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Authors: Neal Shusterman
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Chinese,” she said, looking at the Chinese characters written around the button.
Grandfather sighed.
“This has been in our family for forty-nine generations,” he said. “Fifty-one, now that I pass it on to you. It has been our family’s task all these years to guard this button with a clear heart, and a clean mind. Show no one. Tell no one. And never, ever press it.”
“But what does it do?” asked Karin.
Grandfather leaned closer, speaking in a raspy whisper.
“This,” he said, “is the button that ends the world.”
That evening Karin sat on a lumpy bed in one of the many upstairs bedrooms of her grandfather’s huge house. She puzzled over the puzzle box, practicing how it opened and closed. She had only seen her grandfather do it once, but once was all it took for her to memorize it.
Randy, who lay on the floor tossing a ball at the high ceiling, watched in disgust at how easily Karin could now open the box. She had a photographic memory, and she knew that it irritated Randy no end.
“He gave it to me because he knows I’ll take care of it.”
“ And because you kiss up to him.”
Karin closed the puzzle box and practiced opening it again. There wasn’t much for the two of them to do on these annual family get-togethers. The other cousins were all either much younger or much older than Karin and Randy. The young ones were all asleep in the maze of bedrooms within Grandfather’s immense house. All the adults were downstairs, babbling about nothing important. Their jumbled voices drifted up the great staircase and echoed down the winding halls.
“You don’t believe any of that stuff about that stupid button, do you?” scoffed Randy, tossing his ball and watching how close he could come to hitting the light in the center of the ceiling.
Karin pulled out the little box from the center of the puzzle box.
“No . . . ” she said.
Randy smirked. “You do believe it—I can tell.” He tossed the ball again. “You’re as loony as he is.”
“I believe some of it,” said Karin. “You remember last year I showed everyone that genealogy I did?”
“Genie-what?”
“Genealogy—the family tree.”
“Oh yeah, that thing.”
“Well, our family does trace back to some sort of royalty. I’ll bet that this box really was passed down from our ancestors.”
“And do you believe it could destroy the world?”
Karin flipped open the little box. She regarded the gold button. It seemed so harmless, and yet . . .
“No,” she said. “Of course I don’t believe it. But it’s strange to think that people did believe it, maybe for thousands of years.”
“You think anyone’s ever pressed it?”
“Probably not,” said Karin. “They wouldn’t press it if they believed in it.”
“This is what I think,” said Randy. “A thousand years ago, we had this ancient Chinese nerd relative, and one day his friends gave him this box as a practical joke—and that idiot believed the joke.”
Karin tilted the little black box in her hand, and the button reflected a pinpoint of light that danced across the peeling wallpaper.
“I’ll bet you don’t even have the guts to press it,” said Randy, and then his ball went a bit too high, hitting the light above him and smashing it. Randy rolled out of the way just as the glass showered down to the warped wooden floor. Karin froze, closing her eyes and gripping the little black box.
In the silence that followed she could hear shouts from downstairs and the sound of feet running down the hallway toward them. Several people were wailing—it seemed a bit much just for some broken glass.
Randy’s father appeared at the door first.
“I’m sorry,” said Randy in a panic. “I didn’t mean it—it was an accident.”
But Karin could tell that her uncle wasn’t looking at the glass.
“Randy, Karin,” he said, not looking at all well. “I’m afraid something terrible has happened. It’s your grandfather.”
Grandfather’s funeral was
Grandfather sighed.
“This has been in our family for forty-nine generations,” he said. “Fifty-one, now that I pass it on to you. It has been our family’s task all these years to guard this button with a clear heart, and a clean mind. Show no one. Tell no one. And never, ever press it.”
“But what does it do?” asked Karin.
Grandfather leaned closer, speaking in a raspy whisper.
“This,” he said, “is the button that ends the world.”
That evening Karin sat on a lumpy bed in one of the many upstairs bedrooms of her grandfather’s huge house. She puzzled over the puzzle box, practicing how it opened and closed. She had only seen her grandfather do it once, but once was all it took for her to memorize it.
Randy, who lay on the floor tossing a ball at the high ceiling, watched in disgust at how easily Karin could now open the box. She had a photographic memory, and she knew that it irritated Randy no end.
“He gave it to me because he knows I’ll take care of it.”
“ And because you kiss up to him.”
Karin closed the puzzle box and practiced opening it again. There wasn’t much for the two of them to do on these annual family get-togethers. The other cousins were all either much younger or much older than Karin and Randy. The young ones were all asleep in the maze of bedrooms within Grandfather’s immense house. All the adults were downstairs, babbling about nothing important. Their jumbled voices drifted up the great staircase and echoed down the winding halls.
“You don’t believe any of that stuff about that stupid button, do you?” scoffed Randy, tossing his ball and watching how close he could come to hitting the light in the center of the ceiling.
Karin pulled out the little box from the center of the puzzle box.
“No . . . ” she said.
Randy smirked. “You do believe it—I can tell.” He tossed the ball again. “You’re as loony as he is.”
“I believe some of it,” said Karin. “You remember last year I showed everyone that genealogy I did?”
“Genie-what?”
“Genealogy—the family tree.”
“Oh yeah, that thing.”
“Well, our family does trace back to some sort of royalty. I’ll bet that this box really was passed down from our ancestors.”
“And do you believe it could destroy the world?”
Karin flipped open the little box. She regarded the gold button. It seemed so harmless, and yet . . .
“No,” she said. “Of course I don’t believe it. But it’s strange to think that people did believe it, maybe for thousands of years.”
“You think anyone’s ever pressed it?”
“Probably not,” said Karin. “They wouldn’t press it if they believed in it.”
“This is what I think,” said Randy. “A thousand years ago, we had this ancient Chinese nerd relative, and one day his friends gave him this box as a practical joke—and that idiot believed the joke.”
Karin tilted the little black box in her hand, and the button reflected a pinpoint of light that danced across the peeling wallpaper.
“I’ll bet you don’t even have the guts to press it,” said Randy, and then his ball went a bit too high, hitting the light above him and smashing it. Randy rolled out of the way just as the glass showered down to the warped wooden floor. Karin froze, closing her eyes and gripping the little black box.
In the silence that followed she could hear shouts from downstairs and the sound of feet running down the hallway toward them. Several people were wailing—it seemed a bit much just for some broken glass.
Randy’s father appeared at the door first.
“I’m sorry,” said Randy in a panic. “I didn’t mean it—it was an accident.”
But Karin could tell that her uncle wasn’t looking at the glass.
“Randy, Karin,” he said, not looking at all well. “I’m afraid something terrible has happened. It’s your grandfather.”
Grandfather’s funeral was
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