Unfolding

by Jonathan Friesen

  Dad’s arm rounded my shoulder, tried to straighten my spine. “But I don’t think we’ll need to get involved. Time’s on Stormi’s side. The two of you are weeks from setting school behind you. I don’t figure she’ll stick around our quiet town after graduation.” He paused. “Do you?”

  The room was silent. A little too much so.

  “What’s wrong with Gullary?”

  “Oh, nothing. I’m not saying that. It just seems like a young lady with so much going for her wouldn’t find much purpose here.” He gave my chest a thump. “Best let her go now. People like Stormi have a bigger place in the world. You’d do her a favor to tell her that.”

  Bigger place than me, huh?

  “Why do you think she landed here?” I asked.

  “Ma would say Providence, but there are other forces at work in this world.”

  I rubbed my face, frowned. “Like what?”

  “Oh, painful forces without names. But they come without warning. There are times when life is going well, when you’re headed in a wonderful . . .”

  “Trajectory?”

  “Exactly right, Jonah. A wonderful trajectory. And from out of nowhere, the unbelievable happens, and all you love gets turned upside down. You keep breathing. That’s all you can do.” His voice trailed off. “Keep breathing.”

  I felt certain that one of Dad’s unnamed forces, thick and weighty, had settled in my bedroom.

  “Now come on.” He forced a smile, and gently backhanded my shoulder. “Mom’ll be back from church soon, and I promised her the place would be spotless. That’s a two-man job.”

  Spring cleaning took the rest of the day, but I glanced through the curtain each time I strode by the window. Someday Stormi would need me like I needed her, and, once again, Aragorn would be there.

  CHAPTER 5

  If Sunday was dark, Monday was flat-out inky.

  Rain fell in sheets, and I splashed through mud puddles, bounding up the Pickerings’ steps. I raised my hand to knock, but never struck wood. Stormi burst out, slamming the door behind her.

  “What’s going on?” My, but she was shaking.

  “Do you think your dad, your mom, might take me in?”

  I squinted. “What’s he doing to you?”

  “Do you think they’d take me in now?”

  “Ma took in that stray German shepherd last year, so I don’t see her objecting. Dad would be tougher, but if there was a reason.” I paused. “You have to tell me. Is there a reason?”

  Stormi gathered herself straight, offering a mighty body shake. Then composure returned.

  “Well, let’s give it some thought. Connor isn’t bearable any longer.” Stormi reached out her hand, and let the rain splash against her palm. “Beautiful day.” She squeezed my forearm. “Get me away from here.”

  Again, the door flew open.

  Connor stared at Stormi. Of all the emotions a soul can string together, contempt and want are the most terrifying. I tell you, that is what I saw. He turned those eyes toward me, and good old-fashioned disgust took over. “So, Stormi, we’re done, huh?” An evil heart says those words while looking at another. “That was all?”

  “We never started. We never will.” Stormi’s hand worked its way into mine, and Connor’s jaw tightened.

  “Hey, Fish. No flopping yet, huh? Well, the day’s young.”

  “I, I don’t—”

  I never stuttered, unless I was near a Pickering. Stormi, out of adoration. Connor, from sheer hatred.

  “What’s that?” Connor leaned forward, bent down. “I missed what you said. Were you talking to me or the ground?”

  My mouth opened, shut, and I shook my head. Connor was twenty-one. Connor was an idiot. He had no job, unless alcohol consumption could be considered an occupation. But Connor had good looks on his side, and in Gullary that stood for something. I’d seen most every girl in town climb into his truck. Except for one. The one he couldn’t have.

  The one I knew he wanted most of all.

  Connor reached for Stormi’s arm and she recoiled.

  “Easy, sis. Why don’t I drive you to school? Heck, Hunchie can come too. We’ll throw the beast in back.”

  Stormi spun me around and ducked under my umbrella. “Let’s go.”

  We left slowly beneath the pattering of raindrops and the occasional peal of thunder, and though Stormi relaxed, I admit the exchange had wounded me. Those for whom you have no regard shouldn’t know the ways to skewer your heart, but with a word, Connor Pickering could leech blood like no other.

  “Finals today.” Stormi broke the silence. “World History and Psych. Should be passable.”

  “For you.” I glanced over and noticed that she still wore the necklace, the one I gave her. “Hey, you’re wearing the—”

  “Connor saw it and went a little crazy. He guessed who it came from.” She touched it gently. “I think this gift might cause both of us some problems. Do you want me to lose it?”

  “It’s not the necklace he hates. It’s the you-and-me, right?”

  She said nothing.

  “And I can’t lose that.”

  Stormi leaned her head on my shoulder. “He can’t figure us out.”

  “Nobody can.” I paused. “Neither can I. Everyone stares at perfect you—”

  “Not perfect.”

  “And then they look at Deformicus flopicus fishicus—”

  “I hate when you do that stupid Latin thing.”

  “Point is,” I said, “you can obviously spend your time with anyone you want and you pretty much hang with me. Someday, possibly, you’ll tell me why?”

  Maybe I didn’t raise my tone at the end of that sentence. Or maybe she didn’t hear me beneath the splat of raindrops overhead. Either way, she left my question dangling unanswered. “You know,” she straightened, “we’re a little early to head to the bus stop. Let’s take the long way, around the chat pile.”

  I shrugged, and we huddled and walked, listening to the pound of straight-down rain bouncing off the umbrella.

  We reached the first heap and Stormi grabbed my hand. “Hold up here.”

  She stared at that pile, ten stories tall and mixed with fine tailings. When it rained, those tailings traced grooved streams down the mound.

  Stormi peeked down at her feet, at the toxic pool forming around us.

  The slop filled my shoes. “You, uh, you want to keep standing in a poisonous pond?”

  She shushed me with her finger and kept staring at the ground.

  She’s unnatural.

  The words popped in, and I pushed them out. Unusual, maybe, but not unnatural.

  “Do you ever feel there’s something you should be doing?” Stormi stared straight ahead. “Something important? Do you ever feel like you’re wandering through life, walking in circles, running from something, when right in front of you is this big thing?”

  “Like a chat pile?”

  She glared.

  “Sorry,” I said. “No, I, uh, I don’t. But you’ll figure it out. You always do. Even Dad thinks so. He says you’re about to leave.” I hadn’t planned on bringing Dad into this, but he sort of fit. “Are you, you know, leaving Gullary?”

  “Yes.”

  I kid you not; right here a rumble of thunder shook the sky.

  What do you do when half of your heart sprouts legs and decides to walk out the door? How does half a person live?

  “Where you going? Is it far?”

  “From you? Not so far.” She stepped out of the sludge and shook her feet. “It’s time. We better get to the stop.”

  We walked to Washington Ave. and swung onto 2nd Street. In the distance, the bus stop was alive with drippy laughter. A puddle fight beneath a lightning storm. The senior class was soaked, except for Gina and Yolanda, who stood on the far side of the street.

  Such was school for seniors in May. It kicked the maturity level back a few years. Which probably explained the rash of parking lot vandalism at school the previous week. Which abso
lutely explained the principal banning all students from driving to finals. Which unfortunately meant a special, early bus had to be sent to Gullary solely for the senior class.

  Which was the reason for the impromptu water fight happening at the bus stop.

  We eased up, and Stormi squeezed my forearm. “I no longer need the umbrella, Jonah.”

  I frowned and stepped away, still thinking about her departure. Rain fell hard on Stormi’s upturned face, and she closed her eyes. She always said she listened better beneath clouds, and if true, whatever she heard today would fall loud and clear.

  The bus to Waxton-Gullary Senior High hydroplaned to a stop in front of us, sending a swath of water onto jeans and bare legs, but nobody cared.

  Especially Stormi.

  We boarded, all except for my friend, who stood as a statue, palms raised, jaw set.

  Unnatural.

  Hank, the bus driver and a stickler for time, offered two honks. Late to school was forgivable. Late for finals, a different matter.

  “Commune with the world after you graduate!” Hank held a newspaper above his head and poked his baldness out the bus door. “I give you ten seconds and then I’m leavin’ without you.”

  She didn’t move.

  “Stormi!” I hollered out the window. “Come on!”

  Hank turned to me. “Sorry, Jonah. Whatever’s gotten ahold of her can’t throw me off schedule.”

  I sighed, the brakes hissed.

  And Stormi jumped in front of the bus.

  “Whoa!” Bus brakes squealed.

  Stormi leaped around and slapped the accordion door, which quickly opened. Chuckles faded to strange silence. Stormi hopped up, scanned our faces, and rubbed her own.

  “All of you, off the bus,” she whispered. Her breath was heavy, and she grabbed my arm, her voice gaining strength. “Off the bus! Everyone!”

  “That girl needs medical attention.” Hank levered the door shut and pulled out. “Enough theater. Sit down.”

  Stormi stared at me, wild-eyed. I knew what she was asking.

  Right now, I’d sure appreciate a normal best friend.

  I took a deep breath and walked up the aisle. “No, Hank.” I jammed my foot on the brake, and again we screeched to a stop.

  “Foot. Off. My bus.” Hank reached down and lifted my leg.

  “Why not open up? Give the kids who want to get off the chance.”

  He squinted, massaging his temple. “You’re letting affection warp good sense. Mayor’s going to hear of this.”

  “I know. Believe me, I know.”

  Hank smirked and opened the door. “Well, I remember a time when I would’ve done the same for a girl. Been a few years now.”

  Stormi quickly walked down the aisle, touching the shoulder of every classmate except for Gina, who swatted her with a math textbook. When she again reached the front of the bus, her voice was calm and settled and held more authority than I thought possible.

  “I will tell you one last time.” She pointed at the door. “Get off this bus.”

  Her eyes turned terrible, so terrible that I almost didn’t recognize her. So terrible that seventeen kids risked failing finals and stepped into the rain. When finally the bus did pull out, only one face remained pressed against the glass. Gina Cartwright.

  It was the last time I ever saw her.

  “Cat Jones had a view of the whole thing.” My legs felt weak, and I slumped down against the cell opposite Tres’s. “You know the pole bridge over Limon River? How that turn onto it comes out of the blue? Well, due to the rain, Cat was shutting down his irrigation, and our bus came screaming by fast. Way too fast, given conditions. Cat jumped the fence and stepped onto Washout Road in time to see the bus squeal, misjudge the right, crash straight through the old fence, and drop from view. Cat hauled after it and peeked down into the river. The bus landed on its head. Hank, Gina, they didn’t live.”

  Tres stared at his dinner tray.

  “Only one kid on that bus?” His voice sounded far away. “That was a stroke of fortune.”

  I shook my head and tapped the floor slow and rhythmic. “That was the unnatural part.”

  Tres’s gaze shot up. “Some got off before, didn’t they?”

  “Some.”

  “And it was Stormi.” He whispered, “She knew.”

  “I can’t find her. Haven’t seen her since. The rest of us got off that bus and drifted back into town. But not Stormi. She wandered after the bus, crying, I think. Stormi never cries.” I sighed hard and pointed at his tray. “If it wasn’t for her, there’d be no chili in your cell.”

  Tres stood and paced. “There shouldn’t be chili in this cell,” he muttered. “That crash finally would’ve ended it.” He pounded the wall.

  “Ended what? My life? Yeah, it would have. It would have wiped the senior class of Gullary off the face of this earth. And you seem to be taking the accident’s side.” I stared at Tres. Maybe he’d been locked up so long, he misunderstood key portions of my narrative, but I still thought seeing me alive would provide him a little happiness. “It’s strange. Walking around today. Coming here today. It feels almost wrong.”

  Tres sighed. “Here.” He shoved Ma’s cooking back into the hall. “I ain’t hungry no more, and you deserve a good meal. You were on death row, all right, and Stormi done issued a last-second pardon.”

  Tres opened his drawer and pulled out a sheet of paper, ripped it in two, and scribbled a quick note. He glanced at the rip, shaved little bits off the torn edge, and held it up to the light. “Close enough. For you. Pocket it and set your eyes on it later. After things calm down ‘round here.”

  I rose and nodded, took the note, and trudged slowly toward the red door.

  “Hey, Jonah!”

  I stopped but did not turn. “Yeah.”

  “I am mighty glad you got off the bus.”

  I closed the red door behind me and glanced around the gallery. Another ripped note, this one from Stormi, rested on the counter.

  Need to get away for a few days.

  Please, come see me.

  Take the birthday path to our place.

  I lumbered home and into my room, where I began a frantic stuffing. Extra clothes, wool hat, and a flashlight all went into my pack. Who knew how long we’d stay?

  “Jonah.”

  I spun around. Dad and Ma stood in the doorway, their faces somber.

  “Where is she?” Dad asked.

  “She? Can you be a bit more specific?”

  “Jonah, not the time for that.”

  “Kinda is. Stormi, then?”

  Ma walked in, glanced at my pack, and sat on my bed. “There are some questions that beg answers. And right now, I think she is the only one who has them.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  Ma started to speak, but Dad shushed her and took a step forward. “David Cartwright lost his daughter in a bus accident that, by all accounts, Stormi had foreknowledge of.” He glanced at her photos covering my wall and stuffed his hands in his pockets. “This is no small thing. How did she know? Unless she knew who meddled with the brakes, Jonah, she could not. We both know she lives in an . . . unstable environment.”

  “Brakes fail. By themselves. No meddling required. And buses lose control in storms. This isn’t the first time she’s predicted a tragedy.” I paused. “Wait, you said ‘unstable environment.’ You’re saying Connor did it.”

  “More likely—and don’t take this wrong—it was Stormi herself. Greasy Jake confirmed that she worked on that bus in his shop not more than a week ago. Mr. Cartwright is convinced she’s the one.”

  Of all the stupid sentences my dad had strung together over the years, these were so far afield I could hardly speak.

  I straightened as much as I could and walked toward my father. “You should be thankful for what she did this morning. She saved the entire class. She saved me.”

  He winced, and I wanted to smack him.

  “Speaking of you, son, from your classm
ates’ reports, it sounds like you had a hand in the proceedings as well.”

  “Well, yeah, I stopped the bus by stomping on perfectly good brakes. Can we agree that’s a good thing?”

  “I think what your father is trying to say is that he needs to know who knew what, and how they knew it.” Ma sighed. “Please, where is she, Jonah?”

  I peered around my room, thinking on what to share, what to hold. “I’m going to see her now, and in a few days we’ll come back. And when we do, you can talk to her.” I lowered my voice. “Stormi’s done nothing wrong. Unexplained intuition is no reason for concern.” I peeked into Dad’s eyes. “Isn’t that how it went?”

  Dad glanced sharply. “Yeah. That’s how it went.” He folded his arms, and the muscles in his jaw tensed and then loosened. “If you can convince me that your return will be imminent.”

  I dug in my pocket and yanked out a note. “Doesn’t sound like I can convince you of anything, but . . .” I unfolded the sheet and flattened it over my knee. It wasn’t Stormi’s handwriting. “Oh, wrong note.” Stormi’s came out next, and I laid it on my desk.

  Dad read the words. “Her birthday? I didn’t know.”

  “Neither did I.”

  He pushed his hand through his hair. “All right. I’ll appease David. I trust a private message from Stormi to you reveals her plans. But you may not leave before the funeral. All the Everetts will pay their respects to Gina. It’s only right. Stormi can wait.”

  I stared at my pack. “But I can’t contact her. There’s no reception at the . . . You know what? Fine. Deal.”

  “Deal.” Dad exhaled hard. “Now can I see the other note?”

  “It’s not from her,” I said.

  Dad raised his eyebrows.

  “What?” I frowned. “It’s not!”

  He reached out his hand.

  “I’m an adult. You can look at it, but next time trust me a little. I haven’t read it yet myself.” I threw it in his direction.

  Dad bent over, scooped it up, and placed the sheet below Stormi’s. “Deceit helps nobody, Jonah. Has she given you still more?” He tongued his cheek.

  I walked to the desk, reached down and flattened the pieces of paper. The tear lined up perfectly. It was more than the same note; it was the same sheet. Given to me by two different people.