Praise for The Apocalypse of Elena Mendoza
“Surreal, brainy, and totally captivating.”
—Booklist, starred review
Praise for At the Edge of the Universe
“An earthy, existential coming-of-age gem.”
—Kirkus Reviews, starred review
“While Shaun David Hutchinson (We Are the Ants) is a master of fusing the bizarre with the mundane, and the plot is delightfully constructed, it is Ozzie’s pained, sardonic voice that steals the spotlight.”
—Shelf Awareness, starred review
“Wrenching and thought-provoking, Hutchinson has penned another winner.”
—Booklist
Praise for We Are the Ants
“Hutchinson has crafted an unflinching portrait of the pain and confusion of young love and loss, thoughtfully exploring topics like dementia, abuse, sexuality, and suicide as they entwine with the messy work of growing up.”
—Publishers Weekly, starred review
“Bitterly funny, with a ray of hope amid bleakness.”
—Kirkus Reviews, starred review
“A beautiful, masterfully told story by someone who is at the top of his craft.”
—Lambda Literary
“Shaun David Hutchinson’s bracingly smart and unusual YA novel blends existential despair with exploding planets.”
—Shelf Awareness, starred review
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To Amy Boggs: Thank you for helping me end the world one last time
ONE
THE APOCALYPSE BEGAN at Starbucks. Where else did you expect the end of the world to start?
The man standing at the pickup counter lowered his cell phone and glowered at me. “Did you hear me say nonfat?”
I’d heard him say it the first time. And the second, third, and fourth. I pressed the button on the espresso machine and lowered the steam wand into the pitcher of nonfat milk, blasting the surface with bubbles. “Hold up,” I shouted over the hiss. “You wanted nonfat milk?” The name on his cup said “Greg.” He looked like a Greg. Or a serial killer. Maybe both.
“Yes,” said Greg. “It’s the milk with no fat in it.”
“Glad you were here to clear that up for me. Who knows what I might have put in your drink otherwise.”
My shift manager, Kyle, stood at the register and flashed me a quick grin while simultaneously rolling his eyes. I finished the man’s double tall nonfat with whip mocha and passed it across the counter to him. He didn’t need to know I’d slipped him two shots of decaf, but I was sure whoever he was going home to would thank me for it.
Fadil Himsi had been standing unobtrusively on the other side of the counter, waiting for me to finish. “What a dick,” he said when the man was out of earshot. Fadil had thick dark hair, wide eyes accentuated by heavy black-rimmed glasses, and full lips that hid an almost buck-toothed grin. More geek than chic, he had a body built for running rather than fighting, which kind of worked for him. Not that he did much of either, preferring to spend his time playing his trumpet or tinkering with his computer.
“I wish he was the exception.” I washed out my milk pitcher and cleaned the area behind the bar. I was a little overzealous about keeping my station orderly, and it bugged me when I took over from someone who left dirty spoons lying around and dried milk caked on the wands.
“So what’re you doing here?” I asked. “Don’t you have band practice?”
Living in Arcadia, Florida, meant that there was little to do aside from slowly develop skin cancer at the beach, complain about how there was nothing to do in Arcadia, or hang out at the only Starbucks in town and complain about how there was nothing to do in Arcadia. I both loved and hated my job. Loved because it let me help Mama with the bills and got me out of the apartment; hated because half of my classmates eventually showed up there at one point or another, and I wasn’t exactly popular at Arcadia West High.
Fadil shook his head. “Mrs. Naam’s sick. And I was kind of hoping to run into someone here.”
“Is it Gemma Darville? I’ve seen the way she gives you the googly eyes.”
“It’s not Gemma.”
“Then who?”
Fadil didn’t get the chance to answer because a horde of customers, who must have coordinated their entrance to overwhelm us, rushed in all at once and I was distracted by cappuccinos and Frappuccinos and getting yelled at for not steaming the milk to exactly 173 degrees like I’d been ordered to. People take their stupid coffee way too seriously. It goes in the face hole and comes out an entirely different hole, but it probably doesn’t taste much different coming out as going in.
Look, I know Starbucks is like the McDonald’s of coffee stores and that all I was really doing was pressing buttons and steaming milk, but when a rush came in and I was making three and four drinks at a time, I felt like I had eight arms. I lost myself in the rhythm of pulling shots and steaming milk and blending ice. It was, in its own weird way, cathartic. Which is why I didn’t notice Freddie standing at the counter until I set her drink down—a caramel Frappuccino with whipped cream and extra drizzle on top—and called her name.
Winifred Petrine—Freddie to most everyone—wasn’t paying attention and hadn’t heard me. She stood to the side, looking cute in a pink jersey top and jeans that hugged her hips, staring at her phone. Curls of sapphire-blue hair fell over her cheeks, and I couldn’t stop admiring her.
Ugh! Just say hi already and stop mooning at her like an idiot.
“What?” I said.
Freddie looked up. “What?”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You said ‘what.’ ”
Was I turning red? My cheeks were hot and I’m sure I was blushing like crazy. I pushed Freddie’s drink toward her. “Your caramel Frappuccino with extra drizzle.”
Freddie made this face where her right eyebrow arched up, her left down, and her lips puckered as if she wasn’t sure whether to thank me or check to see if I’d poisoned her drink. “Yeah,” she said. “Thanks.”
I turned and glared at the siren logo grinning at me from the stack of cups to my right. “I don’t need your help.”
She’s only a girl, Elena. And one with horrible taste in frozen drinks. You could do better.
“Shut up,” I mumbled under my breath. I hated the siren logo, and not simply because she offered unsolicited relationship advice. She was creepy, all smiles with her two tails and boobs hanging out.
Fadil cleared his throat; I’d forgotten he was standing there. “Were you whispering to the cups?”
“What were we talking about?” I asked. “That’s right. You were going to spill who you came here hoping to see since you obviously didn’t drop by for my entertaining company.”
Fadil knew more about me than any friend I’d ever had. He knew about my virgin birth, he knew I poured the milk into my bowl before the cereal, he knew I’d had a crush on Freddie since sixth grade, and he knew the fastest way to piss me off was for someone to drag their fork against their teeth while eating. He did not, however, know about the voices I’d heard since I was a young girl. There was only so much honesty a friendship could survive.
“Why didn’t you talk to Freddie? Wasn’t that the p
erfect opportunity just now?”
I glanced toward the front of the store. Most of the café tables were occupied by Arcadia West students pretending to do homework or by the regulars who came for the free Wi-Fi, so Freddie had taken her drink to the patio, which was mostly empty because it was September in Florida and still ninety degrees. The only other person outside was a boy I’d seen hanging around before but didn’t know.
“I think flirting while on the clock is against company policy.”
“Is that in the official employee handbook?”
“Right under the section about not allowing friends to distract you while you’re working.”
A burst of laughter exploded from one of the tables in the corner where Tori Thrash and her friends were pointing at someone’s drink that had fallen onto the floor and spilled everywhere. Michael caught me looking and called out, “Clean up on aisle five, Mary!” which everyone at their table seemed to think was hilarious.
Maya came back from her break reeking of cigarettes and nudged my shoulder. “Kyle said to take out the trash and then go on your ten.”
“Great,” I said, motioning at the coffee puddle, “then you get to take care of that.”
“Elena!”
“Sorry, I’m on my ten.” I turned to Fadil. “Meet me around back?” He nodded, and I quickly gathered the garbage and carried it into the stockroom. I stripped off my apron, hung it on my locker, and heaved the pile of trash bags out the back door.
Whatever happens next, Elena, don’t be scared.
The siren’s voice blasted me from every box of coffee and sleeve of cups stacked on the wire racks. I even heard her from the cups in the trash. It was the worst surround sound ever.
“It smells terrible, sure,” I said. “But why would I be afraid of the garbage?”
You’ll see.
“Whatever.”
I’d grown accustomed to the presence of the voices. Sometimes they helped me, like when I was six and got lost in the mall and a horse on a broken merry-go-round told me what store to find Mama in. Other times they spoke in cryptic riddles, which I ignored. Either way, the voices were an inconsistent constant in my life. I might go weeks without hearing them, but they never disappeared permanently.
Fadil met me near the Dumpster and helped me toss the trash bags inside.
“What’re you doing Saturday?” I asked. “Want to catch a movie and maybe hit the comic book store?”
Fadil sucked air through his teeth. “Yeah. So I was kind of planning to go to the renaissance festival with some of the marching band crew.”
“Oh.”
“You should come,” he said. “I swear it’s more fun than it sounds. I’ll buy you one of those giant turkey legs you love so much.”
I shook my head. “No, it’s all right.”
Fadil shoved his hands in his pockets and we stood by the Dumpster inhaling the fragrant scent of spoiled milk and old pastries. “You know what? Forget it. I can go with them next weekend. Jack spent weeks working on his corset and gown and is determined to wear it as often as he can, so it’s not like I won’t have plenty of chances to go.”
“Really?” I perked up, a smile lifting my cheeks. “You don’t have to—”
“It’s done,” Fadil said. “Besides, I’ve been dying to see that indie film. The one where everyone gets a letter the day they’re going to die?”
“You’re the best.”
Fadil squared his shoulders and held his head high and proud. “I know.”
“Kind lord, how can I ever repay you?” I said, affecting my worst British accent.
“Well, since you mentioned it,” he said. “I hear you’re in a study group with Naomi Brewer.”
“Come on.” I motioned for Fadil to follow me around the side of the store to the parking lot. My stomach was rumbling and there was a sandwich shop next door. “Trig. As usual, I’ll get stuck doing all the work. Why?”
“I was hoping you could maybe arrange for me to randomly run into you guys while you were studying.”
I fake gagged when I realized what Fadil was asking. “Naomi? Really?”
“She’s cute! And smart and she’s into K-pop and did I mention she’s smart?”
“Twice,” I said. “But didn’t she get caught copying off one of your tests freshman year, causing you both to get a zero?”
“That was Callie Schumer.”
“Whose best friend is Naomi.”
“Was.”
“What?”
“Callie was her best friend,” Fadil said. “They don’t talk anymore.”
“How the hell do you know all of this? Do you have audio-recording devices in the girls’ locker rooms?”
Fadil frowned. “What kind of boy do you think I am? If I were going to bug the locker rooms, I’d obviously prioritize video over audio.”
I laughed in spite of myself.
“Will you do it?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “It’s kind of weird. And it’s Naomi Brewer!”
Fadil’s thick eyebrows dipped to form a V. “Is it that much stranger than your weird thing for Freddie, to whom you’ve barely even spoken?”
“No fair.”
“Totally fair.”
I sighed. “Fine, I’ll think about it.”
We reached the front of the patio, where Fadil grabbed my arm and pulled me to a stop. “Go talk to her.”
“Who?”
He motioned at Freddie with his chin. “She’s sitting alone. You couldn’t ask for a better setup.”
“I smell like trash, my hair is a mess, and what am I supposed to say? ‘Hi, I’m Elena and I’ll be your creepy stalker for the afternoon?’ ”
Fadil tapped his chin dramatically. “Well, the first part works, but I’d leave out the stalker bit.”
“I’m not doing it.”
“What if I go with you?”
“Right,” I said. “Because flirting is so much cooler with your best friend tagging along for emotional support.” I tugged his shirt. “Besides, I’m hungry and I only have ten minutes.”
Fadil gave me a shove and shouted, “Hey, Freddie!” in her direction before scurrying behind a car. Yes, I was going to kill him. Slowly and painfully. But now Freddie was looking at me and I think she was smiling, though she could have been confused, and I had no choice but to approach her and try to make word sounds without accidentally biting off my tongue.
Everyone knows someone they’ve admired from afar but were too intimidated to ever consider actually talking to because their mere presence triggers spontaneous desert mouth or uncontrollable babbling. That person, for me, was Winifred Petrine. She was so out of my league that, while I’d definitely had a crush on her for a long time, I’d never seriously entertained the thought of asking her out, because I preferred the people I hit on to not hit me back.
The walk to Freddie’s table felt endless even though it was only a few feet. My brain created a million scenarios where I introduced myself. In most, I ended up drooling or tripped at the last minute, face-planted on the sidewalk, and broke my nose. None ended with me asking Freddie out and her accepting. I finally reached the table and opened my mouth to speak. I did not drool. I didn’t speak to Freddie either, because someone bumped me from behind.
“Excuse you,” I said, turning around.
The boy who’d run into me stood uncomfortably close. He was the one who’d been sitting at the other table, and he looked like a baby freshman with an undercut and the bangs of his soft blond hair swept back and styled into a pompadour. He wore cargo shorts and a short-sleeve green plaid button-up. He was holding a flat-black gun in a hand that seemed too small and delicate to wield it.
“Elena Mendoza?” the boy asked in a soft voice.
I froze. My brain was screaming I should run or hide or knee the boy in the balls, but I couldn’t decide which to do, so I stood there unable to move at all.
“I . . .”
The boy raised the gun, aimed, and fired. The s
hot deafened me, and I was certain for a moment that I was dead. That he’d put a bullet in me and I was going to bleed to death in front of Starbucks. But he hadn’t shot me. He’d shot Freddie. He’d shot her and then backed up two steps.
Freddie slid out of her seat, and I fell to my knees beside her, pressing my hands to the wound in her stomach. Blood spread across her blouse and I yelled for help. I heard Fadil calling my name, but his voice was an echo across a vast chasm, too far away.
You’re a story. I’m a story. There are 7.5 billion stories on the planet. Two hundred and fifty new stories begin each minute, and 105 stories end. It’s easy to allow the world to collapse down to our own stories. To see ourselves as the central figure in the only story worth knowing and forget that every person we encounter is living their own, is the center of their own universe. But that’s the nature of the human experience. That’s why the patio felt so small as I ignored Fadil’s shouting and the boy with the gun and focused on the blue-haired girl who was smiling as she died. Her skin was moist and ashen, her eyelids fluttered, but she was smiling at me like I was the only person in the world who mattered.
Time to shine, Elena!
The voice hit me from the siren signs in the window and the one on Freddie’s cup and even from the ones on the wad of napkins stuffed under the table leg to level it.
“What am I supposed to do?” I asked.
Heal her, obviously.
“How the hell am I supposed to do that?”
Do I have to explain everything?
“Yes!”
I kept pressure against the wound in a vain attempt to stop Freddie’s blood from escaping, but every beat of her weakening heart pushed more of it through the gaps between my fingers.
You’re wasting time, Elena. Consider that the volume of a human’s blood makes up approximately 7 percent of their body weight. Winifred Petrine weighs 156 pounds, which means her body should contain four liters of blood. How much of that do you think is puddled on the ground? How much more do you think she can lose and still survive?
“Then tell me what to do,” I begged. “How am I supposed to heal her?”