The Journal, Page 3

  I was already thinking about how many books I could earn if he’d let me work this summer too. “Awesome! When should I start?”

  “How about tomorrow? Could you be here at 16:00?”

  “Yeah, I could do that. I’ll see you then.” With a grin on my face, I turned towards the door, placing the journal back in Hasan’s hands. But he wasn’t taking it.

  “Umm, Hasan? Here’s the journal back?” I asked with doubt and confusion in my voice.

  “Oh, no, it’s yours now. I know you’re good to your word. You said you’d work, and I know you’ll do it.”

  As his meaning sunk in, I reached out to hug Hasan. “Oh, thank you!”

  The grin didn’t leave my face as I walked out the doors and into the waiting pod.

  Falling

  It was 18:43 as I entered our apartment. Perfect. Just late enough to arouse suspicion as to my whereabouts. Not surprisingly, I heard Mom’s voice call out from her bedroom as I tried to sneak into mine unnoticed.

  “Amala? Where were you?” Mom asked, as her bedroom door opened to reveal her in the process of changing from her work blouse and pants to her more comfortable house clothes: sweat pants, a shirt, and a pair of dirty blue slippers. “You know you’re supposed to be home by 18:30 on school nights so that we can have dinner together before you start your homework. And I told you not to hang out with Sebastian any more. Do I need to ground you?”

  You have to love a mother who can go straight to grounding without hearing a word from her daughter. What if I was bleeding? What if I had been out late because I was helping someone?

  As I stepped out of my bedroom door and walked the meter to hers, it opened farther for me. Mom continued her motherly ranting. I didn’t even answer her, as I knew that there was no sense in trying to stop her when she was in one of her moods. Surprisingly, after about two minutes of lecture from her heavy with words like “responsibility” and “accountability” and about five suppressed eye rolls from me, she stopped.

  “Well, Mom, you know Mondays are choose-your-own adventure nights at Ryan’s.” I carefully chose my words to avoid both lying and telling the truth about how I spent my afternoon.

  “Oh, yeah, yeah, that’s right. How are Fabio and Zada this week?” Mom said with an eye roll, quickly losing her serious and stressed mood.

  I welcomed the change of topic and turned my attention to answering Mom’s tongue-in-cheek question about the choose-your-own adventure characters. “Oh, the usual. A lover’s quarrel. Zada found out her long-lost father is actually her next-door neighbor. That kind of thing.” Of course, I had no idea if that’s what really happened, but it sounded about right, and Mom had no more patience for choose-your-own adventure than I did, as evidenced by her asking me about Zada, a character that had been replaced months ago.

  Mom paid no attention to my answer, but replied with a more serious question, “Will you check to see if dinner is ready?”

  Glad the barrage was over, I quickly headed over to the kitchen. The apartment Mom, my brother Chester, and I shared was small but well-organized and orderly, so it wasn’t claustrophobic. Unfortunately, we were on the basement level, so we had no windows, but at least we didn’t have to worry about being quiet for downstairs neighbors—a fact Chester and I took advantage of when we were younger, chasing each other around the small place. The apartment was made up of a living room, kitchen, bathroom, and three small bedrooms: one for each of us. The doors for each room came out of a circular hallway, so none of us had a long walk to the bathroom. Unfortunately, it also meant we weren’t far from each other. I spent most of my evenings holed up in my room, listening to music while doing homework or reading a book.

  When we sat down to dinner of mac’n’cheese and a side of broccoli, I could see that Mom had cooled down from her earlier lecture. Perhaps I was in the clear after all. Mom wasn’t a big cook—she worked as a “foodie” or a food supply chain organizer, so having to work with food at home was certainly not appealing to her. It was her job to make sure that the food got from the fields and factories to the appropriate storehouses to be distributed throughout the Triangle. It was a tough job as it seemed like they were always running out of one thing or another. As long as there was something that would easily replace it, everything was good. When a whole category ran out altogether—like meat—it made Mom’s job extra stressful. Foodies weren’t the most liked people in the USNA. The public didn’t care where the food came from or how it got to their tables, as long as it was there to feed their appetites.

  Because Mom didn’t like to cook, we ate food primarily cooked in the one-pot. All you had to do was enter the few ingredients, tell it what to make, and it would turn out what could occasionally be called a meal. The one-pot even ensured that if it was left unattended your food wouldn’t burn or spoil. “A convenient option for the busy mom of two,” Mom always said. I could count on one hand the number of meals she had made us that were not cooked by the one-pot. That was fine, except there were only about a dozen things that could be made with the ingredients afforded us by Mom’s salary and that were simple enough for the one-pot. That night’s mac’n’cheese with broccoli was the usual Monday meal; the only variety came from the changing vegetable food supply.

  It didn’t matter how simple tonight’s meal was, though, as it turned out Mom wouldn’t be eating it after all. Halfway through dishing up the broccoli, she received a call on her chip. She had only been away from work for an hour, but a crisis had already arisen that demanded her attention. From the part of the conversation I could hear, it had something to do with corn, and the possibility of rioting farmers. Mom quickly bid adieu, kissing Chester and me on the top of our heads, before running out the door to hail a pod that would take her back to work.

  Mom’s early exit—presumably for the evening—was fine by me. Now that Chester was 12 and old enough to see that he got his own homework done, I could focus on myself. Mom not being home meant no interruptions to my evening plans of journal reading after homework.

  After I finished my bowl of mac’n’cheese and picked at my broccoli, I sat down at my desk and reached into the purse beside me to pull out my chap stick. Of course, my hand grabbed the journal instead. I’ll just set it down next to me, so that it’s ready for me when I’m done with my geometry homework.

  I pulled up my geometry on my desk, but I couldn’t concentrate. I couldn’t duplicate the proof Professor Larry had shown me earlier in the day as I had a hard time concentrating. Perhaps doodling flowers wasn’t the best strategy for learning geometry. More likely, having the 100-year-old journal at my fingertips was too strong distraction.

  I left the math homework up—had to cover my tracks in case Mom checked in from work to see what I was doing—and opened the journal again. I reread the inscription:

  This is the journal of Elizabeth Ann Pratt

  August 27, 2001 - January 15, 2002

  I wondered who Elizabeth Ann Pratt was. How old would she be if she was alive today? I really had no idea based on the handwriting—it had been too long since I had seen anything handwritten besides the graffiti on our apartment building, so I couldn’t tell how old she may have been when she wrote the journal.

  I turned to the first page of the journal, and began to read, struggling for almost every word.

  August 26, 2001

  Tomorrow I start my last year at Henry High School. It seems like just yesterday I started as a freshman...that was 3 years ago!

  I guess I should introduce myself. I’m Beth (short for Elizabeth), 17 years old.

  Seventeen—just a year older than me. That excited me…I had just assumed the journal would have been written by an older person, as journal writing seemed so old-fashioned, like writing letters or wearing gloves while drinking tea in the afternoon.

  I live with my mom, Kathy and my dad, Richard. I have one sister, Meg (yes, my mom is a bit obsessed with Little Women), who is 21, but doesn’t live at home. Actually, I’m not sure whe
n the last time I saw her was—Meg isn’t the best about keeping in touch with the family. I guess college is more fun than home.

  Back to the reason why I’m starting this journal. I’ve decided it would be neat to have a record of my entire senior year. Because after this year, I’ll be an adult going off to college!

  While classes don’t start until tomorrow, I’ve already had band camp. I’m on the color guard. Band camp was hot, but lots of fun. Stacy, Kayla, and I laughed a lot, often receiving glares from Mr. Branson.

  I had to stop reading right then to look up a couple of things on my chip. I had never heard of Little Women, but I found out that it was a book published in the 1860s, with two of the four sisters—four!—being named Beth and Meg. I’ll have to ask Hasan about it.

  I also found out what the color guard was—sounds a little silly to throw some poles with flags on them around, but they did things differently back then. Simpler times had simpler forms of entertainment, for sure.

  Since this is my fourth and final year on the color guard, I get to be the captain. It’s a lot of responsibility—the other girls aren’t always the best at listening to me. I’m so shy sometimes! I know what I should make them do, but it’s hard to speak up and make them do it, especially when they’re grumbling.

  I’m a little nervous about classes tomorrow. I have Mrs. Jordan for honors English. I’ve heard a lot about her: she’s notorious for making a boy pee his pants in front of the whole classroom—and I must admit she terrifies me a little bit.

  Her Mrs. Jordan reminds me of Ms. Oscar. Scary indeed!

  Well, that’s all for now. I’ll write again tomorrow to let you know how the first day goes.

 

  I skipped past the next few entries, because I realized there should be an entry I was quite curious about further into the journal. She was in high school during September 11th, 2001. How did it feel to be alive—and my age—on that day?

  September 11, 2001

  Something awful happened today. I almost don’t want to write about it, but it’s all I can think about, so I must. I didn’t even find out about it until after 2nd period. Mrs. Jordan didn’t make us take our test, so you know it must be serious. I would have rather taken that test though than hear about what was behind the whisperings I heard in the hallways walking to Mrs. Jordan’s class.

  Oh, I don’t even want to write it. I’m so numb. It’s too hard.

  Somebody has flown two airplanes into a large building in New York City.

  I’ve never been to New York, but I’ve now seen the pictures of the skyline: the two tallest towers there are no more! And that’s not all…they also hit the Pentagon and another plane ended up crashing in some field in Pennsylvania.

  So Mrs. Jordan was quieter than normal as we filed into her class. At first I thought it was just her typical test-day seriousness, but when I noticed everyone else in the class was looking up at Mrs. Jordan, I did too. There was a look of panic on her face that she was clearly trying to hide. That look itself scared me, and I kept trying to think of a simple, not-too-bad explanation for that panic: the class hamster had died, she lost the tests, her boyfriend broke up with her (okay, not good for her, but not bad for us). She had us take our seats, and we quickly quieted down. I think we all knew something was wrong, and that it wasn’t about the test. She quietly told us that two planes had flown into that building in New York. That was about all we knew. We’re not close to New York here in North Carolina, but we were scared something might happen to us, too. Okay, I still am scared.

  No one even asked about the test. Mrs. Jordan didn’t bring it up, either. Emily and Jeff immediately pulled out their cell phones—contraband usually worthy of suspension—and dialed their parents. They then passed their phones around to the rest of the classroom. I got to hear Mom’s voice, which was so worth the few bucks I owe Emily...I’m sure she’s going to go over her minutes this month.

  Though Mrs. Jordan is so strict usually, she not only allowed the cell phones, but she also let Nathan turn on the TV and figure out how to get CNN on it. That’s when it all sunk in—we turned on the TV just in time to see the second tower disappear behind a cloud of smoke. Now I know that that cloud of debris is all that remained of that tower.

  Principal Duggins came over the loudspeaker and told us that we would remain in our 3rd period class for the rest of the day. If our parents wanted to, they were welcome to pull us out of school and it wouldn’t count as an absence. Several students in my class had already been picked up. He encouraged teachers to let us talk about it, especially if we had any family in New York.

  Just as he began to tell us that they would bring lunches to our classrooms in about an hour, he paused. We did too, as we saw what he was apparently seeing as well: the first tower that was hit also collapsed.

  The rest of the day is a blur. So many reports of tragedy and death, some that were true, some that weren’t. Dad picked me up from school around noon, and I’ve been sitting on the floor next to the television ever since. About an hour ago I grabbed this journal, and started writing. Mom came home about an hour after Dad and I got here. We’ve been trying to call Meg all afternoon, but the circuits have been busy. Hopefully we’ll get to talk to her soon. She’s in school at the University of North Carolina in Chapel Hill, which is about 45 minutes from here. If we weren’t too scared for Dad to leave, we’d let him go and get her. Thankfully, there haven’t been any reports of anything happening here in North Carolina, so I hope she is okay.

  It’s been about 2 hours since I stopped writing, I think. Meg made it home, which was a surprise. Glad to all be here together, even if it is only to watch the news coverage on TV. Dad just suggested that we turn off the news coverage and put in our old A Charlie Brown Christmas video tape. So not the season for it, but it sounds good. I just want to be here with my family doing something normal. And please don’t tell me that an almost all-adult family being home on a Tuesday night, all together, and watching a child’s Christmas movie in September isn’t normal. Neither is watching indestructible skyscrapers fall to the earth.

  Minding

  During my pod ride to the store the next day, I allowed my body to finally relax. Emotionally raw, I was thankful that the day went smoothly. I was able to successfully avoid seeing either Sebastian or Kinsley, and more importantly, avoided seeing them together.

  I started the day exhausted after the evening I had the night before. Reading Beth’s journal entry, I cried like I’ve never cried before. Nothing in my own life—not a break up with Sebastian, a fight with mom, or missing my father—has brought out this type of intense emotional response. I simply laid my head down on my desk, ignored the rest of my geometry homework, and bawled. At some point in the night, I woke up and crawled into my bed. If it wasn’t for Chester running through the apartment in the morning, I probably wouldn’t have woken up in time for school as I hadn’t set my alarm.

  The bell over the door dinged as I entered the store, and I walked up to the counter where Hasan was straightening a display, stopping to lovingly caress each dusty book as if it were a favored, fragile doll.

  “So good to see you again, dear,” he said to me.

  “What did you expect me to do, not come back?” I smiled, in a good mood. “Did you think I would just steal that journal? Not a bad idea, except I couldn’t stay away from your store!”

  “True, true,” he said with a smile. He bent down behind the counter and pulled out a dust wand. “I think you know what to do. It’d be best if you started with the most recent book section and worked backwards chronologically. For now, just dust and straighten. If you see any books that are obviously in the wrong spot, go ahead and pull them out to be reshelved later. But don’t take time to do that as you go, or you won’t get all the shelves dusted within the two hours.”

  I take a glance back at the countless floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, and sigh. “Wait, you expect me to dust all the shelves today?”

&nbs
p; “Yes, Amala. You’re perfectly capable of completing that. It does mean that you won’t have time to ogle over the books like you and I are prone to do. Dust quickly, but do a good job. Take the cart there and place any obviously misplaced books on it. Hopefully you’ll have time to get them all reshelved by the end of the day as well.”

  Hasan had high expectations, but it was a small price to pay for the journal. Dusting wasn’t exactly what I wanted to do, but I took the proffered dust wand and cart, heading back to the bookshelves. Papa Roach’s “Scars” was blasting on my chip as I dusted books with titles like The Forgotten History of the Compact Disc and Bella’s Last Stand. By the end of my shift, I had collected 30 misplaced books and was on the final shelf, the oldest, from the 19th Century. These were the most delicate and pricey books in the store, some with the price tag easily in the 1000s of eCreds. At 18:00 on the nose, I was done dusting. I rolled the cart up to the front of the store, where Hasan was busy behind the counter.

  “Guess I’ll have to shelve those books tomorrow,” I said to him.

  “That’s fine, Amala. I wouldn’t want you to be late for dinner. Thank your mom again for allowing you to work for me.”

  “I will,” I lied. One day I’d tell Mom about this job, but that wasn’t going to be today. I didn’t want it taken away from me before I really got started. I don’t think she would care I had a job, but she probably would care that I got it behind her back.

  The next day at school I was thinking about Beth while I was listening to Professor Julie Anne go on and on about gerunds. Though I still hadn’t gotten past Beth’s September 11th entry—I only had time last night to read the entries leading up to September 11th after I finished my makeup geometry homework—I felt like I was beginning to understand her. I think we could have been friends if we were living at the same time.