hear the words of the voice as it goes on to tell me the likelihood of such an apocalypse and presents me with chilling instructions about what I need to do to protect myself. Cringing as if every word were colliding with me physically, I listen to his ominous warnings of blinding flashes of light, flying glass and melting metal. Tighter and tighter, I curl into my body, and when the voice tells me to “Duck and cover” under my chair or school desk, or anywhere I can to save myself, I am already doing it.
M rs. Volmer snaps the lights back on. My classmates and I sit blinking into the white glare for a moment, waiting for the images to fade. Jumping up, I run to the back of the class.
“I need to go home” is all I can say weakly, clutching my stomach. “I need my mommy. I don’t feel so good.”
Weighed down with an aching heaviness like gravity, I look up at my teacher, confident that she will see how shattered I am and do something about it. Strangely, she doesn’t, which frightens me even more.
“But, Goldie, you never go home for lunch,” she says, tilting her head and giving me a curious look.
“I know, but my mom is expecting me,” I lie. Can’t she see how upset I am?
“But won’t Barney miss you?”
I think of Barney, my friend with cerebral palsy whom I have lunch with in the cafeteria every day, but I still need to go home. “I’ll see him later,” I reply.
“Well, all right, then, but hurry back.”
I run up the stairs, push open the door to the gymnasium and tear across it. I rush out into the comforting daylight and head home. Sprinting toward my house, crying, the whole of my body heaving, I pick up the pace with each step. My feet pound the sidewalk as I fly through my neighborhood, past the crossing guard, who smiles at me strangely, wondering why I’m going home.
I can still hear the voice of the film in my head: “To avoid atomic radiation, be sure to use soap to wash it off your skin before it starts to burn.” I run faster. I need to talk to my mom.
The voice continues in my ears: “Always remember the flash of an atomic bomb can come at any time. Go to the nearest safe cover. Know where you are to go, or ask an older person to help you. Duck and cover. That flash means act fast. Remember, duck and cover.”
All my realities have shifted. Everything looks different. I can suddenly picture my ordinary neighborhood scorched and flattened.
We are all going to die, I tell myself. Of course we’re going to die. I mean…we live so close to Washington, D.C. They’ll drop a bomb and we’ll all be dead.
I fly past the old lady who sits in her window and waves at me every morning on my way to school. Does she know that she’s going to die? I fly past the man who is always outside mowing or raking his lawn; the boy who walks his dog. Everyone I know is going to die.
Running past them all, ignoring their stares, I turn onto my dead-end street. I run up the steps to my front porch. Nixi is surprised to see me and jumps up, wagging his tail and smiling, so happy I am home.
My next-door neighbor, Mr. Morningstar, is in his bathroom, as usual, looking out. “Goldie Jeanne ate a bean and now she’s lean…” he begins to say to me, as if nothing is wrong. How can he not know that a bomb is going to drop on us any minute? He is a friend of ex-president Truman’s. Maybe he can call him and stop this from happening?
I burst through the front door, which is never locked, and barrel into the empty hallway. Running right to the telephone, I call Mom at work. My hands are shaking so much I can barely rotate the dial.
“Mommy? You have to come home right now.”
“What’s the matter? Goldie? You’re home? Why are you home?”
“Because we’re all going to die.”
“What? What are you talking about?”
“We’re all going to die, Mommy, because of the bomb. I’m so scared.”
“What in the world are you talking about, Goldie?” my mother asks insistently.
“I
M rs. Volmer snaps the lights back on. My classmates and I sit blinking into the white glare for a moment, waiting for the images to fade. Jumping up, I run to the back of the class.
“I need to go home” is all I can say weakly, clutching my stomach. “I need my mommy. I don’t feel so good.”
Weighed down with an aching heaviness like gravity, I look up at my teacher, confident that she will see how shattered I am and do something about it. Strangely, she doesn’t, which frightens me even more.
“But, Goldie, you never go home for lunch,” she says, tilting her head and giving me a curious look.
“I know, but my mom is expecting me,” I lie. Can’t she see how upset I am?
“But won’t Barney miss you?”
I think of Barney, my friend with cerebral palsy whom I have lunch with in the cafeteria every day, but I still need to go home. “I’ll see him later,” I reply.
“Well, all right, then, but hurry back.”
I run up the stairs, push open the door to the gymnasium and tear across it. I rush out into the comforting daylight and head home. Sprinting toward my house, crying, the whole of my body heaving, I pick up the pace with each step. My feet pound the sidewalk as I fly through my neighborhood, past the crossing guard, who smiles at me strangely, wondering why I’m going home.
I can still hear the voice of the film in my head: “To avoid atomic radiation, be sure to use soap to wash it off your skin before it starts to burn.” I run faster. I need to talk to my mom.
The voice continues in my ears: “Always remember the flash of an atomic bomb can come at any time. Go to the nearest safe cover. Know where you are to go, or ask an older person to help you. Duck and cover. That flash means act fast. Remember, duck and cover.”
All my realities have shifted. Everything looks different. I can suddenly picture my ordinary neighborhood scorched and flattened.
We are all going to die, I tell myself. Of course we’re going to die. I mean…we live so close to Washington, D.C. They’ll drop a bomb and we’ll all be dead.
I fly past the old lady who sits in her window and waves at me every morning on my way to school. Does she know that she’s going to die? I fly past the man who is always outside mowing or raking his lawn; the boy who walks his dog. Everyone I know is going to die.
Running past them all, ignoring their stares, I turn onto my dead-end street. I run up the steps to my front porch. Nixi is surprised to see me and jumps up, wagging his tail and smiling, so happy I am home.
My next-door neighbor, Mr. Morningstar, is in his bathroom, as usual, looking out. “Goldie Jeanne ate a bean and now she’s lean…” he begins to say to me, as if nothing is wrong. How can he not know that a bomb is going to drop on us any minute? He is a friend of ex-president Truman’s. Maybe he can call him and stop this from happening?
I burst through the front door, which is never locked, and barrel into the empty hallway. Running right to the telephone, I call Mom at work. My hands are shaking so much I can barely rotate the dial.
“Mommy? You have to come home right now.”
“What’s the matter? Goldie? You’re home? Why are you home?”
“Because we’re all going to die.”
“What? What are you talking about?”
“We’re all going to die, Mommy, because of the bomb. I’m so scared.”
“What in the world are you talking about, Goldie?” my mother asks insistently.
“I
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