Dear Planet Earth,
The rumblings are coming less often now. But they’re still there, keeping us up at night, reminding us of our impending destiny.
I shouldn’t be a pessimist, though. I shouldn’t believe that after everything I’ve been through, I’m finally going to die curled up into a ball in the back room of a brightly lit RadioShack. It was just a few hours ago I told Rachel that we’re going to be okay.
“We’re going to be okay.”
“How do you know?” she asked. She had those eyes, those ten year old eyes that you’d think are so easy to lie to until you actually do it.
“I . . . I just know. Trust me. When you get to be my age–“
“You’re only sixteen.”
“I know,” I said. I took a moment to catch my breath, to not scream “Shut it!” on the top of my lungs. “When you get to be sixteen, you get these . . . gut feelings. And right now, I have one of those. I have a gut feeling that we’re going to get out of this.”
She stared at the ground, said “OK,” and walked away.
I’m not a pessimist. I’m not an optimist, either. I’m just a sixteen-year-old with terrible indigestion.