If We Survive

7 Days Earlier

Thursday, July 15, 7 days before the disaster.

I sit there, staring aimlessly at my e-mail, waiting. For what I am waiting for? Even I don't know. My mother throws open my bedroom door, begging me to help her with the grocries. 

The thing about your parents running a summer camp is the fact that you have to do ost of the heavy lifting for one-hundred-some teenagers that you don't even remotely fit in with. My dad and his best friend from the Army founded it, and my mother is the cook- which means that every year, on the exact same Thursday, she spends about eight hours at the local Costco, and then brings it home in our monsourus Ford. Most years, I can avoid such work by being at some friend's house, mostly Chris and  Anna, but they're on vacation this year. Together.

That's the thing that sucks about High School: your friends start hooking up, and you just end up being a thrid wheel around them, and resort to sitting inside refreshing your e-mail endlessly. 

I pile into my arms stacks of just-add-water mashed potatoes, and dump them on our dining room table, the place set apart for any and all camp food. Seriously, we can't have people over during those last few weeks before camp, because the piles of food on our dining room table are taller than I am, which is saying something. 

After four more loads, I sink on to the small olive couch, sighing dramaticly. I'm good at being dramatic, if nothing else.

My older brother walks by, holding a monstorus crate od apples, and is saying something rather rude into his phone. Even though I'm sixteen, I still can't stand swearing. It just... bothers me. I guess it could be that I've been sheltered my entire life, or maybe it's just been so drilled into my head- but either way, I get up and leave. I wonder back into my bedroom, pulling a sketchpad off of my shelf. I've always been pretty partial to the drawn art, which is funny because I come from a family of writers. 

While I begin to sketch out a face, I turn on the news. My mother hates the news with a passion- like she's in denial or something, so I have to watch in in my bedroom with the door closed. 

"Rumors are flying through the Middle East of a weapon in development, although it is yet to be seen if this is more than a simple rumor. Now, to Shirley with this week's weather." 

It shouldn't even bother me anymore. There's always something going on, something bad. It happens all the time, which interestes me somehow. I guess I'm just strange like that. 

"Do you want to go shooting before the kids arrive this weekend?" My dad shouts from the hallway. Every year, we have about 20 of the kids over at our house before they come in to camp. It's pretty hactic, and for an introvert like me, it's hell. 

I'm bad with people, and words, and patenince, and anything that doesn't include my computer, which is pretty funny, because I'm one of the most popular kids in our school. I think my brother did that to me. 

"Sure!" I reply, grinning. I love going shooting with my dad- the smell of gun powder on my fingers, the kick of the gun, it's all just... perfect. My favorite is the 45. It's got just the perfect amount of kick, and I'm pretty good with it. There's something about shooting things that's calming. 

I don't suppose I'm very normal. 

But normal doesn't cut it.