How to Pack for the End of the World

by Michelle Falkoff

  “Oh, come on, just give it to me!” Chloe shouted out from her pile of pillows on the floor. “Can you imagine how much I’ve suffered without a curling iron? Although I have to say that I look even better in candlelight, so this was educational.”

  I was never sure, with Chloe, whether to be horrified or entertained. We all knew she didn’t mean half the things that came out of her mouth, but she got such a kick out of being willing to say them it was hard to be offended.

  “I don’t know, Princess, it seems like the people here might want to know how you pulled off such a heroic feat,” Jo said. “Anything to say to your subjects?” I couldn’t tell whether she sounded sarcastic or flirty.

  “Okay, fine, you want the method to the madness, I can do that.” As if she hadn’t wanted to spill anyway. “I’ve got a monster stash of tea lights for photos, so I knew lighting wasn’t going to be an issue. Not to mention, like, thousands of candles people have sent me. And you didn’t say we couldn’t use that stuff this time.”

  “You’re right,” Jo said. “It was all fair game.”

  “So while all of you were running around figuring out how you were going to manage at night, I set up two weeks’ worth of automatic posts for Chloe’s Closet. Can’t have the site going dark just so I can win. I made an updo hair challenge so no one would expect me to have a proper blowout, my clothes steamer is battery-operated, I’d been meaning to try a raw food diet for a while, and there you have it. Best two weeks ever.” She dropped her eyes then, not looking at Jo, and I had a feeling they’d still been hanging out, even if it was only in the dark. “So is that enough? Can I have my victory now?”

  “All right, it’s yours,” Jo said. “You earned it.” She looked at Chloe with an expression I hadn’t seen from her before. Softness, maybe? It was hard to use the word “soft” in relation to Jo.

  “Don’t you worry, you’ve still got a chance to win it all,” Chloe said. “My turn next, right, Wyatt?”

  “You’re the only one left,” he said.

  “I’m not going to make it easy for you, Jo, but then again, I won’t make it easy for anyone,” Chloe said.

  “You never do,” Hunter muttered.

  “What’s that?” she asked.

  He didn’t respond. He wasn’t quite over her, then. Interesting that Jo seemed to have moved past Chloe’s shady behavior more quickly than Hunter had. It just proved I didn’t know anyone nearly as well as I thought.

  Wyatt leaned in to whisper in my ear. “You pick the movie, I’ll microwave the popcorn.”

  Then again, maybe there was at least one person I knew, for real.

  13.

  Chloe had just one request for us in anticipation of her game: she wanted it to take place after finals, before everyone left for break. There was a gap of just under a week in between exams and Christmas, and it was apparently a Gardner custom to hang out on campus for parties, since we got almost a whole month off. Jo and Chloe were planning to stay on campus for break, so for her it was no big deal; Hunter and Wyatt were happy to delay going home as long as possible. I’d been planning on leaving right away, but it didn’t take much convincing to get me to stay. Not if it meant more time with Wyatt.

  We were hanging out as much as we could, but between studying for finals and taking care of end-of-quarter student council stuff I barely got to see him. I’d started bringing him to Friday-night dinners, since he had a lot of questions about Judaism and what it meant to me. Some things I could explain, like how it felt to be one of the only Jewish kids growing up; how I’d both resented and enjoyed spending afternoons in Hebrew school, learning how to read another language and hearing stories repeated over and over again; how certain tastes and smells made me think of specific holidays, like apples and honey at Rosh Hashanah and potato latkes at Hanukkah and cinnamon-scented kugel to break the fast on Yom Kippur. But I couldn’t describe to him the feeling of sitting down to a table lit with matched pairs of plain white candles and eggy loaves of challah and roasted chicken and how it helped me take stock of my week, ease into a weekend where I made sure to regenerate myself for the week to come, and take comfort in being surrounded by people who’d grown up with some of the same traditions and pressures I had, for good and for bad. I wanted him to see that for himself, if only to understand me better.

  He, in turn, taught me about the woods. Anytime we could get away, when the weather wasn’t so cold that a parka and gloves was enough, we went for walks. I loved getting to know Wyatt in his happy place, and it was great to see how confident and calm he was when in his own surroundings. His habit of making statements into questions was already fading—maybe Hunter had been right that I made him nervous—but in the woods it was gone entirely, and though he still bounced with excitement on occasion, I liked it, and I liked learning about what he loved. Though what I liked best were the breaks we took to sit together under the big tree that had become our spot, blanket laid out on the ground, kissing until my hair was tangled up with bark and leaves and sometimes snow. We had complete privacy outside, and I felt like I was alone with Wyatt but also together with the whole world. I never thought I’d be someone who could be happy just sitting wrapped up with another person, whispering inanities about how blue the sky was or how purple the sunset or how twinkly the stars when it got dark, but that was me, now.

  Until one day I went and knocked on Wyatt’s door and he didn’t answer, though I was sure he was in there. We’d talked earlier in the day about watching a movie in the dorm lounge after I finished studying, though our plans had been tentative. But he hadn’t planned to leave his room, and I could see light coming through a crack in the doorjamb.

  I kept knocking and knocking until finally the door opened. Only it wasn’t Wyatt; it was his roommate, who I’d only met in passing. “He doesn’t want to see you,” the roommate said. “Okay? No more knocking.”

  “Wait, what?” I asked. “What did he say?”

  “Above my pay grade,” the roommate said, and closed the door in my face, before I could look in the room and catch Wyatt’s eye. If he was even there. I felt the burn of tears and shook my head to make them stop. What could have happened between this morning and now to make him not want to see me?

  It didn’t make sense. I ducked into the lounge and texted his computer a bunch of times before I remembered Wyatt would only be able to check his texts from the computer lab, and he was in his room. I tried to track down his roommate’s cell, which kept me distracted for a while, but finding it only made things worse. I called what felt like a hundred times before his roommate finally answered. “What part of Wyatt-doesn’t-want-to-talk-to-you is unclear?” he asked. “Don’t call anymore or I’ll block your number.”

  “Please,” I said. “Don’t hang up. Just tell me something. Anything.”

  There was quiet for a moment, and I worried that he’d hung up, but he’d just put the phone on mute while he checked in with Wyatt. “He just needs a little time alone,” the roommate said. “He said give him a couple of days so he can think.”

  I didn’t see what else I could do. I hung up the phone and then ran to my dorm room. I needed to be alone, especially since I was about to start bawling. I hated feeling so frustrated, and I hated that I wanted to talk to Wyatt about it except that he was the one making me feel this way. I managed to flop on my bed before the crying started in earnest; it was a relief to be by myself.

  Except I wasn’t. “What’s wrong with you?” Brianna asked. She didn’t even sound mean; it was almost like she thought that was a legitimate question to ask when one’s roommate started hysterically sobbing.

  “Why do you care?” I snapped back, burying my face in my pillow.

  “You seem sad,” Brianna said. “And you’re my roommate. Why wouldn’t I ask?”

  Now I was confused. “You have wanted nothing to do with me since the very first day we moved in, and just because I’m crying you’re interested in my life all of a sudden?”

  “Oh, that
’s how you see it?” She sounded almost amused, but then her voice cracked. “Because in my world, you said hi to me on the first day, asked if I wanted to go out when I was so depressed and homesick I could barely talk, and then you made some friends and never spoke to me again.”

  Brianna’s description of our relationship was so radically at odds with mine that it had the unanticipated effect of stopping me from crying. I sat up in bed and leaned back against the wall. “That’s what you think happened?”

  “That’s exactly what happened,” she said. “When you left for Game Night, I spent the whole night crying. I had the worst time getting to sleep, and when I finally did you woke me up screaming but wouldn’t tell me why. It took like a month for the night-screaming to stop, but at least I’d made some other friends by then, and I could stay with them if I was desperate. Like when your scary friend kicked me out of my own room so you all could play a game without me.”

  I gaped at Brianna while I tried to process what she was saying. The events lined up perfectly, but my memory of them was so different. Yet it didn’t mean she was wrong. It just meant maybe I didn’t understand what was going on around me as well as I thought I did. This feeling was becoming familiar. After a silence a few minutes past comfortable, I decided there was only one thing to do. “I’m sorry, Brianna,” I said. “I really am.”

  “Whatever,” she said. “I’m fine now. I’ve got my people. Just didn’t like seeing you so sad, that’s all.”

  “That’s not all,” I said. “You’re being nice to me when you thought I’d been awful to you, and even if I didn’t mean to make you feel that way, I’m sorry I did. Could we maybe start over?”

  “You did give me the extra closet space,” she said, with a half smile. “You want to tell me what’s going on, or are you all done with the crying?”

  I didn’t want to talk about it, but I felt like I owed Brianna a gesture. “I’m good on the crying, but I could use some advice.” I told her about Wyatt, how we hadn’t been together that long but how his roommate had sent me away and then told me to leave Wyatt alone. “It doesn’t make any sense.”

  “This kind of thing doesn’t come out of nowhere,” she said. “Are you sure nothing happened today? Is it possible something happened while you weren’t around?”

  I couldn’t imagine anything that would make him react that way, and I said so. “Not that I’m so perfect or anything. It’s just that things have been going so well. What could possibly have changed in only a few hours?”

  “Well, it sounds like your job is to answer that question,” she said. “Sorry not to be more helpful, but . . .”

  “No, this was incredibly helpful.” I got up and got a Kleenex from the box on my desk so I could blow my nose. “Thank you.”

  “No problem.” Brianna stood up. “You came in here wanting to be alone, so I’m going to split. I’ll see you around, though?”

  “Definitely,” I said.

  She paused before leaving the room. “You can call me Bri, you know,” she said. “All my friends do.”

  Months of living here, and I hadn’t known. “Thanks.”

  After Brianna—Bri—left I just sat on my bed for a while, thinking about how completely I’d misread her. It didn’t seem possible, and yet her description of things made total sense when I looked at it from her point of view. I’d always thought I was a pretty understanding person, thinking about other people and not just myself—how had I managed to hurt someone so badly and not realize it? What did that mean for the relationships I thought I understood?

  Bri was right—I needed to find out why Wyatt had stopped talking to me. I’d have to get him to explain.

  If he wouldn’t answer the door, maybe he’d eventually check his email and see that I was still writing to him. I got out my computer and started typing. Email this time, because it felt more formal. Dear Wyatt, I wrote,

  I don’t know what happened that made you stop talking to me—I keep hoping it’s some sort of mistake and you’ll write back or come to my dorm and everything will be fine. But if it’s not a mistake, please tell me what happened. Even if you think I won’t like it. It can’t be worse than not knowing. I miss you.

  Love,

  Amina

  I debated signing it “Love,” but I was pretty sure I did love him, even if it was way too soon to tell him that for real. I hit Send, and then I waited. And waited and waited and waited. I skipped dinner and tried to study, but I couldn’t focus. I kept clicking the message window over and over again, hoping something would change.

  “Did you find out anything?” Bri asked, when she got back from dinner.

  “Nothing so far,” I said.

  She placed a sandwich wrapped in a brown paper napkin on my desk. “I had a feeling you’d bail on dinner, and I thought you might be hungry.” She’d brought me a PB&J, a bag of chips, and a brownie.

  “How did you know?” I asked. “What to bring?”

  “I ran into Chloe at dinner.” She saw my face and laughed. “Don’t worry, I didn’t tell her about Wyatt. Figured if you wanted her to know you’d tell her yourself. I just said you fell asleep studying and I didn’t want to wake you up.”

  “Thanks, Bri.” I felt a wave of guilt, thinking about how much I’d missed, not getting to know her earlier. At least it was still early in our time at Gardner, even if it didn’t feel like it right now.

  Just when I’d finally given up and gotten into bed with a book, well after Bri had fallen asleep, my phone buzzed. I had a new message from Wyatt, and it looked like a long one. I got up and sat at my desk to look at the message on my laptop. At first I had trouble understanding—all I could see were chunks of text that looked cut-and-pasted from somewhere else, all about Hunter and his red hair and adorable freckles and how much more appealing that was than Wyatt’s awkwardness and enthusiasm, and then I realized that some of the words looked familiar and some of them didn’t and I got this sick feeling deep in my stomach. The last thing I read was the worst: Maybe if I get together with Wyatt it will make Hunter jealous and he’ll realize we should be together. It’s not like Wyatt would ever figure it out.

  I couldn’t make sense of the individual words and phrases I’d thought before, combined into sentences I would never, ever write. Not even just to myself. Not even in my journal.

  Oh no: my journal. That’s why so many of the phrases looked familiar—they weren’t just things I would say; they were things I’d written down. I tore open my desk drawer, forgetting to be quiet, hoping against hope that it would be there. And somehow, it was.

  But someone had clearly read it, and they’d mixed things I’d said with things I would never say in an effort to hurt me, or Wyatt, or both of us. And it was working. My mind started scrolling through the events of the last couple of months, thinking about all the random bad things that had happened—Wyatt’s books and emails, the pictures of Chloe, and now this. The only person in Eucalyptus who hadn’t been targeted was Jo. Given that she and Chloe had started hanging out, it was entirely possible she’d have access to Chloe’s pictures. Maybe Chloe had even sent them to Jo herself. Was it really that simple? I wasn’t sure, but right now I didn’t care. Right now all that mattered was making Wyatt understand that I hadn’t said those things about him.

  I started another message, typing furiously to try and make him understand, but every time I read back over what I’d written it seemed either insufficient or way over the top. There was only one way to fix this, and it meant making myself as vulnerable and exposed as I’d ever been to anyone in my entire life. Was I ready to do this? Did I trust Wyatt enough? I thought for a while, and then decided the answer was yes.

  Dear Wyatt,

  I can’t imagine how hurt you’re feeling right now. I don’t know if it will make it better or worse to tell you I didn’t write those things, at least not all of them, and not in that way. If you’re willing to give me a chance to explain, go to the package office tomorrow after lunch. I’ll have left
something for you.

  Love,

  Amina

  “You’re giving him your journal?” Chloe literally dropped her fork when I explained to her and to Hunter why I was late for lunch. There was no reason for them not to know, especially since I was hoping they’d have some ideas about why all these things had been happening, whether it was possible that they’d been done by one person, and whether that person might be Jo. “That is madness.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Hunter said. “Under the circumstances, it seems like the easiest way to fix things, doesn’t it? Especially if she trusts him?”

  “Sorry, but there is not a person in the world I’d trust that much,” Chloe said. “But hey, you do you. I’ve got bigger things to worry about.”

  She had effectively managed to turn the conversation back around to her, but I wasn’t quite ready to give up the floor. I didn’t want to talk about Wyatt anymore, but I wanted to figure out who might be behind this. As much as I didn’t want it to be Jo, I was having a hard time coming up with other options. Chloe would never believe it, though.

  “I’m happy to talk about your game, but can I ask one question? Have you thought at all about who’s been doing all this?”

  “What do you mean, ‘all this’?” Chloe made air quotes with her fingers.

  “Like these emails, and the pictures, and Wyatt’s books and all that.”

  “What about the profiles, too?” Hunter asked.

  “Amina didn’t get nailed in hers,” Chloe said. “Hers was a puff piece. A love letter.”

  “Not her fault,” Hunter said, but Chloe didn’t look so sure.

  I kept going anyway. “I was just thinking that all these things—I don’t even know what to call them, pranks? Whatever they are, they’ve happened to everyone in Eucalyptus. Except Jo.”

  Chloe started to look angry. “That’s totally unfair. The profiles were about more than just people in Eucalyptus, and you got let off the hook there. And who’s to say this whole journal issue isn’t about hurting Wyatt and not you?”