by Kristi Cook
“That’s real nice,” Ryder says when I hit the stop button and shut the screen.
Nice? Isn’t “nice” just the polite way of saying “lame”? “Anyway, it doesn’t matter now,” I say with a shrug. “My parents said no, remember?”
“There’s got to be something else—a more compelling layer.” He strokes his chin, looking thoughtful. “Strength,” he says after a beat. “In the face of a crisis. That should be your theme. You document the storm, with a narrative tied into strength and courage. I bet you can even work in some Faulkner quotes, if you want to. And you can still use that footage, with some before-and-after shots. Here, hand me your camera.”
A little bewildered by his enthusiasm, I hand it over. I mean, I know I should be annoyed that he’s sort of hijacked my project, but truthfully, I didn’t really have a firm idea where I was going with it, anyway. He’s doing me a favor.
Rising, he walks over to the window, where rain and debris are pelting the glass, and hits a button. The camera beeps, indicating that he’s filming. “It’s about nine p.m. here in Magnolia Branch, Mississippi,” he narrates, the camera aimed at the dark sky beyond the glass. “Hurricane Paloma came ashore near Gulfport just a couple hours ago. We’ve been feeling the effects all day, even though we’re six hours to the north. The tornado sirens keep going off, and the road to this house is completely washed out. Earlier today, I almost got bit by a water moccasin, but Jemma here managed to kill it with a single shot to the head. She saved my life.”
He turns the camera on me. I wave it off, but he ignores me. “Jemma’s one of the strongest, most courageous people I know.”
I am? Since when?
“Deadly snakes, dangerous storms,” he continues. “She takes it all in stride. For now we’re just hunkering down and getting ready to ride it out. I’ll check in later and let y’all know how we’re holding up as the conditions deteriorate. Ryder out.”
I can’t help but snicker. “Oh my God, did you really just say ‘Ryder out’?”
He winces. “Is that too dorky?”
“Nah, it’s funny.” You really can’t go wrong with Star Trek references—at least, according to Daddy. “But it’s too dark in here to film. You won’t be able to see anything—it’ll all be in shadows.”
“That’s the point. Showing ’em exactly what we’re experiencing here. You know, from our perspective.”
“I guess,” I concede. “It’s not a bad idea, actually.”
His mouth widens into a grin. “We should set a timer. Do an update every couple of hours or something. What do you think?”
I let out a sigh of frustration. “I think my parents won’t let me go, so what’s the point?”
“It can’t hurt to apply,” he says with a shrug. “Right? Besides, they might change their minds once you get accepted.”
“If I get accepted.”
“I’m willing to bet you will.”
“Wow, you’ve got a lot of confidence in someone you don’t even like.”
A crash of thunder delays his reply. When it comes, it’s unexpectedly quiet. “What makes you think I don’t like you?”
Feeling suddenly vulnerable, I drag a pillow into my lap. “Gee, I don’t know. Maybe because you’ve said so? Like, a million times.”
He shakes his head. “I’ve never said I don’t like you.”
“I’m pretty sure you have. Remember that fight we had a couple of weeks ago? At Mama’s party?”
“You said you hated me,” he argues.
My cell phone rings, making us both jump. “It’s working!” I cry, reaching for it as it peals out Daddy’s ringtone. Jimmy Buffett, of course. I motion for Ryder to switch off the radio.
“Daddy? Hello?” I hit speaker and hold the phone up in front of my mouth.
“Half-pint? You there?” He’s breaking up, his voice cutting in and out. I can barely make out what he’s saying.
“Yeah, I’m here,” I say. “Can you hear me?”
“Are you okay, hon? We heard . . . tornadoes . . . been trying . . . service out.”
“We’re fine,” I yell, as if that’s going to help. “Ryder’s here, and we’re okay. How’s Nan?”
“Nan . . . okay . . . morning . . .”
“Daddy? You’re breaking up.”
“Careful . . . tomorrow . . .”
I shake my head, unable to make out what he’s saying. And then the phone beeps, indicating the call’s been dropped.
“Well, at least they know we’re okay,” Ryder says.
“If he heard me. Stupid phone.”
“We’ll try again in the morning.”
I shake my head. “I don’t think it’s going to be any better then.”
“Hey, where’s your optimism?”
I flop back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. “I’m so tired. This day sucks.”
“You wanna try and get some sleep?”
“Maybe,” I say with a shrug. My eyelids feel heavy all of a sudden. I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. “You want to set an alarm?”
“Nah, I’m pretty sure I’ll be awake. Want me to turn out the lamp?”
“Yeah, I guess. Do you mind?”
He rolls down the wick, extinguishing the flame, and the room is cast in darkness. I slip under the sheet and plump the pillow beneath my head, trying to get comfortable.
I hear Ryder moving around on the far side of the bed.
“You’re not going anywhere, are you?” I ask him.
“Not unless you want me to.”
“I’m good,” I say, turning onto my side.
We both fall silent, listening to the storm raging around us. It’s getting worse. The wind is a high-pitched whistle, constant now. Debris crashes into the house at regular intervals, tree branches slapping against the windows. It’s going to be ugly out there in the morning, that’s for sure.
I think about Lucy and Morgan—wonder what they’re doing right now, how they’re holding up. They’ve got their families, at least. I hope they’re all safe, their homes not affected by the tornado that blew through earlier. More than anything, I wish I could call or text them and check in.
But I can’t. I’m totally cut off from everyone—everyone but Ryder.
An ear-splitting crash outside makes me jump, my breath catching in my throat. “What was that?”
“I think that was a tree coming down.” Ryder’s voice is a little shaky. “Maybe we should go back into the storage room.”
“Just . . . turn the radio back on. If we need to take shelter, they’ll tell us.”
He does, and we listen quietly for a good half hour. There’s nothing new, really. Just the storm slowing down as it tracks up the state, barreling toward us. Sounds like it will have weakened considerably by then, but we’ll still get tropical storm–force winds. And the slower track means a higher chance of flooding, especially around high tide in the morning. We’ve got a long way to go before it’s over.
Ryder turns off the radio and reaches for my camera, pointing it at me in the dark. It beeps, and a red light indicates that he’s filming. “Are you scared, Jemma?”
I prop my head up on one elbow. “Yeah, I’m scared,” I say, carefully weighing my words. “But . . . we’ll be okay. This house has weathered plenty of storms through the years. It’ll keep us safe.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“Yeah, me too.”
I hear him swallow hard. “I’m glad I’m here with you.”
“I’m glad you are too,” I say automatically. But then . . . I realize with a start that it’s true. I am glad he’s here. I feel safe with him. More relaxed than I would be otherwise. He thinks I’m distracting him, making him forget his fears. But the truth is, he’s helping me just as much. Maybe more. I’m pretty sure I’d be a blubbering mess right about now if I were alone.
“Thanks, Ryder,” I say, my voice thick.
“For what?”
“Everything.” I squeeze my eyes shut. “Turn
off the camera, okay?”
He does, setting it aside before stretching out on the far side of the bed, facing me. Our gazes meet, and my stomach flutters nervously. There’s something there in his dark eyes, something I’ve never seen before. Vulnerability . . . mixed with a kind of dark, melty chocolate expression that I don’t recognize.
Our hands are lying there on the bed between us, nearly touching. I lift my pinkie, brushing it against his. Chills race down my spine at the contact, my heart pounding against my ribs.
I hear his breath catch. Slowly, his hand moves over mine, his fingertips brushing my knuckles until his entire hand covers mine. His skin is hot, the pressure reassuring. A minute passes, maybe two. It’s almost like he’s waiting, watching to see if I pull my hand away.
I don’t.
In one quick movement, he slides his hand under mine and threads our fingers together.
We lie like that for several minutes, arms outstretched, hands joined, eyes wide open. The storm continues to rage around us, but it’s like we’re locked in this safe, calm place where nothing can touch us.
My breathing slows; my limbs grow heavy. My lids flutter shut. I try to resist, but it’s futile. I’m exhausted.
I drift off to sleep with a smile on my lips, Ryder holding me fast.
ACT II
Scene 7
I awake with a start, shaking the cobwebs of sleep from my mind. It’s pitch-dark out, the wind howling. It takes me a couple seconds to get my bearings, to realize I’m in my parents’ bed, Ryder beside me, on his side, facing me. Our hands are still joined, though our fingers are slack now.
“Hey, you,” he says sleepily. “That one was loud, huh?”
“What was?”
“Thunder. Rattled the windows pretty bad.”
“What time is it?”
“Middle of the night, I’d say.”
I could check my phone, but that would require sitting up and letting go of his hand. Right now, I don’t want to do that. I’m too comfortable. “Have you gotten any sleep at all?” I ask him, my mouth dry and cottony.
“I think I drifted off for a little bit. Till . . . you know . . . the thunder started up again.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
“It should calm down some when the eye moves through.”
“If there’s still an eye by the time it gets here. The center of circulation usually starts breaking up once it goes inland.” Yeah, all those hours watching the Weather Channel occasionally come in handy.
He gives my hand a gentle squeeze. “Wow, maybe you should consider studying meteorology. You know, if the whole film-school thing doesn’t work out for you.”
“I could double major,” I shoot back.
“I bet you could.”
“What are you going to study?” I ask, curious now. “I mean, besides football. You’ve got to major in something, don’t you?”
He doesn’t answer right away. I wonder what’s going through his head—why he’s hesitating.
“Astrophysics,” he says at last.
“Yeah, right.” I roll my eyes. “Fine, if you don’t want to tell me . . .”
“I’m serious. Astrophysics for undergrad. And then maybe . . . astronomy.”
“What, you mean in graduate school?”
He just nods.
“You’re serious? You’re going to major in something that tough? I mean, most football players major in something like phys ed or underwater basket weaving, don’t they?”
“Greg McElroy majored in business marketing,” he says with a shrug, ignoring my jab.
“Yeah, but . . . astrophysics? What’s the point, if you’re just going to play pro football after you graduate anyway?”
“Who says I want to play pro football?” he asks, releasing my hand.
“Are you kidding me?” I sit up, staring at him in disbelief. He’s the best quarterback in the state of Mississippi. I mean, football is what he does. . . . It’s his life. Why wouldn’t he play pro ball?
He rolls over onto his back, staring at the ceiling, his arms folded behind his head. “Right, I’m just some dumb jock.”
“Oh, please. Everyone knows you’re the smartest kid in our class. You always have been. I’d give anything for it to come as easily to me as it does to you.”
He sits up abruptly, facing me. “You think it’s easy for me? I work my ass off. You have no idea what I’m working toward. Or what I’m up against,” he adds, shaking his head.
“Probably not,” I concede. “Anyway, if anyone can major in astrophysics and play SEC ball at the same time, you can. But you might want to lose the attitude.”
He drops his head into his hands. “I’m sorry, Jem. It’s just . . . everyone has all these expectations. My parents, the football coach—”
“You think I don’t get that? Trust me. I get it better than just about anyone.”
He lets out a sigh. “I guess our families have pretty much planned out our lives for us, haven’t they?”
“They think they have, that’s for sure,” I say, just before a loud, shattering crash makes me gasp.
Ryder’s already up, reaching for one of the lanterns. “That came from the living room,” he says. “You better get your camera. Whatever it is, we should film it.”
I nod, grabbing it before following him out. Sadie jumps down and tries to go with me, but I herd her back into the bedroom.
“Shit!” Ryder calls out from the living room. “I’m going to need some help here.”
I run toward his voice, terrified by the alarm I hear in it. “What is it?”
“A tree limb crashed through the window. Stop right there! Don’t come any closer. There’s glass everywhere. You got a tarp somewhere? And duct tape?”
I freeze, gaping at the sight. “Yeah, it’s all in the dining room.”
“Okay, get it and put on some rain boots or something to protect your feet. We’ve gotta try and tarp up the window.” He pushes the furniture away from the window, the wind whistling loudly through the broken pane of glass as rain lashes against the hardwood floors.
I pan around with the camera, hoping I’m getting some usable footage in the dim lighting. The lens seems to provide a filter, making me feel somehow detached from what I’m seeing: jagged, broken glass; a tree branch half in my living room; my mom’s favorite drapes pulled from the rod, flapping noisily against the battered window frame.
I’ve seen enough.
“I’ll be right back,” I say, flipping off the camera before searching for supplies. I find a pair of flip-flops in the laundry room and figure they’ll do, then make my way to the dining room, where I grab a blue plastic tarp and a roll of silver duct tape. I hurry back to the living room, hoping there’s not too much damage.
It takes us a good half hour to get the tarp taped up securely. I’m not sure it’s going to withstand the wind for long, but it’s better than nothing. It’s only when we’re done that I notice Ryder is tracking blood everywhere.
“Oh my God, Ryder! Your feet.” While I’ve been tromping through the broken glass in flip-flops, Ryder is barefoot.
His eyes seem to widen with surprise as he glances down—as if he’s just now noticing that he’s hurt. “Can you get me an old towel or two? I’ll get the floor cleaned up.”
The floor? He’s bleeding like a stuck pig, and he’s worried about the floor?
I manage to find a stack of ratty old towels in the downstairs linen closet, and hand him two. “Here. Wrap these around your feet and go to the master bath and wait for me. I’ll clean up the blood out here, and then I’ll see about those cuts.”
“Nah, I’m fine. I can—”
“Ryder! Just do it. Go.”
He does, visibly wincing with pain.
It takes me another half hour to clean up the blood as best I can in the semidarkness. Whatever I missed can wait till the morning, when I can actually see what I’m doing.
When I make my way to the bathroom, Ryder’s sitting on the edge of
my mom’s tub, picking glass from his feet and laying the bloody shards in a towel. He’s got the oil lamp in there, along with two battery-operated lanterns, but it’s still not enough light, not really.
I find the hydrogen peroxide and some cotton balls in the closet and lower myself to the floor. “Okay, let me see how bad it is.”
“It’s nothing,” he says. “I think I got all the glass out.”
I shake my head. “I love that you made me go get shoes while you just tromped around in the broken glass.”
“It was too late; I’d already stepped in it before I even knew what was going on. Besides, there wasn’t time.”
“Yeah, right. C’mon, be still. You’ve gotta let me clean out the cuts.” Holding one foot over the tub, I pour peroxide over the wounds, dabbing with cotton to make sure all the glass is out. “I think we’ve got some gauze and bandage tape somewhere. At least, I hope so. Maybe in Nan’s and my bathroom.” Nan’s always taking a cleat to the shin or getting a bad scrape from artificial turf. “Okay, this one’s good. Let me have the other one.” This foot’s worse. I find a couple more slivers of glass and manage to pull them out before cleaning it up.
Luckily, Nan does have gauze and tape in the bathroom cabinet, along with a tube of Neosporin ointment. I retrieve it all as quickly as possible and hurry back to the relative safety of downstairs. Ryder remains stoically silent as I daub the wounds with ointment and then wrap his feet in gauze, securing the bandages with tape.
“Okay, done. How’s that feel?”
“Fine. Um, I think I cut my hand, too. It’s pretty deep, actually.” He holds out his right hand—his football-throwing hand, I realize, my heart sinking. He’s got it wrapped in one of the towels, blood soaking through.
“Oh my God, Ryder! Crap.”
I start to unwrap it, but pause when an all-too-familiar sound rents through the night. The tornado sirens.
“You have got to be kidding me,” I say. “I mean, what else?”
