Toby

Mr. Pappas across the street came out on his porch again, with his newspaper, and held down his thumb at me. Then he settled into his reclining lawn chair. That was a first, holding down his thumb. I guess the news isn’t good. I guess we’re all going to die.

Too bad we don’t have a fallout shelter instead of just a basement. That would be so nice. There’s this kid in my class, Allen Pelletier, his family’s got one. Picture this. The Russian missiles are on their way and everyone’s banging like crazy on the Pelletiers’ iron door:

—Please! Help! Let us in! Oh, God! Oh, please!

Meanwhile the Pelletiers are in there opening a family-sized can of Del Monte apricots in extra heavy syrup.

—Did you hear something?

—Nah. Must be the wind.

And they all laugh.

But then afterwards, you know? When they came out? Probably wouldn’t be quite so funny.

I saw this Twilight Zone about a little bank teller with thick glasses taking his lunch break down in a vault so he could be alone and read, but they drop the bomb while he’s down there and when he comes out again everything’s all just rubble. He ends up feeling so lonesome he’s going to shoot himself. But then he sees this library with all the books spilled out, so now he’s all happy, happier than he’s ever been, because now he can spend the rest of his life reading in peace, which is all he ever wanted. But then, just as he’s sitting down on the steps with a nice fat book, his glasses fall off and break. Everything’s all blurry. He can’t see the print. He just sits there saying, “It isn’t fair...”

I felt so sorry for that guy.

“It isn’t fair,” he kept saying.

I was practically crying.

My mom says I have a tender heart. And you know what? She’s right.