Meet the Sky

by McCall Hoyle

  “I just drew a blank. What was the boy’s name? Jeff?” Mom lays the last slice of bacon on a paper plate to drain.

  “Finn. His name’s Finn.” I dab Mere’s placemat and arm with the towel while she hums a piece of music she danced to a couple of years ago.

  “That’s right—Finn. Maybe he’d like to earn a few dollars helping around the barn.” She brings the bacon and a plate of blackened toast to the table, and I do my best not to sigh.

  “I’ve got it, Mom. I promise.” I try not to sound concerned as I slide into my seat and reach for a piece of toast. I really don’t want her asking me why I’m not eating, but suddenly a flock of seagulls is swarming in my belly.

  “Something will work out. It has to. You can’t keep going like this.” She pushes the plate of bacon toward me.

  She’s the one who can’t keep going like this. But instead of arguing with her, I bite into my dry toast and try to swallow my feelings.

  “I bet you’ll see Finn today. You could ask him about it.”

  Or not.

  My throat tightens around the single bite of toast as I twist my lips into a smile and check the time on my phone. I have precisely twelve minutes if I’m going to leave on time.

  I may not be able to leave home a year early for college like we’d planned. I may not be able to follow my dreams of veterinary medicine. But I can control one thing. I can control whether I talk to Finn Sanders.

  And let me assure you, there won’t be conversation or anything else going on between us.

  CHAPTER TWO

  My mind is clouded with a doubt.

  ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON

  I make it to seventh period without any drama and without any run-ins with Finn, so the optimistic part of me, the part I’ve squashed down recently, starts to believe maybe Mom was wrong about the whole Finn thing. Besides, I love seventh period. It’s technically a study hall, but it’s the one hour in the day that’s completely mine. No chores. Nobody counting on me. It’s pretty much my hour to do whatever I want, and I normally spend it in the media center with Yesenia. She and I have been best friends for as long as I can remember. We’re perfect together. I’m a good listener. She’s a good talker. It’s a win-win.

  Mrs. Hampson, the librarian, nods as I pass, but her eyes remain locked on the TV mounted above the checkout desk. Even with the sound muted, it’s obvious the meteorologist is taking the weather seriously. His face is grim as he points to the kaleidoscope of green, blue, and yellow on the radar map that’s starting to resemble a spiral of colorful soft-serve ice cream.

  I head to the overstuffed leather chairs near a big wall of windows to wait for Yesenia and check my phone to make sure I don’t miss any notifications about my schedule, or Mom’s, or Mere’s. The view of the dunes out back calms my nerves even though they remind me of Dad. He loved those dunes. Mere and I spent much of our childhood exploring them with him.

  “Scout,” he’d call to me over the wind, “chart your own course.” He loved that I was brave enough to charge up one side of a dune and down the other without him.

  As the waves of heat shimmer and bake the sand, I wonder what happened to that gutsy little Sophie. It’s like she died in the accident. Or is she still inside me somewhere, like the mountains of sand in the distance that constantly shift and change but never actually blow away? I don’t know anymore. Right this minute, though, I’m content to admire the dunes in the distance.

  For the first time today, I breathe—really breathe—and open my tattered collection of Alfred, Lord Tennyson poems we’re reading for English. Yesenia’s familiar footsteps interrupt me on page three. When I look up, she huffs and plops her army-green bag on the floor beside the chair facing me. Her favorite patch—half Mexican, half American, completely Awesome—dangles from a few loose threads.

  “You heard, right?” She leans toward me, her eyes wide. Locks of thick black hair bounce around her face.

  I fold down my page and play dumb as my earlier optimism fades. “Heard what?”

  “He’s back,” she hisses, trying to avoid the wrath of Mrs. Hampson. “And he starts classes tomorrow.”

  “Who’s back?” I ask, but the rocks in my stomach tell me I already know.

  “Finn Sanders.” She pauses, waiting for the news to settle.

  “He’s supposed to be hot and some kind of supersurfer now. And he’s in all advanced classes.”

  I force down the lump in my throat. If he’s in all advanced classes, we’re going to have almost the same exact schedule. “It’s not a big deal—really. He and I never had anything in common.”

  She lifts a finger and points teasingly at my face. Her brown eyes reflect the sunlight streaming in through the bank of windows. “What about chess?”

  I smirk and tilt my head. “Haven’t played in months.”

  She narrows her eyes. “Science fair?”

  I swipe at a strand of hair that defiantly refuses to remain braided and cross my arms. “Didn’t compete last year.”

  She switches tactics. “I think it’s romantic, like a reunion. You know what I always say about fate—”

  “Yes.” Yesenia has a saying for everything, and I adore her. But sometimes her glass-is-always-overflowing outlook gets us both in trouble. In sixth grade, when I still believed in imaginary lands and magical creatures, she talked me into writing a play and spending all our Christmas money on props and costumes. We didn’t sell any tickets and had nothing to show for our Christmas cash. In eighth grade, her school spirit ended up getting us sent home for the day to wash our neon green Cindy Lou Who hair. And if I remember correctly, she was the one who encouraged me in ninth grade to “go after Finn Sanders.”

  She barrels on anyway. “And you did have a lot in common. You two were always competing.”

  “We weren’t.”

  “Ummm, yes, you were. There was the Humane Society fund-raising contest—”

  Thankfully, she’s interrupted by Emilie, a relatively new member of our junior class who also managed to score a free seventh period. She has a seizure response dog because of her epilepsy, and she hangs out with him in the media center most afternoons. He’s gorgeous, with a big, blocky golden retriever head and sheets of feathery blond hair on his chest, legs, and tail. The moment I met him, I loved him—though to be fair, I love pretty much every dog I meet. Okay, I pretty much like all the cats and guinea pigs and baby goats too.

  “Hey, Hitch.” I pat my leg in invitation.

  He glances up at Emilie, hopeful.

  “Free,” she says, and he ambles over to rest his head on my lap.

  I give him a good scratch behind the ears and lean down to rub my face against his. Before my family fell to pieces, I had a plan. I’d graduate a year early and head to State for my veterinary degree. Even though vet school is extremely competitive, I knew I would almost certainly get in. I’ve been around animals since the day I was born, and other than Yesenia, animals tend to be my best friends. Doc Wiggins, the vet who cares for our horses, graduated from State and promised me a great reference, and my parents are known for their work protecting and rescuing wild horses on the Outer Banks. They even built a fence that spans the entire island and keeps the wild horses safe from the people and buildings that continue to encroach on their habitat. I dreamed of working with animals like Hitch and little Jim every day and of living happily ever after.

  Then everything changed with one tick of the second hand, and I learned an important lesson. Actually, I learned several important lessons—be alert, protect what you love, and maintain control of what you can at all costs.

  That’s what I do. And it’s working.

  “Do y’all think we’ll have to evacuate?” Emilie asks, interrupting my thoughts.

  I snap to attention, my hands freezing on Hitch’s ears. “Evacuate?”

  “Yeah, the weather service announced that the tropical depression is now officially Hurricane Harry.” She touches her leg. Without a second’s hesitation, Hi
tch pads to her side. “My mom will want to leave tomorrow to beat any rush.”

  “We won’t go unless there’s a mandatory evacuation,” Yesenia says with a shrug. Like most people living on the Outer Banks, she’s no stranger to storms. But I get why Emilie and her mom have to be careful—Emilie has to have access to 911 and the hospital across the bridge if she seizes.

  I miss what they say next. I’m thinking about Mom, Mere, the horses, and Jim, and how this could be a false alarm. We won’t evacuate unless it’s a mandatory evacuation either. It takes a tremendous amount of time and work to get the horses off the island, and it’s expensive to board them on the mainland until the storm dies down. We have to be careful because of money—or the lack of it. That’s why I’ve had to put college on hold—unless I get a full ride to State, we can’t afford it, and even if I did get a scholarship, Mom and Mere couldn’t keep the barn going without me. That barn is what keeps the roof over our heads and dinner on the table.

  The librarian gives us the stink eye, so Emilie and Hitch head toward their standard spot near the biographies. Yesenia spends the rest of the period working on her math homework, though I can feel her glancing at me from time to time like she wants to say more about Finn. I manage to read a few more pages of Tennyson.

  When the bell rings, releasing us from seventh period, I’ve put the Finn conversation behind me. Yesenia and I swing by my locker on our way out of the building, and I grab the poetry anthology Mr. Richards has required for next semester. If I have any time before bed, I might get a jumpstart on annotating. I’ll be lucky to scrounge up enough time and money in the next year and a half to sneak away to the community college a few days a week, but that doesn’t mean I’ll let my grades slip.

  “Really?” Yesenia asks with a laugh when she sees me put the book in my bag. “We don’t have to read that until January.”

  “I know,” I tell her, sheepish. “I can’t help myself.”

  As we push through the double doors and step outside, the heat smacks us in the face. Our sandals scuff the sandy sidewalk as we stroll toward the parking lot. There’s no reason to hurry. One thing all Southerners know is how to match their pace to the ninety-plus degrees and one hundred percent humidity without breaking a sweat.

  Yesenia points at a dance banner tied to the chain-link fence by the parking lot. “Don’t forget about the dance next week.”

  Shifting my heavy backpack from one shoulder to the other, I nod and keep moving.

  “What?” she asks.

  “Nothing.”

  She grabs the sleeve of my T-shirt, stopping me in my tracks and leveling her eyes on me. “Don’t you dare think about bailing on me.”

  I scan the parking lot for my battered truck, avoiding her gaze. “I’m not bailing on you. Promise.” I force a half smile.

  “Okay.” She doesn’t sound convinced. “Because you promised. This is supposed to be our year to live. Have fun being in high school before next year, when we’ll be totally stressed about college applications. We’re upperclassmen now. Remember?”

  “I remember,” I say, scrolling through the mental list of things I need to do after school.

  “Good. You also remember our motto, right?” she asks when we reach the truck.

  I open the driver’s door and step up onto the running board. “Yeah, shoot for the moon. Even if you miss, you’ll—”

  “No, not that one.” She tosses her bag on the floor and climbs into the passenger seat in one fluid movement. “The Tennyson quote.”

  We snap on our seat belts, and, holding my breath, I turn the key in the ignition. One day my family will have dependable vehicles with new tires and engines that don’t leak oil. Not today. Today it’s just me and Mom, still trying to recover from the accident that wrecked my parents’ marriage and ruined Mere’s future. When the engine roars to life, I exhale, thankful to have dodged a possible crisis. Then we turn out of the parking lot, and I tighten my grip on the wheel. Ever since Mere and Dad’s accident, I see danger around every turn and around every vehicle within a quarter mile radius of my bumper.

  “You know,” Yesenia says when I don’t respond. “’Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.”

  I study oncoming traffic as I try not to roll my eyes. There’s no point in arguing with her. She’s never lost anything, not even a pet, and certainly not half of her family. She believes Tennyson.

  I happen to know better.

  It’s way worse to love and lose than to play it safe and miss the heartbreak altogether. Yesenia can have Tennyson’s pretty words. Personally, I’m more of a don’t-count-your-chickens-before-they-hatch kind of girl.

  As we creep along the beach road, Yesenia unzips her bag and pulls out a battered composition book. I know what’s inside—the high school bucket list she’s been working on since freshman year.

  “The love doesn’t just have to do with guys, you know,” Yesenia reminds me as she flips the pages. “It’s about loving life, or at least taking an occasional risk.”

  “Uh-huh,” I reply. We’ve had this conversation a million times, but I remain unconvinced that taking a risk—any risk—is a good thing. When a gust of wind rocks the truck, I ease my foot off the brake and tighten my grip on the steering wheel. The cedar-sided shacks to our right balance on wisps of sand too small to be called actual dunes. It’s a wonder the breeze doesn’t wash them out to sea.

  “Which is why we have a lot to accomplish in the next two years.” Yesenia starts reading from her list. “Hang glide, go on a cruise, skinny-dip, invite dates to the Sadie Hawkins dance—”

  “Invite dates?”

  “What? That’s been on there for ages. You don’t listen, Sophie.”

  “I always listen. It’s just the list is always growing. It’s hard to keep track. You said, ‘go to dance.’ I don’t remember anything about inviting someone.” I mean, I know the whole purpose of a Sadie Hawkins dance is that girls do the inviting, but still. I try to formulate an argument about living in a feminist society where we don’t need Sadie Hawkins dances in the first place, but Yesenia is still reading.

  “Build a snowman—I know it’s impractical at the beach, but still—enter hot dog eating contest, learn to play the ukulele, eat caviar—”

  “I don’t remember any of those.” I glance in my side and rearview mirrors as I prepare to flick my turn signal. A blob of green barrels up behind me, practically kissing my bumper.

  “A few of those might be new, but . . .” She trails off as I tap my brakes and looks behind us. “What is that guy doing?”

  A vomit-green Chevy Blazer whips around us despite the double yellow line and flies past my driver’s side window. The car or truck or whatever it is has larger rust patches than mine. I hold the steering wheel tight and train my eyes straight ahead, braking as quickly as I can. My heart pounds in my chest, a rapid, harsh rhythm that makes me feel faint.

  Yesenia jabs my shoulder, laughing.

  “Stop,” I squeal. “We’re about to die.”

  “No, we’re not. That was Finn. And he looks good—really good.” She fans herself as he drives on, leaving us in a cloud of exhaust and sand.

  I pull over to the edge of the road to rest my head on the steering wheel and make sure I’m not really having a heart attack. “I . . . I . . . That jerk. He’s going to kill someone. He shouldn’t be allowed to drive.”

  “But he looks good behind the wheel.”

  “Stop, Yesenia. It’s not funny. He could have hurt us. My brakes aren’t all that reliable, and I really need new tires.” As if to prove my point, my back tire spins, kicking up sand before gaining enough traction to move back onto the road.

  “I doubt they’re that bad,” she says. “Your mom wouldn’t let you drive if the truck wasn’t safe.”

  “She doesn’t know. She’s got too many bills to worry about already. And if a storm is really coming, shutting down business this weekend won’t help either. For some reason, people d
on’t want to horseback ride on the beach with a hurricane coming.”

  “You should tell her if the truck is that bad.” For once, Yesenia sounds serious.

  “No. I’ll have enough tip money in a week or two—if some idiot reckless driver doesn’t kill me first.”

  When we pull into her driveway a few minutes later, she smiles and reaches for the door handle.

  “Be safe. Call me later,” she says, then hops out of the truck.

  I wave. Yesenia blows me a kiss and races up the steps of her house two at a time with her backpack thrown over one shoulder. Despite her never-ending desire to push me out of my comfort zone, she really is the best kind of friend. I know all that bucket-list stuff is more for me than for her, that it’s Yesenia’s way of wanting to help me get past all the crap that happened last year. Even though it’s never going to work, I love her for trying.

  Heading north with the ocean on my right, I catch an occasional glimpse of the rising tide between gaps in the dunes. I tell myself the waves are no higher than usual. Even if they are, that proves absolutely nothing. Higher waves could mean a tropical storm, a nor’easter, a false alarm, or even just a full moon. Nine times out of ten, all the hurricane hype is for nothing.

  The hardware stores sell out of plywood and batteries. The gas stations might even run out of gas before an evacuation. Then more often than not, the hurricane turns back out to sea or just dissipates to a bad thunderstorm.

  As I get closer to home, I ignore the cottage on the dunes near our house and the green Blazer in front of it. I flick my turn signal and pull into my driveway.

  When I cut the engine, I tilt my head back and pray Finn will stay away.

  CHAPTER THREE

  O earth, what changes hast thou seen!