Prom and nuclear war, final exams and EMPs, college ideations and bug-outs: Mother loves to throw prepper worries into the mix of things that are typical to most high schoolers. Most, but not all. There are other kids like us in The Nest and The Burrow. Girls to the left. Boys to the right. That setup is another story.
“I was hoping we’d get to school early enough for me to work on my self … by myself, on a lab assignment for chemistry,” I correct my mistake mid-telling. “No worries, though. I have an idea where Birdie’s EDC might be.”
I turn to head outside and she calls me back. Her voice a butter knife scraping burnt toast until she clears her throat.
“I wasn’t aware you had an added interest in chemistry.”
Mother takes a glass dropper and lets three fat blobs of a yellow tincture fall onto a petri dish.
I didn’t say that. Not exactly. Mother hears what she wants. Through a filter of her own interests, which are not always the same as mine.
“The chemical reactions are cool,” I offer, watching her work at the heavy kitchen farm table.
Chemistry is great. Don’t get me wrong. I’m good at it. One of the best in my class, but I wouldn’t call my interest added. It was just the first thing that popped into my head when I stopped myself from saying I was working on a self-portrait. Prepping comes first. Always. The rest—art, literature, music—is extra. Frivolity. According to Mother. The work of dilettantes. On that viewpoint, we’ll have to agree to disagree. I’ll prep. I’ll plan. Hell, I’ll show every Nest Girl and Burrow Boy on this compound I can be ready in a flash, just as quick as any one of them if not quicker, on any given day. But if the world does end tomorrow and we have to rebuild society, wouldn’t we want the arts to be part of that again? I would. I think there’s room for both.
That’s my real added interest. Society without culture might as well be dead. An extreme position, I know. What can I say? I’m a doomsday-prepping enigma.
Thankfully, I’m not alone.
A knock on the screen door’s wooden frame grabs our attention. Mother stands and waves Ansel Ackerman inside.
Most of the guys in The Burrow wear some version of the same uniform, so to speak. Cargos, crewnecks, button-down flannels. Ansel is wearing a monochromatic version today. A human licorice stick in black cargos, black bomber jacket, black boots. I don’t mean that in a tasty way.
“Hey, Honey. Guess I’m not the only one running late today.”
“We should blame traffic,” I tell him.
Ansel blinks his extra-long lashes before realizing that’s a joke. There’s no traffic on these rural roads. Being late would be entirely our fault. Birdie’s fault, in my case.
“I have everything ready for you,” Mother says, handing Ansel jars of homemade tinctures and the sack of veggies she pulled from the garden.
“Thanks,” he says, but won’t look at her.
The leader of the compound’s son has been sheepish around her lately. I understand why, but haven’t had the nerve to say anything to her or him yet. I hold the screen door open for him and he says, “See you among the sheeple.”
“Different day, same herd. Baa!”
He grins again, only that’s not a joke. Most Outsiders do live like herded sheep. Grossly unprepared for any number of impending threats that could cause The End Of The World As We Know It.
We’re preparing for TEOTWAWKI by homesteading. Ansel comes to our house every third Wednesday to pick up medicine, eggs, vegetables, or goat’s milk, alternating pickups from the other all-female households that make up The Nest. The Burrow, where he lives, is in charge of all things tactical. Artillery, weapons, ammunition, explosives. Things to ensure operational security in the event of an EMP that wipes out all power or a nuclear attack. We all train together in weapons usage, hand-to-hand combat, and survival skills under the radar of our casual acquaintances. On a day-to-day basis, I think The Nest is the more important garrison. We all have to eat and take medicine whether the world is ending or not.
I head outside while Mother’s back is turned and walk around the side of our cedar-shingled house before she regroups and prods me again about my chemistry project at school.
Birdie’s Every Day Carry is exactly where I suspected. Perched on the low-shingled roof outside our bedroom, where we sit to stargaze whenever we need a few minutes to chill and pretend we’re just like everyone else. Well, I do most of that kind of daydreaming with Blue, really. Birdie embraces being different, most of the time. But in those off instances when she doesn’t, when she’s tired and had enough, I have to watch her or she’ll get into it with Mother, and we’ll all pay for Birdie mouthing off. Prevention is the best safeguard for conflict. I guess that’s a form of prepping, too.
I whistle long and low with a sharp uptick at the end, so my sisters know to come find me. The flash of Blue’s cobalt hair enters my peripheral vision as they round the corner and I point at the roof.
“Oh.” That’s all Birdie says. Her version of sorry I acted like a crazy person.
Blue laughs in her husky-voiced way. She’s sounded like an old woman that smokes three packs a day since she could first speak. The voice of someone who’s seen more than her years.
“You snuck out again and left that, of all things, there?”
“Shhhh.” The hush comes from Birdie and me simultaneously.
“Do you want to spend a night in the bunker?” I ask.
Blue shakes her head. She hates being down there the most.
“Well,” I tell Birdie. “Go get it. Hurry up.”
Fly, Birdie.
She ties her buffalo-plaid shirt around her waist and climbs the same trellis she used to get herself into this predicament. The red-and-black cuffs on her shirt are fraying, the seat of her black jeans wearing thin. Not that Birdie cares. She’ll slap a patch on them and move on. I love that about her, annoying as she is at the moment. I’ve always been the one who cares too much what the mall rats at school say about my sisters’ clothes.
Blue is just starting to notice. It doesn’t matter as much because she’s sophomore-cute in everything. A genius with needle and thread who embroiders most of her clothes by hand when she’s not working on elaborately stitched portraits of the three of us. She only uses floss in every shade of blue imaginable. True to her name. Today, along the collar of her plain white T-shirt, she stitched the words YOU DON’T GET TO TELL ME WHAT TO DO in bright cerulean thread. Blue’s a passive but funny badass who literally wears her heart on her sleeve, or collar, or the back of her coat. Wherever the needle fits.
Five minutes later, Birdie lands with a soft thud in the grass, oiled canvas bag secure on her back, and a sly grin replacing her scowl.
“We’re good. Let’s roll.”
She’s good. Her lack of forethought means I missed the opportunity to give my self-portrait necessary eyes. They’re always the hardest for me to paint. You can read a ton in a person’s eyes and having to say something about my own has been tripping me up. Some days, when I look in the mirror, I see my fears written all over my face. Like someone took my normal expression and turned it into a crumpled bag full of fear that something will happen to my sisters if I’m not watching. Fear that one day we’ll be separated. Fear that the world will end without warning and all the prepping and training we’ve done won’t matter. My eyes are haunted, accented with shadowy crescents. On other days, I’ll gaze at myself in the mirror and see none of those things. Staring back at me is the girl I believe I am. Strong. Capable. Protective. One of a kind.