by McCall Hoyle
The wall above her head that’s normally lined with family photos is all but bare. My mother is a force to be reckoned with when she puts her mind to something. And she’s totally put her mind to evacuating and protecting and saving what she can.
“I guess we’re leaving tonight,” I say as she tosses a bag of lettuce into the trash.
“The sooner the better. Aunt Mae’s expecting us, and I’ve called the mainland stable about the horses. Do you have gas?”
“I’m taking my truck?”
“Yes.” She adjusts the dial on the weather radio. “I’d rather be in one vehicle, but we can’t risk losing your truck. This one’s going to be bad.”
I know better than to ask where she got her information. The weather service may be predicting a direct hit farther south, they may be predicting a Category 1 storm, but clearly the horses or the seagulls or some other more accurate information source has told my mother otherwise. And for better or for worse, the horses and the gulls are usually right.
“Do you have gas, Sophie?” she asks a second time.
I nod, trying not to think about us traveling in separate vehicles. It’s not ideal, but losing the truck to saltwater damage or flooding isn’t an option either. “I have over half a tank. And I can find my way to Williamston with my eyes closed.”
She pauses to smile at me. “Stop in Manteo and fill up, okay?”
“Okay.” The lines will be ridiculously long, but I don’t argue.
“Promise,” she says, reading my mind.
“I promise.”
“We won’t try to stick together. It’s too stressful—too dangerous. Go at your own pace. By the time we get to Columbia, traffic should be thinning. Let’s meet at Dunkin’ Donuts, then head to Williamston together.” She tosses a bag of chips and a box of graham crackers into the canvas tote bag at her feet for road snacks.
“Now you’re speaking my language.” I grab the apples she forgot from the basket beside the toaster and drop them into her bag. “The horses can have them while we’re pounding down Strawberry Frosteds and Boston Kremes.”
Mom takes a moment to smile at me. “I don’t know what I’d do without you, sweetheart. I know you’ll be careful.”
My chest expands a little. Our life has not turned out the way I expected, and I never would have asked for the heartache or the financial stress that came from the accident. But I like that Mom can count on me—that I can alleviate a bit of her anxiety. “Careful’s my middle name,” I tell her.
Her smile widens as she points to the cat carrier by the front door. “After you pack Mere’s stuff, can you put Jim in his crate?”
“Yes, ma’am. On it.” I salute and head down the short hall to Mere’s room, determined to do everything I can to get us out of here on Mom’s schedule. Mere’s wardrobe is beyond simple—flannel pajamas, jeans, T-shirts, and hoodies. She gave away all her dance stuff months ago. I have the basics packed—including her toothpaste, toothbrush, and tear-free shampoo—in less than ten minutes. Packing my stuff doesn’t take much longer. I pull the three hundred and forty-seven dollars I’ve been saving for tires from my sock drawer and carefully zip it in the inside pocket, then throw in some extra red pens and highlighters for annotating. A minute later, I carry our bags to the kitchen.
Mom ties a knot in the trash bag as I pass. “While you get Jim, I’ll put the trash out and grab my bag. Everything else should be in the truck. Let’s try to be on the road before five, okay?”
“What about Mere?” I ask and lift our bags to carry down to the truck.
“Let her rest. I’ll wake her when we’re ready to walk out.” She double-checks the fridge for anything that might spoil as I slip out the door.
The truck and trailer are parked beside the barn, facing out, ready to go. As soon as Mom finishes in the house, we’ll load the horses and hit the road. I sling our duffle bags into the backseat of the cab, then quickly survey the bed of the truck. Clear plastic tubs contain extra halters and lead ropes. Bales of hay and a couple of fifty-pound bags of sweet feed and oats hold the buckets and other odds and ends in place. I lift my chin with pride. My friends and teachers think I work hard, but they should see my mom. Sometimes I think she’s Wonder Woman.
“Hey, guys! It’s me,” I call as I turn toward the barn. Jack whinnies. The other horses shuffle around in their stalls. They know something’s up, from the change in barometric pressure or the change in my routine or maybe both. And they’re restless.
If I’m honest, I have to admit I’m on edge too, so I pick up the pace as I head to the tack room for Jim. “Kitty. Kitty. Jim-bo!” I call. He’s not around, so I grab the can of cat treats and shake it. Jim usually doesn’t go far. I use the time to inventory the tack room and make sure Mom packed a couple of saddles and bridles and basic first aid supplies. Of course, she has.
Shaking the cat treats again, I step down the center aisle of the barn toward the paddocks and ring out back. When the familiar rumble of Doc Wiggins’s diesel truck breaks the quiet, I smile and head back to the parking area in front of the barn. He tips his straw Stetson as the vehicle grinds to a halt. I’m not sure I’d recognize him without the signature hat.
“You evacuating?” I ask as he wrestles the heavy door open and steps down to the driveway.
“After I finish checking on my favorite patients.” He winks.
Everyone knows Doc doesn’t have favorites. He loves all the animals he cares for . . . and their families too.
“We’re all good,” I tell him.
“I can see that.” He surveys the truck and trailer, then lifts his eyebrows when his gaze settles on the cat treats.
“Just have to find Jim, then we’re ready to hit the road.”
“Good deal.” He nods. “I know you can take care of yourself, and Jim’s smart—he’ll show up.”
I smile, wishing my insides felt more confident than the fake smile on my face. Doc Wiggins is right. I can take care of myself. It’s everyone else I’m worried about.
Determined to be efficient and get this show on the road on schedule, I head back through the barn to search for Jim before Doc’s truck reaches the end of the driveway.
But there’s no sign of Jim anywhere, so I set the treats on the ground and cup my hands around my mouth. Scanning the dunes and horizon behind the barn, I call for Jim and pray for a splotch of orange . . . but find nothing.
When I swallow, my throat feels tight. Jim is a survivor. He’s also kind of our family mascot.
He was the first animal I rescued all by myself. The first time I saw him, he was a four-legged kitten on the side of the road. I tried to coax him to the house with food and a soft voice. I left tuna on the front porch, but he had no interest in humans. At that point, he’d rather scavenge than accept handouts, and I knew he’d either take up residence or disappear. Feral cats are funny like that. He finally started sleeping in the barn but kept his distance, always bolting when any of us approached. Then he disappeared for a week or so. The next time we saw him, he was limping—hobbling on three legs. He couldn’t move as fast. When I tried to approach, he scuttled off to the scraggly trees at the edge of our property, but not fast enough to hide the bloody stump that had replaced his paw.
I finally caught up with him, and stayed in surgery with the little guy as Doc Wiggins fixed him up. Ever since then, Jim has been part of the family.
The wind picks up, startling me and rustling the seagrass out near the dunes. I grab the cat treats, ready to investigate the gnarled maritime trees behind the manure pile. Movement beside the barn stops me in my tracks.
“Jim?” I call, my voice cracking.
My heart sinks when I see it’s a piece of a feed bag blowing in the wind. I glance back at the trees. I don’t want Mom to freak if we miss our five o’clock deadline, but there’s no way I’m leaving without Jim.
I have to find him.
Now.
CHAPTER SIX
The old order changeth, yielding p
lace to new.
ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON
After an hour of searching, I’m about to give up. It took a lot of persuading to convince Mom to wait this long for Jim to return. But Jim’s lucky. If most cats have nine lives, I’m pretty sure he has nineteen. He survived in the wild as an orphan and is still an excellent mouser despite his missing paw.
But even as I tell myself that, I can’t help but worry.
“Sophie, we have to go.” My mom sounds upset at the thought of leaving Jim behind, but we’re already half an hour past our scheduled departure. I can tell each minute is stressing her out more, and I know we’re pushing our luck.
“Where are you, Jim?” I whisper, scanning the area around our house one last time. Nothing.
Finally, Mom fires up the big truck. With no other choice, I walk toward my own truck, trying to convince myself Jim will be all right. And then, just as I’m about to climb into the driver’s seat, I see a flash of orange.
“You smart boy!” I croon as I pick up Jim and hug him tight.
Of course he would have perfect timing—just like Doc said. Instead of roughing it out in a hurricane, he shows up just in time to take a mini vacation to Aunt Mae’s, where he’ll be spoiled with lots and lots of salmon and tuna treats.
With a few more compliments, I place him in the crate on the backseat of Mom’s truck. He circles a few times, curls up in a ball, and closes his eyes like he doesn’t have a care in the world. I smile at his whiskered face as I close the truck door. Mom blows me a quick kiss. The diesel engine groans as she changes gears and eases forward down the sandy driveway and toward the main road.
I just need to grab my backpack. Then I can focus on the road and Strawberry Frosteds and Boston Kremes, and maybe if we’re feeling really adventurous, a couple of Butter Pecan Macchiatos. I find my pack right where I left it on the floor beside the front door. As I hoist it onto my shoulder, a large black trash bag in the kitchen catches my eye. Cleaning out the fridge is kind of a waste if you leave the food to spoil.
I grab the bag, wondering how Mom could have walked past the trash and forgotten it. That’s not like her at all. Clearly, she’s beyond stressed. For the thousandth time, I wish Mom had a reliable partner—a spouse who didn’t bolt when life got too hard. I’m pulling the back door closed behind me when the bottom of the trash bag falls out. My stomach twists at the mound of cottage cheese mixed with leftover taco meat and a couple of other unidentifiable mystery foods.
Great.
I shoot Mom a text, letting her know I’ll be a little bit behind because of the mess. It takes a good ten minutes to re-bag the trash and pour a cup of water over the icky residue on the deck. By the time I finally toss the bag in the back of the truck and hit the road, I feel like Mom and Mere are hours away. I tell myself I’m being silly and focus on navigating the already deserted roads. The safety-conscious residents, like Mom, packed up and left immediately. The less cautious will leave in one final rush. And by this time of the year, the tourists are gone. That leaves the road all to me. As I drive, I try to avoid looking at the angry white caps of the Atlantic churning out past the dunes or listening to the doom-and-gloom radio announcer narrating the progress of the storm. Lost in my thoughts of Mom and Mere, I don’t see the boards in the road until it’s almost too late. Gripping the steering wheel, I grit my teeth and swerve to avoid the wood. Who knows how many nails the stuff is riddled with. My right front tire clicks when I clip the edge of one board. Thankfully, I manage to avoid swerving off the road or running over the boards head-on.
My hands unclench a little when the radio switches back to its regular programming—some sappy love song. I relax but keep my eyes peeled for more debris in the road.
Then the truck jerks. A thwump-thwump ignites a new spark of fear in my gut. Clicking off the radio, I ease my foot from the accelerator and lean forward, listening. My heart sinks when I recognize the sound.
I’ve blown one of my bald tires. I should have told Mom they were in bad shape, even though I know it wouldn’t have helped. She doesn’t have four hundred dollars lying around to buy tires. Plus, I was so very, very close. Between the discount the tire guy promised me and the three hundred and forty-seven bucks now zipped in the duffle in Mom’s truck, I was only seventy-three dollars from a new set of tires.
I look around on the road for another car that could help, but I’m totally alone, and the screech of metal scraping pavement can’t be good. I’m about to cause more than tire damage to Dad’s old truck, so I pull off the side of the road. Tapping my forehead on the steering wheel, I pray for a miracle, or better yet, a way to turn back time. When I step out of the truck, the temperature has dropped several degrees. The wind rakes at my hair, and I shiver as I go to check the damage.
My front tire is gone, shredded and left in a trail on the road behind me. The rim, or whatever it’s called, has sunk several inches into the sand on the side of the road. Dad taught me how to change a tire a million years ago, but I’m not so sure I remember how to do it on my own. And I’m definitely sure I don’t want to be caught trying to wrestle a spare tire onto my ancient truck during a hurricane.
As I survey my surroundings, the rumble of a large engine growls over the moaning wind. Maybe it’s an answer to my prayers in the form of a police officer or one of those giant trucks that hauls cars on the highway. I squint down the road. As the approaching vehicle comes into focus, my stomach feels like it dropped to my knees. Holding my breath, I grip the tail of my OBX T-shirt in my fists.
I’d recognize that vomit-green, rusted-out deathtrap anywhere. The surfboards and rack on top are probably worth more than the actual car. Before I have time to formulate a plan or run screaming over the dunes, the vehicle screeches to a stop beside me, and out pops my rescuer. No Prince Charmings or white knights for this girl—I get Finn Sanders.
As he’s all I’ve got at this point, I squinch my face into what’s supposed to be a smile.
“What’s up, Bookworm?” He screws the cap back on a bottle of Dr Pepper and sets it on the hood of his car.
Heat prickles my chest as I bite my tongue.
“Changing a flat not on the syllabus?” He cocks one eyebrow and flashes the smile that earned him extensions on incomplete homework assignments in eighth grade.
“I’m sure I can figure it out.” I lift my chin, not wanting to ask him for help.
His face goes serious, but I’m pretty sure a smile still tugs at the corner of his mouth. “I don’t mind changing a flat. I’m good with my hands.” One of his eyebrows lifts mischievously.
“Thanks.” I ignore his attempt at humor. Sea oats rustle and swish as a rush of wind flattens them to the sand out on the dunes. I want to argue. I could totally change a tire if I had time to figure it out, but time is the one thing I don’t have much of today.
“So where’s the spare?” He shoves his hands into his front pockets. Something about the tilt of his head and the quirk of his mouth says he’s testing me. And if there’s one thing I don’t like, it’s failing tests. You don’t earn a perfect score on the pre-SAT if you can’t think fast and use the process of elimination. I point to the back of the truck. “It’s under the bed.”
He props himself against the side of the truck like we have all day. “Where’s the jack?”
Crap. I have no idea, and it could be anywhere. I open my mouth but can’t think of anything to say.
Smirking, he heads around the front of the truck. “It’s behind the passenger seat.”
I could live without the attitude, but in all fairness, I wasn’t exactly a ball of sunshine when he approached me at school this morning. At least he seems to know what he’s doing. He extracts a plastic box with several crowbar-looking tools and what I assume is the jack, then carries them to the back of the truck, where he lays them on the edge of the road. When he shimmies under the truck on his back, his T-shirt rises, revealing a sliver of his toned abs. Thank God he can’t see my face or see me staring in the
general vicinity of his waistband. His ego is big enough already. I’d light my hair on fire before I’d give him the satisfaction of thinking I was checking him out.
“Uh . . . Einstein . . .”
My body stiffens at the way he says Einstein—half confused, half concerned. “Yes?”
“I hate to break the bad news, but your spare’s gone.”
“What do you mean gone? That can’t be.”
“You want to look for yourself?”
“Yes. Yes, I do, actually.” Squatting, I twist my neck, trying to glimpse the underneath of the truck. It’s pointless, though. He has no reason to lie, and from what I can see, there isn’t a spare.
He slides out from under the truck, stands next to me, and slaps me on the back. “Guess you’re stuck with me, Bookworm.”
My shoulders tense. My legs tense. I think maybe my toenails tense. I don’t want to be alone with Finn, even if it’s to flee to safety in the face of a storm.
But on the other hand, I’m not about to wait for someone else to come along and help me. “Could you take me to the forest ranger station in Manteo? I have friends there.”
Well, Mom has a friend there—Carla, who’s one of the rangers. She’s about the only person I can think of who would still be around and willing to give me a ride to Williamston with an evacuation in progress and a hurricane bearing down. By now, Yesenia and her family will be across the bridge, and there’s no way I can ask Mom to turn around and get me.
“Sure.” He steps toward his Blazer, opening the passenger door for me.
I turn back to the truck to grab my belongings, leaving the bag of trash where it is. As I reach into the backseat, I spot Mere’s compass—one of the few trinkets she still cares about—and grab it too. Finn raises an eyebrow at the device.
“It’s my sister’s.” I don’t explain how Dad bought each of us our own compass before our last big family vacation to Yellowstone, or why Mere still keeps hers around. Thankfully, he doesn’t ask.
“I just have to run supplies up to a relative in Corolla first,” he says.
