Fallout

When Dad picks up the flashlight, Sparky whimpers. Janet presses the side of his head to her bosom and comforts him. “He’ll just be gone for a moment.”

At the shelf lined with supplies, Dad aims the flashlight beam at the green box as if he’s thinking about what’s inside. Then he takes the Family Radiation Measurement Kit and goes into the corridor on the other side of the shield wall. Once again without the flashlight, it gets darker in the shelter. Then he’s back. “A hundred and sixty roentgens.”

“Isn’t that much better than before?” Mrs. Shaw asks hopefully.

Dad nods grimly. “It’s still much too high.”

There’s nothing on the radio.

“I guess the good news is you’re not picking up any stations in Russian,” says Mr. McGovern.

“I’d almost feel better if we did,” mumbles Mr. Shaw. It feels like it’s the first time he’s spoken in days.

Ronnie scowls at his dad. “Why?”

“At least we’d know someone was out there,” Mr. Shaw replies.

Mr. McGovern, who always has to have the last word, mutters, “Better dead than red.”

40

“Take cover! We’re under attack!” We were in the middle of learning ratios when Principal Sharp’s voice crackled over the PA system: “Follow your teacher’s instructions! Duck and cover! Duck and cover!”

Puddin’ Belly Wright ran to the windows. A few weeks earlier, Principal Sharp had told each teacher to select a student to pull down the window shades so we wouldn’t be blinded or burned by the nuclear flash. It sounded like an important job, but Mr. Kasman chose Puddin’ Belly, who now pulled a shade so hard that the whole thing came crashing down.

“Ahh!” Paula wailed.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Mr. Kasman sputtered.

Kids dove for the floor.

“Stop!” Mr. Kasman shouted. “It’s not an attack. It’s just a drill.”

“But Principal Sharp said —”

“Be quiet,” our teacher ordered. “Do you hear sirens?”

We listened. There were no sirens.

“Why did Principal Sharp say we were under attack?” asked Freak O’ Nature.

Instead of answering, Mr. Kasman closed his eyes and squeezed the bridge of his nose with his fingertips as if he was getting a headache.

“Should we still get under our desks?” Ronnie asked.

Our teacher took his hand away from his face. “Sure, go ahead.” He sounded like he didn’t care.

It wasn’t easy. Our new desks came with chairs that were attached. We were crawling around on the floor, trying to get under them, when the PA crackled back on. “Uh, there’s been some confusion,” said Principal Sharp. “We are not under attack. I repeat, we are not under attack. This is an air-raid drill. I repeat, this is only a drill. Teachers, escort your students into the hallway and await further instructions.”

“You heard him,” said Mr. Kasman. “Everyone out to the hall.”

We wiped our dirty hands on our pants and filed out. Up and down the corridor, kids were pouring from classrooms. Some of the girls were red-eyed and teary, and some boys looked pale and shaken — as if their teachers had believed it was a real attack, too.

“Students, sit with your backs against lockers, your knees pulled up, and your faces buried in your arms,” Principal Sharp announced over the loudspeaker.

“Do as he said,” instructed Mr. Kasman.

“I have ordered you out into the hall because in the event of a nuclear attack, this will protect you from flying glass and flash burns,” Principal Sharp continued. “You will keep your eyes shut and covered to prevent blindness from the flash. No matter where you are, do not look at the blast. Always turn your back to it and look away.”

“Always,” Mr. Kasman repeated.

41

The hunger pangs have gone from sharp to dull but constant. Everyone’s irritable. Ronnie’s winning a game of Parcheesi until Sparky rolls a six and knocks one of his pawns back to the start.

“Why’d you do that?” Ronnie asks. “You could have used that roll to get your pawn home.”

“I can do that later,” Sparky replies.

“Why not now?” Ronnie asks.

“If I don’t send your pawn back, you’ll win.”

“No, I won’t,” Ronnie says, which is dumb because he wants to win and getting all your pieces home is how you do it.

“Sure you will,” I tell him.

“Maybe not,” Ronnie says. “Maybe I would have slowed down just to make it interesting.”

“So Sparky did that for you,” I chip in.

“It wasn’t the right move.”

“He can make any move he wants,” I tell him.

“He would have been better off going home.”

“But then you would have won.”

“I quit.” Ronnie flips a corner of the board, and pawns go rolling everywhere.

That ticks me off. “You’re just mad because you thought you were going to win and then Sparky messed you up.”

“You’re stupid.”

“I may be stupid, but even my little brother’s smarter than you.”

“Oh, yeah? Well, your dad’s so dumb, he didn’t put enough food or clothes in here.”

Silence. Dad winces.

“Ronnie!” Mrs. Shaw snaps, which is a little surprising because she said the same thing about dad a few days ago.

“Well, it’s —” Ronnie begins, but doesn’t finish. Not that it matters. Everyone knows he was going to say it’s true.