Dry

by Neal Shusterman

  “Why don’t they do something about it instead of spending time blaming people?”

  “I know, right? Anyway, my father thinks it’s gonna get worse before it gets better.” She gives a nervous chuckle. “Of course, you know him—he’s always overreacting.”

  I laugh, but it’s more of an obligatory laugh than a real one. Mrs. Rodriguez enters the room, Sophia’s five-year-old brother in one arm, a stack of Sofía’s paintings in the other. “Which of your pieces do you want to take?”

  “All of them,” Sofía responds, without the slightest hesitation.

  She puts the paintings down on a pile of them already resting on the dining room table. “Pick your three favorites.” She kisses her daughter on the head and then smiles warmly to the both of us. Sofía’s mother was always one of those women who was so pretty, people would mistake her and her daughter for sisters. She was youthful in every way. I always loved that about her. But today, she just looks tired.

  Sofía sifts through the canvasses. “This one is yours,” she says, turning to me. “You painted it for me back in seventh grade art class. Remember?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “It was a birthday present.”

  “I think you should keep it,” she says.

  “Well, let’s just say I’m borrowing it back. For a week or so.” I correct her.

  “Yeah.” Sofía smiles genially, even though her eyes tell a different story. She was always the glass half full type, but something about the way she looks at me now tells me that her optimism is running as empty as her pool.

  • • •

  My dad is that guy who avoids going to doctors at all costs. It’s not that he never gets sick, or has a deathly fear of needles, but I think some part of him thinks that drawing attention to an issue makes it worse. Maybe it makes something imaginary real. And since a vast majority of illnesses eventually go away on their own, most of the time it works for him. It’s how he handles all of his problems, from fights with mom to a bad fiscal quarter for his business. So tonight he declares a Family Dinner, which is his favorite communal Band-Aid. Sure, throwing lasagna at the issue isn’t always the answer, but I am a firm believer that when Mom and Dad cook together, it has the power to turn any day around. So I make sure to be home precisely at seven-thirty.

  As soon as I walk in the door Mom puts me to work, as expected. She hands me an empty pitcher. “Get some water for the table.”

  A simple request that suddenly feels like I’ve been charged with a sacred duty.

  “Sure,” I respond. I go into the downstairs bathroom and dip the entire pitcher in the tub, and even after a day, there’s still some ice. As soon as I return, I pour everyone a glass.

  “Not too much,” Dad says. “I’m thinking we each do six cups a day. I did the math and the amount that we have should actually be enough for about a week at that rate.”

  “I thought people were supposed to drink eight cups a day,” Garrett says.

  “Think of your two less cups as a long-term investment,” he tells Garrett, who at this point could probably run his own company based entirely on Dad’s cheesy business analogies.

  “Plus Kingston needs water, remember? But just a cup twice a day,” Mom adds.

  I totally forgot about our dog—and feel guilty about it. I couldn’t imagine rationing something as helpless as an animal. I look to his water bowl and notice that it’s empty, so when no one is looking I pour him a little bit from the pitcher.

  Uncle Basil arrives at the table last, and right away chugs his entire glass of water, giving himself a killer brain-freeze.

  “Serves you right, Herb,” Mom says, like he’s a little kid. “That’s all you get tonight.”

  “It’s healthier to drink all your fluids ten minutes before you eat,” he counters. “It allows your body to process the water separate from your food and absorb more nutrients.” And whether that’s true or not, I decide to write it off as bro-science. I think Uncle Basil gets all of his scientific factoids from his beer buddies. That, coupled with the only A he ever got in school, in biology, and you’ve got yourself a recipe for misinformation.

  Despite Basil’s words, everyone else takes their water slow. Perhaps because no one likes looking at an empty glass, which is true even when there’s not a water shortage.

  The lasagna is extra tough tonight, being that Mom boiled the pasta in Dad’s red sauce in an attempt to use as little water as possible. Dad waits for our reactions before tasting it himself.

  “I love it. Nice and crunchy,” Garrett tells Dad. Of course he’d love it. Garrett, for some reason, hasn’t really shed certain strange juvenile habits, like secretly eating cherry Chap Stick and raw pasta. Not necessarily together.

  “It’s good,” I tell him with a smile. Unfortunately, Dad always knows when I’m lying, but I’m sure he appreciates the gesture. . . .

  After a few minutes of awkward crunching, Basil goes ahead and breaks the silence. “At least the water’s cold,” he says, which makes everyone crack up, eventually growing into uncontrollable giggles. It’s the kind of laughter that forces its way out like a bad case of hiccups. It makes me feel a little bit better, and though at first I just kind of played with my food, the more I eat, the more the meal is starting to grow on me.

  That’s when the lights suddenly flicker off.

  And then back on again.

  It was only dark for a second. Maybe not even that, but it’s enough to make everyone stop eating. Everyone is frozen. What’s that expression? Waiting for the other shoe to drop? But it doesn’t. The lights are on, they stay on. But it doesn’t change the fact that they blinked. And now all the clocks angrily think that it’s 12:00! 12:00! 12:00!

  I finally look to Dad, and I see for the first time my father truly starting to worry. It’s that maybe-I-should-see-a-doctor face—a line I’ve only heard him say once, five minutes before he was rushed to the hospital with appendicitis.

  So now we all sit there, silent, forks in hand, trapped at the dinner table. And for some reason I can’t bring myself to look anyone else in the eye, so I put my head down and I eat. After a few seconds, I realize that everyone else is doing the same. Shoveling food into their mouths like scared animals. And it goes on like that until our plates are empty. Not because we’re that hungry, but because none of us wants to see that look on Dad’s face again.

  • • •

  I’m just getting ready for bed a few hours later when I hear movement outside. Uncle Basil. My bedroom window looks out into the street, so I have the luxury of hearing his every coming and going. I check the clock. Midnight is a strange time for Basil to go anywhere. I travel downstairs, and when I get there I find him loading up the back of his truck.

  “I didn’t want to wake you,” he says, already seeming guilty about something.

  “You’re leaving?” I ask.

  He looks to me warmly. “It’ll just be for a few nights,” he says, though the giant suitcase full of clothes tells me otherwise. Just like with Sofía. “Besides,” he continues, “I’ve already eaten you out of house and home. I don’t want to use up all of your guys’ water, too.”

  Uncle Basil has always been a little sensitive about having to stay with us this past year.  And this whole Tap-Out thing is another added dimension to his dependence on us. But I think the power threatening to go out was the straw that broke the camel’s back.

  “Where are you going?” I ask.

  “Daphne’s place. She’s still in that big house over in Dove Canyon. Says they still have water there. Not sure how long that’ll last, though, but at least it’s something,” he says, looking down.

  I smirk. “Are you talking about the water, or you and Daphne?”

  He chuckles. “Either/or,” he says.

  Daphne is his on-again–off-again girlfriend. They’d been together since before his farm failed. They moved down here right at the beginning of the “Big Bail,” which is what they called the mass exodus from the Central Valley’s far
ming communities. Daphne always refused to allow us to call him “Uncle Basil” in her presence. It was all Herb, all the time—which makes me think that deep down, she really does love him, even though they keep breaking up.

  “Well,” I say, “I hope the Tap-Out helps bring you two back together.”

  “She’s not doing it for me,” he admits. “She’s doing it for you.”

  “Me?”

  “All of you. To keep me from being a burden on your mom and dad.”

  “You’re not a burden. . . .”

  He smiles. “Thanks for saying so, Alyssa.”

  I give him a tight hug goodbye, and watch him drive off. Then I go back inside, sad to see him leave like this, but at the same time, a little less worried than before. The fact that there’s running water anywhere gives me hope that things might not be so bad after all.

  * * *

  SNAPSHOT: KZLA NEWS

  “Tensions rise as the Southland enters the third day of the Tap-Out, but government officials say relief is on the way.”

  Local Eyewitness News anchor Lyla Singh reads her part, then defers to Chase Buxton, her coanchor, who recites his line from the teleprompter.

  “Meanwhile, the cascade effect that has left more than twenty-three million people without running water shows no sign of abating. For more, we take you to Donavan Lee in Silverlake.”

  As they cut away from the studio to the empty concrete reservoir that used to be Silverlake, Lyla reflects on the trials of her day. Getting to the studio from the Hollywood Hills was a nightmare. She had nearly missed the midmorning update, and now it looks like the news will be preempting more and more programming—which means she won’t be going home anytime soon.

  “Did you hear the head of FEMA was ignoring the governor’s calls?” one of the cameramen had told her earlier. “No joke—Hurricane Noah is the only thing on FEMA’s radar right now.”

  At that moment, their producer had passed by and admonished them both—as if Lyla had been doing anything more than just listening. “We deal in news, people, not rumors.”

  The control booth cuts back to the studio from the Silverlake report, and Lyla quickly brings her thoughts back to the here and now.

  “Thank you, Donavan. In the midst of the mayhem, earlier today, the governor had this to say.”

  They roll a tape that the station has been playing over and over throughout the day, and Lyla listens for the umpteenth time, still trying to figure out if there’s anything in the governor’s voice betraying a deeper truth that he hasn’t shared with the press.

  “Federal Emergency Management is aware of the situation,” the governor says, “and we are told that tankers of potable water are on their way from as far as Wyoming to satisfy Southern California’s immediate critical need.”

  Wyoming? thinks Lyla. How long will it take water trucks to get here from Wyoming?

  “I want to assure the people of Southern California,” continues the governor, “that help is on the way. Mobile desalination plants are going to be in place up and down the coast, to turn seawater into drinking water. Everything possible is being done to alleviate this situation. Thank you.”

  Then he leaves, as always, dodging a barrage of questions.

  The camera’s red light blinks on, catching Lyla a little bit off guard. But she’s a professional. Rather than stumbling, she just pauses, making the moment seem intentional.

  “At this time,” she reads, “everyone is advised to stay indoors to avoid heat stroke, and stay tuned for more information.”

  “That’s right, Lyla,” Chase says. “And everyone should refrain from any sort of strenuous activity.”

  “Exactly. The best way to conserve water right now is to hold onto the water your body already has.”

  There were two full pitchers of ice water in Lyla’s dressing room when she arrived that morning. Just thinking about them now makes her want a nice tall glass.

  “We’ll be back right after this.”

  Then they cut to a commercial.

  Lyla relaxes, looking at her briefings of the upcoming stories. How the zoo is handling the Tap-Out. A man who was shot while trying to get water from a tanker truck heading for a hospital, and—just breaking now—the first official death from dehydration in San Bernardino.

  Chase turns to her, raising an eyebrow. “This is bad,” he says, with the same vocal inflection with which he might have said, “This is fresh,” back in the days when he was a voice actor on fast food commercials—although rumor had it he did other sorts of work. But like their producer said, they deal in news, not rumors.

  “And yet all we do is tell people to stay calm and keep watching.”

  “What are we supposed to tell them? Go scream bloody murder naked through the streets?”

  “If it will help get them through this, then yes.”

  “Well,” Chase says with an irksome smirk, “that would make quite the story.”

  • • •

  When the afternoon report is over, Lyla goes to her dressing room, only to find that both pitchers are empty. Someone—or maybe multiple people—has pilfered her water.

  “More is on the way,” a nervous intern promises. “Ten minutes, max.”

  But ten minutes later, neither the water nor the intern are anywhere to be found.

  In the hallway, Chase is on the line with his agent, the speakerphone blaring his personal business to anyone who cares. The agent’s telling him that if he handles this just right, this crisis could propel him to the national stage. A spot on CNN, maybe.

  “I hate that you’re using this as your personal pole vault,” Lyla tells him.

  Chase just shrugs, and continues his conversation.

  While Lyla has her own career ambitions, she’s not the jackal that Chase is, scavenging a future from the bones of the present.

  She looks out a window, trying to get a true view of this crisis from forty-three stories up. Down below there are crowds in the street. Are they demonstrating? Is it water distribution? From this high up she can’t tell. Suddenly she feels claustrophobic in this tower. Isolated.

  Then more reports of dehydration deaths begin to roll in as the afternoon churns on. They come fast and furious, and she knows they have to report them, and can only imagine what it would be like to be on the listening end, trapped in your neighborhood, wondering if someone on your street is going to be next.

  And all this time, no water comes to her dressing room. Chase is dry, too. There doesn’t seem to be water for anyone, and no one’s promising anything anymore.

  That’s when she gets an idea. It’s a long shot, but it’s the only idea she’s got.

  “Put me in Sky-Three chopper,” she tells her producer.

  “What?” He looks at her as if she’s become delirious. “Lyla, you’re an anchor—you haven’t done an aerial report since your days covering traffic.”

  “Riots, fires, and gridlock—the stories aren’t in here, they’re out there. People will respond to it,” she says, pretending that, like Chase, this is all about ambition. “An anchor in the sky will hold their attention. Keep them on us instead of switching channels.”

  “No,” he tells her. “I need you at your desk.”

  But once he’s gone, she goes to the roof anyway.

  Sky-Three chopper is on the helipad, as the traffic reporters’ shifts are changing. For a moment she flashes to Vietnam, where some of the best reporting ever took place. Of course, it was long before she was born, but she can’t help but look at that helicopter and imagine what it must have been like for those reporters desperately waiting to get airlifted out as Saigon fell.

  Kurt, the same pilot who used to take her out in her early days with the station, leans against the stairwell shaft, having a smoke—which is not allowed so close to the chopper, but he doesn’t care. She’s hoping that’s not the only rule he doesn’t care about.

  “Kurt, what’s the range of your chopper?”

  “About two-fifty on a full
tank,” he tells her. “Right now, probably closer to two hundred—why?”

  She takes a deep breath. “I need a favor.”

  • • •

  Five minutes later, they’re soaring away from downtown LA, heading east. And once she feels they’ve put enough distance between themselves and the newsroom, she texts her producer.

  Taking Sky-Three to Arrowhead. Will report on refugee situation.

  She sends it. Thinks for a moment, then texts, Cover for me, or fire me.

  There, it’s done. Whatever happens now, she’ll be in one of the few places that still has water. The high lakes might be below their usual waterline, but they’re still lakes. She takes a deep, relieved breath, feeling a sense of connection to her fellow journalists all those years ago, as they boarded helicopters halfway around the world to escape the Viet Cong.

  * * *

  DAY THREE

  MONDAY, JUNE 6TH

  4) Kelton

  No school today. No news on when classes will resume. With just two weeks left to the school year, I wonder if we’ll be going back at all.

  I try to keep busy by flipping through comic books, but for some reason they don’t feel engaging today. I search online for hunting gear to add to my Christmas wish list—still not gripping my attention. So I go to watch YouTube videos of chess boxing—a hybrid fighting sport where you alternate between chess and a round of boxing. It’s the one non-weapon-related sport that I excel in. It’s also the only thing that’s landed me in disciplinary Saturday school in my entire high school career—because after doing an oral report on it in English last year, I was cornered by a trio of nonbelievers, and forced to demonstrate the boxing aspect on one of their noses. I would have pummeled them in chess, too, but was hauled into the dean’s office.

  I watch a couple of videos, but today, even chess boxing is no match for how listless I feel. It’s more than that, though. I’m troubled about the state of the world outside, even considering how prepared we are.