Meet the Sky

by McCall Hoyle

  ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON

  Mom and I have an after-dinner dishwashing routine. She scrapes plates and washes. I dry and put away. Mere and Jim cuddle on the couch under an old quilt as I slip the last chipped plate into a cabinet. Outside the window, the sea oats swish and swirl, signaling a break in the fierce heat, or at least a break in the eerie stillness of the last few days. The early evening sun casts rays of golden light on the trembling seed heads.

  Mom’s bare feet pad the wood floor as she heads to her spot at the end of the couch. I give the counters a quick wipe, trying to remember if she’s wearing the same clothes she had on yesterday. I add laundry to my to-do list.

  “You want to play checkers?” Mom asks as she settles into the worn cushions. I can see the exhaustion on her face, but I also know she’ll do anything to draw Mere out of herself and into the world with us.

  Glancing at the clock, I realize we have over an hour until dark. “I have a better idea,” I say.

  “Better than checkers?” Mom looks skeptical. Checkers is one of the few activities that draws Mere out of her shell. Something about the rhythm of the game and the consistency of the red and black squares seems to organize her thinking. Sometimes she seems almost herself when we play checkers.

  “We’re going for a ride on the beach.” I nod confidently as if it’s a well-thought-out idea as opposed to a spur-of-the-moment plan to give Mom a break for an hour or so.

  Mere tosses off the quilt, stands up, and grins, showing more emotion than I’ve seen from her in days. Poor Jim barely gets his three good legs under him before he slips to the floor, tangled in the quilt. But when Mom taps her thigh, he jumps into her lap, completely unfazed. He seems to smile and purrs as she runs her hand down his arched back. She smiles too as he kneads her faded leggings with his one good paw and his little nub.

  Then Mom looks at me. “I thought you had homework.” Her smile falters.

  “It wasn’t as much as I thought.” I step around the table and pull Mere gently toward the hall leading to our bedrooms.

  “Give me two minutes to grab my boots,” Mere says, proving she’s interested in the ride.

  I duck into my room for my soft Justin Ropers, glad I suggested getting out of the house and onto the beach. Even though Mere may not think about it consciously, I believe the dancer in her likes the movement of the horse beneath her.

  In a few minutes, we’re out the door and almost to the barn. Mere walks ahead of me, then pauses to turn around with her arms spread wide. It’s not exactly a croisé devant, but it’s something. A light wind lifts her hair, and I smile. As we approach the breezeway of the barn, Jack nickers a soft greeting.

  “I want to ride Roxie,” Mere says as we step onto the concrete aisle. Hay particles hang suspended in slanted rays of sunlight—gold and amber with the occasional speck of ruby.

  “But Jack will get his feelings hurt. And he didn’t get out today.” Roxie was Mere’s before the accident, but she’ll never ride her again. The mare’s high-strung. If Jack has the even temper of a master yogi, Roxie is his polar opposite—whatever that might be. Her moods change like the wind.

  “You ride Jack. I’ll ride Dolly. They like to be together,” I say. They’re also guaranteed not to shy away from anything or cause any uncertain movement that might unseat Mere.

  Jack and Dolly are Mom and Dad’s original pair of trail horses. They’re both mixed breeds, combining the intelligence and athleticism of their quarter horse dams with the calm nature and immense strength of their Clydesdale sires. The Clydesdale genes make them sturdy enough to carry even the most out-of-shape tourists through soft sand. They also have wider ribs and broader backs, perfect for riders like Mere who don’t have good balance.

  “Whatever.” Mere’s jaw twitches like she’s contemplating arguing. Dolly shakes her mane, distracting her, and Mere seems to forget which horse she wanted to ride. She turns back to Dolly, humming quietly as she brushes her long gray neck while I saddle and bridle Jack. In no time, we’re moving along the marked path over the dunes. The horses know the drill. Their hooves shish-shish rhythmically through the sand. The receding tide whispers to us—whish, thump, whoosh—as the low waves approach, break, and then recede.

  With my lungs full of warm, salty air, there’s less room for stress or worry.

  “Look! Look!” Mere stands up in her saddle, pointing out to sea. Jack’s ears flick back and forth between the flock of screaming, dive-bombing seagulls up ahead to the excited girl on his back.

  “Easy, Jack,” I soothe. His ears flick in my direction, his head dropping back to a more relaxed position. On autopilot, the horses plod toward the firmer sand near the water.

  “Whoa, girl,” I say to Dolly when a dolphin erupts from the frothy water beneath the gulls. Jack stops without instruction from Mere.

  The dolphins have multiplied, and they’re showing off like they know they have an audience. They take turns breaching, jumping clear of the water, then diving. They disappear for a minute, then emerge in perfect unison nose-first ahead of an incoming wave. They wear smiles beneath their bottlenoses as they head south, whistling and squeaking. Their enthusiasm is contagious.

  I click my tongue on the roof of my mouth, instructing Dolly and Jack to move along. The temperature drops a degree or two, and the wind picks up half a notch as the horses clomp into the shallow surf. Even old Jack and Dolly seem to have a bit more spring in their steps.

  “You want to race?” I ask.

  Mere looks at me as if I’ve been inhabited by an alien.

  “Really?” she asks.

  “Really.” I bounce my heels against Dolly’s sides. She picks up the pace. Jack breaks into a bouncy trot.

  “Use one leg,” I call over the rush of wind and waves, hoping Jack will lope for Mere. We’ve been riding since we were three, but Mere’s lack of coordination makes even the most natural commands difficult to carry out. Jack’s trot is so jarring, there’s no way she can stay balanced for long, but his lope is like sitting in a rocking chair. She could probably handle that for hours.

  I lift my right heel into Dolly’s ribs. She immediately leads off with her left foreleg, transitioning smoothly from a walk to the rolling one-two-three, one-two-three loping rhythm I could sit all day. Dolly takes the bit in her mouth and pulls steadily on the reins, clearly ready to show old Jack what she’s got. I apply just enough pressure to ensure her nose stays behind Mere’s thigh.

  “I’m going to get you!” I say, teasing as we near the pier. Out here with the dolphins, and the wind, and the horses, I feel a tiny glimmer of my old self and tilt my face to the sky to soak up every last morsel of this feeling, wishing it could last forever.

  “No way!” Mere pushes Jack harder.

  He lumbers on ahead of me. Sitting deep in the saddle, I drop my heel, lengthen my calf, and ask Dolly to walk with my seat. She slows without any verbal command.

  “You win, Mere. Jack, walk—easy,” I command. He obeys.

  “A little farther?” Mere twists in her saddle, her cheeks rosy.

  “It’s time to head back.” And it is. I’d love to ride with Mere forever, but I need to study for an AP US History quiz. And Mere’s moodiness is aggravated when she stays up too late.

  I let her lead the way home. We ride in silence. The sea lulls my senses; it’s the one constant in my life, despite all the changes of the last year. A year ago, Mere was the real leader, the role model, the big sister.

  Then everything changed.

  Now we pretend.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  I must lose myself in action, lest I wither in despair.

  ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON

  Somehow, I don’t pass out when I see Finn on the way into school the next morning. It helps that he’s distracted by whatever’s playing through his earbuds. When our eyes meet, he opens his mouth like he’s about to speak. His chin lifts, and his eyelids drop a bit, masking what I seem to remember are green eyes.

  Okay, I
totally remember. They’re precisely the same shade of dark green as the pine trees on the mainland. His hair is still jet black. But I forgot how big his nose is and how the hook of it is somehow attractive. A nose that prominent would make most guys self-conscious, but he wears it like a symbol of greatness.

  I give a quick nod and pick up the pace so he can’t see my face or the red splotches of heat I feel traveling from my neck to my ears. His flip-flops slap the concrete as we approach the breezeway. I keep moving, silently cursing Yesenia for catching the bus and leaving me to navigate this situation alone.

  “Long time, no see, Bookworm.” He bumps my arm with his elbow, forcing me to slow down and acknowledge him and his favorite nickname for me in eighth grade.

  “Yeah. Long time.” I shrug, sounding way cooler than I feel. “Sorry. I’m kind of in a hurry.”

  “After school, then?”

  I glance at the time on my phone, scrambling for an excuse. “I have a tutoring session for math.”

  Unable to meet his eyes, I stare at the stubble on his chin, a reminder of how much older we are now.

  “I just thought you might want to play.” He wiggles his eyebrows and reaches in the back pocket of the jeans that hang at a perfect angle around his narrow hips. His long fingers conceal whatever he retrieved from his pocket. My face goes from warm to blazing. He’s toying with me, I know, but I’m two steps behind and don’t know where this is headed.

  “I don’t have time to . . . uh . . . play.” I nod and scurry forward to open the door for a girl on crutches.

  “I’ll let you be white.” He waves a small metal box in front of my face.

  “What are you—” I’m thankful for my firm grip on the heavy door.

  “I promise not to open with the Sicilian Defense. I remember how you hate that.” He braces his hand on the door above my head and motions for me to enter ahead of him.

  I blink at him. The fog in my head clears as I pass under his arm. He’s talking about chess. The small box he was waving in my face is the same magnetic travel chess set he carried in his pocket in middle school. I almost laugh, but I don’t want to encourage him.

  “I don’t play anymore.” I glance at my phone again. This time I see a text from Mom, telling me to check the weather forecast.

  “But you—”

  “I’ve gotta go.” I point at my phone and duck toward the science hall.

  “Okay . . .”

  I can’t be certain, but I’m pretty sure his goofy I’m-too-cool-to-care grin wavers for a second. Without pausing to verify, I lift my hand in a weak farewell and scurry to safety. Halfway down the hall, I risk a quick glance over my shoulder. Finn’s gone. I exhale slowly and detour to the girls’ bathroom to catch my breath.

  I make it through math without talking to Finn again. Even in fourth period, when Mr. Richards assigns him the seat directly behind me, I don’t turn around to ask him how the past two years have been. I touch my finger to the jagged initials carved in the top of my desk, willing myself to focus on the day’s lecture. But the part of my brain that’s supposed to be analyzing the poem on the board constantly jumps to the barn and home.

  The National Weather Service alert about the approaching storm doesn’t scare me. Mom, on the other hand, has worked herself into a frenzy. She’s texted me three times, asking me to check myself out for the day and come home. She doesn’t care if I miss my Physics test. She says the horses are acting weird, and she trusts them way more than meteorologists or Doppler radar.

  Mr. Richards doesn’t seem to share my concerns, because his Robert Frost lecture has gone on without ceasing.

  “Why does Frost say, ‘Nature’s first green is gold’?” he asks.

  No one volunteers. No one moves. Maybe I wasn’t the only one not paying attention.

  Mr. Richards’s eyes meet mine. He lifts one sparse eyebrow hopefully. “Sophie?”

  I don’t look away fast enough. He knows I’ll have a decent answer, and he knows he can count on me to be respectful. I’m his go-to girl in a teaching pinch.

  “Yeah, Sophie. Let’s hear some scholarly analysis.” Warm air brushes the back of my neck.

  My teeth grate as I concentrate on not turning around. I know from middle school that acknowledging Finn will only encourage him, and I do not want to encourage him. The conversation this morning was enough interaction for the month. I swallow, lock eyes with Mr. Richards, and ignore the stare of the girl beside us who is obviously wondering why Finn is egging me on.

  “Frost is using the metaphor to emphasize the precious nature of spring’s first hint of green—of rebirth and renewal.” I scoot to the front of my seat, trying to distance myself from Finn.

  Mr. Richards nods, looking like he wants me to say more.

  “You could say it’s hyperbole and imagery too, and maybe even alliteration if you focus on the green and gold,” I continue. It can’t hurt to be nice to Mr. Richards. Maybe he’ll remember my efforts on the essay portion of our next test.

  A yawn breaks the stillness. Mr. Richards squints at someone in the back of the room. Then he does that teacher thing when he randomly calls on another unsuspecting soul to see if they’re paying attention.

  “What do you think, Mr. Sanders?”

  Twenty-something heads swivel in Finn’s direction. His presence may annoy me, but the rest of the class seems fascinated by his return. By the way everyone was laughing with him before the bell rang, he has slipped back into life at North Ridge without missing a beat. Finn may be smart, but he also loves to play class clown.

  “Einstein here pretty much said it all.” He flicks my ponytail with his pencil, clearly oblivious to the chilly vibes I’ve been sending his way all morning.

  The people sitting near us chuckle. Not me. Finn starts to say more, but the intercom crackles overhead, and I breathe a sigh of relief, thanking God for the interruption.

  The room goes silent. There’s nothing like the threat of an oncoming hurricane, even a Category 1 storm, to get the attention of anyone who lives or works on the Outer Banks of North Carolina.

  “Dare County Emergency Management has issued a mandatory evacuation to begin at nine o’clock tomorrow morning,” our principal says. Even he sounds a little excited. Or nervous—it’s hard to tell. “School will be canceled tomorrow and until the advisory expires.”

  Crap. Crap. Crap.

  That means loading up the horses, locking up the barn and house, and racing to beat the evacuation madness. No one else in the room seems to care. When the room erupts in cheers, even Mr. Richards’s face relaxes a bit.

  “Sweet!” The kid at the front of my row fist pumps the air.

  Someone mumbles something about a hurricane party and hunch punch. I don’t want to care, but I can’t help myself. Finn is less predictable than the weather. I’m curious to see how he will react, so I glance over my shoulder. I’ve heard rumors about his extreme surfing life in Virginia Beach, and some part of me wants to know how the fearless risk taker will react to the imminent threat of a hurricane.

  Shockingly, Finn’s bent over his notebook, his pencil clamped in his bright white teeth, deep in thought. I twist further in my seat, angling for a better view of the numbers he’s studying, and my hoodie catches on the edge of his binder. He glances up at me, smiling.

  Lifting my eyebrows, I try to sound cool as I point at the equations on his paper. “Math homework? No hurricane parties for you?”

  He plucks the pencil from his mouth and taps his eraser on the tip of my nose. For the life of me, I can’t understand why he’s acting like we’re friends.

  We’re not friends.

  We haven’t been in a very long time.

  “Close, Bookworm,” he says. The corners of his mischievous green eyes crinkle like he’s laughing at me. “I’m calculating wave heights for tonight.”

  My mouth drops. “What? You can’t surf with a hurricane coming.”

  “I can. I’ve got it all worked out.” He points down
at the numbers on his paper.

  Ugh. I turn back around. It’s none of my business if he wants to kill himself.

  “Loosen up, Bookworm. Life’s short.” His pencil returns to scritch-scratching across his paper as I shake my head.

  Clamping my teeth shut and willing myself not to respond, I wait for Mr. Richards to continue. My pulse pounds behind my forehead. That boy has a lot of nerve. If I thought for an instant we could ever be friends again, those thoughts died when he told me to loosen up. He might be able to loosen up. He might be able to surf in a hurricane. He might not have to take care of anyone or anything but himself.

  If anyone—anyone—in this school knows how short life is, how quickly things can change, it’s me.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Shape your heart to front the hour, but dream not that the hours will last.

  ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON

  After school, I drop Yesenia off at her house, and I can see her parents and siblings already getting ready to evacuate. I envy them—without horses to worry about, they’ll be out of here in no time. I hurry home as quickly as I dare, knowing that in the twenty minutes since I pulled out of the parking lot, Mom has texted me probably thirteen times. I don’t blame her. She can’t help that she’s gone from zero to full-out-natural-disaster mode since I said good-bye to her after breakfast, and there’s a lot to get done before we can leave.

  Taking a steadying breath, I climb the steps to the front door. The sky presses down, heavier than usual, and I realize there’s no breeze. It’s as if Mother Nature is holding her breath too. I count to ten before opening the screen door and crossing the threshold into the chaos that’s our home.

  “Oh, Sophie! Thank goodness.” Mom pours what’s left of the milk into the sink, then tosses the empty container into the recycling tub. “I’ve hooked up the truck and trailer. Can you start packing Mere’s things while I finish cleaning out the fridge?”

  “Sure.” I glance at Mere, asleep on the sofa with an afghan pulled up to her chin. A Full House rerun plays quietly on TV.