doesn't leave hers.

  Life sucks.

  I wish I had some fudge.

  September 1

  I picked up my textbooks. Either textbooks are a lot heavier than they used to be, or I don't have as much strength as I did 3 months ago.

  September 2

  There didn't seem to be much point starting schoolwork on a Friday.

  September 5

  Labor Day. I'll look over my textbooks tomorrow.

  TWELVE

  September 6

  I told Mom I was doing history (she never would have believed me if I said math) and stayed in bed all morning.

  I finally got out around 11 and went downstairs to get something to eat. It was 23 degrees outside, but there was no heat on in the house and the woodstove wasn't going. I heated a can of soup and ate that. Then I went back to bed.

  That afternoon I heard Mom go up to her bedroom. She's been taking naps lately, which is something she never did. You'd think she'd be teaching Jonny or something, but I don't think she cares about his schoolwork any more than she cares about mine. Not that I blame her.

  So I'm in bed, wearing my flannel pajamas and my robe and two pairs of socks and there are three blankets and a quilt over me, and I'm trying to decide which is worse, being cold or being hungry. Part of me says the worst thing is being bored and if I did some schoolwork I'd be distracted, but I tell that part of me to shut up.

  I got out of bed and something made me go to the pantry. I've been choosing not to see how our supplies are holding out, because I don't want to know. I want to believe everything is just going to work out and food will magically appear. In some ways it already has, and I want to think it always will.

  Mom's let us know she'd prefer us not to go to the pantry. Whatever food is available for us to eat, she leaves in the kitchen cabinets. I guess she doesn't want us to worry.

  Matt and Jonny were outside, working on our wood supply. I told myself I should join them, I should go out to gather more kindling, but the truth is even the woods scare me these days.

  The pantry actually kind of reassured me. It looked to me like there were lots of cans of food and boxes of pasta and rice. Horton's supplies were in one corner, and there seemed to be plenty of canned and boxed food for him and bags of kitty litter. Mom's a stockpiler under the best of circumstances, so the pantry is always pretty full. She probably had a near-full pantry back in May.

  Seeing all those cans and boxes and bags of food made me mad, like why are we starving ourselves when we still have food? When the food runs out, we'll probably die, so what difference does it make if that's November or January or March? Why not eat while we can?

  That's when I saw the bag of chocolate chips. I'd forgotten all about them, how I'd thrown them into my shopping cart on Crazy Shopping Day.

  I went a little crazy. There was food in the pantry that Mom wasn't letting us eat and there was chocolate, real chocolate, in the house and Mom was hoarding it because it has no nutritional value and if we're only eating a little bit every day, we're better off with spinach.

  And they were MY damn chocolate chips.

  I ripped open the bag and I poured chocolate chips down my throat. I could hardly taste them, I was swallowing them so fast. I must have devoured a third of the bag before I could calm down enough to savor the taste. Chocolate. It tasted just the way I'd remembered only better. I couldn't stop eating them. I knew I was making myself sick. My stomach was already protesting but I kept flinging chocolate chips into my mouth. I didn't want to share the chocolate with anybody. It was mine.

  "Miranda!"

  It's funny. Somehow I knew I'd get caught. Ma
ybe because I was prepared, I made the moment as dramatic as possible. I swallowed another mouthful of chips and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. I must have seen that in a movie somewhere.

  It worked. Mom started screaming. I'm not even sure she was coherent.

  I was, though. I screamed right back at her. She was hoarding food. We didn't have to starve. Why wasn't she letting us eat three meals a day? What difference did any of it make? I still had the bag of chocolate chips in my hand, and I made some kind of wild gesture because the chips went flying all over the pantry floor.

  Mom froze. That was a lot scarier than her hysterics.

  I froze too for a moment. Then I started picking the chocolate chips off the floor. I got a handful of them and didn't know whether I should put them back in the bag. I stood there like an idiot waiting for Mom to become human again.

  "Eat them," she said.

  "What?"

  "Eat them. You wanted them. Eat them. Pick them up and eat them. They're yours. Eat them all. I don't want to see a single chocolate chip on the floor."

  I bent down and started picking up all the chocolate chips from the floor. As I gathered them, I put them in my mouth. Whenever I missed one, Mom pointed it out to me. She actually kicked a couple of them toward me and told me to eat them.

  I really felt sick by then.

  Finally I got all the chocolate chips off the floor. There was still about a quarter of a bag left.

  "Eat them," Mom said.

  "Mom, I don't think I can," I said.

  "Eat them," she said.

  I thought I'd throw up. But Mom terrified me. I don't know why. She wasn't even yelling at that point. It was like talking to an icicle. She stood there absolutely still and watched me eat each and every last chocolate chip. I thought, This isn't my mom. This is some strange creature that's taken over her body.

  Then I thought it would serve her right if I threw up all over her, but I managed not to.