The World Ends in April

by Stacy McAnulty

  “If you tell everyone about the asteroid, they’ll believe you. At least the kids in your classes. Then they’ll tell their parents. And maybe we can save people. They won’t become zombies!”

  “Zombies?” She raises her eyebrows.

  “Sorry. Not zombies like brain-eating monsters. Those aren’t real. Zombies is a term for people who aren’t prepared for the end of the world. They’ll be forced to walk around aimlessly and to scavenge for food and water.”

  “I’ve learned something new.” She folds her hands across her lap. “But I cannot tell my classes about the asteroid. Students may believe me, but the parents certainly won’t. They don’t appreciate it when we stray from the curriculum. I once got an angry email because I mentioned that one college was superior to another, in my opinion. A teacher’s influence is restricted in many ways.”

  I nod. But I feel like she’s making excuses.

  “What about you?” I ask. “Are you going to be a zombie?”

  “I don’t want to be a zombie at all.” She smiles again. “I think a certain amount of preparation is a good idea for all households. Last year when we had that ice storm and the power was out for three days, my husband and I ate potato chips and marshmallows for dinner.”

  “This is more than an ice storm, Mrs. Walsh.” Every muscle in my body feels tired.

  “I know, Eleanor. Thank you for sharing this. You’ve done your part. But once you give a person the information and the tools, you have to let them choose what to do next. Don’t you think?”

  I shrug.

  “I give students the lessons, the textbooks, the worksheets. I can warn them about bad grades and possible failure. But I cannot force them to do homework. It’s their choice.”

  She’s made her choice. I can tell.

  “I’m late for math.” I stand up.

  “Wait.” She holds up a hand. “I hate to do this, Eleanor, but we have to shut down the Nature Club. I’m sorry.”

  I don’t say anything, just nod because I’m not surprised.

  * * *

  • • •

  When I get off the bus, our minivan is in the driveway. I’ve never thought about running away before, but this would be a good time. Too bad my BOB is in my closet. If I could sneak in and grab it, I could survive on my own for at least a week.

  I find Dad in the kitchen talking on his phone. He holds up a finger, which I assume means “give me a minute.”

  I nod and head upstairs. Bubbles follows. My room is a mess, but I notice right away that something is missing. My laptop. Running away is looking like a better and better option.

  Dad knocks on my door a minute later.

  “Where’s my computer?”

  “You and your computer…you and the internet need a break.”

  “Why?” I can feel the phone in my pocket. Please don’t take that away too.

  “I got an anonymous email today that sounded like it could have been written by you. I also got a call from Mrs. Walsh.”

  I cross my arms and fall back on my bed. Everyone has betrayed me. Bubbles jumps up and tries to lick my cheek, but I push her away.

  “I looked through your computer,” Dad continues. “You didn’t send the email. So I have to assume you have a co-conspirator or two. Mack? Londyn?”

  “When can I get my computer back?” I ask.

  Dad ignores the question. “This has to stop, Eleanor. The asteroid isn’t a threat. This guy is deranged. He’s not a scientist or an expert.”

  “Yes, he is. He’s from Harvard.”

  “That doesn’t matter. He’s a disturbed man. And you’ve emailed him directly. This goes against my rules. I’ve warned you about—”

  “I had questions. It’s not like I invited him over or made plans to meet him somewhere.”

  Dad turns white. “Thankfully. But you cannot contact strange men on the computer. You’re putting yourself at risk. The thoughts of what could have happened…”

  “He’s a good guy. He’s trying to save the world. Think about that, Dad.”

  “I can’t believe he’s had such an influence on you.” Dad steps closer and reaches out for my shoulder, but I duck away. “I’m your father. I love you. I’m telling you he’s wrong. You need to—”

  “Get out!” I yell.

  Dad’s face looks like I’ve slapped him. “Excuse me?”

  “I want to be alone. Get out.” I spit as I yell.

  “Eleanor…”

  “Go away!” I scream so loud my throat hurts.

  He shakes his head. “We’ll talk again when you calm down.” He leaves my room.

  We’ll talk when you’re ready to listen to me. Which is probably never.

  For over a week, Londyn has been missing from lunch. Not just from our table; she doesn’t even show up in the cafeteria. Maybe she’s been eating in the bathroom or the media center or in prison. I don’t care. Because of her, I don’t have my computer or Nature Club, and Dad and I barely talk. He says stuff like “good morning,” “I love you,” and “fold the laundry.” That’s it.

  But today, she’s back in the cafeteria, sitting alone at her booth in the section usually reserved for adults.

  “Hey, look,” Ajay says. “It’s Londyn.”

  “So.” I’ve already noticed but don’t want everyone else to know I’ve noticed.

  “Where is she?” Mack asks.

  “She’s sitting by herself again,” Spencer explains.

  “Oh gee, I wonder why,” Mack says sarcastically. Then he gets up.

  “Mack, where are you going?” I ask through clenched teeth.

  “I’m going to invite her to sit with us.” He opens Candy. “I know she messed up, and I was mad too. But life is short, Elle. You may have heard: there’s an asteroid heading our way.”

  I grab Mack’s arm. “She’s the reason Nature Club got shut down.”

  “She made a mistake.” He pats my hand. “And she didn’t write those newsletters alone.”

  “You’re blaming me for this?”

  “No,” he says. “No blame. And just because the school says we can’t have a Nature Club doesn’t mean we can’t have a club. We’ll meet somewhere else.”

  “Like in Eleanor’s bunker,” Spencer suggests.

  “I don’t have a bunker!” I say for the thousandth time. “And you owe us each a dollar for mentioning it!”

  Mack pushes my hand away. “BRB.” His cane moves back and forth as he walks toward the booths along the wall.

  I shove half my peanut butter sandwich in my mouth and almost choke when I try to swallow. If she comes over here, I’m leaving. I’ll sit by myself.

  But Londyn doesn’t return with Mack.

  “She won’t join us,” he says.

  “Good.”

  “Dude, not good.” He sits down. “She says you’re mad at her.”

  “I am.”

  “And she’s mad at you. But she used a harsher word. One that’s not appropriate in school.”

  “So what?”

  “Why are you so mad?” Spencer asks with a mouthful of Cheetos.

  “You know why!” As I struggle to open my bag of chips, I crush half of them. “Why is she mad at me? I didn’t do anything.”

  “I’ll find out,” Mack offers. He gets up again and makes his way to her table. He cuts off a line of sixth graders coming in for lunch.

  “Girls.” Spencer shakes his head. “So much drama. You’re friends. You’re not friends.”

  Dominic and Ajay nod like Spencer has said something wise.

  “Shut up, Spencer. Londyn and I were never real friends. We had a common goal. That’s all.” I pack up what’s left of my lunch in my bag. I don’t feel like eating anymore.

  Ajay holds up his hands. “We should all calm down
. Don’t yell. No good comes from yelling.”

  “And boys are as dramatic as girls,” I say. “Spencer, you refused to be partners with that kid in gym class because he called you a woodchuck.”

  “That was different. That was bullying!” Spencer points a finger in my face.

  I hear Candy’s tapping as Mack comes back to our table. He’s still alone.

  “She’s mad at you for screaming at her and calling her names.” Mack sits.

  “See? Yelling doesn’t do any good. Ever.” Ajay shakes his head.

  “Yeah, because I was mad at her. She can’t be mad at me for being mad at her. That is dramatic. And stupid.” Maybe Spencer is right.

  “She’s also mad about the newsletter,” Mack continues. “She thinks you don’t want to do it anymore.”

  “We can’t!”

  “Maybe you can’t hand it out at school, but you can still write it. The newsletter was good, Elle.”

  “The newsletter was useless. We are less than a month away from the end of the world, and I bet not a single person at this school is ready.”

  “I am,” Spencer says. “I got a water filter and a first-aid kit.”

  “Awesome. You’ll survive a day or two.”

  “Elle, calm down. So the club is over, and the newsletter is over. It’s not like the world is ending.” Mack slaps the table. “Oh wait, it is. Admit that you liked Nature Club and you liked writing the Doomsday Express.”

  “I did,” I say without hesitation. “And she ruined it all.” It’s like Mack isn’t even listening to me.

  “She was part of all the good stuff too. And with an asteroid heading our way, is this the time to hold a grudge?”

  “She’s good at holding grudges,” Spencer says. “All girls are.”

  “Stop!” I shoot Spencer a look and then turn toward Mack. “I don’t care what she does. None of it matters. Tell her she can sit here if you want.”

  “You tell her.”

  “No.”

  “Fine!” Mack says. “You’re the most stubborn person I know. At least I thought so. Until I met Londyn. Now it’s a tie.” He slides out of his seat and turns toward Londyn’s table.

  I almost shout, “No, I’m more stubborn!” But I realize he doesn’t mean it as a compliment.

  Of course, Londyn doesn’t return with Mack. The lights dim. There are only five minutes left of lunch anyway.

  “She wants you to go talk to her.” Mack sits, and he groans like it takes real effort or he’s got arthritis.

  “I’m not going—”

  “And she’s not coming. So figure it out, Elle. Just figure it out. I bet I’ve walked a mile already.”

  “Whatever.” I get up. But I don’t head to Londyn’s table. I purposely go the long way to the trash cans.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see her get up. She stretches and takes her time. But eventually, she walks toward the trash cans too.

  We meet standing next to giant yellow bins filled with uneaten cafeteria food that probably didn’t smell any better before it was dumped in.

  “Mack says you’re done being mad.” She studies the ends of her hair like we aren’t talking about anything important.

  “Is that what he said?” I roll my eyes.

  “I’m done too.”

  “Okay.”

  “I think we should make another newsletter.” She stops playing with her hair and looks at me.

  “No.”

  “I won’t email it. I won’t put it on the internet. I promise.”

  “The newsletter isn’t helping. Not that you wanted to help anyone. You want to scare your enemies. I get it.”

  “Not anymore.”

  I tilt my head. I don’t believe her.

  “I mean…this is getting real. I read the website every night, and I’m…I’m scared.” She pulls a folded piece of paper from her pocket.

  “What’s this?”

  “Read it. It’s from the site.”

  I unfold the paper.

  IMPACT—APRIL 7

  For those living in the United States, I’ve calculated impact to be April 7. The impact velocity will be a minimum twenty-one miles per second. If the strike occurs on land, the transient crater will be fifty-two miles wide and the final crater closer to ninety miles across. The thermal radiation impact will be four seconds after physical impact, with the duration of irradiation lasting thirty-three minutes. Effects of the thermal radiation will include third-degree burns, wood and paper fires, and asphalt melt. A seismic aftershock will measure a ten on the Richter scale and begin twenty seconds after impact.

  I read it twice but can only focus on—and understand—the date.

  “How many days until the seventh?” I ask.

  “Three weeks from yesterday.”

  Some kid tosses his lunch into the garbage and chocolate milk splatters on my arm. I start walking toward the cafeteria doors. Londyn follows.

  “I need to get online. Can I come over to your house?” I ask.

  “No.”

  My heart falls. I guess we aren’t over our fight.

  “I’ll get a computer. I’ll bring it to your place,” Londyn says.

  I almost smile. Almost.

  “What do you mean by ‘get a computer’?” I ask. “Are you going to steal one or something?”

  “I’ll borrow one. Tomorrow.” She doesn’t say who she’s borrowing from. And I don’t ask.

  The bell rings, and lunch is over. Londyn and I are surrounded by kids, most of whom will soon be zombies.

  “Are we good?” I ask. “Do we need to apologize or hug or something?”

  “We’re good. Let’s save the hugging until after we survive this asteroid.”

  On Thursday, every class lasts an eternity because Londyn is coming over after school and bringing a computer. I can finally get online again and read the website. It’s been weeks since I snuck on. Mack and Londyn promised they’re monitoring it and updating me, but I need to check it out for myself.

  Mack rides the bus home with me. The school’s swim season is finally over, and he has more free time to focus on what’s important. He’s wearing his paracord bracelet today. He doesn’t always. But I do. I wonder if this means something.

  Londyn arrives about twenty minutes after the bus drops us off. She rides her bike and has a small laptop in her backpack.

  We set up in my room.

  “Do you know the Wi-Fi password?” she asks.

  “I think so.” I type, and pray that Dad hasn’t changed it.

  The website pops up on the screen.

  “Oh my gosh, there are dozens, maybe hundreds of new posts.” I turn to Mack, who is sitting on the floor with his iPad in his face and Bubbles at his side. “Have you read these?”

  “Some,” he says. “It’s a mess.”

  “Yeah,” Londyn agrees. “Dr. C. is letting anyone post now. It’s like if the school let students teach classes. People are saying whatever they want.”

  I scroll. “There’s got to be a way to sort this.”

  Londyn leans over and moves the cursor with the touch pad. The screen is now only Dr. Cologne’s posts.

  “Thanks.” I read the newest one.

  It goes without saying, tracking asteroids and other objects through space requires constant calculations and adjustments. Space bodies are affected by not only the gravity of the sun, planets, and neighboring moons, but also other bodies in space. An impact from a meteoroid or asteroid could alter 2010PL7’s trajectory. It could save Earth. So far, this has not happened. With each passing day, I’m more confident of impact. The date is undoubtedly April 7. The location, however, will not be known until hours before, if at all.

  Two years ago, the Chinese government lost contact with one of its retired, smaller spac
e stations. They could no longer control it or even find it for a period of time. They knew it would not orbit our planet indefinitely. Earth’s gravity would drag it to the surface. Until the space station entered into the atmosphere or was spotted on military radar, no one knew where it would crash. It landed in the Pacific Ocean without incident. We didn’t learn any lessons from that mistake. We need better surveillance and ways to defend against space debris, both natural and human-made. Unfortunately, these technological advances will not happen before April. We must prepare for an impact.

  “I’d never heard about that Chinese space station,” I say. “Seems like they should be more careful.”

  “I looked it up,” Londyn says. “It was a real thing. It weighed like eight tons, but most of it burned up in the atmosphere. They said it was probably only two tons when it finally crashed into the ocean. The scariest part was that it was running on nuclear energy. It wasn’t quite like a bomb, but close enough.”

  “This asteroid is three or four miles wide. It’s not going to burn up in the atmosphere.” I blow my hair out of my eyes and keep scanning the website.

  “I know.” She sits down on my bed. “I wish we knew where it was heading. There’s got to be some scientist with a supercomputer who can figure it out.”

  “When it gets closer, we’ll know.” I rest my chin in my palm and study the screen.

  “We’ll be fine,” Mack says. “It’ll probably crash in the ocean too. Earth is seventy percent water. Those are good odds.”

  “Yep.” Because Londyn seems nervous, I don’t tell her an impact in water could be as bad as one on land. The average depth of the ocean is two and a half miles, while 2010PL7 is at least three miles wide. It’ll send water vapor and debris into the atmosphere. Impact winter would come sooner and be worse.

  “It could be like other natural disasters,” Mack continues. “Like a tsunami or earthquake. The Red Cross will visit victims and hand out water. There will be a telethon with celebrities.”

  “That guy who wrote the Hamilton musical will make a new song to raise money.” I force a laugh that lasts too long.