Dangerous possibilities, maybe.
But not all of them. Not every mystery was a danger—like Mr. Bradley had said. Right?
Jory focused on a reddish star, the brightest light in the sky. Maybe it was Mars—that was the red planet, right? Or was that Jupiter? No, Jupiter had the red spot. For some reason Jupiter had always given him the creeps. As he watched, the light seemed to grow redder, more radiant.
He held his eyes closed for five seconds. When he opened them, the light hadn’t dimmed. It was brighter. Almost sun-bright, now—scary bright.
And red.
Red enough to burn, but he couldn’t look away. It was so beautiful. But also so furious. A fire in the sky. A flaming red eye, staring straight at Jory.
It was a sign.
It had to be. A sign for him, because he’d been doubting—and he was sure, almost entirely sure, what it meant.
The danger was real.
But which danger, Jory didn’t know.
OUT OF THE CORNER OF HIS EYE, Jory glimpsed a flash of plaid. He sighed. He’d managed to avoid Alice all morning, but at lunch he was a sitting target. He should have found a doghouse to hide inside. Or gone to the nurse with an upset stomach—this time, it wouldn’t have been a lie.
“Jory?” Alice said.
He stared at his untouched lunch. I don’t want to talk to you, he thought. I have nothing to say to you.
“Do you need a napkin? Or a fork? Or—?”
He didn’t reply. He swiveled away, just far enough to make a point.
“What’s going on?” She laughed nervously. “Are you giving me the silent treatment? What are you, three? Why are you acting like that?”
Finally, he looked her in the eye. “We can’t be friends anymore.”
“Excuse me, what?”
“I said, we can’t be friends anymore.”
Alice stood there with her mouth half open. “You can’t just…Jory, you can’t just say that sort of thing without an explanation.”
So she didn’t know her mom had contacted the Officials? Well, that didn’t make it any less Alice’s fault. She’d still told a secret that wasn’t hers to share. “Just—go away, all right?” It came out louder than he intended.
“What’s going on?” Erik asked, coming over and standing beside Alice.
“Jory says we can’t be friends anymore,” she said.
“He said what?” Erik stared at Jory. “What’s your deal?”
Alice’s eyes shone. Was she going to cry? Jory couldn’t believe it. She should be glad to get rid of him. Her Tuesdays would be free.
“What’s wrong with you, man?” Erik said. “You should be happy to have a friend like Alice. You should feel lucky.”
Jory felt like the entire cafeteria was staring at him. And people outside the cafeteria, too. He felt like everybody in the entire world had turned their heads at that moment, and was staring at him accusingly. Who in their right mind would unfriend Alice Brooks-Diaz?
Erik threw his hands in the air. “You know what? Forget it.”
Then the lunch monitor came over. “Is anything wrong?” she asked. “Alice, why are you crying? Were the boys teasing you?”
Jory couldn’t take it anymore. “Nothing’s wrong!” he exclaimed. “Nobody’s teasing anybody, and everything is fine. I’m fine. And I’d be even more fine if everybody would just leave me alone.”
He picked up his lunch tray and threw it. It banged across the cafeteria floor, clattering to a stop near the trash cans.
A tidal wave hush fell over the nearest tables. Now everyone really was staring at him.
“I think you and I should head back to your classroom,” the lunch monitor said. “Now.”
Jory followed her with his head down, hands in his pockets. He felt rotten. Literally rotten. Like his fingers and toes and arms and legs were hanging dead and floppy from his body. His brain, too, felt rotten inside his head.
He had been happy to have a friend like Alice. He had felt lucky.
But what did that matter now? He couldn’t have any friends underground.
Jory sat at his desk while the lunch monitor explained the situation. After she left, Mr. Bradley seated himself at the desk next to Jory’s. He had to pretzel his long legs to fit.
“So listen up, buddy,” he began. “I’m worried about you. You’ve always been reserved, but you’ve been withdrawing even more lately—until this outburst.”
“Sorry,” Jory muttered.
“Also, you haven’t fully caught up on all that schoolwork you’ve missed.”
“I’ve been trying.”
“I can tell, and I appreciate that. But still, you’re getting further and further behind. Is your social studies project almost finished?”
Almost. In fact, Jory had written most of it. But he couldn’t finish it.
He couldn’t bear to.
He knew plenty about tunnels. More than anybody in the class. More than anybody in the school—even more than the teachers, probably.
Not only did he know about their history—tunnels through time, bunkers and subways and underground villages, vaults and cellars and burial grounds—but he also knew what it was like to dig. He knew what it was like to open up the earth and crawl inside. The extraordinary darkness of a place the sun will never reach.
“Jory? Your essay?”
Jory stared at his hands. He wondered if the black dirt underneath his fingernails was permanent. Or if he’d ever get it all out. Maybe with a heavy-duty scrub brush and industrial-strength nail cleaner. If that existed, after.
“I don’t feel like you’re listening to me,” Mr. Bradley said.
He thought about how dirt came from rocks, and rocks came from mountains. Mountains under his fingernails. And probably stardust, too.
Mr. Bradley sighed. “If you won’t talk to me, I’m going to have to call your parents.”
Now Jory looked up. “What? But—but you already did.”
“We both know you haven’t shown much improvement since last time I called. It’s for the best. I can ask them to meet with me this week, and maybe together we can come up with a plan to get your studies back where they belong.”
Jory imagined Mr. Bradley and Caleb facing off. Even Mr. Bradley, with his towering height and booming voice, would be no match for Caleb’s soldier strength. Nobody was. Jory’s palms began to sweat. Home was home and school was school and he couldn’t bear it.
“You can’t call my parents again,” Jory said. “You can’t.”
“I have to—”
Jory shook his head so hard his brain rattled. “We don’t need them! We can come up with a plan without them. And you can punish me any way you want. I’ll stay after school every—every Tuesday, for the rest of the year. I’ll skip lunch. I’ll do anything, just please, please don’t call my parents.”
“Jory, is everything all right at home?”
Jory tried to breathe normally, but it was hard. So hard. “Everything’s fine at home! Everything’s just great.”
“Then why don’t you want me to call your parents?”
“Because…because…” Jory’s thoughts raced, stumbled, fell face-first onto the ground. His weary brain couldn’t think of an excuse that would make sense.
Mr. Bradley reached into his pocket and pulled out a phone. “How about we talk to them together?” he suggested. “That’s a compromise. If you want, you can—”
Jory grabbed the phone.
He ran.
Mr. Bradley definitely wouldn’t chase him. He was old—compared to Jory, anyway—and more than that, he was a teacher. Teachers didn’t run. It wouldn’t be dignified. It wouldn’t be professional.
“Jory! Come back here!”
Mr. Bradley was definitely chasing him.
“Stop right now and give me my phone!”
Jory heard Mr. Bradley’s dress shoes clapping on the pavement. Should have worn boots, Jory thought. Much more practical for digging, climbing canyon walls, and rac
ing across the school grounds with stolen technology.
The cafeteria had let everybody out, so the schoolyard was packed with kids. This time, Jory didn’t care about their stares. He was a soldier, boots pounding across a desert landscape. He leaped over a pair of third graders cross-legged in the grass and almost plowed into a jungle gym. He ducked under it—and somebody caught his arm.
“What are you doing, young man?” A teacher he didn’t recognize squinted into his face.
Mr. Bradley caught up, huffing and puffing. “That wasn’t funny. Hand over my phone, right this minute.”
“Okay,” Jory said, looking contrite. He handed over the phone.
Then he twisted free and ran toward the fence.
A padlock sagged from the gate. But it was nothing like the barn lock. When Jory tugged at it, the gap was just large enough for him to squeeze through.
He sprinted from the schoolyard, past the houses and through the eucalyptus grove, long after he knew Mr. Bradley had stopped chasing. But he knew it was too late. Mr. Bradley would call Caleb, and Caleb would be furious.
Jory had done the worst thing of all—he’d brought even more attention to the family, right when they needed it least.
Hiding is much harder when somebody is seeking.
“I CAN’T BELIEVE THAT MAN CHASED YOU,” MOM SAID.
“A grown man chasing an eleven-year-old boy. If I’d been there, I would have…” Caleb shook his head. “Nobody treats my son like that.”
Jory stood up straighter, feeling even more righteous. When he’d arrived home from school two hours early, he’d felt ashamed. He’d almost considered turning right around and running…well, running somewhere. The slopes, maybe. He would soar down the slopes at top speed and hope they’d propel him off the face of the earth.
But he made himself open the door. He made himself ask Mom and Caleb to meet with him in the patio, and he made himself tell them the truth—most of it, anyway. And instead of getting angry at him for disobeying Mr. Bradley, they took Jory’s side.
They took his side!
That was the best thing about family. They had your back.
“You’re so brave.” Mom squeezed Jory’s shoulder, then shifted Ansel to her other hip. “We know how hard it’s been on you, going to school all stooped with secrets.”
“So you’re not angry at all?” Jory asked.
“Angry, yes,” Caleb replied. “But not at you, son. Angry at that house of lies they call a school. That sham they call education.”
Jory’s shoulders wilted a bit. He liked Caleb standing up for him—but he also liked learning. School was the best place for that.
Brrrrng. Brrrrng.
The phone. Jory gulped. “My teacher wants to meet with you.”
“Don’t worry.” Caleb stood, rubbing his beard. “I’ll meet with him tomorrow. I’ll tell him we’ve decided you’ll be homeschooled again. We were about to pull you out of school anyway—it’ll just happen a few days sooner than we’d planned.”
Jory’s stomach dragons fluttered awake. As soon as Caleb left, he turned to Mom. “What does he mean, a few days?” he asked fearfully. “Is it that soon?”
She nodded. “You know we’re almost finished with the shelter.”
“But I didn’t think…I thought there’d be more time. I’m not done with school. I haven’t learned everything yet….”
Mom reached for Jory’s hand, but Caleb reappeared before she could respond. “Is it all taken care of?” she asked him.
“For now,” Caleb replied. “We don’t need them to believe us for long.”
He and Mom locked eyes for just a couple seconds, but it felt like much more passed between them. Jory broke their spell with a question. “Three months, right? You said we’ll be in the shelter for three months?”
Caleb nodded. “That’s my best estimate.”
Jory wondered if three months would be long enough for his classmates to forget. It probably depended on what happened in those three months. “What if we come out after three months,” he said, “and it’s still dangerous outside? Or if…or if we realize we went down there too early? That the danger hasn’t even come yet?”
“That won’t be a problem,” Caleb said.
Jory was afraid to ask his next question. “Why not?”
“We have enough supplies for six months.”
That night, Jory dreamed that he left his boots at the slopes. The family stood in the fields, dressed and zipped and buckled, ready to go. A high-pitch alarm wailed in the background, like a mosquito scream amplified. Overhead, the stars began to go out, one by one.
Where are your boots, son? Caleb asked.
Jory explained where he’d left them. I’ll go get them right now, it’ll just take fifteen minutes, please wait for me….
Mom hugged Ansel and shook her head sadly. Kit turned her face toward the darkness. The sky grew blacker and blacker—only a few stars were left.
Please, Jory begged.
Sorry, Caleb said. But it’s too late.
And the last star went out.
JORY HAD THOUGHT THEY’D NEVER FINISH DIGGING.
It was impossible. Unthinkable.
But night after night, week after week, shovelful after shovelful, something had taken shape. Something that grew larger and more elaborate, until Jory held his breath every time he saw it. Because even though it terrified him, he felt an irresistible sense of accomplishment.
His family had created a bunker.
A shelter.
All by themselves.
As far as space went, it wasn’t very big. About twice the size of their kitchen, with a low ceiling Jory could brush his fingertips across.
Crossbeams reinforced the ceiling, braced by two-by-fours jammed into the dirt walls. The family had packed hundreds of rocks into the walls between them—all the rocks Kit had sorted.
For storage, the family had carved a large hollow into the west wall, half again as large as the main space itself. Rows of empty shelves filled it, anticipating the tubs of supplies.
Against the south wall, three heavy boards topped with foam pads would serve as bunks. One for Mom and Caleb. One for Jory and Ansel. One for Kit.
They’d have no electricity, of course. Battery-powered lanterns hung from hooks screwed into the crossbeams. For cooking, Caleb had rigged a propane stove under an air shaft. They would mostly use it for boiling water, he said.
The bathroom was a nook where the north and east walls met. Inside, they’d dug a deep pit, with a board suspended over it and a second air shaft overhead. For flushing, a valve spilled water into the pit, and a drainpipe carried everything into the ravine. A shower curtain created a semblance of privacy. But Jory couldn’t imagine doing his business there, with the rest of the family right outside. Or showering, because the nook was for washing, too.
He couldn’t imagine himself anywhere inside the bunker, really.
Except for one place.
In the very center of the room, Mom had placed an old card table and five folding chairs. Whenever Jory looked at it, he saw himself sitting there until his hair turned gray and his skin turned white, paled by the darkness.
On Sunday, Jory volunteered to set the table, even though it seemed pointless now. Dinner wasn’t worth any sort of fanfare: a smorgasbord of cottage cheese, stale bread, old raisins, and dried-up baby carrots. The dregs of the perishables. But preparing it had taken Mom as long as a cooking a four-course meal.
She had another migraine.
Jory recognized the ache in her face, even though she tried to hide it. Every line seemed deeper, especially the ones around her eyes. And her hands shook, which was most telling of all. It reminded Jory of that moment in the coffee shop, when she’d dropped the tray of mugs. The explosive instant that had brought the family together.
The moment that had started it all.
Jory glanced at Ansel and Kit. They played at the kitchen table, seemingly oblivious: Kit tweaking Ansel’s ears and
pinching at his nose, Ansel giggling delightedly. Neither had been around back then. Only Jory remembered.
What if Mom hadn’t had a migraine that day? Or if she’d managed to carry the coffee to the tables? For that matter, what if Dad hadn’t left for the city in the first place? What if he’d brought Mom and Jory along?
Life would have turned out entirely different.
But you couldn’t play what if games with your memories, Jory knew. Because they’d already happened.
Crash!
He whirled around. A jar had slipped from Mom’s hands, scattering glass and glossy red peppers across the floor. Ansel mashed his fists into his eyes and began to cry.
“Don’t move,” Mom said. “There’s glass all over the place—I’ll clean it up, just…”
“I’ve got it,” Jory said, reaching for the broom.
Caleb appeared in the doorway. “What happened?” He glanced at Mom, whose fingertips were pressed against her temples. “Are you all right?”
She nodded, then grimaced. As if even that small movement brought more pain.
“She has a migraine,” Jory said.
“I’m fine,” she murmured.
“No you’re not, Mom. You should be in bed. We should all be in bed. We’re so tired….”
Jory bit his lip to shut himself up. Caleb glanced from Mom to Kit, who was leaning against the counter. She straightened. But the shadows under her eyes said enough. He glanced at Ansel, who wailed and wailed.
“Go to bed,” Caleb ordered Mom.
“But I’m fine, really. There’s so much more to—”
“I insist.”
She set the dishtowel on the counter and shuffled away. Maybe Jory shouldn’t have told on her, but she looked so frail. Same with Kit. And Ansel, who was still crying. His face wasn’t quite plum-colored—maybe maroon?—but it still looked alarming. Jory leaned down to pick him up, but he twisted away.
“He wants his father,” Caleb said, scooping up Ansel.
But Ansel continued to cry. He wriggled against Caleb, stretching out his dimpled baby arms.
Toward Kit.
THE NIGHT WAS THE PURPLE KIND: shades of navy and mauve and deep-violet, crinkling into the foliage, collecting in pools between piles of dirt. In the early winter chill, crickets were few.
Watch the Sky Page 14
