by Katie Henry
“What do you mean?” she says.
“He saw that you could save yourself.”
We sit in silence as the daylight fades. When the horizon is like the inside of a grapefruit, not quite orange and not quite red, Hannah stands. She offers me her hand and pulls me up, even though we both know I didn’t need help. We go down the hill together.
Seventeen
I’VE PUT MY foot down. We’re making flyers. I might not have all the details, and Hannah might not be on board, but we have a date and a location and a duty to the rest of the world. One day during lunch, I drag Hannah to the top floor of the Central Library, next to the vinyl section. No one’s ever there except men with gray ponytails listening to the Doors and reliving their draft-dodging days.
At the table farthest in the back, Hannah sitting uncomfortably across from me, I make a mock-up flyer on orange paper. Orange like a nuclear warning symbol. Orange like a mushroom cloud. Orange like the apocalypse. At the top, it reads ARE YOU PREPARED? in the largest lettering I could fit. Below is Hannah’s prophecy, only lightly edited. And at the bottom, and most important, is the date. December 21. Just over one month from now.
“I still don’t think this is a good idea,” she says. “And even if it was, every lamppost in this city is covered with flyers for weird stuff. No one’s even going to notice yours.”
“Ours.”
“You’re designing it. It’s yours.”
“You are just about the worst prophet in the world,” I tell her.
“Uh, no, I’m not. What about the guy who had all his followers commit suicide?”
“Which one?”
“Thanks for making my point for me.”
I set the marker down. “You know things other people don’t. Things that will change their lives forever.”
“So maybe let them enjoy the little bit of time they have.” Hannah leans back in her chair. “It’s not like they can do anything about it.”
I believe in fate—how could I not, at this point?—but I don’t believe in fatalism. I won’t ever stop researching, or preparing, or making sure I’m in the best possible position to survive. It feels like giving up. I’m a lot of things I don’t like, but I’m not a quitter. I don’t give up without a fight, so Hannah’s going to have to fight with me, whether she likes it or not.
“But don’t you think they have a right to at least know?” I ask her. “To be prepared?”
I underline the question at the top of the page: ARE YOU PREPARED? It’s mostly rhetorical. Of course they aren’t prepared. Most people never will be. But everyone deserves a chance.
“You owe them that,” I say.
Her mouth twists. “I don’t owe anyone anything.”
I fold my arms. “You owe me.”
“Okay, that’s not—” she starts to say, holding up a hand, but I cut her off.
“No, you do,” I say. “I’ve lied for you. A lot. My parents don’t trust me because of you. I’ve done a million things I wasn’t supposed to do. I’ve gotten in so much trouble, all to help you.”
“I didn’t make you do any of those things,” she says.
“That’s not what I said! I did them willingly, I did them because I believe you,” I say. “But I still did them for you, Hannah. Don’t you think you owe me something?”
Silence. I stare at Hannah. She stares at the table.
“Yes,” she says quietly. “I owe you a lot.”
There’s another long silence, like she wants to say something more. But she doesn’t, so eventually, I clear my throat. “Okay. So, we’re making flyers.”
“Okay,” she says, eyes still focused on the tabletop.
“Great.” I push my first draft directly under her nose, so she can’t help but see it. “See, we’ve got your prophecy, we’ve got the date, we’ve got the spot on the hill—”
“You can’t tell them where,” she says, reaching over me to grab the pen and crossing it out.
“What?” I sit back as she crosses it a second time, darker. “We have to.”
“No.”
“Hannah.”
“It’s just us,” she says firmly, starting to write something else. “I’ve seen it, remember? You and me and no one else.”
“You don’t know that,” I protest. “What if that’s the only place that’s safe, what if people need to be on higher ground, what if—”
“What if, what if,” she repeats. “Sometimes I think you live on the planet What If, not Earth.”
“Good one,” I deadpan. “You should do stand-up.”
She re-caps the pen and looks at me. Her face softens. “I’m sorry. But . . . bad shit happens, okay? Whether you plan for it or not. If you spend your life thinking about all the terrible things that could happen, you’re going to miss every moment that’s actually good. Trust me.”
When she leans back, I see what she’s written on the flyer.
LOCATION: the place where the light comes in
I wonder if that’s why she gave away her things. Her clothes, her books, except for the ones her brother left behind. I wonder if they were some sort of sacrificial offering, for not appreciating the good moments. Less ascetic conviction, more crushing guilt. But it’s not her fault. It’s not her brother’s, either, it’s no one’s fault. Doesn’t she know that?
“Hey,” I say, pulling the flyer back toward me. Trying to be casual. “Why did you—give up so much?”
She wrinkles her nose. “What?”
“Your stuff. Like your phone, or most of your clothing, or—”
“Did Tal tell you that?” she interrupts.
“No. Look, you have a total of maybe four outfits and I know your parents are professors, so it’s clearly a choice,” I reason. She stares at me. I cave instantly. “Paloma told me.”
“God,” she huffs. “Great.”
“I only want to know why. Was that part of your dreams too, or—”
“It just didn’t seem fair,” she says, then clamps her mouth shut.
I sit back. “Fair?”
She swallows. “My brother doesn’t have a phone. He doesn’t have lots of clothes. Wherever he is, he’s not comfortable. Why should I get to be?”
“But he chose that,” I point out.
“It’s not a choice if you don’t think you’ve got any other options.”
Is that really all this is for, fairness? She gave away her possessions so things would be fair between her and someone who lives on the street? I don’t know what’s in Hannah’s head, and I won’t tell her she doesn’t know her own mind, but I think it’s more than that. I think she’s doing this to feel close to him. Wherever he is, whatever he’s doing, she wants to feel what he feels. It’s the only way she can feel close to him.
“So are you going to give these to people?” Hannah asks, taking the flyer from my hands and examining it.
“No, I’m going to make confetti out of them.”
She gives me a look and hands it back over. “I mean are you just going to scatter them around town, or will you give them to people you know? People you care about. So they can be ready.”
“I’ll make sure my family’s okay,” I say. “You already know. Obviously. So who else?”
“Like maybe Tal?” she suggests lightly. Heat spreads across my face. Hannah’s staring at me, searching me like I’m something under a microscope. “Or . . . Lia?”
The heat’s on my neck and my shoulders now. I look down at the flyer. She sighs.
“I’m not trying to pressure you,” Hannah says. “I don’t want it to seem that way. But I think—”
“Yeah, I get it, you think you’ve got me figured out,” I interrupt, shoving the flyer aside.
“I think sometimes people like us find each other,” Hannah says, picking her words carefully, “because we need each other.”
Is that true? Hannah and I aren’t the same—not exactly the same, though maybe she assumes we are. Hannah likes girls. Only girls. That’s not all the way true
for me, I know that, but it is all the way wrong?
I shake my head. “Based on basically nothing, you think you know exactly how I feel.”
Hannah moves to the chair closest to me. “I don’t know what you’re feeling,” she admits. “But whatever it is, whatever you are feeling . . . it’s okay. It’s better than okay. You need to know that, and I’m not sure anyone’s told you before.” She leans forward, all but forcing me to look her in the eye. “Whatever you’re feeling, Ellis, it’s you. And you are good. So it’s good, too.”
She’s wrong about one thing: I have been told that before. Not in this context, not the way she means it, but I’ve spent every day of my life being told I was created in the image of something perfect. That there are no errors in creation. I thought I believed that, but maybe I didn’t, or haven’t for years. Maybe I haven’t been treating myself like I believe that. I can accept that I was fearfully, wonderfully made, or I can believe that I was a mistake.
Something warm is spiraling its way through my veins. Not hot like a brand, or a fire, but something softer. Like the sun coming in through a window.
I’m not a mistake. No part of me is a mistake. I can believe that.
The word apocalypse means a revelation, but that doesn’t mean every revelation is an apocalypse. Or maybe it can be a little apocalypse, a good apocalypse. The word apocalypse means to uncover what’s been hidden. Maybe this time, I’ll draw back the curtain and like what I see.
I think I see it. I almost feel like I can speak it, too. I’m not all the way there, but I’m closer.
“I’ll make sure,” I tell Hannah, and it comes out a whisper. Soft and unsure, but spoken. “The people I care about . . . I’ll make sure they know.”
Eighteen
I PLASTER OUR flyers all around town—well, as far I can get on the bus and still make it home early enough that my lies about extra chemistry labs or math tutoring seem plausible. So that means they’re mostly around campus, but I figure that’s where the more open-minded people are hanging out anyway. The flyer goes up on every prepper forum I know, too, though I’m smart enough not to read the reply comments. For people who truly believe the End of the World as We Know It is imminent, they are oddly resistant to having an actual date for TEOTWAWKI. I also make a basic, free, and admittedly badly designed website with all the information Hannah’s given me, plus some survival tips of my own.
It’s not a lot. It’s barely even a little. But it’s something. It gives people a fighting chance.
I don’t put any flyers up at church, though I’d like to. We’re big on self-sufficiency, though, so I hope the ward will get through things okay. Most of the men were Boy Scouts. Most of the women can sew. Some of us are even descended from the original pioneers—“pioneer stock.” I always thought it was kind of snotty, the way some people would drop that into conversation, as if having a great-great-grandma who buried three children on the way to Utah, or some breaded ancestor who carried children over the frozen Sweetwater River, made you a hero by proxy. But now I sit in a pew with my arms folded as my parents and sister talk to the friends they love, and pray that hardiness is an inherited trait.
There’s a thump and the swish of loose fabric as someone slides in next to me. When I open my eyes, it isn’t Em, like I expected. It’s Lia.
She grabs my arm. “Ugh, Ellis. I’ve got to tell someone.”
The hair on my arms feels static under her fingers. “What?”
“Bethany’s great-grandma is visiting.” She inclines her head at a blond, spindly, elderly woman talking to an even blonder sister missionary. “So I went up to introduce myself, and she asked where I was from.”
I can already see where this is going. “And you said Berkeley.”
“Well, I was born in Long Beach, so I said that. But then she said, ‘No, I mean, what are you?’ And I told her, ‘I’m Samoan,’” Lia continues. “And she said, ‘But you’re so light! I’d never have guessed you were African.’”
I burst out laughing. “What!”
Lia shushes me, but she’s giggling too. “Somalia, Ellis. She didn’t know the difference between Samoa and Somalia.”
“Wow. Yikes.”
“She’s old, I get it, and from, like, very rural Wyoming, but holy shit.” Lia rolls her eyes.
I’m almost shocked by the swearing. That’s so not like her. Not that it isn’t justified, but Lia’s so perfect. Then again—maybe that’s just the armor she wears to get through the day, to get through people not understanding who she is and where she comes from. Our ward is more diverse than most I’ve seen, but no one’s immune to mistakes. No one’s perfect, not even Lia. I built her up that way, without even meaning to. I met her when I was a toddler, but that doesn’t mean I know her.
“Hey, Lia,” I blurt out, my mouth moving faster than my brain. “Does your family have food storage?”
“Oh, yeah, some.” She wrinkles her nose. “A lot of it is pisupo though.” Then, off my confused look: “Corned beef.”
Like I told Tal, there’s danger to surviving solely off canned meat. “What about water?”
“I don’t know.”
“You should have water. Lots of water; tap is fine. You can fill up soda bottles, just make sure they’re in a dark place.”
I wouldn’t normally advise that—used plastic can go bad—but it’s only a month away. Better to have non-ideal water than no water at all.
“What about matches?” I ask. “Flashlights, batteries, extra blankets?”
“I’m really not sure.”
“You should,” I say. “It’s important. If you don’t, I know Sister Keller has a ton of extra supplies. You should ask her.”
“How would that look, when she just taught a lesson on self-sufficiency?” Lia asks with a laugh.
“Ask anyway.”
“Okay. But, Ellis . . .” She shakes her head. “I don’t understand why you’re telling me this.”
I want to tell her. I want to tell her all the facts, the whole truth, Hannah’s truth. But I don’t want her to be scared. I want her to be happy, in the last days she might have. I used to think facts were the most important thing. Writing them down, memorizing them, giving them to others. But maybe sometimes, facts just aren’t helpful. Maybe being prepared isn’t the most important thing. Maybe Lia’s happiness—as short or long as that lasts—matters more.
“I heard it’s going to be a really rough winter,” I say. “There might be power outages.”
“Where’d you hear that?”
I pause just a second too long. “Farmer’s Almanac.”
“Huh.” She smiles. “You just know something about everything, don’t you?”
In another person’s mouth, that might sound snarky. But in Lia’s voice, I can hear real admiration.
“That’s nice of you,” I say.
“No, I’m serious, you must be amazing at Trivial Pursuit.”
“My family actually refuses to play that with me.”
“Because you’re too good?”
“Because I’m too competitive.”
She laughs. “We should play it at Mutual, sometime. You and I could be a team. I’ll take Science and Sports, and you’ll do the rest.”
My heart flutters under my ribs. “Deal.”
“I should go find my family,” she says, and starts to go.
“Wait,” I call after her, and she turns back. “I—”
When I talk to you, it feels like being a member of some special club.
“I like you,” I say, and her smile doesn’t fade. “That’s the other reason I told you about the . . . winter. I like you, Lia.”
When I look at you, it’s like feeling the sun on my skin.
“I like you a lot,” I finish.
She doesn’t hesitate, her smile doesn’t falter. “Oh, I like you too, Ellis.” She waves. “See you in class.”
And then she walks away.
I take a couple of long, gulping breaths. She didn’t pause,
she didn’t look serious or shocked or even surprised. She didn’t know what I was saying to her. It’s okay. That’s okay. If everything I feel is okay, like Hannah said, then everything Lia feels—or doesn’t—is okay, too. It doesn’t mean what I felt was wrong. Or doesn’t matter. Or isn’t real.
I’d want to know, Hannah said to me one Sunday. I’d want to know who I was. Before the world changed.
And I do. I already did, and no amount of shutting down my brain or locking it inside the cage I’ve made my body was going to make me forget it. I knew. But knowing is one thing. Saying it out loud is another. It’s a different kind of knowing, the kind you can’t come back from.
She didn’t understand me, and that’s okay. What would I even have done, if she’d said she liked me too, and really meant it? I’m not sure if I’d have been ready. I think I might need more time, to get ready for something like that. I’d need to tell other people first, My sister, my friends—my parents, eventually. I’d need to sit with it in my own head, say it to myself, not just another person. I’d to live it, not just live with it.
I need more days, I realize, with a kind of electric shock. I need more days in this life, the one I’m living now. But the giant cosmic clock is ticking. Time is one thing I just don’t have.
Another sunny November day, another lie to my parents about math tutoring, another afternoon under Hannah’s tree playing Five-Word Books. I’m getting better.
“Sea mammal obsession causes death,” Theo offers.
“Moby Dick,” answers Tal.
“Dude with schnoz ghostwrites flirting,” Sam says.
“Cyrano de Bergerac,” I say.
Suddenly, Theo is distracted by something over my shoulder. “Oh hell yes, Martin’s here!”
“Really?” Sam says, turning around.
“Who’s Martin?” I ask.
“I know it’s not the first time I’ve asked,” Tal says, “but are you sure you go to this school?”
“Martin the Ice Cream Guy!” Sam says, and Theo points over my shoulder. I twist around. A paunchy middle-aged man is pushing a metal cart over to a cluster of kids who all have their money out and ready. “He comes a couple times a week and charges less than 7-Eleven or E-Z Stop.”
