America had about nine times as many bombs and missile warheads as the USSR: twenty-seven thousand to three thousand—enough bombs to kill the Russians thirty times over. The Soviet Union only had enough nuclear missiles to kill us all just once, which, frankly, wasn’t very comforting. The Soviet missiles weren’t as accurate as ours so to compensate for this they created bigger bombs like the Czar, a fifty-megaton monster that would swallow entire cities, the largest nuclear weapon ever exploded.

The one thing on everyone’s mind was whether this would be their last day alive. I suppose that’s not necessarily a bad thing. For once we didn’t worry much about the unimportant things—just family, friends, and God. And Grace.

Friday night, I asked Grace if she wanted to go home. Her eyes filled, but she replied, “No.”

CHAPTER Sixteen

I still believe in prayer.

GRACE’S DIARY

SUNDAY, OCT. 28

They say there are no atheists in foxholes. On Sunday, six days into the crisis, Americans flocked to churches. While our country was praying, President Kennedy and U.N. Secretary-General U Thant reached an agreement with the Soviets. Khrushchev agreed to dismantle the missiles in Cuba in exchange for a no-invasion agreement and a secret removal of the Jupiter and Thor missiles in Turkey. The news flooded the airwaves and the world breathed a collective sigh of relief.

People celebrate in different ways. Some people lit firecrackers. Others honked their horns or clanged pans. Up and down our street there was no sign of life. It’s probably the one place on the planet that an atom bomb blast might have gone unnoticed.

CHAPTER Seventeen

Today I asked Eric to be my boyfriend.
I know it’s supposed to be the other way around,
but he’s shy and it would probably take a hundred years
otherwise and by then I might change my mind.

GRACE’S DIARY

MONDAY, OCT. 29

As intense as the last days had been, it was surprising how quickly everything returned to normal. It was like a near miss at a traffic intersection; everyone just keeps on driving.

As I was walking to my fourth period art class the principal’s voice blared over the school’s P.A. system.

“Attention, faculty and students, your attention, please. This is Principal Allen. We have a missing ninth-grade student. If you know anything concerning the whereabouts of Madeline Webb or have seen her in the last two weeks, please report immediately to my office. Thank you.”

I always thought that Principal Allen’s bass voice echoing down the school’s tile hallways sounded like the voice of God, but this time his words actually sent shivers through me. I felt as though I was wearing a T-shirt that said, I KNOW WHERE SHE IS. I avoided eye contact with everyone in the crowded hallway as I made my way to my next class.