by Kristi Cook
“Okay, where is he?” he asks with a frown. His hair is wet, his T-shirt clinging damply to his skin. I’d either caught him in the shower or in the pool. Probably the pool, since he smells vaguely of chlorine.
I hook a thumb toward the living room. “In there. Passed out on the couch.”
He looks at me sharply. “You haven’t been drinking, have you?”
He’s lucky I don’t slap him. “I was sitting upstairs in my room, minding my own business, when he showed up at the door. What do you think? Asshat,” I add under my breath.
His brow furrows. “What was that?”
“Nothing. C’mon. Get him out of there before he makes a mess.”
“What about his car?”
I shrug. “I’ll drive it school tomorrow and get a ride home from Lucy or something.”
“I’ll drive you home,” he offers. Correction: he asserts—arrogantly, as if he’s used to giving orders. “We need to go get those tarps and sandbags anyway.”
“How did you . . . ?” I trail off as the answer dawns on me. “My dad e-mailed you, didn’t he?”
“Called me, actually. We’ll go after school tomorrow. After practice,” he amends.
“Yeah. Fine, whatever.” Truthfully, I wasn’t looking forward to lugging sandbags by myself. I wasn’t even sure how I was going to fit them in my little Fiat. Problem solved.
Now to solve my other problem—the one lying on my couch.
ACT I
Scene 12
It takes me a while to locate Ryder once cheerleading practice ends. Eventually, I find him on the big grassy field beside the parking lot, tossing a football with Mason and Ben.
“I thought we were meeting by the field house,” I call out as I make my way over.
He doesn’t even turn around. “Nah, I’m pretty sure I said the parking lot.”
“You definitely said the field house,” I argue. Why can’t he ever just admit that he’s wrong?
“Geez, field house, parking lot. What difference does it make?” Mason asks. “Give it a rest, why don’t you.”
I shoot him a glare. “Oh, hey, Mason. Remember when your hair was long and everyone thought you were a girl?”
Ryder chuckles as he releases a perfect spiral in Mason’s direction. “She’s got you there.”
“Hey, whose side are you on, anyway?” Mason catches the ball and cradles it against his chest, then launches it toward Ben. I just stand there watching as they continue to toss it back and forth between the three of them. Haven’t they had enough football for one day?
I pull out my cell to check the time. “We should probably get going.”
“I guess,” Ryder says with an exaggerated sigh, like I’m putting him out or something. Which is particularly annoying since he’s the one who insisted on going with me.
Ben jogs up beside me, the football tucked beneath his arm. “Where are you two off to? Whoa, you’re sweaty.”
I fold my arms across my damp chest. “Hey, southern girls don’t sweat. We glow.”
Ben snorts at that. “Says who?”
“Says Ryder’s mom,” I say with a grin. It’s one of Laura Grace’s favorite sayings—one that always makes Ryder wince.
“The hardware store,” Ryder answers, snatching the ball back from Ben. “Gotta pick up some things for the storm—sandbags and stuff like that. Y’all want to come?”
“Nah, I think I’ll pass.” Mason wrinkles his nose. “Pretty sure I don’t want to be cooped up in the truck with Jemma glowing like she is right now.”
“Everybody thought you and Morgan were identical twin girls,” I say with a smirk. “Remember, Mason? Isn’t that just so cute?”
“I’ll go,” Ben chimes in. “If you’re getting sandbags, you’ll need some help carrying them out to the truck.”
“Thanks, Ben. See, someone’s a gentleman.”
“Don’t look now, Ryder, but your one-woman fan club is over there.” Mason tips his head toward the school building in the distance. “I think she’s scented you out. Quick. You better run.”
I glance over my shoulder to find Rosie standing on the sidewalk by the building’s double doors, looking around hopefully.
“Hey!” Mason calls out, waving both arms above his head. “He’s over here.”
Ryder’s cheeks turn beet-red. He just stares at the ground, his jaw working furiously.
“C’mon, man,” Ben says, throwing an elbow into Mason’s side. “Don’t be a dick.” He grabs the football and heads toward Ryder’s Durango. “We better get going. The hardware store probably closes at six.”
Silently, Ryder and I hurry after him and hop inside the truck—Ben up front, me in the backseat. We don’t look back to see if Rosie’s following.
The thing is, I’ve always suspected that Ben has feelings for Rosie. He’s never acted on it. What’s the point, what with the way she’s crushing on Ryder? I doubt she’s even noticed Ben’s existence, which is her loss because he’s really a great guy.
“Hey!” Rosie calls out, waving madly. “Ryder! Wait!”
I fix him with an accusing stare in the rearview mirror as he starts the engine and backs out of the parking space.
It’s pretty clear to me that he has been leading her on, considering he was all over her at Josh’s party and now he’s totally blowing her off. Of course, he’d gotten all mad and hotly denied it when I’d accused him of it the other day. But that’s Ryder for you.
I twist in my seat to watch as Rosie drops her arms to her sides, disappointment written all over her face. God, I hope she has a ride home. I quickly scan the mostly empty lot, looking for her car, and breathe a sigh of relief when I spot it over by the gym.
“So,” Ben says, tapping his fingers against his thighs, “Ryder’s going to watch out for you during the storm, I guess. Keep an eye on your place and everything?”
“I promised her dad I would,” Ryder says.
Because God knows that’s the only reason he’d do something nice for me. I can’t help but roll my eyes.
“Well, it’s not like I’m right down the road like Ryder is, but if you need anything, just let me know, okay? I don’t mind coming out there.”
“Thanks, Ben,” I say, patting his shoulder. “That’s sweet.”
And then Ryder leans over and turns on the radio, blasting a country music station loud enough to make conversation impossible.
I guess that means we’re done talking, which is fine by me.
* * *
TROPICAL STORM UPDATE flashes menacingly across the television screen, and I reach for the remote, turning up the volume several notches. Tropical Storm Paloma has been officially upgraded to hurricane status, the local meteorologist announces—just a little too gleefully, if you ask me. It’s currently a category one, but they expect it to strengthen to a two before making landfall.
Oh, joy.
The US model is predicting landfall just west of Pensacola, Florida, while the European model predicts Gulfport, Mississippi. Seems like a toss-up, except that they’re sending Jim Cantore to Gulfport, and everyone knows what that means.
The Mississippi coast is doomed.
The concern isn’t really the storm’s strength—even a two isn’t all that bad, really—but its sheer size and slow-moving track. Even now, a few days out, the sky has darkened to a foul shade of gray, and we’re nearly six hours from the coast. And the satellite image they’re showing on the screen is pretty damn scary-looking. It’s just massive.
The phone calls from my parents have gotten frantic. First they said I should pack up and head over to Magnolia Landing. The Marsdens’ house is structurally more sound, they insist, and set farther away from the creek and thus less prone to flooding. We have a much better chance of riding it out safely over there.
But that would mean packing up the cats and dogs—neither of which Laura Grace wants in her house, meaning they’d be stuck in the garage—and leaving this place unattended and vulnerable. So instead, Ryder’
s supposed to come over here and ride out the storm with me. If it hits us—though that “if” is starting to look more like a “when.”
And it’s not just the hurricane—or what’s left of it by the time it reaches us—that we have to worry about. Storms like this one often spawn tornadoes. I’m already preparing the storage room under the stairs as my storm shelter, just in case. It’s long and narrow, with plenty of room. I’ve stocked it with sleeping bags, pillows, and battery-operated lanterns, plus assorted snacks and a case of bottled water. If the tornado sirens go off, I’m ready.
“Residents as far north as the Tennessee border should be prepared for hurricane-strength winds,” the announcer drones on. “Secure anything loose, such as garbage cans and outdoor furniture, so that they don’t become projectiles. Prepare for possible power outages and contamination of the water supply. Make sure to stock up on necessary prescription medications and other medical supplies.”
I hit the mute button on the TV remote, unable to listen to any more of the gloom and doom. My cell beeps, and I reach for it. There’s a text from Lucy.
Looks like they might cancel school on Monday. Woot!
Information like this coming from Lucy is generally pretty reliable, since she happens to live right next door to Mrs. Crawford, the principal of Magnolia Branch High.
Yay, I can sit home and watch more Weather Channel! I text back.
This is an intervention—step away from the TV! NOW!
I laugh aloud at that. It’s such a typical Lucy-like thing to say.
My mom’s worried about you. Wants you to pack up and come over here.
Can’t. But Ryder’s coming over if the storm gets bad.
Lucy’s next text is just a line of googly eyes.
Not funny, I type, even though it kind of is.
You two can plan your wedding menu. Choose your linens. Stuff like that, she texts, followed by a smiley face.
I gaze at my phone with a frown. Also not funny.
New topic—you going to Morgan’s pageant tomorrow?
It’s still on? I was kind of expecting them to cancel it, what with the storm bearing down.
Yup, afraid so.
Luckily it’s a local, countywide pageant—the preliminary for the state’s Junior Miss Pageant, I think—which means it’s just over in Oxford at the Ford Center.
Then yeah, I answer. Want me to drive?
It’s a full five minutes before Lucy replies. I figure she’s gotten busy doing something, so I unmute the TV again. Probably a bad idea. Now they’re talking about the possibility of the storm hitting during peak tides, causing widespread flooding. They’re showing some old Katrina footage, which is unnecessary—because trust me, we all know what happened with Katrina.
I yawn and check the time. It’s late. It’s been a long day—school and then the football game. I should go to bed soon.
Finally, my phone chimes again. Sure. Pick me up around noon?
See you then, I type and then make a mental note to call the county duck club about Sunday’s skeet tournament. I’m assuming they’ll reschedule it, but you just never know. It’s a competition that I’ve entered—and won—every year since I was thirteen.
And here’s the thing—it really pisses them off. All these hunting boys and their daddies show up decked out in camo gear, determined to beat the girl who has the audacity to challenge their masculinity.
And, okay, I’ll admit it. . . . I like to needle ’em just a bit. I purposely wear the girliest outfit possible—little flowery sundresses with cowboy boots, most years. Drives ’em nuts. If they’re going to get beaten by a girl, they’d rather it be some tomboy wearing overalls and a flannel shirt, you know? Stupid sexist pigs.
I glance back at my phone, realizing that I haven’t heard from Nan in a couple of days. Sure, I get updates from my parents on a regular basis, but that’s not the same. Mostly, Nan’s been upbeat. She likes her surgeons, she says—a neurosurgeon and a neuro-otologist, whatever the heck that last one is. She’s trying to relax and take it easy. They’ve passed the time by visiting museums and taking little day trips—to Johnson Space Center, to Galveston. Still, I know she must be scared, more so as the surgery approaches.
I turn off the TV and round up the dogs to send them out for their late-night business. And then once I’m ready for bed, I’ll text Nan and see if she’s still up.
* * *
School wasn’t canceled on Monday after all. Instead, they’re releasing us at noon. Even now, a full hour before we’re due to get out, it’s obvious that they might have made a bad decision.
The weekend was mostly uneventful. Morgan won her pageant—no surprise there—and my skeet tournament was canceled, just as I predicted. The weather continued to deteriorate, the winds picking up alarmingly late last night. I got pretty much no sleep, as a result.
With a yawn, I glance over at the window, where sheets of driving rain are pounding the glass. The sky is a dark, ominous shade of gray—almost greenish. My stomach flutters nervously. I’m ready to go home and hunker down. It’s not like we’re accomplishing much today anyway. Right now we’re just sitting in homeroom, submitting nominations for the homecoming court. Morgan’s been elected our class maid every year since we were freshmen, so she’s a shoo-in for queen. Nominations seem more like a formality. The big question is, who will she choose to be her escort?
Maybe her brother. Seems like as good a guess as any. She won’t even speculate, because she doesn’t want to jinx herself.
Anyway, everyone’s supposed to write down three names on their ballot, and then the girl with the most votes gets our homeroom nomination. And then the entire class votes. The winner becomes homecoming queen, the runner-up our senior class maid.
The latter could go to anyone, though I’m putting my money—figuratively speaking, of course—on Jessica Addington, especially now that she and Mason seem to be an item. Jessica’s already pretty popular, but having her name linked to Mason’s has significantly upped her cred.
Only problem is, Mason can’t escort them both.
I add Jess’s name to my ballot beneath Morgan’s and Lucy’s and flip the page over on my desk just as a crash of thunder rattles the window. Mrs. Blakely, my homeroom teacher, glances over at the PA speaker with a scowl.
“They really need to send everyone home,” she mutters. “This is getting ridiculous.”
But if we can make it to noon, we get credit for the day and won’t have to make it up at the end of the year. I’m assuming that’s why they’re holding us hostage even while the conditions continue to worsen at an alarming rate.
As if on cue, the PA system crackles to life.
“Attention, students and faculty,” comes the principal’s voice. “In light of the current weather situation, we will be moving up dismissal to eleven fifteen a.m.”
That’s just five minutes from now, according to the clock on the wall.
“Please wrap up all homeroom business immediately. Thank you, and get home safely.”
“Okay, you heard the woman,” Mrs. Blakely says. “Turn in your ballots and you’re free to go.”
Everyone rises and shuffles to the front of the room wearing anxious expressions. How are we supposed to get home safely in this?
I feel particularly bad for the kids who walk home. I glance over worriedly at Francie Darlington. She lives only a couple of blocks from school, but she’s going to get drenched. I hurry to catch up with her as she makes her way out into the hall.
“Hey, Francie!” I call out. “Wait up. You want a ride?”
She turns, her face lighting up with a smile. “Yes! Thank you. It’s crazy out there.”
“I know, right? We’re going to get soaked just walking to the car. Here, let me stop at my locker first.” I tip my head toward the row of orange metal rectangles lining the wall.
“I’ve got to stop at mine, too. How ’bout I meet you over by the water fountain in five minutes?”
I nod. “S
ounds good.”
Francie and I aren’t exactly friends—we run in totally different social circles. But she’s nice. Smart. We used to take ballet together, back when we were in elementary school. Now she’s the kind of girl who wears a lot of black and listens to Evanescence and Black Veil Brides and occasionally dyes her hair with stripes of vivid color. I’ve always admired her ability to just be herself.
We part ways, and I hurry over to my locker and fumble with the combination several times before it opens. I don’t even know what to take with me—I have no idea if we’ll have school tomorrow, or the next day, even. Deciding that it’s best to be safe and cover all bases, I dump every textbook into my backpack. The bag’s so full I can’t even zip it all the way.
“Hey, you need help with that?”
I turn to find Patrick standing there, leaning against the row of lockers. “Nah, I’m good.” I heft the bag up on my shoulder, trying not to groan under the weight of it.
“I just wanted to apologize again for the other night.” He reaches up to brush the hair out of my eyes, his fingers lingering on my face. “Guess I had one too many.”
“You think?” I say sharply. The worst part is, the next morning as I was driving his car to school, I passed Lou on her way to the Marsdens’ just as I was pulling out onto Magnolia Landing Drive. And here’s the thing—there are only two houses on our road, theirs and ours. One way in and one way out, and I’m pretty sure Lou would recognize Patrick’s car. I mean, how many kids in Magnolia Branch drive a candy-apple-red BMW convertible? So from her perspective, it must have looked like Patrick leaving my house early in the morning after a night of unchaperoned debauchery. If she mentions it to Laura Grace, I’m screwed.
I’ve pretty much decided that he isn’t worth all this trouble. Yeah, he’s cute, and there’s something exciting about that bad-boy edge he’s got going on. But . . . it isn’t enough. I’ve been giving him the cold shoulder for the past few days, hoping he’ll get the message. But it turns out that Patrick isn’t very good at taking hints.
“C’mon. I said I was sorry.” He falls into step beside me with a shrug. “I don’t know what else you want from me.”
