Sitting still in a five feet deep hole is the opposite of what I planned. But I can’t get the dirt up out of the hole at this depth. As I toss dirt towards the top with my shovel, it spills back down, mostly on me. It got too frustrating so I’m taking a break with my back against the wall. As I sit there, though, the nasty smell of the damp soil and rotting leaves, and thinking of what might be living down there gave me the creeps, and for the first time since I started digging, I feel afraid. I pull out my worry stone and rub my thumb back and forth across it, trying to calm down and move away from my fears.
I didn’t really think through how difficult it would actually be to dig to the antipodal point of New York. I knew the diameter of the earth was around 8,000 miles, and I knew that the ground we walk on was nothing but the crust, with lots of other layers below it, but somehow, I figured I could make it through with nothing more than a shovel and my ambition, as well as my need to escape from everything that scares me. There’s a lot that scares me. Like cars or people coming near me, changes in the color of the sky, waiting alone for mom to get home.
But really, I’m afraid of so much I can’t always name it. It’s like the dirt that is always swirling around Pig-Pen from the Peanuts: dirt surrounds him and it’s hard to even see his body. I feel my fear rising from the ground and surrounding me. It might be the only thing people see when they look at me. I leave my room, my house, but I always feel hesitant, anxious, waiting for something bad to happen. So, when I learned about antipodal points, I thought I found something that would help.
Most kids my age didn’t use the word antipodal, or even know what it means, even though Mr. Sidwell talked for something like three days about antipodal points. I think it’s important to learn adult words, especially ones in math and science, because it’s the only way to understand what’s going on around us. But I don’t know many other kids who care to learn about these things.
“This is fascinating stuff,” he always started his classes. “Two points on the globe. Exactly opposite each other. Similar in ways, yet vastly different.”
Opposites are really interesting to me, like day and night, mean and nice, cold and hot. It’s like these words tell everything there is to say about each topic and I forget that there might be things between each one. The realization that opposites were a part of science excited me.
“Let me introduce you to antipodal points. Two points 180° apart. Two points diametrically opposite each other,” he said as he pointed to two points on a ball. “Who can name two antipodal points on the globe? I am sure you know at least one set.”
As usual, silence filled the room as he waited for a brave student to volunteer an answer. I couldn’t think of anything but I gave it a lot of thought and wanted to answer him. I came up with nothing.
“No problem,” Mr. Sidwell interrupted our silence. “Let me help. Who can name the antipodal point of the North Pole?”
“The South Pole?” I ventured.
“Exactly!” I loved how excited he was when someone answered his questions, right or wrong, and how much he seemed to enjoy science. “And what is similar between the two poles?” he asked.
“They both have ice and are very cold,” someone said, which is about all I knew about the two poles.
“Exactly! And those are the only similarities. The North and South Poles are more different than they are the same.”
Then, as Mr. Sidwell paced around us he told us how the North Pole is at sea level, is in the middle of an ocean, and has lots of plants and animals around it. And the South pole is the opposite: way above sea level, in the middle of land, and with almost no life at all. The best thing about his lectures was the idea of antipodal points but I also liked the idea that there was a place completely different from where I live.
I couldn’t get antipodal points out of my mind, so later in the week I went to the mapping website Mr. Sidwell had shown us where we could find any antipodal point on the globe. I typed in my town name and pushed enter. A new map appeared, showing a dot on a blue screen: somewhere in the middle of an ocean, like the North Pole. I zoomed out and a land mass appeared in the right-hand corner of the screen. The first city to appear was Perth. I had heard of it but did not know the country name. I zoomed out more and eventually found the word Australia. Even though the actual antipodal point was in the middle of the Indian Ocean, I decided that Perth, Australia was close enough for me to think of it as the antipodal point of my town. I started thinking about Perth, and wondered if I had been born there if things would be different for me. Like if I would wake up eager to face the day, be excited to walk out of my home, if I would have grown up knowing that there was nothing that could harm me. It’s possible because Perth is nearly perfectly the opposite of my home.
I thought of a picture book I used to love in preschool. It’s a story about a boy named Alexander and a really bad day he was having. Alexander was always threatening to move to Australia to avoid all the bad things happening. I remembered that Alexander’s mother told him that things can be bad in Australia too, or something like that. But I never believed her and thought Alexander had a good idea: to run so far away that every problem is left behind, to run someplace so completely different that a person could not help feeling completely different themselves.
And my plan to run away was born. I knew this was not the most original idea or solution to my problems: dad ran away just three years ago, mom did when she was a young girl, and my older sister runs away like once or twice a month. And I knew that just running away would never be enough to get away from the things I’m afraid of. The only way to escape these things was to dig a hole deep enough to become a tunnel. A tunnel that led to the complete opposite side of the world, the antipodal point of fear.
I don’t remember when I learned to be afraid or when it became the only thing I feel, it seems it was always a part of me. The first time I told mom I was afraid was when I was around four years old, just a little kid, and nothing was really happening around me, but I was petrified of the dark. Using a nightlight didn’t help because then there were humongous, threatening shadows on my wall. They seemed to tower above me and I knew they would attack me or at least fall on me and smother me. As I got a little older, I knew it was stupid, but I was sure there was always something under my bed, or outside my bedroom door, something always lurking and watching me. It was hard to close my eyes because I thought I needed to stay on guard to protect myself. Mom told me it was normal for kids to be frightened of these things, but that didn’t help much: I thought she meant it was normal to be afraid, and I still believe that today.
When I started school, I walked in the building mostly feeling scared: of the teachers, the other kids, and whatever it was that was hiding and waiting behind each closed door. Turns out Michael waited for me.
“Hey, Brainiac, want to count my knuckles with your face?” he constantly asked when he saw me counting things during free time in class. I’ve always liked math and enjoyed counting things and organizing them by patterns. He thought that my interest in math was something to make fun of and did it often. My reading also seemed to be something he liked to ridicule.
“Hey, Brainiac, here’s a period for your next sentence,” he said as he slapped me in the arm anytime he saw me reading.
His bullying moved from teasing to threats and ended with pushing and punching. He and his friends were always there no matter where I went, and always on my mind. It made me jittery and spooked. These guys were the beginning of what became my typical school day: bullies taunting or beating, me sitting on the edge of my seat waiting for the inevitable.
It was then that I started carrying the worry stone mom gave me. She said it would help me when I felt afraid or nervous. It’s cool because it has the yin and yang symbol on it; mom knows how much I like opposites. It’s small enough to keep in my pocket, just bigger than a quarter, and I take it out and hold it whenever I’m feeling nervous or afraid, which to be honest, is most of the time. If there are too many people around I keep it in my pocket and just put my hand over it. Having it close to me and knowing mom gave it to me helps to calm me down and get through whatever is bothering me. I don’t think I could get by without it.
I spent my days in school worrying so much about the bullying that I was not ready for the fire drills and earthquake drills.
“Today we will be having a drill,” my homeroom teacher announced too many times. “Remember to stay calm and quiet and follow all directions. There is absolutely nothing to worry about.”
I had no problem following directions or staying quiet, but staying calm was not something I did. I shook as I waited for the shrill, piercing alarm and then watched as the teachers frantically moved about, and rushed us from the building or made us squeeze under desks. I remember quietly working on a paper or reading a book and the alarm would scare the shit out of me, rip me out of my concentration, and I know my eyes just about popped out of my head. It left me with the thought that if we’re practicing this, then there must be a chance that we’ll actually have to use it someday. I spent weeks after a drill waiting for that alarm.
The lockdown drills, where we pretended there was an intruder on school grounds or in the building, were much worse than the fire and earthquake drills. The same alarm interrupted teaching and the principal announced a lockdown. Teachers turned off the lights, locked the doors, closed all the blinds, ushered all thirty kids into a dark corner of the classroom, and told us to stay quiet. Some kids closed their eyes and covered their mouths, some held hands, and more than a few quietly cried, squeezed their eyes and mouths closed to avoid making any sounds. At the end of the drill, I wondered how I ended up in such a dangerous place.
But lockdown drills were nothing compared to what happened in third grade when we started doing active-shooter drills, where we play-acted what to do when someone with a gun entered the school. Once again, the principal announced the drill and we barricaded the closed door with desks and chairs, which I thought anybody could push through, and huddled against a wall with anything we could use to defend ourselves: books, pencils, rulers. This was a scary opposite for me: a person with a gun against a third grader with a pencil. I started to lose faith in my teachers thinking a pencil could actually protect me. And it seemed silly to make it easy on the killer by putting us all in one place. The whole idea of being shot left me with sweaty, shaky hands, a fast heartbeat, a lump in my throat, pale skin, a wish to disappear. At least with the bullies, I knew who to avoid and what exactly would happen when I ran into them. Now, I learned that no barrier and no person could protect me from real people who want to hurt me.
After discovering antipodal points and remembering Australia, I immediately started digging. It made no sense to believe that I could dig through the core of the earth but it didn’t make any sense to live the way me and my family, my neighbors, were living: threatened and afraid all the time. I thought the sandbox was an easy place to start. I jumped in with mom’s gardening shovel and started digging. I sunk the shovel into the sand but each time I scooped up a shovelful of sand, millions of grains rolled down into each new start I made, covering up all my efforts. It was enough to make me think of quitting but I put aside the shovel, and brushed sand away from where I wanted to dig. Mounds of sand formed around the center until I finally reached dark soil. The soil was much easier to move: it sat nicely on the shovel and stayed firmly in place next to the hole. The hole slowly grew in diameter, at first the width of the shovel, but I expanded the sides and the depth until I could put my feet in, and soon, it was big enough to sit in.
I took a short break, looked around the yard and back to the house, afraid someone might see me, or worse, stop me. I didn’t see anyone, so I went on digging and thought of the dramatic conclusion of my antipodal excavation. I would dig until sand from the opposite side of the world started falling in my face, letting me know I had reached my goal. I knew that once this happened, it would be seconds before the shovel pierced the surface of Australia and I left the tunnel. I’d take a look around, but after digging so long through the earth in the dark, the sun would blind me. But once adjusted to the light, I would take in the new world I had dug to: gentle waves without end, one after the other, rolling onto shore, seagulls floating overhead, people scattered in the sand, resting, walking, staring out to sea. A blue sky collapsing into a blue ocean. A forever horizon, protecting me in my new home. Just to be sure I had reached the antipodal point, I would check with someone strolling by.
“Where am I?” I’d ask.
“Malcolm’s Reef,” the person would reply.
“In Perth, Australia?” I’d check.
“Uh, yeah, Perth, Australia,” the confused person would say. And then I’d smile and laugh, climb out of the hole, sit in the sand, and stare out at the Indian Ocean and I would feel calm and secure and safe, the opposite of scared.
I can’t help thinking as I sit here rubbing my worry stone how silly I’m being, like a little kid again. Digging through the earth, through the core and blistering hot magma. Believing I will find something better. But there is no one I can turn to and nowhere else around here I can go. Dad left us, and I’m always thinking mom will do the same one day. Then I would be alone, not being able to count on my runaway sister, and there was no one else. Plus, I watch the news every day and I know about all the stuff happening around here, with people screaming at each other, chasing people down and killing them.The reason we do active shooter drills is tons of people have guns and use them in school and everywhere else. It’s not safe around here. There seem to be more things to be afraid of than things to feel comfortable with. And what scares me the most is that I’m one of the lucky ones. My neighborhood is pretty safe and quiet, and people seem to get along. But close by are constant shootings, stabbings, and kidnappings, and I worry about all those people these things are happening to and that those same things will happen here. A person should not have to constantly look over their shoulder, worrying about the next bad thing. I have to keep digging.
And then I hear the squeak of the screen door and I immediately panic. Probably mom and she will see my hole and the pile of dirt and try to stop me. I won’t be able to explain to her what I’m doing and she’ll feel really sad if I tell her.
“There you are, honey,” I hear mom’s worried voice above me. “What in the world are you doing?”
“Just digging mom.”
“But why? How long have you been digging?”
“Since I got home from school. And I’m not digging for any reason. I just feel like it.”
“But look at the mess you’ve made of the sandbox.”
“We don’t use it anymore, mom. We haven’t for a long time.”
“I think you should climb out of there,” she goes on. “It doesn’t look safe.”
She must not realize that this is the safest I’ve felt in a very long time.
“No mom, I’m busy,” I say as nicely as I can.
“Is something wrong?”
“No.”
Mom sits at the edge of the hole, her feet dangling just above my head.
“Did something happen in school today?”
“Something always happens in school, same as every other day.”
“Do you have your worry stone with you?”
“Of course, but I don’t know if it’s enough anymore. Things are getting bad.” She lets out a sigh and I know I am worrying her more than I should.
“Will you please tell me why you’re digging?” mom asks. “Because it scares me seeing you in this hole.”
“Fine,” I tell her, because I don’t want her to be scared too. It’s enough that I’m scared, and I hate to think of people feeling the same way as me. “I’m digging to Australia.” And I can tell from her face that she is trying not to laugh or smile.
“What are you doing that for, honey?”
“Because it’s the antipodal point of here. Because it will be better, or at least different.”
“But hon, things are no different in Australia.”
“That’s what Alexander’s mom says.”
“Who?”
“Never mind.”
I pick up the shovel to start digging, mostly just to stop talking, but the ground is too hard and big rocks are starting to show up.
“You know,” she finally says, “your grandfather used to watch me dig and he would always say ‘let me know when you reach China.’”
“That’s dumb because the antipodal point of China is somewhere near Chile, nowhere near where you lived.”
“I know sweetie, it’s just something he used to joke about.”
“You never got to China, did you?”
“No, I never did.”
“You don’t have to tell me how bad my plan is. I already know I will never reach Australia like this.”
“Didn’t you tell me something Mr. Sidwell said about antipodal points and the southern hemisphere? It was something I found interesting.”
“He said that most places on land in the northern hemisphere have an antipodal point somewhere in the middle of water.”
“That’s it. It surprises me that you are digging to Australia, though. That’s not really our antipodal point, right?”
“No, I may end up in the Indian Ocean.”
“OK, that makes sense. Good that you swim so well.”
I can tell she is not making fun of me but trying to be funny because she knows it helps. And she has a good point: if Perth isn’t the exact antipodal point it probably won’t be much different so it doesn’t make sense to go.
I look up out of the hole and mom is gone. In a few seconds though, she is back carrying a ladder.
“I’ll just leave this here for when you get hungry or need a break,” she says and slowly lowers the ladder into my hole. “Please be careful and I hope to see you soon.” And then she leaves me and the night sky appears in her place.
I look at the yin and yang worry stone before I start to rub it. Mom told me once that the two are not really opposites, like I always thought, but somehow related, which is something I don’t understand. The other thing I didn’t get was the white dot and the black dot inside the opposite color. I’m thinking that it has something to do with what mom said about them being related. And it has something to do with the fact that I can’t dig my way to the antipodal point of fear because it’s really somewhere around here.
It’s getting darker and I’m starting to feel more afraid sitting deep in my hole. I shove a few stones with my foot, scrape some dirt from the wall, and stare at the ladder. It’s not how my plan was supposed to end, but I climb out of the hole. I pull the ladder out and start shoveling dirt back in. Soon, mom is by my side with a shovel of her own.
David H Weinberger is an American author writing in Berlin, Germany. His stories have appeared in Thrice Fiction, Fredericksburg Literary and Art Review, The Ravens Perch, Gravel, and elsewhere. He holds a Master’s Degree in Early Childhood Education and taught kindergarten for eight years in Salt Lake City, Utah. Visit davidhweinberger.com to read more of his stories.
Photo by: Iswanto Arif