I Hope You Get This Message

by Farah Naz Rishi

  Poppy seeds always made him think of Dad. Poppy seeds, lottery tickets, lug nuts, and Bud Light: dear ol’ dad in a nutshell.

  Jesse shoved a loaf in one inside jacket pocket, a jar of Jif into the other. If there was one good thing his old man ever did, it was leaving behind his giant-pocketed, oversized motorcycle jacket with the ugly crow patch. That and his old shed full of failed contraptions and dented metal parts—a freaking temple of fool-headedness and rust.

  If only the guy hadn’t left behind a pile of debt, too.

  Pockets full, all Jesse had to do now was casually exit without making Marco suspect a thing. It was all about attitude. He eyed the security cameras—no red light blinking; they probably couldn’t afford to keep them wired anymore—and pulled his hat down even farther, just in case, as he slid once again into view of the counter.

  Still, Marco didn’t even glance away from the TV. Jesus. Jesse wondered how long it had been since he’d even blinked.

  A gaudy wall of color behind the counter gave him pause. Rows of scratch-off lottery tickets, screaming promises of instant cash, including Lucky Star Lotto, the kind of tickets Dad used to buy compulsively and squirrel away in an old utility cabinet in his work shed, where he’d spent most of his time with those goddamned, good-for-nothing machines.

  Once, when Jesse asked why, his dad grinned, revealing white teeth against his thick black beard. Times can get tough, kid, he’d explained, locking the drawer. Luck is valuable. We gotta keep luck for a rainy day. For all Jesse knew, his old man had never scratched a single one. It pissed Jesse off to think about it now. All that money his dad had thrown away, money that could have been used for bills, for family movie nights, for keeping his promise to take Mom to Cali with him one day. So much waste.

  The door chimed. A guy in a navy-blue track jacket entered the store. Black hair, a sharp nose, a clean face—he didn’t look much older than Jesse. Though the QuikTrip was thick with the smell of burned coffee, when the boy edged over to the coffee station, Jesse got a whiff of his shampoo: woodsy, like freshly cut cedar, mixed with something like vanilla.

  He had never believed in things like “aura”—though his counselor had told him if he had one, it’d be the color of the night sky, dark blue and hazy purple. He wasn’t even sure, sometimes, that he believed in souls. But if she was right—that some people did give off auras and presences and energies—then this guy’s could only be described as a fiery-white, unrelenting orbit, a gravitational pull. And Jesse was caught in its path.

  The boy filled his cup to the brim, and it took his long legs only two easy strides to bring him to the register. Marco tore himself from the TV and recoiled in surprise, as though he hadn’t even noticed the guy come in, much less appear in front of him.

  Marco scratched his chin, his expression returning to its usual state of vacancy. “You need a lid for that?”

  “Nah, gonna chug it,” the boy said. His voice was a smoky vibration of bass, and something shivered down Jesse’s spine. Did he go to a different school? Was he a tourist? Just driving through? He wanted to see his face, a want like a rush of blood to the head.

  He tugged at the leather cuff around his wrist. Impulsive. The word rang in his brain. His counselor had called him that. You lack impulse control. Like a dog chasing a car. Think about that the next time you’re itching for a chase. His fingers slid beneath the smooth leather, and he squeezed his wrist, hard.

  The register dinged; Marco slapped the drawer to close it. Change exchanged hands.

  “I’ve always wondered—does anyone actually buy those?” the boy asked suddenly. Jesse couldn’t see what he was referring to, but Marco spun to see what the boy was looking at: the lottery tickets, glittering like jewels.

  “Oh yeah. You’d be surprised.”

  “Yeesh.” The boy ran his hand through his thick mop of hair. “Can’t put a price on hope, I guess.” His laugh was rich, buttery smooth. Like he put his whole soul into it.

  He left as quickly as he’d come, leaving only the subtle smell of cedarwood. Jesse slipped his hands into his pockets, feeling the peanut butter jar and bread still snug in their place: weights that tethered him to his purpose. He started for the door.

  Suddenly, the store phone started ringing at the same time that Marco’s cell began blowing up with text message pings, the simultaneous sounds breaking through Jesse’s mind-numbing daze and snapping him to attention.

  “Oh, shit,” Marco was saying to himself, not answering his texts at all, just staring at a news reporter on the TV screen. The show he was watching had been interrupted by a breaking news announcement. Marco turned up the volume.

  It was live footage of the president himself, pink-faced and shaken as he read out an official statement. “. . . was decoded at fifteen hundred by US intelligence. Officials have confirmed that the alien planet calls itself Alma, and that the signal we received is indeed a message, a warning of an impending judgment . . .”

  The words seemed to blur in Jesse’s head. Something about seven days.

  A colony. Earth was the colony.

  Termination, an experiment, an alien threat against humanity. The static was actually a message, the worst possible kind. He could barely keep up.

  Then there was a rapid slew of information on new travel restrictions and security measures . . . but it was like Jesse’s brain had imploded.

  Security measures? Was this a joke? What kind of security measures were you supposed to take when it came to freaking mass genocide by an alien planet? He felt dizzy. His thoughts were spiraling too fast to understand. The convenience store faded to white, falling away. Only the sound of his own breathing echoed in his head, drowning out the president’s televised voice.

  Seven days. Seven days. Earth might end in seven days. For practically as long as he could remember, Jesse had wanted a way out. But this was ridiculous. A conspiracy theory. It had to be.

  Could it be real? He was a Roswell kid, for Christ’s sake. Half the tourists that came through believed in little green men. He knew better than to fall for this shit.

  And yet . . . this was different. This was the president. Would the president lie?

  Okay, yes, maybe. But was everyone lying?

  He wondered, fleetingly, whether his counselor had heard the news. He wondered how she would try and spin this one for the positive. How she would try and “turn loss into opportunity.” How much loss would she face, would they all face, before she would admit it was nothing but bad luck?

  His eyes trailed from the TV, and suddenly, the little gold stars on the lotto tickets were all he could see—glistening, blinding.

  Times can get tough, kid. We gotta keep luck for a rainy day.

  He ducked under the counter, as though he could feel the stars pulling him in like magnets. He peeked over at Marco, still glued to his screen. The cell phone in his grip lit up with more text messages.

  Can’t put a price on hope, I guess.

  Jesse’s fingers hovered over the scratch-offs, itching for the feel of their perforated edges. Itching to feel his fingertips skirt the surface of stars. He pulled at a corner ticket and tore.

  “Hey!”

  He swiveled around. Marco had turned and caught sight of him. For a second they were frozen there, staring at each other, while above Marco the corner TV still babbled the news of the maybe-end-of-the-world.

  It was exactly like a dream.

  Except that it wasn’t.

  Before Marco could say anything else, Jesse vaulted over the counter and bolted for the door.

  Marco was right behind him. Jesse reached out and knocked over a magazine rack. Marco tripped over it but managed to grab the back of Jesse’s jacket as he went down, pulling at it, almost taking Jesse down with him. But Jesse caught himself and jerked away. Marco was back on his feet, nimble for his size, just as Jesse regained his balance. In this small space, there was no way Jesse could outrun him; he’d have Jesse pinned to the ground a few feet out the door.
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  He was facing Marco now, who was breathing heavily. Jesse hadn’t given him enough credit.

  “Hand it over,” Marco said.

  When Jesse tried to pivot, Marco rushed forward and threw a punch. Jesse dodged it easily. His countless suspensions and occasional expulsions for fighting came in handy.

  But all that was over now. Everything was over. The future looked like one split second of mushroom cloud. What the hell did Marco think he was fighting for? Why did he care?

  Jesse was distracted, giving Marco a window to land a punch clean to the face. A hot explosion screamed through Jesse’s body, his jaw throbbing. He doubled over. Cradling his face, he almost smiled, relishing the pain that knocked Ian right out of his head.

  That’s when Jesse saw the bread and peanut butter; they’d been thrown from his pockets and landed a couple feet away. He dove toward them, but Marco seized him again, this time by the collar, and dragged him farther away from the food.

  No. This was the one right thing he could do for his mom. He wouldn’t let Marco take that away.

  Instinct took over, and Jesse threw a punch as hard as he could. Marco recoiled and quickly let go. Jesse’s mind was numb, scorched by an inner white blaze that had no beginning or end, leaving room only for the fire and fear and frustration he’d been suppressing for so long. Jesse advanced, punching him again. Marco staggered back, trying to raise a hand, trying to get Jesse to stop. But then Jesse kicked him in the stomach. Marco gagged and bent over.

  “Stop—!”

  Jesse couldn’t hear. He swung his leg at the backs of Marco’s knees and watched him slam to the ground.

  “Please! Stop!”

  This time, Marco’s voice reached him, tunneled deep into Jesse’s chest, made him freeze where he stood. He suddenly felt so cold. His mouth tasted like blood.

  Marco was curled up in a fetal position, a huge crimson welt on his cheek, blood dripping from his split lip. His left eye had disappeared beneath a mound of deep purple skin. With every gasp of air, his chest shuddered.

  Jesse took a step back. What the hell had he done?

  “I’m just trying to keep my job, man,” Marco wheezed out. He had his hands in the air, like he was still worried that Jesse would attack him. “We’re all just trying to survive.”

  “There’s no fucking point,” Jesse choked out. Tears burned at the back of his eyes. He almost said he was sorry. Like there would be a point to that, either. Like it would change what he’d done.

  He picked up the fallen bread and peanut butter. In the distance, he heard the wail of a police siren—no telling where it was headed, but he didn’t want to take any chances. He tore out of the store and through the streets until all he could hear was the slap of his shoes against pavement and the thud of blood in his ears. Every time his feet hit the ground, his jaw bloomed red pain behind his eyelids.

  It was the least he deserved.

  Finally, he slowed down to a walk and listened. No sirens. He’d half expected to find the world transformed, unrecognizable. But it was worse than that. The world hadn’t changed at all.

  Jesse looked up. The sky was clear and stars were bright. Maybe in another life, he’d find them beautiful.

  The last time—well, second-to-last time—he and Ian had hooked up was in Ian’s car. They had driven out into the desert until the city lights faded into the horizon, a blurred spot of hot light. They’d lain on the hood of the car after they fooled around and Ian had showed him where the planet was.

  “You can’t see it,” he said, circling a wide area of the sky with his finger. “But it’s somewhere in that general direction.”

  “I don’t get why everyone’s freaking out about it. It’s just gonna be a glorified Earth.”

  “Maybe,” Ian said, laughing, and squeezed his hand. Jesse liked the way Ian laughed. It was full and warm. “Maybe we’re the glorified Earth. Ever think of that?”

  Now Jesse took a slow sip of crisp night air. He shoved his hand in his pocket; the lotto ticket was still nestled inside. Gritting his teeth, he closed his eyes.

  If there were aliens up there, he wondered if they were looking down at him right now. Maybe they’d be shaking their heads at him for stealing, for the depravity of humans like him. Then he’d forever be that guy: the reason humankind was destroyed. Of course, he knew he wasn’t important enough to cause the apocalypse.

  He wasn’t even important enough to Ian.

  “Nothing glorious about it,” he said out loud. His breath seized on the cold desert air and then vanished.

  BY THE POWER VESTED IN THE INTERPLANETARY AFFAIRS COMMITTEE OF THE SOVEREIGN PLANET OF ALMA:

  HUMANS OF EARTH: You are hereby notified that final judgment will be issued in seven solar days under authority of Chapter 12, Article 8 of the United Galactic Assembly Agreement.

  Offenses committed have been purported as follows:

  Destruction of intergalactic environmental resources;

  Unconscionable systematic abuses of its own people;

  Gross disregard for the preservation and sustainability of future generations;

  Incessant armed attack and devastation without provocation;

  Subjugation and slavery of free-thinking organisms;

  Elimination of a people’s right to self-determination;

  Disruption of the peace.

  . . .

  There is no need to attend the committee hearing to contest your liability. Sanctions are in effect until further notice.

  Seven Days Until the End of Deliberations

  LYNNE, are you seeing what I’m seeing??

  The news? Mark’s flipping his shit. Do you think it’s real?

  I don’t want to believe it, either. How is this happening?

  I don’t know. I can’t think right now.

  THIS ISN’T FUNNY, JEREMY. I’M LEGIT FREAKING OUT.

  Yeah, but what else are we supposed to do

  lol

  You need to take a flight home right now.

  Don’t worry about money, I’ll cover it.

  I’ve got midterms in like three days.

  Your mom is worried.

  Come home now.

  Please.

  If Alma’s going to exterminate all of humanity . . .

  That means animals will inherit the earth.

  And for some reason, that makes me feel better.

  Margot, are you high??

  5

  Cate

  When Cate was nine, her mom had sent her to a summer camp called Camp Escondido, about an hour’s drive south from where they lived at the time in Daly City. Cate had spent that summer learning how to ride horses, nursing her shredded knees from hours of rollerblading, and clumsily weaving friendship bracelets with all the other girls.

  It was the best summer of her life.

  When it was time to go home, she had cried—and didn’t stop for a week. Not just because the camp was over and she missed her friends, but because summer itself was ending soon. It felt like she had glanced away for a second and the whole summer had slipped by her, like her mom had somehow tricked her, cheated her of something excruciatingly important.

  It felt like that now. The world itself was ending. Summer was going away for everyone.

  One week. They had one week to live . . . probably. How should she even begin to process that? It was as if the whole world had been walking on its merry way only to find it had stepped in something sticky. Now they’d reached that moment of hesitation—was it dog shit or simply a piece of gum?

  Seven billion lives were at the mercy of some distant planet, a speck they could hardly see with even the best telescopes. What did they want, really? They said Earth was going up for judgment: But what kind of judgment? What more could they want? The whole thing felt unfair. And why even send a message of warning if humans could do nothing to change the outcome? She almost wished they’d just torch Earth while everyone was sleeping. Get it over with.

  Schools across the state h
ad been suspended in light of the news, and since Ivy had yet to respond to any of her texts, Cate couldn’t even ask her what she thought about it all, though, knowing Ivy, even aliens wouldn’t scare her. Some people on TV were suggesting the whole thing was one big scam, or a ploy by the government to distract from rampant unemployment and a massively unpopular new Supreme Court justice. But Cate wasn’t optimistic or dumb enough to believe that.

  It seemed to Cate no one in San Francisco had slept last night: everyone walked around like dull-eyed zombies. Maybe it was that no one could stand to be in darkness, or bear the inevitable The Day After Tomorrow–style nightmares. Apartment lights burned all night long, and as a result, the state was experiencing rolling blackouts. But some people were already accusing Kepler-88a—no, Alma—of interfering with the grid to cause chaos. It didn’t help that the local government was silent about whether this particular blackout was a scheduled one. The government was silent, period. And that’s what scared her most of all.

  She was actually relieved when she got a request from Bethany, her boss at Lickity Split Creamery, for help: the freezers were dark and the ice cream would soon become worthless, watery milkshakes—if rioters didn’t loot the place first. So Bethany had decided to pass out the inventory for free.

  “Even the end of the world can’t kill people’s taste for good ice cream,” she had said with a wink, and it was true. All day, there was a line around the block. Bethany turned up the radio extra loud, and the Creamery was filled by old Motown classics, the music pulling more customers inside. Some of the littler kids in line giggled watching Bethany overenthusiastically bob her head to the beat, and their parents smiled tiredly, perhaps grateful for the momentary respite.

  Cate even recognized a couple of classmates who shuffled in joking about being called sinners by four different Jesus impersonators, though their faces were waxen with exhaustion. She didn’t know their names, and they probably didn’t know hers, but they nodded at her in acknowledgment, as if seeing Cate work a shift at an ice cream shop when all of humanity would be eradicated in a few days were the most ordinary thing in the world.