CHAPTER TWO
Stephen may have been a mess in a fight, but he was utterly brilliant when it came to maths. Or math, as they called it in the States.
As it happened, Stephen was more or less brilliant at everything. The nuns at the local P.S. adored him—up until the point he questioned religious instruction. As far as they were concerned this was the End of Days, and all students had best treat the apocalypse with the respect it deserved, or suffer the consequences. Tara’s mother, despite her propensity of helping anyone and everyone who crossed her path, had not been overly religious. Her one nod to her Irish Catholic roots was in the Saint Brigid’s Cross hanging over their doorway, which in the end was really more pagan than Catholic.
The first time one of the good sisters rapped Stephen’s knuckles with a ruler, Tara reached across the aisle without thinking and wrested it from the older woman’s grip. Then she broke the ruler in half over the side of her own desk. And all the while, Tara never once averted her gaze from that of the surprised teacher.
That little stunt had earned her a trip to the principal’s office, a two day suspension, and a call to Miss Bette. She spent her two day suspension in the closet, at which point the little cubbyhole had almost seemed cozy. Stephen brought her food, a flashlight, and his copy of Lord of the Flies. The parallels between the book and her current situation were not lost on her.
The war was only getting worse, and people were panicking. Tara could sense the anger, physically feel the pressure building. It pinged and pushed against Tara’s own furious grief, making it worse. Miss Bette had begun to speak of Tara in her hearing that she was “wrong” in some way. Then, she began to talk about getting rid of her. Despite all the bullies she gave succor to, Tara was her troublemaker. Because she fought back.
This only made Tara angrier, and vow that if she was going to be moved to another home she would take Stephen and run. There were other places they could go, and fend for themselves. Tara knew how to be poor, how to be resourceful, and Stephen was an honest-to-goodness genius. And then she began to think: Why wait?
The final night of Tara’s captivity in the closet, Stephen came to her. When he did, she looked up at him and said, “We’re going to run.”
Stephen didn’t hesitate. He simply blinked at her, then folded himself on the floor and crossed his legs. “Then we’re going to need a plan.”
Three hours later, exhausted but determined, they knew what they were going to do. Miss Bette had her own, private food supplies in a locked cupboard, and a second fridge, also locked. Rationing had not yet begun in New York, but it was getting close, according to Stephen. There were just too many people in distress in the city, and not enough help from the government and elsewhere, because New York was only one of many cities made victim. And no one could decide who was responsible.
“Maybe we can get out of the city altogether,” Stephen suggested.
“Not without money,” Tara pointed out, who knew how hard her mother had slaved so they might come to New York. Tara herself had taken a series of after school and weekend jobs, hoping her mother would decide they would stay. Or, at the least, decide to come back permanently.
“Then we’ll make money,” Stephen answered. “We’ll do whatever it takes.”
They could not leave immediately, as much as they would like to. Instead they spent the next few weeks establishing an outward shield of business-as-usual. Tara got into mild trouble once or twice, enough to keep up appearances but not so much as to earn her another stint in the closet. The other kids largely left them alone. No one wanted the headache—literal and figurative—of a tussle with Tara. And nothing was more certain to cause one than to mess with Stephen, who was now declared even by neighboring kids to be out of bounds. Bullies in the street and in the school yard alike soon learned to think twice and walk the other way when they saw the two of them coming.
The kids in the school yard were still willing to do business with her, however. The yard had turned into a bustling, if surreptitious, bazaar at every break, as well as before and after school. Tara and Stephen had few resources, so they hit upon the idea that Stephen would take money or trade on homework assignments for other students. The pair of them would then stay up late at night, writing down the answers to math questions and English grammar exercises alike. Tara then ran the business aspects of their flourishing little enterprise, relying on her reputation as a scrapper to keep Stephen cushioned from the rougher circles of the yard. That way, if they were caught, Tara would bear the consequences, keeping Stephen safe.
Eventually, they acquired a pair of backpacks. The night before what Stephen referred to as their Great Escape, he slipped down to the kitchen to break in to Miss Bette’s personal cupboard while Tara kept a lookout. They encountered no problems as Stephen filled both back packs with rations and bottled water. Tara had already started each pack with survival gear: flashlights and batteries, extra clothes and blankets, maps and the like.
The idea was this: two or three times a week, Stephen left for school early so he could get some extra studying in at the library. Miss Bette had no trouble with this arrangement—the less in her care the better, and Stephen was never trouble. When he struck up a friendship with Tara and she started going with him, no one protested.
So no one would question why Tara and Stephen were not at breakfast that day. Miss Bette would discover the theft soon enough, suspect Tara, and wait for her to come home from school to deal with her. Only, on this particular day, Tara would not show, and neither would Stephen. Tara doubted Miss Bette would go looking for them, or report them missing. She could still pocket the government stipend she received, and have two less children to concern herself with. And the social workers certainly weren’t checking up on their charges.
Instead, Tara and Stephen would take a bus overland into Central Park, and disappear into the growing shanty town population there without anyone knowing or caring where they were.
All went off without a hitch. Tara and Stephen slipped away on an early bus without anyone being the wiser. Tara gripped the top handle of her back with both hands to stop their trembling, and felt nothing but a great sense of relief. The more distant the home became, the more relieved she became. She did not look back.
School that day was torture to get through. Every time one of the nuns so much as glanced her way, Tara experienced a jolt of panic, as though her plans were clearly written on her forehead for all to see. The closer they got to the end of the day, the more anxious she became.
Stephen, for his part, remained perfectly calm. She wondered how he managed it, for she was shaking like a leaf in autumn’s final gust the entire day. In final period she watched the clock like a hawk, each tick of the clock, each inch the minute hand claimed, resounding like a church bell in her overwrought imagination.
A great rumbling approached outside, sounding like an oncoming thunderstorm or delivery truck just outside the window. It filled the room, shook the ground beneath her feet. So intent on the clock, on the counting down of time, Tara hardly noticed.
But then came that horrible, heavy absence of all sound. The blood in Tara’s veins tingled, and her ears popped slightly. And she knew.
Without thinking, Tara shot from her desk and clambered over the next one to get to Stephen. Everyone looked at her as if she’d gone mad. Perhaps she had.
Tara grabbed her friend by the threadbare sweater he wore, with its too long and frayed sleeves, and tugged him along with her as she went tumbling beneath the teacher’s desk in the back of the room. Instinctively they huddled together, Tara’s arms protecting their tucked heads.
The lights flickered, and went out. Tara only minutely heard the surprised sounds coming from the rest of the class. A few nervous titters, someone with a firm voice ordering Tara not to be silly and to get out from under there, already.
The explosions hit.
CHAPTER THREE