The Last Place on Earth (24 page)

“So what's school like?” Kirsten asked.

“You mean, is everyone pregnant and on drugs? Because Karessa asked me that, and—no.”

She smiled. “Karessa would ask that. I just meant … what's it like? Going to parties and football games and all that stuff.”

I shrugged. “I don't get invited to a lot of parties. Which is okay. That's not really my thing unless they're, like, board game parties, but the only person besides me who is dorky enough to play board games is Henry, and the two of us don't make a party. Except, in some ways I guess we do. It feels like a party when I'm with him. Used to, anyway.”

“Are you in love with Henry?”

“No!” I wasn't, was I?

“I think he's in love with you.”

I shook my head. Henry couldn't be in love with me. That would ruin everything. Not that there was much left to ruin.

Fortunately, Kirsten was more interested in life in the outside world than she was in Henry. “Do you go to football games? Are you a cheerleader?”

“Ha! No. I'm not a cheerleader. I went to a couple of games my freshman year.” I was about to say that I found them kind of boring so I left early, but there was something so eager and hopeful about her face. I didn't want to disappoint.

“Was it fun?” she asked.

“Oh, sure,” I said. “People wear the school colors, and the band plays fight songs, and everyone cheers along. And if your team wins, you jump up and down and feel proud like you had something to do with it because it's
your team
, but if they lose it's not the end of the world, you know?”

Note to self: Stop using phrases like “the end of the world.”

She sighed. “I wish I could have gone to a high school.”

“It's not that great,” I said. And then I thought about Kirsten's little world and thought:
Yes, it is
. “Have you ever gone to a regular school?”

“For a little while. In elementary school. We were living in Arizona, and me and Karessa were still too young to take care of the babies. I don't remember much, just that I had my own locker for my jacket and that we made paper turkeys for Thanksgiving. But then we moved to Nevada, and the kids were really rough because most of them came from single-parent families. Ever since then we've been homeschooled.”

I waited for Kirsten to realize that, oh yeah, I was the child of a single parent … but she didn't. So instead I asked, “Have you moved a lot?”

“Like every year or two.”

“Seriously?”

“We either follow the work or run from the trouble. That's what my dad says. I like your hair.”

“What? Oh.” I examined the cherry-red ends. They were a lot lighter than before. “Too bad there's no Kool-Aid out here. We could do yours. Of course, your parents would throw a fit.”

She snorted. “Doubt they'd even notice.”

“It seems like they're pretty strict.”

She shrugged. “We have to do what they tell us to do. Clean and cook and take care of the little ones and whatever. But besides that, we can do pretty much anything. Course, there isn't much trouble to get into out here.”

“Argh!” Something stung my ankle. I flicked away a tiny red ant. I was just about to settle back against the warm rock when Tuck stirred; my outburst had woken him up.

His eyes flickered open. He looked around, and then he saw me. So of course he screamed.

“Party's over,” Kirsten said, pushing herself off the ground.

 

Thirty-Four

WE SLEPT IN
the cave. Well, other people slept. I just lay there shivering, wondering what Henry was doing right now and trying to decide whether I hated Mr. Dunkle even more than I hated his wife.

“Where's your BOB at?” Mr. Dunkle had asked when everyone was settling down for the night and I requested a blanket.

“I don't have one.”

“Guess you won't be making that mistake again.” He shimmied into his puffy sleeping bag.

“I couldn't have carried a Bob up here anyway because I had
your child
on my back,” I called after him.

He ignored me, so I added, “And you shouldn't end a sentence with a preposition!” It probably didn't help my cause, but it made me feel better.

The Hawking and Waxweiler families weren't coming tonight, Mr. Dunkle had told me at dinner. (And by
dinner
I mean tearing open the meals ready to eat, if you had them in your bugout bag. Which, of course, I didn't.)

Between bites of stroganoff, Mr. Dunkle let me know what he thought of his employers: “Too soft for real survival training like this. Know what I call them kind? REI preppers. Because they think the best way to prepare is by shopping. And by paying people who know what they're doing. Me and my kids, we're the real deal. When TSHTF for real, who's gonna be left standing? Not them suburbanites.”

“Why am I here, then?” I asked. “You could have left me back at the compound.”

He sneered. “Think I wanted you to come? Mr. and Mrs. Hawking, they pretty much begged me to take you away.”

Mrs. Hawking had always been clear about her disdain for me. Still, that hurt.

“Are they going to meet us here tomorrow?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Dunno. Maybe.”

Now, in the cave, which was dark except for one small lantern, Kirsten shared her ground tarp, and Karessa lent me a couple of pieces of clothing to drape over myself for warmth. But it wasn't enough. I was exhausted, but I was too cold and uncomfortable to sleep. I wanted to cry but that would only stuff up my nose, and I didn't have a tissue.

I want to go home
, the voice in my head pleaded. I closed my eyes and tried to picture my bedroom. Instead, a long-buried memory bubbled to the surface.

When I was in the third grade, this girl in my class, Kimberly Kelton, had a big sleepover. I didn't want to go, but my mother said it would be good for me make some friends besides Jennifer Park, who was in a different class that year. (I had lots of friends. It just happened that most of them were imaginary.) So we went to Target, where we bought a bubble machine for Kimberly and a pink sleeping bag for me.

At the party, I discovered that the bubble machine required batteries and that everyone in third grade knows that pink is no longer cool. At least I hadn't brought along the stuffed kitty that I normally slept with.

But it wasn't so bad. After bowling, we came back to the house to gorge on a sheet cake decorated with Kimberly's edible photograph. There was a piñata and a game that hooked up to the television and taught you how to dance. I didn't talk much to the other girls, but I had fun anyway.

At midnight, Kimberly's mom, Mrs. Kelton, told us to brush our teeth, put on our pajamas, and spread out our sleeping bags. And still, it wasn't too bad. Everyone was nice, and I liked the gossip and ghost stories. But after a while, the whispers quieted down. One by one, the other girls fell asleep.

Except me. The floor was so hard. I couldn't get comfortable. The girl next to me snored. I wanted to go home. No, I
needed
to go home.

At last, I got up and crept through the house. Mrs. Kelton had left a lot of lights on in case anyone had to go to the bathroom. The clock on the kitchen wall said 2:20 a.m. There was a phone on the counter.

My mother answered on the third ring.

“Mom?” My voice quavered.

“Daisy? Are you okay?”

“No.”

“You want me to come get you?”

“Yes.”

Ten minutes later, her headlights shone outside the house. She was still in her pajamas, and her hair, normally held back in a braid, fell over her shoulders. My favorite stuffed kitty sat in the passenger seat, waiting for me.

“I'm sorry I woke you up,” I said, blinking back a tear.

“I'll always come if you need me. You know that.” She hugged me and kissed the top of my head. Then she took me home and put me to bed, where I stayed warm and cozy till early the next afternoon.

If only I could call my mother now. She would come get me, if only she knew where I was.

“I need you, Mom,” I whispered, in the darkness of the cave.

 

Thirty-Five

SOMEHOW, I MANAGED
to sleep, if fitfully. The sun, streaming through the mouth of the cave, woke me. My entire body hurt, and I was so thirsty.

Next to me on the tarp, Kirsten was still out cold. I got up as quietly as I could to avoid waking her and crept out into the early-morning sunlight. In the clearing just outside the cave, Kyle was stacking wood for a fire.

“Need help?” I asked.

“Could use some more water to boil. Stream's that way.” He pointed.

Plastic jugs in hand, I traipsed into the brush. Immediately, I heard a gurgling sound. All around me, the forest pulsed with life: Bugs hummed, animals scampered, birds chirped in a chaotic chorus. It smelled so good out here, so clean.

At the brook's deepest spot—which wasn't that deep—I held the jugs under the surface. The icy water stung my hands. When the jugs were full, I capped them off and made my way back to camp.

Kyle poked at a tiny fire ringed with stones. For a guy who had slept on a rock floor, he looked pretty well rested. He'd changed his clothes, too. Instead of head-to-toe camouflage, he wore a black T-shirt and green cargo pants.

“I didn't think fires were allowed at this time of year.”

He laughed. “We don't exactly follow the rules, case you hadn't noticed. Anyways, we're on rock here, and there's no wind. We'll put it out after breakfast, light a new one later.”

I held my palms up toward the flame. “The heat feels good.”

“Cave was pretty cold last night.” He poked some more. The flame licked a dry log and spread. “My dad can be a dirtbag sometimes.”

I didn't know what to say to that, so I remained quiet.

“Says it's for our own good,” Kyle continued. “Learning life lessons. One time we was out in the wilderness, just me and him, and I left my purification tablets at home. Forgot my fire starter, too, so I couldn't even boil water. He had the tablets—matches, too—but he wouldn't let me use them.”

“Did you just not drink anything?” I asked.

“Can't go without water. You'll die. There was a lake nearby. Ice cold. Looked good, tasted like heaven.”

“And?”

He threw his stick into the fire and sat down on the stone ground. “Got the runs so bad I wound up in the emergency room.” He shrugged. “But I never forgot my tablets again, plus now I know how to start a fire with just sticks and stones, if I have to. Anyways. I'll make you a blanket with leaves and bark. You'll be warm tonight.”

“Thanks.”

The fire was really going now. Kyle poured the water into a big metal pot and balanced it on some stones in the middle.

“Think there's any chance the others might come today?” I asked.

Kyle shrugged. “Doubt they want to leave their big fancy house.”

“Do you blame them?”

“It's not about blame. Well, sometimes it is. But those people, they're soft. Weak. They couldn't survive without us, but they don't understand that. All's they got is money, but when TSHTF, money don't mean nothing. You rich people don't get it.”

I sat on the ground and hugged my knees. “Don't lump me in with them. My family's poor.”

“You got a house, though, right?”

“Yeah.” Our house had been my grandmother's. My mother grew up there. When my parents divorced, my mom, Peter, and I moved in with Gram, and when she died a couple of years later, we inherited the property.

Kyle peered into the pot. “If you got a house, then you ain't poor.”

I almost protested. After all, we never had enough money for the stuff we wanted or even needed. My clothes were mostly secondhand. We didn't take real vacations or eat out anywhere that didn't serve food on paper plates. If the world didn't end, I didn't know how I was going to pay for college. My father had said he'd chip in, and my guidance counselor had promised to help with scholarship applications, but I'd probably have to start at the community college. Later I'd transfer to whatever school offered me the most money.

But still. We did not pick up and move every year or two. We had never lived in a school bus. I was getting a good education, I never went cold or hungry, and I saw the dentist twice a year.

Kyle was right. We were not poor.

“Water's boiling,” Kyle said. “You want coffee?”

“Coffee would be amazing.”

“It's just instant.”

“Instant's great. Actually, anything liquid is great. I'm so thirsty I could die.”

“Wouldn't want that,” Kyle said.

*   *   *

Soon afterward, the others came filtering out of the cave. Karessa made a huge pot of oatmeal. At home, I'd only eat oatmeal if it was flavored—apple spice or maple walnut—but I was so hungry that I wolfed down the unsweetened glop, grateful to Kirsten for letting me use her bowl and spoon. When I'd scraped the last bit into my mouth, I peered into the pot to see if there was anything left, but it was all gone.

Along with Kirsten and Kelli-Lynn, I was assigned cleanup. I was so relieved to get out of babysitting that I would have cheerfully scrubbed the cave floors. Okay, maybe not cheerfully.

We gathered up the mounds of sticky spoons and bowls and carried them to the stream. “Do we have dish liquid?” I asked.

Kirsten laughed. “Course not. Haven't you ever been camping?”

I would have thought my query to her the day before—“Where are we supposed to go to the bathroom?”—would have cleared that up. (I am not ready to talk about her answer or my ensuing experience, by the way.)

“I have never been camping until now,” I said. “And if I ever had gone camping, I would have chosen someplace with toilets and showers. And maybe a convenience store nearby.”