Consider (14 page)

“What?” I swallow hard. His tone carries weight with it.

“You’re not really a Scully.”

I’m so used to fighting him on the annoying nickname, I open my mouth to protest. “Wait, did you say I’m not a Scully?”

He grins. “I’ve decided since the world may be ending, that I’m more of a David Tennant. And you’re more of a Rose.”

It’s the most romantic thing he’s ever said to me without sarcasm.

“He was always my favorite Doctor,” I comment. “But what about us as Rory and Amy? Would you wait two thousand years for me?”

He rolls his eyes.

And just like that we fall back into each other.

Chapter 11

Day 94: November—2,174 hours to decide

Question: What types of transportation do you have?

Answer: For limited travel, we prefer walking. For longer distances, we have an elaborate network of self-navigating magnetic pods, or magpods, that work using a similar technology to the electrodynamic suspension used in the few maglev trains on your planet. For even longer distances, we use a technology similar to the vertexes on a smaller scale.

The United Nations
releases more information about their three-part plan. I record every detail into my journal. Classified under the CORE project, part one involves immediately launching a series of modified nuclear missiles to detonate at specific coordinates in hope that the blast pushes the comet off course.

If that doesn’t work, a minority of scientists have proposed part two: send an unmanned ship, Hercules, to try to alter the comet’s trajectory using the gravity of the ship. Hercules will attempt to pull a chunk off the comet to increase its gravitational pull. Most scientists don’t believe this will work since Hercules was originally built to deal with smaller asteroids and plenty of time, not a colossal comet in three months, but they believe they’ve solved the issue. NASA is willing to improvise and compromise. The might-as-well-try-it-Hail-Mary-pass approach.

In the meantime, NASA’s PDCO will be preparing part three, which they are not releasing the details about yet.
Makes me wonder if there even is a third option.

It sounds like they are scrambling to piece together the technology in time. Apparently, we weren’t as prepared for cosmic flotsam as we like to believe. The scientists said if CORE isn’t successful, the comet will most likely hit us on January 31, give or take room for error and time zones. Around midnight here. Same date the holograms predicted.

People begin migrating. It’s weird that when we have time to live, people separate, but during times of crisis, we gather. Wouldn’t it be nicer to live with the people that you would choose to gather with at the end? Or maybe the gathering is more out of duty and guilt than actual desire.

My maternal grandmother, Penelope, has decided to fly up from Florida once she finds an available flight, and she doesn’t exactly get along with Mom and Dad. She thinks Mom wasted her life by marrying Dad before he went into active duty overseas. Over the phone, Mom happily informs Penelope that she will have to stay at a hotel since Benji took the guest room. Benji offers to leave and stay with a friend, but Mom shoos his proposition.

Dad’s brother, Uncle Henry, calls from Texas. He’s staying put with his wife and three kids, but he checks in to make sure everything’s “hunky dory,” as he likes to say. I overhear Dad talking to him about “stockpiling” and “bunkering down.” Sometimes I think they both have the crazy gene, and Dad passed it on to me.

As days pass and the truth of the comet begins to sinks in, a strange hope begins to spread across the globe that we can do something about it. We have three whole months. Three months for the best scientists in the world to make a plan and divert the thing. It’s better than thinking of us as sitting ducks who aren’t ready to fly south even though winter’s coming.

I want to talk to Arianna, my counselor, about everything that’s happened, but she hasn’t answered my phone calls.
I probably said something stupid or crazy. Maybe I said something that offended her. Or maybe she quit her practice like my last counselor, me being the common denominator. The ultimate lost cause, destroyer of the psychiatric community.
I replay our last few sessions in my head and search for possibilities that could’ve been misconstrued.

Mom tells me later that Arianna is on immediate maternity leave because she went into early labor and had an emergency C-section. The baby isn’t doing very well. I feel bad that I kept calling her when she was dealing with her own trauma, and I almost want to call her again to apologize. But I shouldn’t.

I can’t stop myself. I call her one more time and tell her that I hope she and the baby get well soon and I’m sorry for bugging her. She’ll probably head through a vertex with her baby, get futuristic medical treatment, and start a new life in another world. Even though I should respect her needs,
what about my needs?

I stop going to school, and my parents don’t fight me on it. In fact, a slow exodus begins from schools and workplaces across the country, probably across the world. From what I hear, only some administrators, teachers close to retirement, and students with bad family lives have been attending my high school. Rumor has it that they gather in the cafeteria to talk about life and play games. Too bad school wasn’t like that before. It won’t last. The government keeps saying “business as usual,” but come on, we all know that’s impossible at this point. This is the closest to the end that we’ve ever come. Why would we work away our time?

Dad says that kind of talk is like drinking the Kool-Aid. I don’t know what the hell he’s talking about. He thinks we need to prepare to defend our lives until the end.

I say nothing matters anymore because every moment matters.

A week later,
my mother ropes me into going with her to pick up Penelope. She says something about the Lucas family sticking together. I almost remind her that technically Grandma is not in the Lucas family since her last name is O’Donnell, but I let it go when I see her searching the house for her lost keys. She finds them in the refrigerator. The stress of Penelope’s visit is already affecting her brain.

Boston Logan Airport has so many people inside, you’d think they were giving away free tickets. I heard it’s the opposite, though. Prices have skyrocketed and people are using up their cash to get where they want to go. Mom and I stand in the middle of the airport looking over the crowd searching for Penelope’s peppery hair and leathery skin. Her plane landed an hour ago. Of course, she refuses to carry a cell phone. Minutes tick by, minutes of my life I may never get back. Funny how much time means now there’s a countdown.
Come on, Penelope. You’re killing me.

On top of everything else, Mom’s in a bad mood since all the hotels in our area are full to capacity already. So despite earlier plans, Penelope must stay with us for the remainder of the possible apocalypse. Benji’s bunking with a friend after arguing with Dad about not wanting to crash indefinitely on our couch.
Just how I always wanted to die. Watching my family argue.

“Over here!” Penelope, as my grandma insists I call her, waves us over to a tower of red luggage with gaudy gold hardware. I swear she brought her entire house from Florida.

“I went a little overboard,” she admits, probably after seeing the look of horror on our faces. “But how do you pack for something like this?”

“Light,” I mutter under my breath.

“Alexandra, you look so big. I believe someone has an important birthday soon.”

Relative-speak
.
She pats me on the head like a good puppy. “Wow, turning eighteen. You must be excited. There’s a present for you in one of my suitcases.”

I half-smile. I’m sure she bought me assorted socks and floral perfume like she sends every year. She turns her babbling comments toward Mom. I tune her out and start wheeling and weaving two of her six suitcases through the crowded airport.

The ride home could compete for the longest, most tedious hours of my eighteen years around the sun. The vertex in Quincy clogs traffic from both directions, so it takes double the time to get home, plus Penelope doesn’t take a hint when Mom turns up the music.

My mind drifts from thought to thought, whirling and twisting apocalyptic fiery endings with blissful times spent with Dominick and Rita. If these are the last days, I cannot spend them with my biological family. I can’t waste time being the nice daughter who does whatever they expect. The minutes are ticking down.

I make a decision there and then. I can’t wipe the smile off my face.

As soon as
Penelope sets foot in the house, things heat up. Normally, I would like having someone on my side watching Dad’s every move, but Penelope’s just rude to him. While I observe the lion, and Mom soothes or ignores the lion, Penelope provokes him for sport.

“Ben,” she pats him on the head like a sick child in a hospital. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine.” He turns up the volume on the television with the remote.

“Are you sure? You don’t look well.”

“I’m fine, Penelope. How’s Florida?”

She runs a hand through her wispy skunk hair. “Florida’s fabulous. Warmer than this hell.”

“It’s November. It’s New England. Whatcha expect?”

“It’s insane. Too bad you never moved the family down to Florida. Never could save enough, I guess. How’s the store?”

Dad’s nostrils flare, and he vice-grips the remote. Penelope belittles him effortlessly, like a queen toying with a serf, and she’s only been here a whopping five minutes.

“The store’s fine. Everything’s fine.” His face grows red. With everyone else, Dad’s blunt with his words and quick tempered. I’ve never figured out why he doesn’t blow up on Penelope like he does with everyone else. Guess it’s a respect thing since she’s his mother-in-law. Dad plays by social rules and order. Unless his PTSD kicks in, which I’m afraid Penelope might trigger if she doesn’t lay off.

“Well, everything’s not fine, or I wouldn’t be here,” Penelope continues. “I’m surprised you’re still working—no one else seems to be.”

“People need groceries,” Dad says. “Food’s not a luxury.”

“Well, I should hope not.” She sits on the arm of the sofa, giving him no elbow room. “Let’s not sweep this thing under the rug. There’s a comet heading straight for us, and if scientists can’t do anything about it, we have temporary escape routes available. If you ask me, I think we should leave now.”

Dad laughs aloud at her comment. My shoulders tighten with each chuckle.
Oh God. This is bad. How can Mom just leave them together to go shopping?

“Leave now? Why? We have time. We have weapons. We can deal with the comet ourselves without the help of alien outsiders.”

“Spoken like a true military man.”

Somehow Penelope is able to flatter and insult him in the same sentence.

I need to get out of the line of fire. I text Dominick for an escape. I’m done being the neutral buffer in the family.

Dominick's mother is
working the night shift as a home care worker, so we put Austin to sleep again. It makes me feel like we’re a married couple putting our son to bed. I think about my ride home from the airport and the decision I made. It still feels right, and it’s nice to make a major decision and stick to it in a world of uncertainty.

Dominick sits next to me on the couch and grabs for the remote. I take a deep breath and announce, “We should have sex.”

He fixes his glasses as if his eyesight has something to do with his hearing. “Repeat that?”

“We should have sex. Tonight. Now.” I don’t look away and will myself not to grin out of nervousness. I want him to take me seriously.

He responds, “Okay.”

I thought he might joke around a little, ask questions, make sure it’s something I really want to do since I swore I didn’t want to do it before college. I mean, there’s pregnancy, and STDs, and everything else the school scared me with in health class. But the threat of death is a different kind of departure, one that requires checking off certain boxes, experiencing all that life has to offer. Just in case. Time to be brave. We have no idea what the future will bring—no one does at this point. Maybe no one ever does anyway. All I know for sure is that we have tonight. Nothing else is ever guaranteed.

I slide closer to him and kiss him slowly, softly. He kisses me back, touches my face. His eyes ask if I’m sure.
I respond by undoing his belt.

We kiss, and somehow he blindly pulls me into his bedroom, bumping into the doorframe and the side of his bureau on the way.

I want to do it.
Surrender to him.

The world might be ending.

We still use a condom.

I lose track
of time, and Dad yells at me for missing curfew. His words bounce over me like I’m wearing an invisible shield. I never realized the power in letting go.

I’m not sure what I expected, but something is definitely different between Dominick and me. I thought when people said that, they were exaggerating. But I know him now. Like really know him. And he knows me. Like really knows me. No matter what happens, we will always have this between us. Always.

We will just know.

I’m thinking that maybe everyone should have sex before time runs out.

Then again, they probably already are.

Rita laughs when
I tell her.

“About time! Man, you made that boy wait.”

“It’s only been a few months,” I protest.

“Since April. It’s November. And you’ve been friends for years.”

“But we broke up.”

“Please. It took world annihilation for you to give it up.”

“Stop,” I say. We crack up.

Carpe diem
is
a dangerous concept.

Dominick and I can’t keep our hands off each other.

The first snowfall
of the winter season floats down from the sky. I wonder how many more snowstorms we will see before, well, before whatever ends up happening. Even though it’s only a dusting of snow, the blanket of white magic inspires Dominick, Rita, and me to head to the local indoor skating rink for some winter fun. I know it’s ludicrous to ice skate when the world could be ending, but it’s also equally ludicrous not to ice skate when the world could be ending.
Doesn’t everything other than death become significant and enormous and equal?

We decide skating is a perfectly acceptable world-might-be-ending activity, healthier than taking drugs like most teens are bragging about online. Not as fun as sex with Dominick, but we have to come up for air sometime.

The rink is packed. See, good idea. The three of us lace up pairs of rented ice skates. Rita taught me to skate when I was in middle school. She used to take lesson when she was younger, and she can skate backward and do spins and jumps like in the Olympics. Okay, I’m exaggerating, but she’s that good compared to me.