The older one might marry the baby in the stroller, who’s trying to jam his straw into his juice box. He’s having problems. Don’t worry, you think at him. After the apocalypse, there will be no more juice boxes.
Gina invented the apocalypse game. The game sounds creepy but it isn’t. Not super-creepy, anyway.
“What if there was a nuclear bomb, and only the people in this room survived?” Gina asked one day last fall. You remember that she was wearing a sweatshirt with a picture of Smurfette on it. You were at Dollar-Eight, feeling relaxed and goofy. No Vinny.
“Nuclear bomb, nice thought,” you said.
“Yeah, but who do you think you’d end up with? I mean, we’d all have to pair up and have babies, right? To repopulate the planet.” Gina scanned the diner. “Oh, I think I want him.”
From her lap, she mini-pointed to a kid sitting alone near the window, reading a paperback.
You’d laughed. “So everyone we know is dead and your first thought is dating?”
Gina looked fake-hurt. “For the sake of the human race.”
“Okay. I’ll take the one at the counter. We both like French fries.”
She leaned, looked. “I approve. So what about everyone else?”
And the two of you sat, arranging families and assigning jobs.
“Those two are made for each other!”
“He looks like a doctor, doesn’t he?”
“That woman is definitely the president of something—look at those killer shoes. She can be in charge.”
“Okay. But she still needs a love life…. ”
That was the game.
“We’ll stay best friends, of course,” Gina said that day. “Those girls in that booth over there look nice too. They can hang with us.”
Best friends. You remember the happiness of that.
—
At the copy shop, you play the game by yourself, feeling in your pocket again and again for your phone. It’s beyond weird to be without it.
Every time the door swings open, your fragile world gets a little more broken. First, the color-copier lady leaves without even saying goodbye to the blue-invitations man, and their three kids evaporate like mist. Then the woman in the funky glasses walks away from her true love in the suede shirt at computer terminal #3. He doesn’t care, just stares at the document on his screen as if nothing has happened. It’s sad. Everything they would have come to feel for each other—gone.
You reach again for your phone without meaning to. Stupid neighbor.
OR IS SHE A WOMAN?
Bridge loved Tab’s living room: the plants on the windowsills, the black-and-white photographs on the walls, the jars of nail polish scattered across the coffee table like pretty rocks. There were sheer ivory curtains under embroidered turquoise ones and small brass sculptures on the bookshelves. Bridge couldn’t remember if they were from France, where Tab’s parents lived before they had kids, or from India, where they were born. She loved the way her feet sank into the carpet, the bowls of salty soy nuts, the way their cat snuggled with them on the couch. Jamie was allergic to cats.
“What do you think goes through her mind when she looks in the mirror?” Bridge said. She and Tab were on a homework break, huddled in front of a laptop on the couch, looking at a picture of Julie Hopper, the eighth grader from Em’s soccer team who’d had her legs across Em’s lap during the clubs fair. “Does she see what we see? Like how other people see her? I mean, boom, she’s beautiful. You know?”
“Well, I see her as kind of naked,” Tab said, clicking the picture to make it bigger. “Like a naked person with a towel over her shoulders.”
“She’s wearing a bathing suit. Everyone looks half naked in a bathing suit.”
Celeste, Tab’s sister, walked in and said, “Who’s naked? That’s my laptop, Tab, bought with my babysitting money. You’re supposed to ask first, remember?” She dropped down on the couch next to them. “Hold the phone. That’s Julie Hopper? When did she get so gorgeous?
Gina invented the apocalypse game. The game sounds creepy but it isn’t. Not super-creepy, anyway.
“What if there was a nuclear bomb, and only the people in this room survived?” Gina asked one day last fall. You remember that she was wearing a sweatshirt with a picture of Smurfette on it. You were at Dollar-Eight, feeling relaxed and goofy. No Vinny.
“Nuclear bomb, nice thought,” you said.
“Yeah, but who do you think you’d end up with? I mean, we’d all have to pair up and have babies, right? To repopulate the planet.” Gina scanned the diner. “Oh, I think I want him.”
From her lap, she mini-pointed to a kid sitting alone near the window, reading a paperback.
You’d laughed. “So everyone we know is dead and your first thought is dating?”
Gina looked fake-hurt. “For the sake of the human race.”
“Okay. I’ll take the one at the counter. We both like French fries.”
She leaned, looked. “I approve. So what about everyone else?”
And the two of you sat, arranging families and assigning jobs.
“Those two are made for each other!”
“He looks like a doctor, doesn’t he?”
“That woman is definitely the president of something—look at those killer shoes. She can be in charge.”
“Okay. But she still needs a love life…. ”
That was the game.
“We’ll stay best friends, of course,” Gina said that day. “Those girls in that booth over there look nice too. They can hang with us.”
Best friends. You remember the happiness of that.
—
At the copy shop, you play the game by yourself, feeling in your pocket again and again for your phone. It’s beyond weird to be without it.
Every time the door swings open, your fragile world gets a little more broken. First, the color-copier lady leaves without even saying goodbye to the blue-invitations man, and their three kids evaporate like mist. Then the woman in the funky glasses walks away from her true love in the suede shirt at computer terminal #3. He doesn’t care, just stares at the document on his screen as if nothing has happened. It’s sad. Everything they would have come to feel for each other—gone.
You reach again for your phone without meaning to. Stupid neighbor.
OR IS SHE A WOMAN?
Bridge loved Tab’s living room: the plants on the windowsills, the black-and-white photographs on the walls, the jars of nail polish scattered across the coffee table like pretty rocks. There were sheer ivory curtains under embroidered turquoise ones and small brass sculptures on the bookshelves. Bridge couldn’t remember if they were from France, where Tab’s parents lived before they had kids, or from India, where they were born. She loved the way her feet sank into the carpet, the bowls of salty soy nuts, the way their cat snuggled with them on the couch. Jamie was allergic to cats.
“What do you think goes through her mind when she looks in the mirror?” Bridge said. She and Tab were on a homework break, huddled in front of a laptop on the couch, looking at a picture of Julie Hopper, the eighth grader from Em’s soccer team who’d had her legs across Em’s lap during the clubs fair. “Does she see what we see? Like how other people see her? I mean, boom, she’s beautiful. You know?”
“Well, I see her as kind of naked,” Tab said, clicking the picture to make it bigger. “Like a naked person with a towel over her shoulders.”
“She’s wearing a bathing suit. Everyone looks half naked in a bathing suit.”
Celeste, Tab’s sister, walked in and said, “Who’s naked? That’s my laptop, Tab, bought with my babysitting money. You’re supposed to ask first, remember?” She dropped down on the couch next to them. “Hold the phone. That’s Julie Hopper? When did she get so gorgeous?
Similar Books
