No Judgments

by Meg Cabot

  As if she’d read my mind, Dani said, “Lots of people stay, you know, Bree, even with mandatory evacs. Locals worry about looters and want to guard their homes or businesses, or they’re sick, or have loved ones who are sick, like your boy Gary, or they can’t afford to leave, or whatever. Evacuating is expensive. If you want to stay, you’ll be totally fine. Even though the hospital will be closed, there’ll be plenty of people around, even a skeleton crew of emergency responders.” She gave a mischievous grin. “But of course, a couple firehouses are going to be stationed up with us. I’m looking forward to meeting some fresh probies.”

  Smiling, I rolled my eyes. Daniella often complained that dating apps were useless on such a small island—you basically ended up having already slept with everyone or being colleagues with the rest. The only way to meet anyone new was to travel or hook up with tourists.

  I didn’t suffer from that problem—not because I was new to the island, but because I was on a dating hiatus. I wasn’t sure when, or if, my lady parts would ever be open again for business.

  “But, hey, this place—” Dani thumped the side of her fist against the bedroom wall. “Solid concrete. Once Sonny gets the shutters on, it’ll be like a fortress. So you’re good here.”

  Sonny Petrovich was our landlady Lydia’s son, a boy who was so extremely fond of video games that he would talk to you about them ad nauseum if you expressed the slightest enthusiasm, so I’d learned it was best not to.

  “The only thing you have to worry about,” she went on, “is flooding.”

  “Flooding?”

  “Yeah. I wasn’t living here then, but I heard it happened during Hurricane Wilhelmina—not too bad, only a foot. But Lydia had to replace the fridge and stove and stuff—”

  I stared at her. Flooding?

  “But every hurricane’s different,” Daniella went on. “Some are rain events, some are wind. You just never know. If it’s only wind, you’re golden in this place.”

  “I think,” I said, getting up, “I’ll just go check my messages.”

  “Yeah.” Daniella nodded. “You should. Also, you should probably go to the store and buy some supplies before they run out, just in case. Like bottled water. And food for Gary. And alcohol. I have a list the Red Cross gave us to hand out to people. Alcohol’s not on it, of course, but I wouldn’t even go through a tropical storm without tequila, let alone a hurricane.”

  I took the paper she plucked from the top of her dresser. Many of the things we already had—canned goods, bread, a manual can opener. But others—flashlight, batteries—it had never occurred to me to purchase. Daniella must have read my expression since she laughed and said, “I have all that stuff in the closet by the kitchen. Bought it for the last storm that headed our way, then never used it because it veered out to sea. You just might want to buy fresh batteries. But you’re welcome to the rest of the stuff.”

  I felt relief wash over me. “Thanks, Dani. You’re a lifesaver. Literally!” Suddenly overwhelmed by how lucky I was to have found a roommate—and friend—like her, merely by answering an ad, I added, “I’m going to miss you.”

  “I’m going to miss you, too,” she said, and opened her arms to give me one of her “Dani hugs,” which she handed out frequently at the hospital (but never, she’d informed me, to the “drunk frat boys during spring break.” Even Dani had her limits).

  And then she was gone. Her last words to me were to be sure to look after her sourdough starter—Daniella was an avid baker—that she’d inherited from her grandmother, but which would spoil in the fridge if the power went out.

  I swore I would.

  She’d barely been out of the apartment for five minutes before I became convinced that I was never going to see her again.

  Chapter Four

  If your community calls for a mandatory evacuation, heed the warning.

  I was being ridiculous. The reason I felt so down was because the apartment seemed so dark and lonely after Dani left. She was such a bright and energetic force.

  Also it was literally dark, since Sonny Petrovich had come around outside and begun to shutter the windows with large stainless steel planks, each one of which had to be drilled into place along runners that were secured onto the walls of the apartment building with a number of long screws.

  I kept the Weather Channel on for company as I ate lunch—leftover chicken salad from the café—though it was hard to hear over Sonny’s drilling.

  I soon regretted it. Not the salad, the news.

  Because according to the news, everyone who lived in South Florida who did not immediately evacuate from the area was going to die.

  Not only die, but die in a variety of ways, most likely from drowning in the tidal surge Hurricane Marilyn was bringing with it, and also from the destructive force of its 170-mile-per-hour winds.

  The forecasters couldn’t be sure, since there was no power or communication in Saint Martin or the Virgin Islands or anywhere else Hurricane Marilyn had already struck, but they were predicting that hundreds in the storm’s apocalyptic path were probably already dead, and that those who did not get out of its way now would soon be dead as well.

  Since this seemed like information I could do without, I switched off the television and opened my laptop. I had dozens of emails and social media messages from friends and relatives wondering if it was true that I had not evacuated and if so, why not. My phone was the same way, only with text messages and voice mails.

  Most of them were from my mother. Each held a note of mounting hysteria. Classic Justine Beckham:

  I think you should know that the governor of Florida has just issued a statement that anyone who doesn’t evacuate from your area had better write their Social Security number on their arm so that their bodies can be identified after the storm.

  My mom had always known how to lay on the drama. It was one of the reasons her radio show was number one in her time slot, even though it was about legal advice.

  I don’t know what you’re thinking turning down Caleb’s generous offer. I know you’re angry with him, but what happened wasn’t his fault. Kyle was drunk—did you know he’s in rehab now? You can’t hold Caleb responsible for the actions of his friends. You of all people should know this, considering you went to law school—not, of course, that you bothered to finish.

  Wow, Justine. Way to turn the knife.

  That was interesting about Kyle, though. I hadn’t known he’d gone to rehab. That was big. Huge, even.

  Although it didn’t change anything, it actually made me feel a little better. If Kyle was in rehab, it meant he couldn’t come after me again. I’d sleep even better now, knowing this, despite the coming storm.

  I wondered why Caleb hadn’t mentioned it, although it didn’t take a genius to know why: because then he’d have to admit his friend wasn’t perfect after all, and that he’d been wrong to say I’d “overreacted” about what had happened.

  Unfortunately, my mother went on:

  And I know you think you don’t need to listen to me anymore after that ridiculous genealogy test. But there are some bonds that are stronger than DNA, Sabrina. What about the fact that I carried you around in my womb for nine months, and breast-fed you for six? Do those things count for nothing?

  I hit delete without listening to the rest. I’d heard enough. I loved my mother—and I did consider her my mother, even if we weren’t genetically related. She was the woman who’d given birth to me and raised me.

  But sometimes she was a little much.

  Since it was hard to concentrate on anything with all the drilling going on outside—and the throbbing going on in my head now that I’d listened to Justine’s messages—I decided to go to the store to buy the supplies Daniella had recommended.

  So, after carefully checking that Sonny was not right outside my bathroom window—he was a sweet boy, and not at all the Peeping Tom type, but I didn’t want to flagrantly strip in front of him—I showered, washing the smell of bacon from my shoulder-l
ength pink hair (it had been blond for most of my life, but on impulse I’d asked Daniella to help me dye it: new life, new hair), then changed from my work clothes into shorts and a T-shirt, and finally opened the front door to my apartment.

  Sonny was carefully drilling a precut steel shutter to the front window of my apartment. The sunshine poured brightly into the front courtyard—my apartment was one of three other identical two-bedrooms, all built in Spanish-style stucco around a single decoratively tiled courtyard, in the center of which grew a large frangipani tree, currently in full bloom.

  Gary, who could not resist any opportunity to both lounge in the sun and greet a visitor, darted past me to fling himself against Sonny’s bare legs.

  “Oh, hi, Bree.” Sonny bent down to stroke Gary’s ears. “Did you hear about the new version of Battlefront? They just put a new edition out this week. I’m already up to level sixty-eight.”

  “No,” I said. “I can’t say I knew about that. I’m more concerned about this hurricane. Do you think it’s going to hit us?”

  “Oh, no,” Sonny said dismissively, straightening up. “But my mom is making us evacuate to Orlando anyway.”

  “But you don’t think it’s coming here?” I felt the alarm I’d been experiencing since watching the news—and listening to my mom’s message—growing. Maybe I was making a terrible mistake. Maybe all the people who’d left me those messages, including my mother, were right.

  Except that, honestly, what did they know? None of them lived in the cone of uncertainty, or even knew what one was, really. If Drew Hartwell wasn’t evacuating (and he didn’t seem to be), why should I?

  “Well, we were going to go to Orlando anyway,” Sonny explained. “They have a new park devoted to Star Wars. I want to see that! You know I’m up to level sixty-eight in Battlefront?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “You mentioned that. So when are you two leaving?”

  “Later tonight, I guess,” Sonny said. “As soon as she can find some gas. You know there’s no gas anywhere on the island? Except maybe the Shell over by the high school, she says. But there’s a three-hour wait.”

  Oh. Well, so much for using Dani’s car. The impending gasoline shortage was a problem they’d mentioned on the Weather Channel, but I hadn’t thought it was something that would affect Little Bridge . . . until now. A previous but much less powerful hurricane that had hit Texas and the Gulf side of Florida the week before had been causing fuel shortages all up and down the Keys and throughout much of the Southeast. I supposed I should feel lucky that the scooter I drove required only three dollars’ worth of fuel to fill the tank.

  Not that you could evacuate from a Category 5 hurricane on a scooter. Well, you could, but you wouldn’t get very far.

  “Wow,” I said to Sonny. “That’s tough. But I’m sure you two will get out of here in plenty of time.”

  “Oh, yes,” Sonny said, looking unconcerned. “Hey, you can come if you want.”

  “What?” I was shocked. “With you and your mom? To Orlando?”

  “Yeah, why not? It will be a lot of fun! You like rides, don’t you?”

  “Um.” If it had been any other guy, I’d have suspected him of hitting on me. But Sonny genuinely only cared about rides and games—of the amusement park variety. “That’s so sweet of you. Thanks so much for the offer. But I can’t, I’m afraid. I have to stay here to take care of Gary.”

  He looked down at my cat, who now was lounging in the shade of the frangipani, Gary’s favorite place in the whole world, outside of my bed. A gecko—there were thousands, maybe millions of geckos, all over Little Bridge. You couldn’t seem to walk a foot down the sidewalk without nearly stepping on one of the small, fast-moving lizards—darted toward Gary, who swiped a lazy paw at it. The gecko darted safely away.

  “Oh, right,” Sonny said. “They don’t allow pets at Disney. Or at least, not the hotel where we’re staying. That’s why we’ve got to leave R2-D2 and C-3PO at home.”

  R2-D2 and C-3PO were Sonny’s pet guinea pigs, of which he was not only inordinately fond, but quite proud. He spent hours every day brushing and caring for them.

  “But you have someone to look after them while you’re gone, don’t you?” I asked.

  “Oh, yes,” he said. “My cousin Sean said he’d come over. He can’t evacuate because he works for the electric company, and they need him here to turn the electricity back on if it goes out.”

  I knew Sonny’s cousin Sean Petrovich. He performed the more complicated repairs around the building.

  “Oh, good,” I said. “Well, I’ll look forward to seeing him around. And thanks for putting up our shutters. I’m headed to the store right now. Can I get you something there as a way of saying thank you?”

  “Sure, orange soda,” he said, brightening. “If they have it? And Sour Patch Kids.”

  “Oh, sure. Can do. Come on, Gary.” I hoisted the cat up from the shade of the frangipani, though he let out a squeak of protest. “You have to go inside while I’m at the store.”

  “I’ll watch him while you’re away,” Sonny offered. “I’m just gonna be right here.”

  I lifted a hand to shade my eyes from the strong summer sun as I studied his earnest expression. “Are you sure?” It was something Sonny had done several times before while working around the building, without incident, but never while a violent hurricane was sitting a thousand miles offshore.

  “Yeah,” Sonny said, nodding vehemently. “I like Gary. And Gary likes me.”

  This was true. Although it was also true that Gary liked everyone, including the postal and newspaper delivery persons, all of my neighbors, the exterminator, and anyone else who happened to wander through the courtyard gate.

  What was even more true was that Gary, like me, had been hurt . . . but he was healing. He’d chosen me at the shelter just as much as I’d chosen him, shuffling toward me and butting his head against my feet as if to say, “Hey, down here. Look at me. I’m needy, but I’m also needed. You need me as much as I need you.”

  Because it had turned out to be true. And together, we were forging a new life, learning to trust when we each had so much reason not to.

  “Well,” I said to Sonny. “Okay. I’ll leave my door open, so he can come inside if he gets hungry or thirsty. And feel free to help yourself to anything you find in my fridge, too, while I’m gone. Except the beige stuff in the pitcher. My roommate bakes with that. You probably wouldn’t like it.”

  Sonny nodded appreciatively. He was beginning to sweat in the midafternoon sun. “Thanks, Bree.”

  I smiled as I headed toward the front gate. One of the reasons I loved Little Bridge so much was because you could do things like this—leave your beloved cat and apartment in the care of your handyman, and not worry about it, whereas in New York this would never happen. Well, maybe it would, but not in my experience.

  This was one of the many reasons for my leaving the city.

  But now, given what seemed to be headed our way, I was wondering if I’d made the right decision.

  Chapter Five

  Have supplies on hand to help with everything you might need before, during, and after a hurricane.

  Emergency Disaster Survival Kit Basics—Food

  Gas or charcoal for the grill (warning: never use a grill inside)

  Manual can opener

  Nonperishable foods and beverages—7–10 days per person

  Drinking water—at least 1 gallon per person per day

  Plastic plates, cups, and utensils

  Don’t forget food/water for pets and babies!

  The sun was still shining brightly when I headed out for Frank’s Food Emporium to buy my hurricane supplies—on my purple no-speed bike with its large front basket, since I wanted to save what little gas was left in my scooter—Daniella’s list tucked in my hip pocket. I’d convinced myself after the two o’clock bulletin from the National Weather Service that we probably weren’t going to get anything but a few rain bands, but it wouldn’t hurt
to be prepared.

  Except that maybe the locals knew something I didn’t. As I pedaled along, I saw evidence that Little Bridge residents were preparing for an all-out weather catastrophe. Along the main thoroughfare businesses were boarding up, literally hammering boards over their plate-glass display windows. The pharmacy had already pulled down its metal gates. Only a small handwritten sign on the door indicated that it was still open.

  And once inside Frank’s, I was in for a surprise: the shelves had the same barren look of shops in apocalyptic films and television shows after they’d been looted by survivors. Only this was real life.

  “You’re just in time,” a familiar voice said, and I turned to see Lucy Hartwell, Drew’s aunt and the owner of the Mermaid Café, waving a bag of chips at me. “Last one. You want it?”

  I felt a sudden and overwhelming longing for the chips, though they hadn’t been on my list. “Yes . . . unless you do.”

  “I’ve got plenty.” She pointed down at her shopping cart. She did, indeed, have plenty. Seven, to be exact, of many varieties, including jalapeño and rippled. And over a dozen bottles of wine, as well.

  She must have noticed my surprise, since she laughed and said, “I’m having a hurricane party tonight for everyone who isn’t evacuating. I take it you’re one of those, since I saw your name is still on the schedule for breakfast service tomorrow morning.”

  Unlike some restaurant owners I’d met, Lucy Hartwell was hands-on, paying attention to everything that went on at the café, from the workers’ schedules to which of Little Bridge’s many local fishermen was selling the freshest yellowtail.

  Part of this was due to the fact that she was related to most of her employees—and roughly half of the island’s permanent residents—by either blood or marriage; the other part was simply because of her personality. Born Lucia Paz (according to café gossip) to one of the island’s most prominent Cuban families, Lucy had apparently had her pick of suitors in her day, but for unknown reasons had settled on Ed Hartwell. Since the two had been married for over thirty years, it seemed to have been a good choice.