“Mine neither,” Ajay says.
What’s with parents not believing Dr. Cologne?
Londyn Diggs passes us. She glares at me; her eyes are red and swollen. I try to step out of her path, almost knocking Mack into an open locker door.
“There’s gotta be something we can do to be ready.” Spencer won’t give up. He blocks us from going into homeroom.
“Elle, you could teach us how to be prepared,” Mack offers. “You’re practically a prepper.”
“What’s a prepper?” Spencer asks. He pushes his floppy hair off his forehead.
“A prepper”—Mack emphasizes the word—“is someone preparing for the end of the world.”
“Prepper,” Spencer repeats. Then he pulls out a blue pen and writes it on his arm.
“Can I be a prepper?” Ajay asks.
“I’m not a prepper,” I say. “I can’t help. Look it up on the internet.”
“Dude, you could totally do this,” Mack says.
“Shut up.” I elbow him hard.
“Ooof!”
“We’re going to be late.” I drag Mack into the classroom. “I can’t help anyone. You should never have told them about the website. I wish I’d never found it.” I say the words but don’t mean them.
“Why? This is your chance to save the world, Eleanor Dross.” He uses his deepest voice.
“No, I can’t. And I don’t want to.”
“You’re going to let our classmates die in a fiery asteroid crash?” Mack squeezes my arm. “That’s not very nice.”
“Nice is overrated. Besides, if it hits Hamilton or anywhere in the Carolinas, there’s no surviving.”
We take our seats. Dominic walks by and drops a note on my desk. I slowly open the paper while the announcements begin.
When EXACTLY is the world ending?
Ugh. This is all Mack’s fault.
I crumple the paper and turn my attention to the announcements to avoid more questions. Every classroom has a TV in the corner. During the day, it looks like an analog clock with messages that occasionally scroll across the bottom. Like: Bus 78 will be substituted for Bus 101 or Volleyball tryouts are on Friday. But in the morning, the TV actually works as a TV, and our daily announcements are brought to us live by a group of wannabe newscasters. The anchors sit behind the desk and read all our need-to-know news. It’s usually dull, and the broadcasts are mostly ignored, but every once in a while something funny happens. Once Hope threw up while giving us the lunch menu, and Zariah accidentally swore when he knocked over his mic. (It was the f-word.)
“The stuff about your asteroid should be on the announcements,” Spencer whispers loud enough for half the class to hear.
“Stop,” I hiss through gritted teeth.
He nods rapidly. “Okay. We’ll talk about it later.”
Thanks to his warning, I avoid Spencer the rest of the day, even eating my lunch in the media center. Telling them about the asteroid and the website was more than generous of me—or generous of Mack; he’s the one who yapped. My focus needs to be on saving my family, my dog, our house, and my one friend. That’s enough to keep me busy until spring.
No one at our end of the lunch table can keep quiet about the end of the world. Every day, Spencer, Ajay, and Dominic bug me for prepper information. (I’d eat in the media center, but Ms. Richmond has gotten strict about the no-food policy, claiming crumbs from my Rice Krispies Treats will attract the mice.) They ask questions about supplies and strategies, and Mack is no help. He makes it sound like I’m an expert. I know more than they do, but I’m still an amateur.
“We need to start a MAG,” Mack suggests.
“What’s a MAG?” Spencer asks.
“Stands for mutual aid group,” Mack explains. He only knows this because last night on the phone I read him the MAG section from my book. “We should start one at school.”
“Yes!” Spencer agrees.
“No,” I say. “You weren’t listening to me, Mack. That’s not how it works. A MAG is for mutual aid. Like, you want someone in your group who can stitch up a cut and someone who can cook over fire. You need hunters and farmers and doctors. It’s not an after-school club.”
“It can be.”
“According to most of our teachers, middle schoolers are useless. Ms. Regan doesn’t even trust us to do our homework. We have to get our agenda signed nightly.” I usually forget every third day or so. Maybe Ms. Regan is right about us.
“This is more important than homework.”
Dominic shrugs. “Is homework ever important?”
“Let’s do it,” Spencer says. “Please.”
“I think it’s a good idea,” Ajay adds, nodding.
“Like the school will let us start an end-of-the-world club. No way. Won’t happen.” I roll my eyes.
“We’d have to call it something else.” Mack literally scratches his head.
“Scouts!” Spencer says, knocking over Dominic’s milk in his excitement.
“Duh, that name is taken.” I was a Brownie for half a minute. I liked the field trip to the science museum and hated selling cookies and singing songs.
“Elle, we need to do this.” Mack pats my arm. “Start a club. Save lives.”
“Not something that’s on the top of my to-do list.” Though I’ve never been a fan of to-do lists.
“How about this,” Mack says, rocking in his seat. “A club will give us a time and a place to talk about prepping, and the asteroid, and the end of the world. We won’t bring it up at lunch or in homeroom anymore. You don’t talk about our MAG club outside of MAG club.”
I like the idea of limiting when kids at school can discuss TEOTWAWKI. Maybe lunch will return to normal. I’ll get to eat my sandwich in little torn-off pieces without everyone asking me questions.
“And you’ll do this with me? You’re not running off to that Conrad School tomorrow or something?”
“I will,” Spencer says, even though I was talking to Mack.
“Dude, I’ll totally do it with you.” Mack doesn’t say he’s not running off.
“And you’ll be the president, because I don’t want to be president.”
“Why do we need a president?” he asks.
“We don’t. No titles.” This might work. “You all have to promise not to talk about any of this outside the club.”
I point at Spencer, then Ajay, and then Dominic and get them each to agree.
“Okay,” I say, and squeeze Mack’s hand.
“We’re going to need a teacher. Someone to be our faculty advisor. And a place to meet.” Mack has been part of clubs before. He even started a short-lived book club last year, so he probably knows what he’s talking about. I’ve never joined anything that wasn’t required.
“It’s got to be Mrs. Walsh,” I say.
“We’ll ask her tomorrow.”
For the last five minutes of lunch, no one talks about the end of the world. And it’s wonderful.
* * *
• • •
The next morning, my dad drops off Mack and me early. Mack grabs my elbow, and we walk through the mostly empty school. Candy taps as we make our way to Mrs. Walsh’s room.
My favorite school subjects are science, lunch (as long as no one talks about TEOTWAWKI), and homeroom (ditto about TEOTWAWKI).
Mrs. Walsh is nice to me even though I’ll never be the top student and I rarely have the right answer. Teachers have favorites—the kids that get A’s. You can’t blame them. It’s their job to educate. The kids with A’s know stuff. Every profession must have favorites. A dentist probably likes the patients that brush and floss their teeth three times a day. A salesperson likes customers who buy lots of things.
Teachers like the smart kids. Case closed.
“Hey, y’all,” Mrs. Walsh says when
I knock on her open door. “Come in.”
I lead Mack to seats in the back of the room near her desk.
“You caught me eating my breakfast.” She holds up a cup of instant oatmeal. “What can I do for you?”
“Eleanor and I want to start a club, and we need a faculty advisor,” Mack says.
“What kind of club?” she asks. “I ran a science club last year. There wasn’t a lot of interest, to tell you the truth.”
“It’s a nature club,” Mack says. We’d debated the name all night. We considered Genderless Scouts, Explorers, Adventurers, and Researchers. We hated them all, including Nature Club, but we didn’t think End of the World Club would be acceptable.
“Nature Club? Do you think that’s something your fellow students will want to join?”
“Hopefully not,” I mumble under my breath.
“What was that?” she asks.
“Hmm, nothing.” I look around to avoid her gaze.
“So what will this club do?” she asks, taking a scoop of oatmeal.
“Ya know, nature stuff.” Mack folds his hands in his lap. “Eleanor is the brains behind this.”
“Oh.” She turns to me, and I guess I have to talk.
“It’s kind of like…it’s like learning to…” I’m trying desperately not to use the word survive. I thought about this all night in bed. And I even wrote notes to myself with tips but left those on my nightstand.
Mrs. Walsh tilts her head and raises her eyebrows like she’s trying to decipher my mysterious language.
“It’s about loving nature!” I spit out the words quickly. They’re not the right words, but they’ll do.
“And about what plants are edible and which ones will give you diarrhea.” Mack is smiling, but he’s not joking.
Mrs. Walsh turns to look at him. “Well, I don’t like the idea of students eating plants that might make them sick.”
“Or worse,” Mack adds.
“No, no,” I assure her. “We won’t be eating any deadly berries.” Why did I say deadly? You can’t say deadly at school. It makes people nervous. When I’m not supposed to say something, why is that all I can think about? I wipe sweat off my forehead.
“Eleanor, are you okay?”
“Yeah. The club would be about appreciating and learning about nature. Specifically our local environment.”
“Did you know some cultures eat bugs?” Mack asks. “We’ve got a lot of bugs around here. Especially in the cafeteria. Kids who buy their lunch are probably eating them already. And I’m disadvantaged because I can’t see if I’m about to bite into a cockroach.”
Mack is not afraid of saying anything.
“We’re not going to eat bugs either,” I promise.
“So what do you need from me?” Mrs. Walsh throws away the empty oatmeal container and takes a sip from her water bottle.
“We want to use your room for meetings. You don’t even need to be here.” I can’t tell if I’m asking for too much or not enough. Maybe she feels left out.
She holds up her index finger to make a point. “Technically, I do need to be here after school. Job requirement. My day doesn’t end at two.”
“Oh.”
“But I like the idea of a student-led club. It shows initiative.” She nods as she stares at me. If it were any other adult, I’d be suspicious—like she was trying to trick me into doing more work.
“Totally student led,” Mack pipes up. “You don’t need to do a thing. We got this!”
She clasps her hands. “Sounds good to me. I can do Wednesdays or Thursdays after school. And you have to promise you will not eat anything.”
“No snacks?” Mack asks.
“Only the store-bought kind. Parents aren’t going to be happy if someone gets sick from eating dandelions.”
“They are edible,” I say.
“Not on my watch.” She points two fingers at her eyes and then at me.
We decide we will meet every other Wednesday starting next week. Mrs. Walsh recommends putting up signs in the hallway to advertise and adding it to the morning-announcements broadcast. I’d rather keep the whole operation classified.
We stand up, and Mack holds out his hand for me.
“Y’all make a great team,” Mrs. Walsh says. “I hope your club is a tremendous success.”
“Thanks. I hope so too.” Even though I don’t know what would make an end-of-the-world club a tremendous success.
In the days leading up to the first Nature Club meeting, I have nightmares. I dream that the whole school shows up and demands all the supplies that Grandpa Joe has given me. As I’m handing out stuff, Mack turns on me. He tells everyone I’m a fake, and they lock me out of the school right as the asteroid is about to hit. It doesn’t make much sense, except it’s obvious that I’m dreading the meeting.
I write another email to Dr. Cologne to get his advice.
Dear Dr. Cologne,
I’ve found a group of colleagues who want to know more about this event. They want to be prepared. I’ve agreed to share what I’ve learned with them, but I’m afraid I’ll stink at this. Do you have any suggestions?
Sincerely,
E.J.D.
He writes back the next day. It’s a short, simple message.
E.J.D.,
If we are to survive as a species, we need more people like you.
I print out his email and tape it to a page in my dinosaur notebook. Maybe it’ll give me the courage to survive the Nature Club. Then I make a list of things to talk about at the first meeting. I wouldn’t be much of a prepper if I wasn’t prepared for this (probably) catastrophic meeting.
* * *
• • •
On Wednesday, I feel like I have the flu or rabies or the plague. My body aches. I have chills. I want to throw up. But I know it’s not a virus. It’s the meeting.
When Mack and I arrive at Mrs. Walsh’s room, two girls are already there. I don’t know them—maybe they’re sixth graders.
“Mack,” I whisper. “We might have a problem.”
“Stop stressing,” he says.
“I’m not stressing. Not much.” This is a useless lie because both of us know it’s a lie. “What do we do about people who show up for a real Nature Club?”
“What do you mean?”
“What if people are actually here to learn about nature? They don’t know about TEOTWAWKI. They think this is a legit club.” I knew this was a bad idea.
“Oh, like in a movie when a customer goes into an Italian place, and they don’t realize that it’s not a normal restaurant, that it’s a front for the mob,” Mack says.
“What are you even talking about?”
“Those dudes who send back their spaghetti don’t know that there’s a hit man in the kitchen.”
“You’re no help.” I put my backpack on a chair near the front of the room. I smile at the girls but look away before I see if they smile back.
Mrs. Walsh waves me to her desk.
“This is exciting. The first meeting.” She grins. “Are you okay?”
I swallow. “I’m fine.”
“Do you need me to do anything?”
“Maybe call the meeting off,” I say without thinking.
“Is that what you want?” she asks.
I shake my head.
“Are you nervous?” She puts a hand to her chest. “Am I making you nervous?”
I shrug. “I don’t know.” She’s not the reason I’m freaking out. I hate talking in front of people—especially my peers, who I’m certain are making fun of me in their heads. And sometimes they don’t even bother to keep it in their heads.
“How about I stay in my office?” She gestures to a small room behind her that has a large window. I wouldn’t have called it an office. It’s more of a closet
where she keeps the dangerous and fun science equipment like chemicals and Bunsen burners. “It might be easier to be yourself without a teacher hovering over you.”
“It might be easier without anyone hovering around. I’ve been having nightmares about this meeting.” I let out a breath that blows the hair off my forehead.
She clasps her hands suddenly. “Let’s try an experiment. Instead of thinking about this as a nightmare, let’s imagine it’s going to go well. Fantastic, even.”
I raise my eyebrows. “That’s not much of an experiment.”
“True.” She laughs. “But I hypothesize that this meeting will be great if you expect it to be great. Can you give it a try?”
I want to roll my eyes, but she’s being nice, so I nod.
“Wonderful.”
Other kids, including Spencer, Ajay, and Dominic, file in. The meeting doesn’t start for three more minutes, and we’ve already got eight people. If we reach ten, my chest might explode.
“Once you start, I’ll be in my cave, if you need me.” She points with her thumb. “But I know you can handle this.”
“Okay.” Every part of me is sweating. I should go home. Nature Club is a threat to my health.
Mack, meanwhile, makes his way to the front of the class. Candy taps across the floor. He positions himself in Mrs. Walsh’s usual spot. He can’t see that all eyes are on him, but he knows it—and loves it.
It makes no sense that my best friend adores the spotlight, while I’d rather hide in a dark hole. Or maybe it makes perfect sense.
When his watch beeps, he loudly claps his hands twice.
“Let’s get this meeting started,” he says in his center-of-attention voice. “I’m Mack Jefferson, co-founder of Hamilton Middle School’s one-and-only Nature Club.” He rocks back and forth as he talks.
“Let me speak to your members this once,” Mrs. Walsh whispers to me. “Then I promise to get out of the way.”
I slide into a seat near the windows as Mrs. Walsh joins Mack at the front of the room.
The World Ends in April Page 6
