What Comes After | ✔️

Chapter 15

August 14

We went to school in the morning.

May and I got bundled in thick jackets and sweaters, tightly fastening on our masks, before slipping into our sneakers. The sky was as dark as usual, and it felt like Mom woke me up at four in the morning, though it could've been eleven in the afternoon. It's hard to tell the time these days.

"I need to clean my shoes," May said just before we exited, looking at her formerly white sneakers, now stained with streaks of gray.

"We need to save—" Mom said but was cut off.

"I know," May replied. "It's just a dream, for when things get better."

Mom's face softened, the wrinkles around her eyes deepening. "I think we might be able to afford to spend a little water to wash them."

"It's fine," May replied, looking at the ground, kicking the dusty rug. "I don't need it. Can we just go?"

"Don't kick up the dust," Mom said and patted down May's pants, smearing ash down her leggings. "You're getting ash all over your pants."

"Whatever," May grumbled. "It's not like anyone cares anyways."

I think Mom was going to say something but held it back, and we began walking towards school, one ash rimmed footstep at a time. No one really talked much while we were walking. There really wasn't much to talk about anyways, and the quiet outside felt better than the crammed indoors. It's like we could finally breathe outside, even though the air was filled with flakes of ash drifting on the wind.

Mom's scarf was billowing in the wind, and she re-adjusted it, wrapping it around her neck securely, and I put on my hood for my ski jacket, the cold seeping into my bones. It must've been around thirty degrees that morning, maybe even less. I think it might snow soon, probably not this month or the next but maybe October, when the rains start coming as snow blankets the landscape. Outside of trips to Lake Tahoe, my only memories of snow were faint wisps of an image from toddlerhood on the East Coast that become even blurrier every time that I think about it.

As we approached our school, I could hear the wrongness in the air. The school grounds were deserted and bare. The electric billboard announcing our school's name was turned off and smeared with ash as the echoes of old summer conversations and gossip about homecoming drifted in the air.

"Mom," May said and tugged at Mom's jacket. "There's no one here. Let's go back."

"There is," Mom said. "Look at the light."

She pointed at the school library, glowing a soft white.

"Maybe someone just left the lights on by accident," May replied.

"If the city is still keeping the lights on for school, it means that there has to be someone in the library." Mom stood a step forward. "Hurry up. I don't want to get caught in an ash storm."

So we walked towards the library, passing by empty buildings and hallways. I looked down one, and I could imagine myself, if the Mooncrash never happened, walking down the hallways to head to my advanced biology classes, nervous but cautiously optimistic. Now, if I wanted to learn about biology, the best I could do is a thick textbook chock full of words and a lack of clarity.

When we entered the library, there was a soft chime of a bell, and Mom looked around. "Hello?"

I heard a shuffling of footsteps.

"Hello there," a woman I've never seen before said. "Are y'all here for the textbook checkout?"

"Yes we are," Mom said.