Besides, I say, getting in my own jab, who are you to talk, dating someone named Destiny?

I’m thinking of taking driver’s ed next semester, I tell my father.

My father says no before I even get the whole sentence out. Then he says, What? You wanna be a cab driver or something? Forget it, I’m not buying you a car.

I wasn’t asking you to buy me a car, I protest.

Then why waste your time and my money by taking driving lessons?

Because I’d like to get a car someday.

Then someday you can learn to drive it.

I haven’t visited the fear room in a while, and when I do, the paper has been changed. I’m never sure if the librarians throw it out or the school counselors lurk around until they see someone writing something truly awful and then drag the student into their offices.

I’m disappointed not to see anything from the person I was talking to before, so I decide to start the conversation this time.

I met someone, I write. Someone I really like and…

I leave it hanging on an ellipsis because I don’t know what the “and” is.

…and I feel more alive when I’m with him than I ever have before?

…and I don’t want to end up out on my own like my brother?

…and I’m afraid?

Look what I got? Becky dangles a key in front of me the next day while we’re sitting in Mr. Solomon’s class waiting for the sub to figure out how to work the overhead projector.

What is it? I ask.

It’s for the bomb shelter.

Bomb shelter?

She explains that when our school was built in the fifties, a bomb shelter was put in and stocked with canned goods and supplies in the event of nuclear war.

So…do you know something I don’t know? Are the Russians attacking?

Becky smiles. No, I’m writing about the shelter for the Spirit. But the key also opens the door to the roof.

Oh?

Oh.

We hang out in the school newspaper office and wait until after the last bell. Then we walk through the theater and climb up a ladder onto the catwalk where Becky uses her key to open a door in the ceiling.

We stand on the tarred roof. From here, you can see Central Park. The Hudson. Lincoln Center.

Becks, this is…

Yeah.

We dangle our feet off the edge. Lie back and stare at the clouds.

My mom hasn’t been home in two days, she says.

Oh, Becks…

The worst part is I’m not sure I care. I mean, of course I do, but I don’t think I can save her. And I have to focus on school or I’m going to end up trapped like she is.

I reach for her hand and ask, Is there anything I can do?

Take care of James, she says. He seems off these days.

James?

I’m worried about him. Andy’s mom was telling me stories about the patients coming into St. Vincent’s and… Oh, Michael. I’m worried about him and worried about this plague and his theater friends, and I’m worried he’s going to meet someone who doesn’t even know they’re sick and… I wish the two of you were together.