Copyright © 2014 by Yvonne Ventresca
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First Edition
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10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Ventresca, Yvonne.
Pandemic / Yvonne Ventresca. -- First edition.
pages cm
Summary: “Lil is left home alone when a deadly pandemic hits her small town in New Jersey. Will Lil survive the flu and brave her darkest fears?”-- Provided by publisher.
Includes bibliographical references.
ISBN 978-1-62873-609-0 (hardback)
eISBN 978-1-62873-960-2
[1. Epidemics--Fiction. 2. Influenza--Fiction. 3. Sexual abuse--Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.V564Pan 2014
[Fic]--dc23
2013037354
Printed in the United States of America
To my encouraging mother and father,
and to my loving husband and children.
PANDEMIC
CHAPTER 1
As with many serious contagious illnesses, it wasn’t immediately apparent what we were dealing with.
—Blue Flu interview, anonymous US government official
I stood on the smoking corner behind school reveling in my aloneness. Not many smokers had the same schedule, which made the corner the perfect place for solitude. We always stayed a foot off the high school property, near the big oak tree, and since we were allowed to leave during last period study hall, we weren’t technically breaking any rules.
As if rules mattered.
“Hey, got a light?” Jay Martinez asked, interrupting the quiet. In the fall, he’d moved from Arizona to live with his aunt down the block from my house.
I handed him my half-smoked cigarette. Cupping the burning ember, he used it to light his own. He didn’t fit in with the other smokers, but then neither did I. My black clothes, basic ponytail, and minimal makeup placed me in my own category. Maybe Lazy Goth. But the nice thing about smokers was that they didn’t exclude anyone.
“Thanks.” Jay passed my cigarette back to me. “Is New Jersey always this cold in April?”
Being the new guy at school made Jay the flavor of the month with the other sophomore girls. They craved him in a nauseating kind of way. He was dark, tall, and lanky, and tended to over-communicate. Totally not my type. Now he ruined my aloneness with weather chatter. I shrugged so he’d get the idea that I wasn’t in a talking mood.
“Ethan was hoping to run into you,” he said.
Another shrug. I’d managed to avoid my ex for months. No reason to change the pattern now.
“So . . . do you have Robertson for bio?” he asked.
I nodded. Jay definitely wasn’t taking the hint.
“What are you doing your report on?”
“Emerging diseases,” I said, finally giving up on staying silent.
“Cheerful stuff.”
The school projects I chose did favor the dark this semester. American history report? The decision to drop the bomb. English book talk? A collection of Edgar Allan Poe’s stories. Thematically, Ebola hemorrhagic fever fit right in.
“What are you writing about?” I flicked the accumulated ashes. “Lung cancer?”
He smiled. “The biology of taste. I write restaurant reviews on my blog and that was the closest topic I could think of. Do you like eating at restaurants?”
Leaning slightly forward, he held eye contact a little too long for me. Was he flirting? Nervous, I pulled my sweater tighter around me and crossed my arms. A flirtatious guy was the absolute last thing I needed in my life. No boyfriends, no coy conversations for me. Not anymore.
Jay’s unanswered question stayed suspended in the air along with the smoke ring I blew.
“Dinner? I don’t get out much,” I said, stubbing my cigarette into a sand-filled can another smoker had left behind. “I have to go.”
“See you around.”
Maybe I read too much into the conversation, but his eyes seemed to question: You need to leave so soon?
It was all I could do to keep myself from breaking into a run.
I entered our house through the garage, surprised to see my mother’s Hybrid parked inside. She wasn’t usually home this early on a Thursday. I spritzed perfume to cover the cigarette smell and popped a mint into my mouth for good measure.
In the kitchen, I washed my hands before grabbing a glass. Shutting the cabinet quietly, I hoped Mom wouldn’t notice. She was in her bedroom directly above me, noisily opening and closing drawers.
“Lily, is that you?” she called.
Damn. “Yeah.”
She came down the stairs, soft little steps combined with the jingle of jewelry. “How was your day?”
“It wasn’t bad.” I grabbed the organic milk from the fridge. “You’re home early.”
“I’m packing for Hong Kong. There are some new developments in the lead poisoning fiasco, so GREEN needs to have a presence there.”
Mom worked for the Great Reclaiming of Everyone’s Earth Now—GREEN—an environmental watchdog group.
“When do you leave?”
“Tomorrow morning,” she said. “You can invite Megs to stay over while I’m gone. Or Kayla. We haven’t seen her lately.”
Mom and Dad were so clueless. I hadn’t spoken to Kayla in months, since our big fight.
“I’ll be fine alone.” I poured the milk and then grabbed some oatmeal raisin cookies, ready to hole up in my room until any lingering smoke faded from my clothes.
I snacked in bed while trying to read my history homework. The last social studies test hadn’t gone well, which wasn’t exactly a surprise. It should have been English that I hated, with the foreshadowing, antagonists, and metaphors that Mr. B had taught us. But somehow my brain couldn’t process history: the past, the many policies, and all the political maneuvering. My eyes glazed over in twenty seconds as I attempted to read about the Marshall Plan.
After my failed attempts to finish the chapter, I took a break from history to read an article about how people in the Middle Ages carried herbs in their pockets and wore sachets around their necks to try to prevent illness. The new English teacher had approved my poetry analysis topic, an investigation into whether the nursery rhyme “Ring Around the Rosy” was really written about the bubonic plague. It was way more fascinating than the Cold War.
My phone pinged with a text.
Megs: R u doing hw?
Me: No, I’m texting u.
Megs: Ha! Pls open ur history notes. U know u need 2.
Me: They r open.
Megs: U can’t fool me. Focus!
I was tempted to lie, but Megs knew me too well. And she was right. It was only a matter of time before my parents checked the online grade book and then I was screwed. Most of my As had dropped to Bs and US history had plummeted to a D. The lower grades would be a red flag for Mom and Dad, and we’d pr
obably spend hours analyzing what Mom would label “the unhealthy drop in my academic performance” before they confined me to the house forever.
Me: OK. I’ll study.
Megs: Promise?
Me: Ur annoying but yes.
Megs: Good! If u get grounded my life will b ovr. TTYL.
I kept my word, reading through my notes until something crashed in the hallway, followed by Mom’s screech.
Oh no. I jumped out of bed. The crashing sound could only mean one thing.
She’d discovered my emergency supplies.
On my way down the hall, I paused to rescue some rolling cans of black beans. Sure enough, my mother stood in front of the closet, an avalanche of nonperishable food at her feet. I should have known she’d need her suitcase. I could have offered to be helpful, gotten it out for her, so she wouldn’t have seen. But now—
“What in the world is all this?” she asked. “Is your father storing extra food in here?”
It would be convenient to blame Dad. Since he worked as the senior editor for Infectious Diseases magazine, I could probably convince her that he’d have at least the minimum emergency provisions suggested by the Red Cross stashed in the house. But as much as I’d mastered small lies lately, the skill to tell a big one was as elusive as scientists’ cure for the common cold.
Mom took one look at my face and knew the truth. Her curious expression hardened into her own special brand of parental worry.
“I can explain,” I said, hoping to head off the tirade.
She pointed at the large stockpile of food, feminine products, and, my personal favorite, the emergency hand crank radio that could also serve as a phone charger. “Hurricane season is over.”
“We should always be ready for a crisis,” I said. “It doesn’t matter what time of year it is. Even the government says so.”
“Right. Have you spoken to Dr. Gwen about this?” She waved her hand at “this,” diminishing my months of saving, planning, purchasing. “When you see her next time maybe we should check about you going more frequently. Maybe—”
“No, no. She said after . . . well, she said this is normal.”
Mom gave me the look, the one that zings into your soul and drags the truth out.
“Well, Dr. Gwen didn’t call it normal, exactly,” I said, rebuilding a tower of cans on the floor of the closet. “After emotional stress, there are all kinds of coping mechanisms, things people do to feel secure. She said ‘behaviors which instill an increased sense of safety’ are OK, or some crap like that.”
“Lily.” My mother closed her eyes and did some secret Mom-trick to calm herself. When she opened them again only the slightest hint of worry remained on her face. “I’m trying to empathize.”
I glanced at her suitcase. “Getting ready for your trip?”
“Yes, but don’t change the subject. Does Dad know about your stockpiling?”
I rolled my eyes. “It’s basic stuff, nothing extreme,” I said, which was my way of hedging until I could tell him.
She surveyed the shelves, gesturing at the beans, the chicken broth, the boxed pasta. “You’re planning on surviving on chili and linguini? Not cooked together, I hope.”
I smiled, guessing that meant she wouldn’t call my therapist. “There’s soup and canned vegetables, too.”
“Well—” Her ringing cell phone interrupted us. “Hi, honey,” she answered.
Dad rarely called from work, so I hoped she wouldn’t have time to mention our discussion. I used the chance to escape to my room so I could push the bottled water farther under my bed.
They didn’t understand. But I needed to be prepared for anything.
To avoid Mom, I stayed in my room until dinner. The kitchen smelled awful, which meant she had attempted to cook again. The best thing about her trips was that Dad and I could order takeout.
As the three of us sat around the table, I fended off the usual “How was your day?” questions. Being an only child meant serving as the sole focus of my parents’ concerns. I needed to steer the conversation away from myself before Mom mentioned my emergency supplies and had me returning to frequent therapy. These were the times when having a sibling to fight with would have come in handy.
“How long will you be gone?” I asked Mom.
“Two weeks or so. I wish I didn’t have to leave now. I thought we could shop for your Spring Formal dress this weekend. Maybe something blue to bring out your eyes?”
I wasn’t going to the school dance, but I nodded anyway. There was plenty of time to break that bit of news to her.
Mom rambled on about having to cancel some local meetings because of her trip. “And I’m missing the bird-banding demonstrations at the Great Swamp this weekend,” she continued. “I thought we could have gone together, as a family.”
The bird banding would draw lots of Mom’s environmental friends and I would have gladly done extra homework to avoid it. She was famous in our town for her causes, especially pioneering the “Idling is Evil” campaign, which encouraged parents to turn off their car engines while they waited to pick up kids at school. I had to admit it was a good concept, because who wanted to breathe in smelly car fumes while you were waiting for a ride? But it still irritated me to be with her and too many earth-friendly people at the same time. They treated her like a goddess instead of my regular mom.
“Sorry you have to miss it,” I said, trying to keep my voice sincere. I took a second roll from the basket and used it to push her concoction around, covering the pink roses that bordered the plate’s rim. It seemed to be chicken with a mushroom and ketchup sauce, but I didn’t want to hurt her feelings and ask. Mom was sensitive about her cooking. The bread was good, though. Apparently it was hard to screw up twist-and-bake crescents.
“There’s plenty of food for while I’m gone,” she said. “I left a tray of lasagna in the freezer. Take the plastic wrap off before you heat it. And I can save some of this chicken, too.”
I caught Dad’s eye. We were both thinking take-out.
“We’ll be fine.” He took another bite of crescent roll, turning to me. “Would you feel better sleeping at a friend’s house next weekend? I’ll be away, too, covering a conference in Delaware. I won’t be long. One or two nights.”
I had gone through a period where I always wanted someone home with me. Dr. Gwen advised my parents to ease me into being alone again. First they’d go for short walks within earshot. Next they’d stay out longer, running an errand, then seeing a movie, then spending a long evening out with friends, until I seemed more like my old self. It had taken months for me to perfect my brave front each time they left.
“I’m OK staying here. What’s the conference about?”
Dad loved his job at Infectious Diseases. When I started pumping him for information about antibiotic resistance, the return of measles, and bioterrorism attacks, Mom had warned him to stop discussing anxiety-inducing scenarios in front of me. But he enjoyed talking about his work for the magazine, so it was easy to get him going.
“The conference focuses on emerging infections,” he said. “There’s been a lot of buzz about an influenza antigenic shift. Viruses change gradually all the time through antigenic drift. But a major change, a shift, creates a new flu sub-type and—”
“Keith.” Mom narrowed her eyes into the “shut up and stop indulging her” look.
“Uh, pass the rolls, please,” he said.
“Is this a new conference?” I asked. Meaning: Should I add the flu to my worry list, along with lead poisoning?
“No, Lily, they hold it annually, but they change the topics each year.” He looked like he wanted to say more, but didn’t. Instead, he changed the subject. “What time do you leave for the airport tomorrow?” he asked Mom.
While they discussed Mom’s schedule, I dumped the rest of my meal in the trash, covering it with a paper towel. Then Dad mumbled something about conference prep and left the kitchen.
“What are your plans for tonight?” Mo
m asked.
I put my plate in the dishwasher. “Studying.” Megs’s mom had arranged a movie night for the two of them, so I didn’t have much choice but to stay in my room and do homework.
“I need to leave early, so I won’t see you in the morning,” she said.
I was almost out of the room when I glanced at her, storing the uneaten food in a reusable container. Dad had been busy with work lately, and she looked so lost for a moment, so small and alone. I turned back, gave her a quick hug, then retreated.
In my room, I checked updates on my phone. I had alerts set for a variety of phrases, including “terrorist attack,” “emerging infectious diseases,” and “mysterious illness.” The latest news was worrisome, as always. Police foiled a bombing attempt on a train in Chicago. Four people were sick from an unidentified illness in Maryland. A listeria outbreak caused the recall of cantaloupes from Guatemala. Based on today’s news and our dinner conversation, I added “lead poisoning,” “influenza,” and “food recall” to my alert list.
I snuck downstairs after my parents were in bed. Our organic cantaloupe was from California, but I threw it out anyway. I pitched the honeydew melon, too, just in case.
Portico, New Jersey, was still safe. Snuggled under my quilt, I tried to sleep wrapped in the comfort of that illusion.
CHAPTER 2
We assumed the virus would start overseas, most likely in Asia, and that Americans would have time to prepare. We were wrong.
—Blue Flu interview, New Jersey public health officer
A chill settled in the air on Friday, so I detoured to the lost-and-found table near the main office before leaving school. I needed to find my favorite black sweater, the long one with flowy sleeves. I wasn’t as good about details as I used to be and must have left it in one of my classrooms again. Teachers were quick to dump forgotten items onto the heap.
Principal Fryman’s voice boomed over the loudspeaker. “Happy Weekend! Our food drive begins Monday, so be generous with your donations. Please lend a helping hand and bring in nonperishable food. Remember, charity begins at home, or in this case, at Portico High.”
Pandemic Page 1
