by R.S. Grey
“So you aren’t annoyed that I’m coming with you?”
He meets my eyes for a fraction of a second before turning back to the road. Then he sighs. “Maybe I was at first.”
So my suspicions were correct.
“And now?” I push the subject.
“Your parents have been good to me. I’m glad to help.”
Fair enough. He’s being honest, and I want to reciprocate. “I want to meet your mom.”
“Yeah?” He seems amused. “Why’s that?”
“From what you’ve told me, she seems like a strong woman, and I want to see if she looks like you. I want to ask her what makes you tick.”
“Lauren—”
I turn to face him, cutting him off before he can continue. “You must think I’m so silly, but I’m not. You don’t have to be the feelings police. I’m not in love with you or anything.”
“I’m not worried about that.”
“So why did you kick me out of your apartment? We were just talking.”
He sighs. “I’ve been around teen girls before. You’re nowhere near as opaque as you think you are.”
“Ooohhh, check out mister Jedi-law-school-mind-reader over here,” I taunt, unfazed by his comment. “How’s this for transparency? I LIKE PRESTON.”
Liar, liar, pants on fire.
“I thought I told you to steer clear of him.”
His hand tightens on the steering wheel, or at least that’s what I imagine.
“You never said that.”
He changes lanes for no reason then reaches for the radio and turns up the volume. They’ve been talking about the weather all morning—it’s all anyone has been able to talk about for the last few weeks. Hurricane season in New Orleans is always a tense time, and this year is no different. There’s a tropical depression being upgraded in the gulf, and they say there’s a small chance it might head our way. It’s hard to believe considering how beautiful the weather is right now. Out the front windshield, it’s nothing but bright blue sky from here to the horizon.
“You think the storm is coming for us?” I ask, trying to pierce the tension brewing between us.
He shrugs. “Maybe. This morning they were talking about it heading to Florida. Either way, it’s going to be pretty big.”
I sigh and let my head fall back against the seat. He’s back to sulking and stays that way up until we pull up onto the gravel drive outside his mom’s trailer. I smile, pleasantly surprised by the property. Beau didn’t give it enough credit. It’s beautiful, a small yellow house—or trailer, I guess, but it doesn’t really look like one. There’s a large front porch, a chicken coop, and a garden. There’s a dense forest surrounding the home that gives the effect that we’re tucked away in our own little world.
Two dogs leap off the front porch as we drive up, barking and wagging their tails with excitement. I lean forward just as his mom pushes open the screen door and steps out, waving excitedly. I squint through the windshield to take in her dark hair and tan complexion. She’s beautiful, and it’s clear Beau takes after her.
He puts the truck in park in front of an old red semi, and I reach out to touch his arm. “I can stay in here if you want. I don’t know how long you usually stay and visit, but I have a book and the weather’s nice…”
My sentence trails off once I realize he’s staring down at where my hand is touching his arm. The contrast is clear. My hand is delicate, my skin a few shades lighter than his. He flexes and the muscles shift. I withdraw my hand like it’s a disobedient pet.
He shakes his head and turns to push his door open. “It’s too late. You have to come in.”
“Why?” I call out after him.
“Because my mom wants to meet you.”
I DECIDE WITHIN the first five minutes of meeting Beau’s mom that I love her a million times more than I like him. He’s always been polite and kind to me, but his mom is actually enthusiastic when she speaks, as if she’s excited that I’m here. After a short introduction in which Beau tried to distance himself from me as much as possible—“This is Lauren, my landlords’ daughter.” Oh. Okay—she wraps me in a warm hug and ushers me inside. On her small kitchen table, there are platters overflowing with steaming food: pancakes, scrambled eggs, croissants, sausage, fruit salad, coffee, and orange juice. I had cereal back at the house, but I don’t have the heart to deny her when she loads up a plate with food for me.
“She can’t eat all that,” Beau protests.
“Don’t listen to him. He underestimates me,” I tease, accepting it with a smile. “This looks amazing.”
She beams. “Now what can I get you to drink? Do you want coffee? I can make a pot of decaf if you’d rather have that?”
I hold up my hand. “No. The orange juice is great. Thank you.”
After we all have our food, we go outside to eat on the front porch. There’s a small table and Mrs. Fortier takes the spot beside me then grins when she sees me eat a big bite of my pancakes.
“I’m so happy you came with Beau today, Lauren.”
I nod while I chew, careful not to speak with my mouth full.
“I’m happy to be here. This is such a pretty place.”
Her cheeks flush with the compliment. “Well thank you. I work hard to keep it looking nice for when Beau comes to visit.”
“Does Mr. Fortier help with the gardening?”
There’s a moment of silence before Beau speaks. “My father actually died a few years ago.”
Oh god. I blanch.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”
Mrs. Fortier’s hand comes to rest on top of mine and she squeezes. “It’s okay, dear.”
I glance down at my eggs, cheeks tingling with embarrassment for having brought up such a sad subject. The next few minutes pass in silence as I take a bite of pancake before Mrs. Fortier brings up a new topic.
“Now tell me, Lauren, how long have you and Beau been dating?”
WHAT?!
As if it was choreographed, Beau and I both begin to choke on pancakes, coughing and wheezing until Mrs. Fortier is forced to stand up and clap us repeatedly on the back.
“My goodness, are you two okay?” she asks, handing us water.
I nod and then guzzle down a few sips, relieved when I don’t immediately start coughing again.
“Mom,” Beau admonishes as he takes his seat once again. “You know we aren’t dating. She’s 17.”
She smiles innocently. “Oh right! I’m so forgetful sometimes. I might have a little of that Oldtimers.”
“It’s Alzheimer’s, Mom.”
“Well, see! Perfect example,” she jokes.
I can’t meet Beau’s eyes. In fact, I can’t look at either of them. I think my eyes have lost the ability to focus.
“I just have to say though, you two would be so cute together.”
“Christ, Mom, did you hear me? She’s 17.”
He shoots back from the table and takes his mug back into the house, presumably for a refill, or perhaps a cyanide tablet.
I squeeze my lips together to keep from laughing.
She leans forward, looking horrified. “Oh gosh, I’m sorry. I don’t know why I thought you were in college.”
I shrug. “It’s not a big deal. I will be soon enough.”
She nods and drops her voice low enough so he can’t hear it inside. “And for the record, he’s always been so easy to tease.”
“I’ll have to remember that,” I say with a little conspiratorial smile.
“This is the most fun I’ve had in ages.” She takes her coffee and leans back in her chair. “But honestly, girl to girl, I think I’m going to be 80 before he finally brings a woman home for me to meet.”
“Hasn’t he had girlfriends?”
She shrugs. “I assume so. I remember him mentioning one or two over the years, but he’s never bothered bringing one out here. I think he’s careful not to get my hopes up.”
“Well he only brought me here today because my
mom bribed him,” I say with a self-deprecating laugh.
She frowns. “I don’t know, Beau’s never been very motivated by money. If you’re here, it’s because he wants you to be.”
Hope blooms in my chest.
I’VE GIVEN UP. I’m sitting on my mom’s couch with my third cup of coffee, wishing I’d brought one of my textbooks with me. As it is, I’m flipping through TV channels trying to find something that will hold my attention. Lauren and my mom are outside, where they’ve been for the last two hours. There’s no point in trying to break up their conversation. I’ve tried and it was unsuccessful. Their love for one another started the moment Lauren hopped out of my truck wearing her LSU football jersey and cutoff blue jean shorts. Her long curls spilled down around her shoulders and my mom practically jumped for the joy at the sight of her, like she actually thought I was bringing a woman home for her to meet.
She knows Lauren and I aren’t dating. She knows there’s no point in getting close to her. Lauren won’t be coming back here, but that doesn’t stop her from being smitten. It’s the exact reason I’ve never brought a woman home before.
Another round of laughter filters in through the open window, and I crank the volume and flip to local news. There’s more coverage about the storm, but this time there’s a bold headline filling the top quarter of the screen.
BREAKING NEWS: HURRICANE AUDREY CHANGES COURSE,
STEAMS TOWARD NEW ORLEANS
“Mom! Lauren!” I shout, calling them inside.
“One sec,” my mom calls back.
“No! Now!”
I stand and try to read the text scrolling along the bottom of the screen. Phrases jump out at me: updated computer models, historic rainfall expected, disaster declaration.
Lauren and my mom come inside, all smiles and laughter. I point to the screen and watch as my mom’s face turns somber. Her eyes flit across the words, and I know she’s thinking the same thing I am.
The three of us stand there listening to the breaking news report for a few minutes in silence. If the meteorologists are right, the city is going to have to brace for a direct hit.
“Earlier in the week, European modeling had the hurricane tracking toward Florida, but according to the latest satellite imagery, that has changed. We expect that Mayor Westcott, in conjunction with the National Weather Service, will issue a mandatory evacuation order within the next 12 hours. Citizens of New Orleans and outlying parishes should heed this warning. You’ve likely ridden out bad storms in the past, but I guarantee you’ve seen none like this. Hurricane Audrey is going to be different. Due to the two low-pressure systems drawing the storm toward the coast, we are dealing with an unusually abbreviated time frame. This storm is going to make landfall directly over New Orleans, where it is expected to stall out and maintain a tropical storm status for at least three days following, all the while dumping rain onto the city.”
“This came out of nowhere! Has there ever even been a mandatory evacuation of New Orleans?” Lauren asks, turning back and looking between my mom and me.
We both shake our heads, too stunned for words.
Lauren’s eyes widen and I turn back to grab my mom’s house phone from its charging base. “You need to call your mom—she’s probably been trying to get in contact with you.”
Lauren takes it and frowns. “I wonder if my tour at LSU will still happen.”
She walks out of the room to call home and I turn to my mom. She’s holding her hand over her mouth, her eyes glued to the news.
“The Army Corp of Engineers is working to monitor the levees around the city. Ongoing repairs were put on hold last month due to budget cuts, and now citizens are wondering how that will affect the city’s flood management system.”
“Maybe they’re making a mountain out of a molehill,” my mom says hopefully. “They just want the ratings.”
I stuff my hands in my jean pockets and shake my head. “Maybe, but it doesn’t look like it.”
“What are you going to do?” she asks, finally turning to face me.
“Get Lauren home and then see if Tulane has said anything. Chances are I already have an email about classes being canceled, but I’ll know more once I get back to my computer.”
She nods and turns back to the kitchen. “I’ll head to the grocery store and grab some supplies.”
My mom’s property is in one of the parishes surrounding New Orleans, and they haven’t said whether or not she’ll have to evacuate.
“I can help with everything once I get back.”
“When is the hurricane supposed to hit?”
“Not for a few days, but that could change.”
Lauren walks back into the room then, her face pale and her eyes wide. “My mom wants me to get back.”
“Are you okay?” I ask, crossing the room toward her before I realize what I’m doing.
I glance down at her hands squeezing the phone, and I reach down to dislodge it from her grip.
“My parents are obviously worried. They said to skip the tour and head back now while there’s still time to figure everything out. My mom says if there’s a mandatory evacuation ordered soon, the traffic’s going to be a disaster.”
She’s right.
There are probably the telltale lines already forming at grocery stores and gas stations.
My mom jumps into action, making sure Lauren has her purse and some water for the road. She squeezes her in a long hug and brushes her blonde hair away from her face. “Stay safe, okay? And make sure Beau doesn’t speed getting you home. There’s no rush, you hear?”
Lauren nods and hugs her one more time before turning for my truck.
“Sorry our stay got cut short,” I say, bending down to hug my mom.
She shakes her head and steps back. “Who could’ve predicted it? Make sure Lauren and her family are okay. I’m sure they’ll figure it out, but they’re welcome to come here if they have nowhere else to go.”
“I’ll let ’em know, Mom.”
She follows me out onto the porch and watches as Lauren and I hop back into my truck. The excitement I saw in her gaze when we first arrived is long gone.
“Do you mind if I put it on the news?” Lauren asks, already flipping through the radio channels.
“Here, I got it,” I say, pressing the preset number.
If we were hoping to hear more sober, measured analysis on the radio, we are sorely disappointed. Reporters and parish officials strain their vocabularies to describe the horror and devastation New Orleans is likely to face. It’s a never-ending cycle, and by the time we’re rounding the corner onto Lauren’s street, her hands are balled up in her lap, wringing themselves out.
“Hey,” I say, drawing her attention from the window. “It’s going to be okay. Your parents have lived here a long time—they know how to prepare for storms like this.”
She nods, but her eyes are distant like she doesn’t quite believe me.
“You’re going back to be with your mom, right? She shouldn’t be out there by herself,” Lauren says, flitting her gaze back in the direction we just came from.
“Of course. We’ll be fine too.”
She sighs like that’s a weight off her shoulders.
THE CITY TRANSFORMS in a matter of hours. Tulane and most other schools in the area cancel classes for the next week. A voluntary evacuation is in effect the first day, but it isn’t long before it’s made mandatory. The city is in a panic. By the time I wake up the following morning, Mr. LeBlanc is outside struggling to install the custom aluminum storm shutters over the windows of their house. I throw on a t-shirt and shorts and offer to help. He tells me I should go be with my mom, but I insist. Together, we prepare the house for the impending storm. Lauren is flitting around inside, gathering up things her mom shouts for her to get: their important documents, family photos, some food, water.
Even for a weather-tested city like New Orleans, it feels like the apocalypse.
Every road in town is blocked with traffic
. News reports go into detail about evacuees running out of gas along I-10, suffering in the heat while they wait for emergency vehicles that are unable to reach them. I need to leave soon if I have any hope of reaching my mom sometime today. Apparently what is normally a 40-minute ride is going to take nearly 7 hours. It’s hard to believe.
Mr. LeBlanc keeps the radio on outside as we work. He asks me to turn it up when they declare that the hurricane has been bumped to a cat-5. Neither of us says a word; we just keep working. Neighbors around us are doing the same, using whatever they can to prepare their homes for the worst.
When the windows are battened down, I head back to my apartment and gather my things. It’s not much, the same stuff I moved in that first day minus a few things that are easy to replace. I can come back for the rest later…maybe.
I grab the shoebox of photos out of the closet and stuff it in my duffel bag on top of my clothes.
Every textbook gets packed so I can get some studying done back at my mom’s house.
It doesn’t feel real, even in the moment. I’m supposed to be a week away from another round of tests, and instead of studying, I’m evacuating. There’s no telling what will happen. I want the weathermen to be dead wrong, want them to do a cheesy segment next week where they all eat humble pie after the hurricane fizzles out over the gulf. I want us all to laugh and appreciate the few days we got off of work and school.
But life has taught me a lot of things, including the knowledge that wanting often doesn’t mean shit.
I’M NOT USED to seeing my mom so serious. She keeps me busy all morning. I take the car to the gas station and wait in line for an hour to fill up the tank. My dad has me take a gas can as well, but when I get to the front of the line, I see that there’s a policeman directing traffic, and each car is limited to 15 gallons. The quiet tension is conspicuous on everyone’s faces. I hurry home, careful to keep the A/C off per my dad’s instruction.
The choices for evacuation are simple: north or west. Our plan is to head for Houston as soon as possible. My mom’s sister lives there with her family. She’s been calling all morning, urging my mom to get on the road. She says to forget packing, but my mom tells her to take a deep breath and calm down. The storm isn’t due to hit for another day. It’s not even raining out, or at least I don’t think it is—I can’t see out my window anymore now that the house is boarded up. All the natural light is gone thanks to the ominous metal barriers.
