The Last Place on Earth (19 page)

IF ONLY I'D
stayed best friends with Jennifer Park, I wouldn't even be here.

Jennifer Park and I met on the first day of first grade. By October, we'd discovered that we both loved Polly Pockets, which was enough to cement a bond that continued through junior high school—even when Jennifer informed me that Polly Pockets were no longer cool and that we should focus our attention on Bath & Body Works scented lotions instead. The summer after eighth grade, we were busy planning our first day of high school—what to wear and what to smell like—when Jennifer's father destroyed our cherry-blossom-scented future by getting a job in New York.

It was worse for Jennifer (as she reminded me repeatedly). Our junior high fed into several different high schools, but at least I'd know a few people in ninth grade. (Whether or not I wanted to know them was a different story.) But Jennifer, stuck on the other side of the country, would be all alone.

Henry was in several of my freshman classes, but I didn't notice him at first because I pretty much kept my eyes on my notebook or my cuticles or the ground. About a month into the year, our AP Human Geography teacher assigned a group project, and Henry and I were put together, along with two other students. The assignment was called The Last Place on Earth. We were to imagine that modern society had been wiped out by rising water levels and a string of violent storms and that a small group was left to create a new civilization in one of several locations. The point was to think about how a place influences the culture that springs up around it. Anyway, I was hoping for Australian Undersea Colony, but our group got Nevada Waterfront instead.

“We need to meet at my house,” a girl named Danica said. “Because I've got tennis every day after school and my church group on Wednesdays and cello on Thursdays and…” Bottom line: Danica was a busy and important person, and we needed to work around her busy and important schedule. Two whole weeks went by before Danica committed to a time and date, but when I showed up at her house, her mother told me I must be mistaken: Danica was at an informational session for students planning to spend their summer building houses in Costa Rica.

I showed Danica's mother the text message confirming the meeting, and she said that Danica must have sent another text after that. Which she didn't, but whatever. (I did have a brand-new text from Jennifer Park in New York:
I made cheer!!!!!!!!!!!!
)

I was about to call Peter to come back and get me when a black Expedition pulled up in front of Danica's house and a slight, dark-haired guy with intense black eyes got out of the passenger seat.

“She's not here,” I told him.

“Let me guess. Church? Tennis? ASB? Cello? Mandarin? Mixed martial arts? Soup kitchen? Greyhound rescue? Any of those?”

“Something better.” I found myself smiling.

The driver's door opened, and a severe-looking woman in a black pantsuit walked around the car. I gave her a cordial smile. She did not smile back.

Henry looked up, still thinking. “Danica's planning her senate run. Or donating a kidney. Or curing Ebola.”

I mimed hitting something with a hammer.

“She's building something?”

I nodded.

“Furniture?”

I shook my head.

“A house?”

I swirled my hand to indicate he was on the right track but needed to take it further.

“Multiple houses?”

I nodded.

He frowned with concentration. And then: “In one of those tropical places so that it's like a vacation but it looks good on a college application?”

“Yes!” We high-fived. We laughed. And then I immediately felt embarrassed because I do not normally high-five strangers. Or anyone. Plus, his mother was there, and she still wasn't smiling.

“Meeting's canceled,” Henry explained.

“We should just go ahead without her,” I said. “This thing is due on Friday. We can go to my house.”

Another car pulled up, and we told the fourth member, a guy, our new plan.

“Your parents will be there?” Henry's mother asked me.

“My mom should be home, yeah.”

She offered to drive the other two of us, so we all piled into the big black vehicle. An awkward silence filled the car. When we pulled up in front of my house—blue paint peeling, white trim dirty, wooden roof warped, grass overgrown—it occurred to me that maybe I should have waited for someone else to volunteer a house.

“I'll call you when I'm done,” Henry told his mother. But she got out of the car and followed us up the cracked walkway. “She likes to meet people's parents before I go over to their houses,” Henry explained, blushing slightly. At once, I felt more embarrassed for him than I did for myself.

When I pushed open the front door, his mother gawked at the loose knob. “The house was
unlocked
?”

“My mother and brother are home.”

The nostrils on her pointy nose flared.

My mother and Peter were in the kitchen—a nice homey scene, except my mom was sorting broken glass and my brother wasn't wearing pants. His boxers were patterned with pink flamingos, which made it even worse. But it didn't matter what these people thought, I decided on the spot. We were group partners, nothing more. After Friday, we'd probably never speak to one another again.

“Um, Mom, this is, um…” I had no idea what Henry's last name was.

“I'm Henry's mother.” So I still didn't know what his last name was. “I like to meet the parents of my son's friends.” Her eyes swept the kitchen. (Figuratively, of course. The kitchen hadn't been swept literally in weeks. Maybe months.)

My mother held out her hand and beamed. “Elise.”

Mrs. Hawking (I know her name now, of course) stared at the hand but didn't move. It was beyond awkward. Finally, she said, “I believe you have a glass shard stuck to your palm.”

It went downhill from there. Mrs. Hawking asked about hazardous household products (as if Henry were a toddler who might guzzle Drano), smoke and carbon monoxide alarms, neighborhood predators, and guns.

“Of course I don't have a gun!” my mother said, giving the responsible answer at last.

“When stored and handled properly, firearms can be a crucial component to a home security plan,” Mrs. Hawking responded.

I really thought she was going to make Henry leave, and I was going to be stuck doing the entire project with just the fourth group member, who barely spoke and whose name I can't even remember, but finally Henry's mother told him she would be back in an hour. She left my house without touching anything.

I thought there was no way we would be able to finish the project in an hour, but fully formed ideas about starting a new civilization poured out of Henry's head at a rate that, in retrospect, I should have found suspicious. He talked about how living in a desert climate near the ocean would affect irrigation, harvest rituals, family structures, housing styles, art, music, folklore, nutrition, and more. Much, much more. I scribbled down notes. The fourth group member lounged on the couch and asked about snacks. (It was the first time he had said anything at all.) I suggested he check our freezer for burritos, and he disappeared into the kitchen.

Henry took a break from talking about siestas in oceanfront Nevada. (“Thanks to the ocean, average temperatures would be significantly cooler than they are now, of course, but the UV rays at that latitude would still be hazardous, especially if you take into account a damaged ozone layer, a population of primarily European ancestry, and the disruption of sunblock manufacturing. So, it would make sense for the population to go home for several hours in the middle of each day, which would in turn affect meal, social, and mating rituals.”)

“My mother is overprotective,” he said as soon as we were alone.

I looked up from taking notes. “She didn't like me very much.”

He shook his head. “It's nothing personal. She doesn't like anyone.”

He smiled. I smiled back.

“I'm an only child,” he said.

I nodded.

“Don't take it personally,” he said.

“Okay.”

Later, he told me how both of his parents survived childhoods stained by abandonment, illness, alcoholism, and even suicide. Both worked hard at careers they disliked so they would never, ever be poor again. Both believed that the only person you can rely on is yourself—which may be why their relationship seemed more like a business partnership than a marriage. But most of all, both would do anything to keep their son happy, healthy, and safe.

And so they let me come over to their house, and they let Henry come over to mine, because our friendship made him happy (even though they wished he'd branch out). And because I brought him his homework when his delicate health made school attendance risky. But mostly because as tough as they were on themselves and the rest of the world, neither one could say no to Henry.

That was the one thing we had in common.

 

Twenty-Seven

IT WAS THE
dead of night when Kirsten kicked the bottom of my bunk, rousing me from a really good dream about eating Korean tacos at the mall. Which could never happen in real life, because there is no Korean taco stand at the mall!

“Huh?”

“It's Henry. Outside.” Kirsten was out of her bed, pulling on a sweatshirt.

At dinner, Henry had whispered something about late-night lookout duty, but engaging in hand-to-hand combat with Tuck during bath time had drained me. I'd collapsed into a deep, grimy sleep as soon as my head hit my crappy flat pillow.

I sat up too quickly and whacked my head on the metal roof. “Ow!”

“Watch your head,” Kirsten said.

“Gee, thanks.” I slid off the bunk.

“I'm coming with you.” Footsteps light, Kirsten made her way to the front of the bus and opened the door with just the slightest creak. And then she was out.

When Henry saw her he whispered, “What are you doing here? Are you going to tell your parents on us?”

“Yeah, right.” She thrust her hands into her green cargo pants and strode toward the gate. Her pale hair rippled in the moonlight.

With no clouds drifting in front of the half-moon, the night was brighter than before, but the sounds and shadows on our walk through the forest still creeped me out. Was that a bear I heard? A mountain lion? I wanted to take Henry's hand for comfort, but that would be weird. Instead, I kept as close to him as I could.

My black harem pants snagged on a bush; I yanked at them. The bush rustled.

Ahead of me, Henry halted. “You okay?”

I freed the fabric, taking a few prickers along with it. “I'm good.” I shivered in the cool night air; too bad I'd cut the sleeves off the black knit shirt.

At last, the lookout tower came into sight. Lights twinkled from the window.

“Wait here.” Henry motioned for Kirsten to hold back, then he hauled himself up the ladder and through the door. After a moment, he appeared on the deck and gestured for us to follow him.

Kyle and Gwendolyn sat in the armchairs, looking out the window. Their eyes were glazed as if they were watching YouTube and not the night sky. A whiff of cigarette smoke hung in the air.

“This is like a party,” Kirsten said.

Her brother snorted. “Wild times on the compound.”

“We were just talking,” Gwendolyn said to no one in particular.

“Was anyone else on patrol duty with you?” Henry asked Kyle.

“Martin was supposed to be here,” Kyle said. “But
so weird
, he didn't show up.” He laughed.

“Shut
up
,” Gwendolyn said.

“Just messin' with you. Not your fault your brother is too good to work.” Kyle leaned over and gave Gwendolyn's arm a playful smack. In doing so, his foot shot out to one side, knocking over a bottle previously hidden from view.

“Oops.” Kyle picked up the bottle. “Good thing it's empty.”

Gwendolyn giggled.

“What was in there?” Henry asked.

“Mooooooonshine.” Kyle stretched his arms up to the ceiling.

“I don't think so.” Henry bent over to retrieve the bottle. He checked the label. “Napa Valley port. My parents were saving this for a special occasion.”

Kyle grinned. “Can't think of anything specialer than the end of civilization.”

Henry placed the bottle back on the floor. “They're going to be pissed if they find out you took it. But whatever. I don't care.”

“Who's gonna tell 'em?”

Henry shrugged. “Not me.”

“Not me,” Kirsten echoed.

Kyle set his cool gaze on me. “Emo girl?”

I tugged at the cherry-red ends of my hair. “I am
not
emo. I'm just … me. And I'm not going to tattle, not that anyone would listen to me, anyway.”

Kirsten picked up the bottle. “It's kind of pretty. Too bad we can't use it for a vase or something.”

“Kyle's gonna bury it.” Gwendolyn was slurring her words.

“Eventually,” he said.

Gwendolyn turned in her chair. “You gotta get ridda it now! No one can know I've been drinking!”

“Drinking
and
smoking,” Kyle said. “Big night for our little Gwennie.”

“You promised you wouldn't tell!” she said. “Smoking's even worse than drinking because my dad keeps talking about fire danger and—”

“Relax,” he said. “I'm not gonna tell. And all the evidence will be gone by morning. But … hey. It sure is a pretty bottle. Why not have a little more fun with it?”

Kyle placed the bottle on the fake grass carpet and flicked his wrist. The bottle spun for one and a half wobbly rounds. Kyle grinned.

Spin the bottle.
Oh my God. No way was I kissing Kyle. But Kyle couldn't kiss his sister, and if he wanted to make out with Gwendolyn, he would have done it earlier.