Let's Call It a Doomsday

by Katie Henry

  Jane Austen. George Eliot. Both writers, both dead, both ladies. Just like Hannah said. This has to be the place; she must just not be here yet. I’ll wait for her. I continue to fake-text on my phone. But then I hear someone say, “Hey, are you waiting for someone?”

  I look up, and they’re all staring at me. I guess I was more conspicuous than I thought. And much closer to the tree.

  “Um,” I say.

  “Because no one’s walked by or anything,” Sam says.

  “Hannah,” I blurt out. “I’m looking for Hannah, she told me to go across from the Little Theatre, to a tree, and she said to look for dead lady writers which I took more literally than I probably should have.” I gulp in air.

  “Okay,” Sam says.

  “She used us as, like, treasure map directions?” Theo says. “That’s weird, Hannah, even for you.”

  I look behind me, but she’s not there.

  “She’ll come back soon,” Sam says, scooting over so there’s space between him and Theo. “You can sit down.”

  “Thanks.” I sit. The curly-haired boy stares at me like I’m a particularly unattractive fish at the aquarium.

  “Your name’s Ellis, right?” Sam asks.

  I nod. “Ellis Kimball. And you’re Sam . . .”

  “Segel-Katz, yeah. You still doing Latin?”

  I nod again.

  “Of your own free will?”

  “It’s a lot more fun once you start translating.”

  He shrugs. “I’ll take your word for it.”

  Theo shifts his knitting supplies to one hand and holds out the other. “Theo Singh.”

  I shake his hand and turn to the last boy, expectantly, but he’s only frowning harder. Sam clears his throat. “And this ray of absolute sunshine is Tal.”

  “Hi,” Tal says, digging his hands deep into his hoodie pockets.

  “Do I know you from somewhere?” I ask him.

  “No,” he says definitively. So definitively I don’t think it’s true.

  Sam turns back to Theo. “What I was going to say was, you can’t say you hate Jane Austen if you’ve only read Pride and Prejudice. So you don’t like that one book. She did write others.”

  “I don’t hate the book,” Theo says. “I hate Mr. Darcy.”

  “Yeah, because you wish girls liked you as much as they like Mr. Darcy.”

  “Oh hell no,” Theo says. “He is literature’s biggest asshole.”

  Tal sticks his hand up. “Bigger than Voldemort?”

  “Fine, he’s literature biggest non-genocidal asshole,” Theo says. “Happy, Tal?”

  “Almost never.”

  “He loves Lizzie Bennett,” Sam protests. “They’re perfect for each other.”

  “He’s not even nice to her for most of it—he spends the entire first half brooding in a corner and refusing to dance. And then he tries to wave it away with, ‘Oh, I’m so weird and fucked up and how could anyone ever love me.’”

  “You refused to dance at my bar mitzvah,” Sam points out.

  “Only the Electric Slide,” Theo says. “Because it sucks.”

  “Wow, are all your opinions this wrong?”

  “Screw you.” Theo leans back into the grass and stares up at the sky. “You’re with me, right, Hannah?”

  Hannah—where? I swivel my head around. Sam sees me looking and taps my arm. He points up. From somewhere in the tree branches, a voice says, “I haven’t read it. Sorry.”

  No way. I’ve only heard Hannah’s voice once, and that did sound like her, but . . .

  “Is she—?” I ask. “She’s not in the—?”

  Sam and Theo crack up. Tal tilts his face up at the tree. “Would you come down now? This girl’s not here to see us.”

  He hates you. They all hate you, but he really hates you. He hates you so much he called you “this girl.” He hates you so much he won’t even say your name.

  Mom would say “kill with kindness”—which really means shut up and smile—but I don’t like how he said this girl. I open my mouth to remind him of my name, but then a pair of blue Converse hits the grass with a thump. Hannah stands at the base of the tree, the legs of her jeans dusty and a couple of reddish leaves mixed into her hair. We lock eyes, and she brightens.

  “Hey,” she says, taking a seat next to me. “Awesome, I wasn’t sure you’d show.”

  She didn’t really want you to come. She hangs out in trees and probably makes friends with the squirrels and birds, but you are a bridge too far.

  “Have you met everybody?” Hannah says. “Theo, and Sam, and—”

  “She’s been here awhile,” Tal cuts in.

  Hannah looks surprised. “How long was I gone?”

  Gone? She was in the tree. Wasn’t she in the tree?

  Theo shrugs. “Same as usual.”

  “I wish you’d start doing it on the ground,” Tal says.

  “Doing what?” I ask. “Where do you go?”

  “She teleports,” Sam says.

  “To another plane of existence,” Theo says.

  Hannah shakes her head. “I’m only meditating,” she says. “I don’t really go anywhere, my brain does.”

  I’m not a meditation person, despite a semester-long, mandatory “elective” on mindfulness in middle school. I can’t make my mind go quiet like that. My brain stays right where it wants to, thumping inside my skull like a migraine that never stops.

  “But why in a tree?” I ask.

  “Because she has a death wish,” Tal answers.

  “People used to meditate in all kinds of places. In caves. In forests. On top of poles in the desert.” She carefully pulls a leaf from her hair. “It helps. To go somewhere no one can see you, and you can’t see them. It helps me see . . . things. More clearly.”

  Things is such a vague word. It didn’t used to be. It used to mean a meeting, a council, a matter of great importance. Maybe she means it blandly, metaphorically. See things the way they are. But that pause, that little hesitation, makes me think it might be something more.

  “Do you see it?” I blurt out before the smarter half of my brain can pump the brakes. “Is that how you know— Is that how you see it?”

  Hannah freezes, her fingers around another leaf in her hair. She stares at me, wide-eyed and quiet.

  “What did you say?” Tal asks.

  “See it?” Sam repeats.

  “Oh, do you mean, is that how I see things?” Hannah smiles back at me, with the barest hint of strain.

  “Uh,” I say. “Yes.”

  Hannah crumples the leaf. “Then yes.”

  “It’s colloquial, Sam,” Theo says. “Go to class for once.”

  “I know what a colloquialism is!”

  Tal’s eyes bore into me. “Where did you two meet, again?” he asks Hannah.

  “Library,” I say.

  “Therapy,” Hannah says at the same time. I close my eyes.

  “That’s great,” Tal says, in a tone that strongly implies otherwise. “So how—”

  “Hey,” Hannah interrupts, reaching across me to nudge Sam, still arguing with Theo about colloquial language. “Can you smoke me out?”

  Sam puts his hand to his heart. “I’m offended. To just assume I have the necessary supplies for such a thing. I am a scholar, an artist—”

  She rolls her eyes. “Yeah, you’re some kind of artist.”

  “You shouldn’t insult your personal charity service.” Sam pulls a film canister out of his backpack. “What would Emily Post say?”

  Hopefully nothing, considering she’s dead. Next to me, Sam tips a small rolled joint from the film canister into his hand.

  You can’t grow up in Berkeley and not know what weed looks and smells like, even if you’re part of a religion that strictly forbids it. But I’ve never seen a joint this close. It almost feels like a setup.

  “Who’s got a light?” Sam says. “Mine’s out.”

  “Hey, um,” I say, trying to sound casual, “you guys know City Hall is sort of
. . . right there?” I point across the street at the domed white building.

  “Not like it’s new,” Tal mumbles, digging a lighter out of his pocket.

  “But there are, I mean, there are police officers there,” I say. “Who might see what you have?”

  Hannah smiles at me like I’m a cute toddler. Sam laughs. “They’ve way got bigger problems. They’re not going to bother us.”

  “Sam,” Theo says, leaning back on his hands. “That might be the whitest thing you’ve ever said.”

  Sam grins. “I can do better—‘Megan, turn off NPR and get in the Kia, we’re late for Hunter’s lacrosse game.’” He holds out his hand for Tal’s red lighter. “Or, or—‘I lost my North Face jacket at Whole Foods, so I have to replace it at REI before we go camping in Yosemite.’”

  “‘This casserole needs more mayo,’” Theo offers up.

  “Weak,” Sam says.

  “Yeah, well, I’m Indian, give me a break.”

  I watch as flame sears the end of the joint, smoking and blackening the tip. My parents would lose it if they knew about this. I should leave. I should tell them to stop. I should avoid the appearance of evil.

  But they were nice to me. Most of them. They didn’t have to be, and they were. And even though the smell wrinkles my nose and I’m still half certain a Berkeley cop is going to pull up in his department-issued Prius, I don’t get up. It feels good to be sitting here. It feels good to have someone to sit with.

  After taking a hit, Sam extends the joint toward me like a Christmas present.

  “I don’t do that,” I say, and cringe at how sharp it sounds.

  He shrugs and passes it across my body into Theo’s hand.

  I feel like I need to explain myself. “It’s against my health code.”

  “It’s cool, doesn’t matter why,” Sam says.

  “What do you mean, health code?” Hannah asks. “Like a diet, or are you asthmatic?”

  I steel myself for an inevitable turn as Mormon Ambassador. It’s a really fun game in which I explain that yes, I’m a Mormon, so yes, I have a health code that involves no drugs, no tobacco, no alcohol or coffee or tea. Then I have to cheerfully field whatever questions come next, no matter how insensitive or condescending. Half the people in Berkeley are gluten-free or vegan or freegans—actual, literal dumpster divers—but sure, my diet’s the weird one.

  Before I can open my mouth, Tal says, “She means the Word of Wisdom. She’s a Mormon.”

  I spin around to stare at him. Not because he’s wrong; that is what we call our health code. But it’s what we call it. How does he even know what church I belong to? I never said.

  Then it clicks, in a tumble of disjointed, hazy, little-kid memories. Shorter hair, a collared shirt and tie in place of a hoodie, and instead of a Zippo lighter in his hand—actually, no. There was a lighter then, too.

  “I do know you,” I say to Tal, more accusingly than I intended. He avoids my eyes. “You’re a member, you’re LDS.”

  “What?” Theo says.

  “LDS,” I repeat.

  “No, this is weed,” Sam says.

  “Latter-day Saint,” I clarify, gesturing at Tal. “I’m one, and he’s one, too.”

  “No, I’m not,” Tal says.

  “Yes, you are. You’re the one who accidentally lit the auditorium curtains on fire at the Oakland Stake musical when we were nine.”

  “Shit,” he mutters, and takes a drag on the joint.

  “You’re Mormon?” Hannah says. “I thought you were Jewish.”

  “No way. He gets his bagels toasted,” Sam mock-whispers. “I’ve seen it.”

  “His name is Tal,” Hannah says to Sam. “I have a cousin in Israel named Tal.”

  “It’s not really Tal,” I say, bits of old memories piecing together. Playing in the basement of the Oakland Ward building one Sunday when I was five. Red Kool-Aid and cookies at someone’s baptism. “Your name is Talmage. Isn’t it?”

  Theo and Sam look at each other. They collapse into giggles.

  Tal gives me the blackest of glares. “It’s a nickname.”

  “Where did your parents get Talmage?” Hannah asks.

  “Family name. My mom’s idea.”

  “James E. Talmage was an apostle in our church,” I add.

  “It’s not our church,” Tal says.

  Hannah checks the watch around her wrist. “Oh, shit.” She reaches behind the tree trunk and drags out her backpack. “I’ve got to go, you guys.” She stands, and I experience a moment of pure panic. She’s not leaving me here with these boys, is she?

  “Which way are you going?” I ask, scrambling to my feet so fast I almost slip on the wet grass.

  “Um—” For the first time, she doesn’t look serene and all-knowing. She almost looks panicked. “You can walk me as far as Yogurt Park, if you want.”

  I nod.

  “I have to get something out of my locker,” Hannah says. “I’ll meet you at the gate.”

  She’s gone in a whirl of hair and leaves. I roll up my jacket and stuff it in my backpack. “It was nice to meet you,” I say to the boys as I leave. I only make it a few feet away before Tal catches up and steps in front of me.

  “Hold up,” he says.

  “I’m sorry I embarrassed you,” I say, and then for some reason start saying everything. “I didn’t know you didn’t like your name; I mean, I like your name, and I’m sorry I told them you were a Mormon, though, you know, you can tell people, I tell people—”

  “I’m not a Mormon,” he says, cutting me off.

  “But I know you. I’ve seen you at—”

  “I used to be. I’m not anymore.”

  Used to be is different from never was. I stand still for a moment, trying to wrap my head around the idea of leaving the church. I know people do. I know they don’t do it without a reason. But I can’t quite imagine it. It’s like leaving your whole family. Not just on Earth. After, too.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, like I’ve forgotten how to say anything else.

  He shakes his head. “I didn’t want to— This isn’t about that. This is about Hannah.”

  “Hannah?”

  “Why did Hannah invite you to hang out?”

  What, because my very presence ruined his afternoon? My cheeks burn. “I don’t know. Ask her.”

  “I don’t know what your deal is or why she’s suddenly decided you’ve got to be besties, but Hannah’s dealing with a lot, okay?” he says. “More than just that thing with Paloma. A lot more.”

  Paloma from my English class? “Paloma Flores? What about her?”

  Tal raises his eyebrows. “They broke up, right before school ended last year. In the cafeteria. Very publicly, very loudly?”

  I shake my head.

  “Are you sure you go to this school?” Tal asks.

  “I don’t know why you’re telling me this,” I say.

  “Hannah’s having a hard time. And she’s coping with it in . . . her own way. But it’s a problem.” He pauses, then leans closer to me. “Don’t be part of the problem.”

  I hate the word problem. My dad uses it a lot, when he doesn’t want to say what he means. He used it when we were late to Em’s kindergarten ballet recital because I had to check all the doors in the house and make sure they were locked. And when it took us forever to get home from Sea Ranch because the mountain roads were too narrow and I couldn’t stop hyperventilating and asking him to drive slower. “Everything’s fine. We just had a small problem,” he told people when they asked why we were late.

  The problem was me, and everyone knew it.

  I wonder if Tal understands what that feels like, knowing things would be easier for everyone if you weren’t around. If you were different from how you are.

  “I won’t be,” I say, and I leave Tal in the grass. And I mean it.

  Hannah and I aren’t problems. But we might be each other’s solution.

  Five

  WHATEVER HANNAH HAD to get from her locker, i
t must be small. Because when she meets me at the main gate, all she has is her backpack.

  “Ready?” I say. She nods and touches the front zipper compartment of her bag. That must be where it is, whatever she needed to retrieve. And it must be secret, because that touch—light, quick, confirming—that’s what people do when they’re hiding something.

  I won’t ask about it. I wouldn’t want anyone asking about the mini survival bag I keep in my locker. Not because I’m selfish and wouldn’t share the bandages or antiseptic wipes or even the particulate-filtering respirator mask, if it came down to it. But I’ve also got a multi-use knife in there, and I really don’t want to get expelled.

  We walk up Allston Way and turn right onto Shattuck, with the beautiful art deco central branch of the Berkeley public library up ahead. That’s where I would normally be right now, ensconced on the top floor where it’s quiet and empty. That’s where I should be. I pause when we reach the library, but Hannah glides right past, as if she knows I’ll follow. And I do.

  “Is this on your way home?” she asks as we walk. “Or do you live up in the hills somewhere?”

  “No, by the Oakland border. Off College Ave. You?”

  “North side of campus.”

  We’re taking a circuitous route for that. I guess she isn’t going straight home.

  Some people have lives, some people have hobbies and friends and places to go after school. Not you, obviously, but other people have those things.

  “Do your parents work at Cal?” I ask.

  “Yeah, they’re professors. Yours?”

  “My dad’s a dentist, and my mom does admin stuff for him. What do they teach?”

  She laughs. “My mom barely teaches at all. She does research and has, like, one five-hundred-person lecture. My dad mostly teaches Freshman Comp but he’s super popular; my brother couldn’t even get into his class last year—” She shakes her head and pushes up the sleeves of her hoodie. “God, why does it always get hot right when we go back to school?”

  “You have a brother?”

  She blows air out her cheeks. “Yeah. Do you have siblings?”

  “A sister, she’s thirteen.” I pause. “It’s nice your brother goes to Cal, you must still get to hang out a lot.”

  “Not really,” she says, and it’s almost a snap.