Fallout by Todd Strasser Page B

another can of Spam, Ronnie and Paula share a look. They’re also hungry. But I know that they won’t say anything because it’s our bomb shelter and our food. So it’s up to me: “Us, too, Dad.”
    Ronnie gives me a nod as if he appreciates it, but I look away.
    â€œHow long before we’ve eaten everything?” Mr. McGovern asks.
    Dad gestures to the shelf. “That’s all we’ve got.”
    On the shelf are about two dozen cans of Spam, tuna fish, sardines, some small jars of peanut butter and jelly, bread, and crackers. Even I can see that if we only have one more meal today, and only two small meals for every day to come, it won’t last long.
    We devour the extra Spam and Tang that Dad gives us. Sparky yawns. “What time is it?”
    We don’t know. No one was wearing a watch when we were awakened in the middle of the night by the sirens.
    â€œI wonder if it’s even noon,” says Mr. McGovern.
    Everyone is quiet. Are they thinking what I’m thinking? That it feels hopeless? Not even a day has passed, and I’m already bored, dirty, hungry, and smelly in my pee-stinky pajamas. How are we ever going to stay down here for two weeks?

One Saturday just before lunchtime, Sparky came in and asked why the Shaws were in our backyard.
    Dad, who’d just come home from tennis and was still wearing his white shorts and shirt, went outside. Mom, Sparky, and I followed. Ronnie’s parents were standing beside the hole with their collie, Leader. This was surprising, because even though they only lived one house away and always said hello and acted friendly, my parents and the Shaws never went out together or had dinner with us kids the way we did with other families.
    We stood on one side of the hole, and the Shaws stood on the other. Ronnie’s parents smiled like they thought something was funny. “That’s quite a hole,” said Mr. Shaw.
    Dad didn’t answer.
    â€œWhat’s next?” asked Mr. Shaw.
    â€œSorry?” Dad said.
    Ronnie’s dad pointed. “Something’s going in there, isn’t it?”
    â€œYes, and over it will go Scott’s new bedroom and a playroom,” Dad said.
    â€œSo what’s going in there?” Mr. Shaw asked.
    â€œA shelter,” Dad said.
    â€œA bomb shelter,” Mom added, annoyed, as if it was silly to pretend it was anything else.
    Everyone was quiet, then Mr. Shaw said, “Well, good luck.” He and Mrs. Shaw and Leader left.
    Back in the house, Dad went to change out of his tennis clothes while Sparky and I set the kitchen table for lunch.
    â€œHow come the Shaws wanted to see the hole?” I asked.
    â€œI guess they were curious,” Mom answered.
    â€œThey never came over before,” I said.
    â€œWe never had a hole before,” Sparky said, as if it was obvious.
    Mom laughed.
    But when Dad came in, she stopped smiling. Usually at meals our parents would talk or ask us questions about our plans for the day. But that day Mom and Dad were quiet. Sparky kept shooting me puzzled looks, and I’d shrug.
    Finally Mom said, “You knew that was going to happen sooner or later.”
    Dad took a bite of tuna-fish sandwich and gave her the “not in front of the kids” look.
    â€œDon’t you think they should know?” Mom asked. “They’re part of this, too.” She turned to us. “Your friends may say something about the bomb shelter.”
    â€œLike what?” I asked.
    â€œThey may want to know why we’re building it.”
    â€œBecause of the Russians, right?” I said.
    Dad nodded.
    â€œThe problem is that not everyone agrees with what we’re doing,” Mom said.
    â€œWhy not?” asked Sparky.
    Mom looked at Dad as if it was his job to answer.
    â€œPeople have different ideas about whether we’ll go to war or not,” Dad said. “Some think it’s likely, and some