Edward Bloor - A Plague Year

Dad and I trudged directly up the front stairs. At the top, he veered off into his room with a low “Good night, Tom.”

My parents’ bedroom sits directly over the parlor, just feet away from the traffic on the street. After that comes our one, much-fought-over bathroom, and then two more bedrooms—my small one and Lilly’s large one.

And that is it. Well, we have an unfinished basement with a washer and dryer, and an unfinished attic with boxes of Christmas stuff. But that is it.

I entered my bedroom wearily, not even bothering to turn on the light. With the skill of a blind man, I pulled off most of my clothes in the dark and dropped them in a hamper inside my closet.

I crawled into the same bed that I have been crawling into since I was five. My feet now extend several inches beyond the end, uprooting the covers every night.

If I had turned on the light, I would have seen my Florida college collage on the back wall. It’s a collection I have put together myself: pictures of beautiful green campuses, pictures of smiling young people at FSU, UF, UCF. Beautiful warm places that I would like to live in someday.

Places that are far from here.

Today was a full plan B day, with Mom dropping us off in a crowd of kids at 8:10. Lilly and I exited the car quickly, with our heads down, like guilty criminals dodging the media.

I hurried inside, turned left down the junior high corridor, and went straight to homeroom. I flopped into a seat near the front and stared at the TV set mounted in the corner. Its screen displayed a test pattern of colors in vertical lines—ROY G BIV. Its speakers gave out a low hissing sound.

The desks around me soon filled up with bleary-eyed ninth graders. Haven Junior/Senior High is filled with working-class white kids. We only have a few Puerto Ricans, and no blacks. Most of us live in Haven County because someone, somewhere on the family tree, was a coal miner. Most of those miners were white Europeans, so most of us are, too.

At 8:25, the test pattern disappeared and was replaced by the unsmiling face of Mrs. Cantwell, the principal of the junior high side of the campus. Mrs. Cantwell was all business. “Good morning. Let us rise and recite the Pledge of Allegiance and remain standing for the playing of our national anthem.”

We straggled to our feet, covered our hearts, and recited the pledge. Some kids kept their hands on their hearts for the national anthem, but most let them drop and started to fidget, stretch, and yawn.

Then, when the music stopped and we all sat back down, something wonderful occurred. Wonderful for me, at least.

Mrs. Cantwell’s glowering face disappeared and was, after a moment of darkness, replaced by the face of a smiling, beautiful girl.

My heart nearly stopped beating.

It was her. It was she. Whatever. It was Wendy.

What was she doing on the TV, smiling that white, white smile? She said something about the upcoming school elections, and about this week’s football game against Mahanoy, and about a fund-raiser. But I couldn’t really take it in. I was too shocked. Too excited.

I thought about what I could say to her in second period. I even jotted some things down, like Hey, you looked great on TV , and other variations of that.

Then the TV blinked off, bells rang, and Coach Malloy’s social studies class began. I pulled out the homework sheet that I had finished over breakfast. He went over it slowly, methodically, death-inducingly. He covered the topic “The Three Branches of Government” exactly the same way Mrs. Kerpinski had in fourth grade. The kid behind me, Mikeszabo, had not finished his, so I let him copy mine. Coach didn’t notice.

Mikeszabo and I go way back. He had been in Mrs. Kerpinski’s class, too. He was one of two Mikes in that class—Miklos Szabo and Michael Murphy. She always called them by their full names—Mikeszabo (the s is silent) and Mikemurphy—so I’ve called them by those names ever since.

Mikemurphy is a problem kid now. He gets suspended a lot. He gets caught with stuff on campus—cigarettes, a hunting knife, a can of beer. From stray comments I’ve heard from Mom and Dad, I get the idea that Mikemurphy’s parents are heavy drinkers.

Coach finally finished his lecture. He looked at the wall clock. “Tell you what—you can have free time to work on other assignments from now until the bell rings. Then don’t forget to pick up your worksheets on the way out.”

A few kids took out pens and loose-leaf binders (I was one of them). But the majority, including Mikeszabo, did what Haven Junior High kids had done in Coach Malloy’s class for a generation. They put their heads down and went to sleep.

After class, I managed to pick up my worksheet without getting into any confrontations with angry football players. I turned left in the hallway and spotted Arthur’s shaved head in the crowd. Apparently, he was waiting for me, letting the river of freshmen eddy around him on either side.

When I got right next to him, he leaned forward and whispered in a no-nonsense voice, “Something’s going down, cuz.”

“What?”

“We’re under attack.”

“Who is? Am I? Is it Dorfman?”

“No. Shut up and listen. The United States of America is under attack. We just heard about it in first period. You didn’t hear?”

“No.”

“Two jet planes, big ones, full of fuel, hit the World Trade Center in New York City. One plane hit tower one. Then, fifteen minutes later, another hit tower two. Hijacked planes, man, exploding like bombs. Death and destruction everywhere.”

“My God!”

“It could be happening in every city in America. Right now. It could be happening here.”

I thought about that for a second. “No. Not here.”

He agreed. “No, probably not. But every major city, every important target. The United States is under freakin’ attack.”

We turned into Mr. Proctor’s classroom. He had his back to us, and he held a TV remote control in his hand. Keeping his eyes on the screen, he repeated several times, “Everybody take a seat.”

Arthur and I sat in two desks up front, right under the TV. The screen showed a jet, moving impossibly fast for its altitude, slamming into one of the twin towers.

Wendy Lyle took the seat next to me, but I barely noticed. (And I completely forgot about her earlier TV appearance.)

As we watched and listened, things just kept getting worse. CNN announced that a plane had crashed into the Pentagon in Washington, D.C. I thought Arthur was going to jump out of his chair at that news. He clenched his fists like he wanted to punch somebody.

The TV announced that all planes flying in United States airspace had to land immediately or they would be shot down, to which Arthur shouted, “Hell, yeah! Payback!”

Then, right before our eyes, the first tower in New York City crumbled to the ground, just disintegrated into dust. Mr. Proctor whispered, “My God. That building is full of people.”

It was amazing, and shocking, and News with a capital N . We all stayed glued to the television. Here is a summary of what happened:

8:46: Flight 11 crashed into the North Tower of the World Trade Center.

9:03: Flight 175 crashed into the South Tower of the World Trade Center.

9:37: Flight 77 crashed into the western side of the Pentagon.

9:59: The South Tower of the World Trade Center collapsed.

At 10:15, the scenes of destruction and carnage suddenly faded away and Mrs. Cantwell’s face appeared. She told us, “Due to the national emergency, Haven County has decided to close all schools and to send students home for the day. We ask you to stay where you are, in your second-period classes, until the buses return. We will call for the bus riders first, after which we will call for the car riders. Students with no ride home should report to the auditorium.”