Watching her? Keeping track? Is it possible? She thinks it is.
And she still thinks about the buttons, of course, especially the red one. She sometimes finds herself sitting cross-legged on the cold basement floor, holding the button box in her lap, staring at that red button in a kind of daze and caressing it with the tip of her finger. She wonders what would happen if she pushed the red button without a clear choice of a place to blow up. What then? Who would decide what was destroyed? God? The box?
A few weeks after her trip to the coin shop, Gwendy decides it’s time to find out about the red button once and for all.
Instead of spending her fifth period study hall in the library, she heads for Mr. Anderson’s empty World History classroom. There’s a reason for this: the pair of pull-down maps that are attached to Mr. Anderson’s chalkboard.
Gwendy has considered a number of possible targets for the red button. She hates that word—target—but it fits, and she can’t think of anything better. Among her initial options: the Castle Rock dump, a stretch of trashy, pulped-over woods beyond the railroad tracks, and the old abandoned Phillips 66 gas station where kids hang out and smoke dope.
In the end, she decides to not only target someplace outside of Castle Rock, but also the entire country. Better safe than sorry.
She walks behind Mr. Anderson’s desk and carefully studies the map, focusing first on Australia (where, she recently learned, over one-third of the country is desert) before moving on to Africa (those poor folks have enough problems) and finally settling on South America.
From her history notes, Gwendy remembers two important facts that aid this decision: South America harbors thirty-five of the fifty least-developed countries in the world, and a similar percentage of the least-populated countries in the world.
Now that the choice has been made, Gwendy doesn’t waste any time. She scribbles down the names of three small countries in her spiral notebook, one from the north, one from the middle of the continent, and one from the south. Then, she hurries to the library to do more research. She looks at pictures and makes a list of the most godforsaken ones.
Later that afternoon, Gwendy sits down in front of her bedroom closet and balances the button box on her lap.
She places a shaky finger on top of the red button.
She closes her eyes and pictures one tiny part of a faraway country. Dense, tangled vegetation. An expanse of wild jungle where no people live. As many details as she can manage.
She holds the image in her head and pushes the red button.
Nothing happens. It doesn’t go down.
Gwendy stabs at the red button a second and third time. It doesn’t budge under her finger. The part about the buttons was a practical joke, it seems. And gullible Gwendy Peterson believed it.
Almost relieved, she starts to return the button box to the closet when Mr. Farris’s words suddenly come back to her: The buttons are very hard to push. You have to use your thumb, and put some real muscle into it. Which is a good thing, believe me.
She lowers the box to her lap again—and uses her thumb to press the red button. She puts all her weight on it. This time, there’s a barely audible click, and Gwendy feels the button depress.
She stares at the box for a moment, thinking Some trees and maybe a few animals. A small earthquake or maybe a fire. Surely no more than that. Then she returns it to its hiding place in the wall of the basement. Her face feels warm and her stomach hurts. Does that mean it’s working?
11
Gwendy wakes up the next morning running a fever. She stays home from school and spends most of the day sleeping. She emerges from her bedroom later that evening, feeling as good as new, and discovers her parents watching the news in silence. She can tell from the expressions on their faces that something is wrong. She eases down on the sofa next to her mother and watches in horror as Charles Gibson takes them to Guyana—a faraway country of which she recently learned a few salient details. There a cult leader by the name of Jim Jones has committed suicide and ordered over nine hundred of his followers to do the same.
Grainy photographs flash on the television screen. Bodies laid out in rows, thick jungle looming in the background. Couples in a lovers’ embrace. Mothers clutching babies to still chests. So many children. Faces distorted in agony. Flies crawling all over everything. According to Charles Gibson, nurses squirted the poison down the kiddies’ throats before taking their own doses.
Gwendy returns to her bedroom without comment and slips on tennis shoes and a sweatshirt. She thinks about running Suicide Stairs but decides against it, vaguely afraid of an impulse to throw herself off. Instead, she travels a three-mile loop around the neighborhood, her footsteps slapping a staccato rhythm on the cold pavement, crisp autumn air blushing her cheeks. I did that, she thinks, picturing flies swarming over dead babies. I didn’t mean to, but I did.
12
“You looked right at me,” Olive says. Her voice is calm, but her eyes are burning. “I don’t know how you can say you didn’t see me standing there.”
“I didn’t. I swear.”
They are sitting in Gwendy’s bedroom after school, listening to the new Billy Joel album and supposedly studying for an English mid-term. Now it’s obvious Olive came over with what she likes to call ISSUES. Olive often has ISSUES these days.
“I find that hard to believe.”
Gwendy’s eyes go wide. “You’re calling me a liar? Why in the world would I walk right by you without saying hello?”
Olive shrugs, her lips pressed tight. “Maybe you didn’t want all your cool friends to know you used to hang out with other lowly sophomores.”
“That’s stupid. You’re my best friend, Olive. Everyone knows that.”
Olive barks out a laugh. “Best friend? Do you know the last time we’ve done something on a weekend? Forget Friday and Saturday nights with all your dates and parties and bonfires. I’m talking the entire weekend, any time at all.”
“I’ve been really busy,” Gwendy says, looking away. She knows her friend is right, but why does she have to be so sensitive? “I’m sorry.”
“And you don’t even like half those guys. Bobby Crawford asks you out and you giggle and twirl your hair and say ‘Sure, why not?’ even though you barely know his name and could care less about him.”
And, just like that, Gwendy understands. How could I be so stupid? she wonders. “I didn’t know you liked Bobby.” She scoots across the bedroom floor and puts her hand on her friend’s knee. “I swear I didn’t. I’m sorry.”
Olive doesn’t say anything. Apparently the ISSUE remains.
“That was months ago. Bobby’s a really nice guy, but that’s the only time I went out with him. If you want, I can call him and tell him about you—”
Olive pushes Gwendy’s hand away and gets to her feet. “I don’t need your goddamn charity.” She bends down and gathers her books and folders into her arms.
“It’s not charity. I just thought—”
“That’s your problem,” Olive says, pulling away again. “You only think about yourself. You’re selfish.” She stomps out of the bedroom and slams the door behind her.