Free Not the End of the World by Rebecca Stowe Page B

all summer long hundreds of dead fish washed up along the shore, making it reek like a sewer. Goober loved it—she couldn’t wait to get out of the house and run down to the beach and roll around in all those slimy silver bodies. I guess the eels must have frozen to death during the winter, or gone back to the ocean, where they belonged, because we didn’t have a problem any more. “Nature takes care of itself,” Mother said.
    My third blessing was my family. I should have put them first on my list, and it would have hurt their feelings to be third, even though they didn’t know I had a list. They gave me a nice place to live and they were nice to all my friends and weren’t too embarrassing, for parents. They were the kind of parents you could go places with and while they might not be outstanding in any way, at least you didn’t have to worry that they’d end up dancing with a lampshade on their head or getting up to sing with the band or falling down the stairs dead drunk, like Cindy’s ex-dad used to do. We were all terrified of Mr. Tucker—he used to come homeand if Cindy wasn’t there, he’d come tearing out of the house screaming for her and drag her all the way home by her ponytail. It made me understand why Cindy was so mean, but understanding it didn’t mean I had to like it.
    For my fourth blessing I counted all my bodily parts, which were all in place, except my tonsils and adenoids, and all in good working order. I was healthy and at least I didn’t have a wooden leg, like Wilma Bosniak. Wilma was in Donald’s class and had got polio and had to have her leg removed. The fake one wasn’t really wood, it was plastic, kind of skin-toned, and it was hooked onto her body with metal clasps and I thought it must have hurt like hell. Wilma lived in a stone house on Beach Street and I remembered playing with her when I was little, before she got polio. I remembered the wonderful playhouse she had in her basement: a miniature, kid-sized house with little chairs and tables and cupboards and everything. I wanted to go live there and Mother nearly had a fit when Mrs. Bosniak told her I’d asked if I could move in. I loved Wilma’s basement—it was so safe down there and whenever we’d have tornado warnings, I’d sit huddled with everyone in the downstairs closet, wishing I was safe over at Wilma’s, but of course I would never desert my family, let them get sucked up in the funnel while I stayed safe and sound in Wilma’s playhouse.
    We didn’t have a basement. We just had a little utility room, which wasn’t even underground and would have been no use whatsoever in a tornado, much less an atomic blast. A few years ago, when the Prittles put in a bombshelter, Daddy had a contractor come over to build one for us, too, but we were too close to the beach and there was nothing under our house but sand. In a way, I was glad. Before we knew we couldn’t have one, I’d lie awake all night, wondering who I’d invite to come hide with us if we got attacked. It was horrible,some people would have to get left out and I thought it would be our fault for not letting them in and I just hated the idea of it. Now that I was friendless, it wouldn’t be such a problem, but I was still glad we didn’t have a bombshelter. I think I’d rather have been blown to bits than spend ten years in a windowless room with my family.
    When Wilma got polio, we weren’t allowed to play with her any more; she was quarantined away in her house and she was never the same after that. She kept herself apart, out of shame, I guessed, and fear of being ridiculed and rejected. She couldn’t bear to have anyone watch her walk, and I could hardly blame her. It wasn’t very pretty. Her fake leg had a kind of metal hinge at the knee, but either it didn’t work or Wilma couldn’t figure out how to use it, because she’d keep it straight and stiff and every time she took a step, she’d move her good leg forward and then swing the fake