Love Storm

by Ruth Houston

  Sincerely yours,

  Zack

  xxxxx

  June 16th

  Dear Zack,

  Unfortunately I think my summer just might have started off worse than yours. My mom has this odd notion strongly fixed in her brain that I need to start cramming in as many summer classes, preferably AP, as I can. It's only the first week of summer and I'm already taking AP Bio and Biotech over at Kirkland College (just in case you forgot, it's the local community college). They're both six week programs. Because it's a whole year's worth of material crammed into six weeks, there's pretty much a test every day and I end up having to study late every night. And she's shipping me off to Stanford for some academic resident camp for high school students later in the summer, probably at the beginning of August. It's supposed to be three weeks long, I think. So, still think your summer is starting off crappy? :o)

  Thank you for sending over the flower. I love it. I've never seen a prettier thing in my life. Thank your mom for me too. Enclosed for you are the pictures you requested. One is of Eva and me at Morp, and the other is of me in Oahu, on Waikiki Beach.

  I know this letter is inexcusably short, but I just got back home from summer school and I am so tired right now. You promised me a longer letter next time, and so I promise you the same. Write soon! I want to hear about what your father is making you do at his work. And I'm glad you like the sign-off. I'm also glad that you're "sincerely mine".

  Affectionately yours,

  Winter

  -Winter-

  Those were the last letters we ever exchanged. Perhaps if I had known our communications were drawing to a close, I would have spent more time on that last letter.

  Usually the time period between them was about six to nine days. So I didn't think anything was wrong when, a week later, I hadn't received a letter from Zack yet.

  But when, two weeks after I had sent him that last letter, I hadn't yet gotten a reply, I knew something was wrong. He always replied faster than I did. I figured he might have been busy over in Italy or something, but…I started worrying, and it became a gnawing feeling at the inside of my stomach that refused to go away. Why wasn't he replying? What was wrong? Was it because of something I had written? Had something happened to him? When I was busy with summer school it was alright, but if there was a lull in class and I was bored, I started getting anxious again. My poor erasers started getting carved into, and were so mutilated beyond use that I went through four in the third week. I sent him another letter, asking him if anything was wrong, and why he wasn't replying. I never got an answer.

  Still, I waited, and waited, and held on, hoping he would reply. Four weeks passed…five weeks. Six. By then my last thread of hope was beginning to slip away.

  And seven weeks. Still, nothing. Eight.

  It was then that my anxiety turned into frustration, which started turning into anger. Why wasn't he returning me a letter? He was leaving a greater emptiness in my life than I had thought he would. Perhaps I had accepted the fact that he wouldn't be coming back, but I had always thought we would continue these exchanges. After he had left, it had taken a while to smooth over that missing piece he had made. Now I had to deal with the feeling all over again, and I didn't like it one bit.

  Of course none of this was ever verbalized, not even to Eva. She, on the other hand, didn't really have much going on that summer; mostly she just hung out with Martin and me whenever we were available, and took her siblings to Great America and Marine World and the like for fun.

  Tristan had decided to go to university after all. It had taken quite a bit of convincing from me and Eva to get him to reply to the acceptance letters he had already received, because he had resigned himself to community college in order to stick with the family. Obviously he could do better than Kirkland College. Katherine saved him in the end – turns out she was quite the influence on him. They had both applied to the UC schools, and Katherine had applied to Stanford and Harvard and Cornell and a whole slew of other private schools in addition to that. Tristan got into most of the ones he applied to, and had chosen UC San Diego. Seeing as Katherine got into Stanford with a fellowship, she was headed off to there in the fall. As a group, Martin, Eva, Tristan, Katherine, and I all tried to spend as much time together as possible that summer. It was at one of these hang-out days, the second to last week of vacation, that the subject of Zack came up, seemingly at random.

  The five of us had just gotten out of the movie theaters and were hanging around downtown, eating lunch at Quizno's when, out of the blue, Tristan said, popping a potato chip into his mouth, "Hey Winter, whatever happened to Zack?"

  A dark look passed over Martin's face and he muttered something under his breath to Eva, who nodded just slightly, while Katherine said interestedly, "Zack? As in, Zackary Crowne, Zack? What did happen to him, anyway?" she echoed Tristan's earlier question.

  Everyone turned to look at her. "What?" she said, brushing back a piece of shiny black hair that had fallen in her face.

  "You know Zack too?" Eva finally said, after a few more looks were exchanged.

  "Yeah," Katherine replied, setting down her sandwich. "We used to have the same piano and violin teacher. He was cool. I used to see him around school a lot, then he… disappeared or something." She shrugged lightly, tugging the collar of her white t-shirt a little. We were having an uncharacteristically hot summer, and it was very warm in the sandwich shop, despite the fact that the air conditioning was on full blast and there were several fans going. "So what happened to him? Go on."

  I caught Tristan's eye and he silently urged me to explain. "Well…" I said, reluctantly, "He moved." Suddenly I wasn't hungry anymore, and pushed my turkey and avocado sandwich away a little, stirring my straw in my drink simply for lack of anything else to do. I had the strangest feeling in my chest, almost like a dull ache.

  "Really? I see," she said, dark eyes gazing at me inquisitively. Everyone grew quiet for a moment. Katherine really was quite beautiful, I marveled, glancing at her sideways. She wasn't very tall, but wasn't petite either. I was in complete envy of her pretty, straight hair, though she complained that it never did anything she wanted it to do, and her striking oriental eyes gave off an air of intelligence, reserve, and compassion. Yes, I could definitely see why Tristan was so attached to her.

  "I get the feeling there's something more that you guys aren't telling me."

  "Well we dated for a while, if it makes any difference at all," Eva said offhandedly, bringing me out of my day dreams. It seemed that more and more my attention kept wandering away on tangents, my concentration scattered, and I was often unable to focus for long periods of time. Why? I had a vague idea why, but I didn't like thinking that something one person did could have such control over my daily life.

  "WHAT?!" Martin choked on his soda, and it took a few well-placed, heavy thumps on the back, courtesy of Tristan, to put him back into proper breathing patterns.

  Tristan ruffled Martin's brown hair mock-affectionately. "All right there, son?" He caught Katherine's eye and they shared a grin.

  Martin shook him off. "Zackary Crowne, first class a-hole? Why didn't you tell me?" he asked Eva.

  "Woah there," Tristan said, frowning a little, and Katherine made a small noise of protest also. "A little too strong language to be describing Zack there, don't you think?"

  "Not nearly strong enough," came the sullen reply.

  I glanced at Martin. "You guys never did get along, did you?"

  "No," he said without a moment's hesitation. "He doesn't deserve your time of day, Winter; I don't know why you put up with him."

  "He's not really all that bad," I said mildly, thoughts far away, once again musing over what Zack was doing at the moment – I found this was something I did way too often to be healthy.

  "Hey, earth to Winter," Eva snapped her fingers in my face.

  I frowned at her. "I'm paying attention, Eva." I sighed. Who was I kidding? This sucked. Here we were, trying to have a
good hang out afternoon between friends, and my mind was a million miles away. It wasn't fair to anyone.

  "Hey, can I take a rain check, you guys?" I asked, taking one last sip of my Sprite and standing up. "I'm sorry, I just…don't feel so well." Lame, lame, lame, I berated myself.

  "Want me to take you home?" Tristan said. I smiled involuntarily. Just another one of the countless reasons I loved him – he knew when it wasn't good to push something and accepted the excuses for the time being, no questions asked.

  "No, it's okay," I said, wrapping up my sandwich. "Stay here. You guys have fun for the rest of the afternoon. I'll…I'll take the bus. The stop is just down the street, you know." I looked around at the four of them and made as much eye contact as I could, willing them to just nod or something.

  "Are you sure?" Eva said. Her cerulean eyes were concerned.

  I nodded. "Yeah," I said, biting my lip. "I should probably go home anyway. My mom's been complaining that I haven't spent enough time at home with her now that she doesn't have to work." Remember, my mother was an elementary school teacher.

  "All right," Katherine said reluctantly. "Give one of us a call later, okay?"

  "Yeah, I will," I said distractedly. "See you guys later." And with a backwards wave, I was gone, greatly dispirited and feeling quite a bit more depressed than I had just moments ago. Juggling my half-eaten sandwich between my hands, I boarded the next CalTrans bus for home.

  xxxxx

  Zack was mad. He was furious. So furious that for once, he lost all semblance of the calm, collected, easy-going guy he usually was. He was in a towering temper, and it was the scariest thing I had ever seen. He was storming around a bedroom, not his bedroom in 819 Galvest Street, but a tastefully decorated bedroom, ripping through his closets and dresser and depositing what looked like every article of clothing he owned on his bed, tan face flushed and dark curly hair mussed up from the number of times he had run his hands through it, swearing viciously and vulgarly under his breath every so often. There were two suitcases and one duffle bag on the carpet, and in the bottom of one of the suitcases were what looked like papers, or envelopes, and few formal outfits.

  I was standing in the doorway, watching, and now moved toward him, tried to say something, but found I had no voice. I tried touching him on the shoulder, but to my shock, my fingers slipped right through him. He was completely oblivious to my presence, and I retreated back to the doorway.

  I had never seen Zack in such a state before, so close to completely losing it that he was like a ticking bomb, sure to explode any second from the pressure and stress on his shoulders. I gazed at him sadly, wishing I could talk to him, calm him down, touch him.

  For a moment, Zack paused near his bed after dumping a new load of clothes onto it, and I wondered what was running through his head. He turned slightly and stared straight into my eyes. I started and said his name again, but still I had no voice. He frowned a little, still staring at me – maybe through me. It was more than a little unnerving, not to mention uncanny. A second later, his attention was drawn away by a heavy box on the top shelf of his closet that had been moved during Hurricane Zack, which now fell to the ground with a tremendous crash.

  "Oh, shit," he cursed softly, turning over the box to look at the contents, which had spilled out. I never found out what was in it, because the bedroom was fading…

  "Winter?"

  No, wait! I wanted to see what was in the box. What was in it? Where was Zack? In his school in Italy? Surely not in California.

  "Winter."

  "Mmm, no," I protested to whoever was shaking my shoulder gently, trying to rouse me from sleep. No, let me sleep a little more, let me watch Zack and figure out why he was so mad…

  I sighed. It was no use now; my mind was too awake to pull itself back into the dream. I opened my eyes and saw that my mom was sitting down on my b-…wait, couch. I was laying on a couch in my living room.

  "Hi mom," I said sleepily. "I guess I fell asleep, huh?" I looked past her to the TV, where "The Notebook" was playing, the volume turned very low. Somehow, as soon as I opened my eyes, my heart sank and my depressed mood from earlier came back.

  "Yes," she said. "Look, Winter, I need you to help me with something."

  I groaned. "Is that why you woke me up?" I asked, trying to make my tone seem playful and restraining myself from making a snide comment. I was not one of those people who could wake up within seconds and be all perky and cheerful (unless, of course, it was Christmas morning, which was a different case entirely), and added with my current mood, I was less than happy about being woken up.

  "More or less," my mom smiled slightly at me, "Sorry, but it's important."

  I nodded, still biting back a sarcastic comment. "So what is it?"

  "Remember Mrs. Farrington?"

  "Mrs. Farr-wha? Oh…oh, yeah. The lady who's son is in your class. She helped you with your flowers or whatever last week. Yeah, I know who she is." I remembered her to be a very pretty lady, about the same age as my mom.

  My mom gasped. "They aren't 'flowers or whatever,'" she exclaimed.

  "Okay, okay," I said, "Your gardenias, or –" I stopped myself just in time. "Sorry," I whispered.

  "Anyway," my mom said, though annoyed that I had insulted her flowers, hiding a smile. I could tell she was trying to hide it because her brown eyes were sparkling just the teeniest bit. "I invited her and her family over for dinner, as a way of thanking her, and I totally forgot until about two minutes ago."

  "Okay," I said slowly. "And…?"

  "And it's today, and basically they have six people in their family, a grand total of four boys, and I need your help because I can't possibly feed four boys with the amount of groceries I have at home right now! So I have a list for you." She handed me a slip of paper. "Go to Safeway and buy all that stuff. Here's forty dollars." She handed that to me, and got up. "Take my car. The keys are on the table in the foyer. Hurry."

  I scowled at her retreating back, foul mood in place again. My short stage of unhappiness had turned into anger. Not a "please" or "thank you" anywhere in sight. Most parents wanted to put off letting their child attain their driver's licenses, but no, here was my mom, using the fact that I could drive to her utmost advantage. I did not fail my driver's test three times so I could make little trips to Safeway for groceries, thank you very much.

  Why was I in such a bad mood in the first place anyway?

  …Oh, right. Okay. Well.

  I sighed. A trip to Safeway was in order, I guessed. Maybe if I spent the money right, I could stretch it and buy an ice cream bar to eat on the way home. My mom would have an absolute fit if I were to spoil my appetite right before company was coming over. She would have an even bigger fit if she knew that I had had ice cream in her car, risking ruining her leather interior. If I was lucky she might even have a heart attack, healthy as she was, if I took as long as I could to bring the groceries home, taking the long way back from Safeway.

  I smiled at the thought.

  xxxxx

  "Put on something nice!" My mom yelled up the stairs.

  "I don't know what constitutes as nice!" I shouted back, looking through my closet, nodding my head to the Yellowcard CD I had playing on my computer. It was the music that we were shouting over. I was in a slightly better mood because of the sugar high from the ice cream, and the fact that I had eaten it in her car and had taken the long way home. And my mother hadn't even noticed. She had been too busy working pots and pans in the kitchen. I smirked to myself. How very sad. Here I was, getting my kicks from performing microscopic acts of rebellion. I shook my head slightly, laughing to myself as I found my favorite pair of jeans, the old ones with the threat of an oncoming rip in one knee. I gazed at the worn spot sadly.

  "A skirt, or something! A nice blouse! Preferably with a collar! Maybe the one I bought from J. Crew last time! You can borrow it," she bellowed. "And turn down that music!"

  "WHAT?!" I shrieked. "I'm not wearing a skirt and a
blouse! Especially not that blouse!"

  "A nice sweater, at least, then!"

  "JEANS and a T-SHIRT okay?" I hollered.

  "NO!!! Winter Bruin, if you come down these stairs into the kitchen wearing jeans and a t-shirt I will personally detain your driver's license!"

  "Yeesh," I muttered to myself, "No need to get all pissy. Just having a nice, straight forward shouting match." I smirked. "Alright," I yelled back. "Fine. Jeans and a blouse it is!"

  "NO JEANS!" she screamed.

  "MY NICEST JEANS! They're not even ripped at the pant cuff!" Man this was fun. I chuckled to myself as I picked out a plain white beater and paired it with my "nice" jeans, admiring the effect.

  "NO!"

  "FINE! A skirt and a t-shirt!" I smiled to myself. It sure was fun to get people all riled up like this just for the hell of it. I hummed along to "Empty Apartment" under my breath.

  "WINTER BRUIN!" she screeched. "Give me the answer I want, or so help me God, I will be up in your room in three seconds flat and I will pick out your outfit for you!"

  I paused, then turned off the Yellowcard. Silence ensued.

  "Mom?"

  "What."

  "You just used God in your –"

  "I know, couldn't help it. They use it in the movies. Was it effective?"

  I grinned. "Skirt and blouse it is, mom," I called down to her. "And the music's off. What a nice daughter I am." Picking up the tune again, I started humming and sauntered into the bathroom for a shower.

  xxxxx

  "Door, door! Someone get the door!" my dad was shouting.

  "I'm busy in the kitchen, can you get it, Michael?" my mother yelled back.

  "I'm changing, for goodness sakes, Fiona!"

  "WINTER!" they both called out at the same time. Damn that freaky parental telepathy.

  "Yes?" I called back, sweetly.

  "Door!" they yelled exasperatedly.

  "Now!" my mom added on for good measure.

  "Gee, I'm not stupid," I grumbled, getting up from my spot on the couch, where I had been reading Eric van Lustbader's The Bourne Legacy. Jason Bourne, helped by his long lost son Joshua, had been in the middle of a crisis, trying to thwart the evil maniac Stepan Spalko's plan to kill the President of the United States with a deadly biological weapon in the form of a virus, and here were my parents, asking me to do something as civilian and utterly insignificant as opening a door for stupid Mrs. Farragut and her family so they could come to dinner? Wait. Mrs. Farragut? Was that her name? It couldn't have been. In any event, Mrs. Farr-something-or-other.