Meet the Sky

by McCall Hoyle

  He finally speaks. “My head hurts like—” His voice breaks off as he doubles over, grabbing his ribs.

  I clench my jaw, trying not to collapse under his weight.

  “Shh. I’ve got you. Keep putting one foot in front of the other. We’re almost there.”

  I’m totally lying, but he’s not in a position to understand what’s going on, much less argue about it. My thighs burn in agony under our combined weight. My wet hoodie sticks to my skin, weighing me down even further. My neck aches from the impact of the airbag and Finn’s weight, and I contemplate sitting for a minute or two, but we’re still overshadowed by a canopy of drunkenly swaying trees. Peering through the tunnel to the opening at the end of the drive, I spot the shadow of a lopsided bungalow on stilts. The dark outline of a possible shelter, no matter how poorly built, puffs my sails with a second wind.

  “Finn. Come on. There’s a house up ahead.”

  The weight across my shoulders lessens a bit when he lifts his head. “Yeah . . .”

  He pauses for a second or two after every step to catch his breath. By the time we reach the deck at the top of the stairs, we’re drenched through to our skin and shivering against each other. I unpeel his arm from my neck, lean him against the wall near the door, and bang on the window. When no one answers, I wiggle the knob.

  Of course, it’s locked.

  I bang the glass again. Tears burn my eyes. There has to be a key somewhere. When I lean down to look under the mat and find nothing but wood, icy rainwater washes the tears away.

  “You’re . . . gonna have to break . . .” The howling wind cuts off bits and pieces of his weak speech, but I get the gist of it. Finn wants me to break into this house. I guess it would still be breaking and entering with a key, but it would seem a lot more civilized that way. I survey the windows. Maybe one’s unlocked.

  A terrifying bang overpowers the groaning of the wind. When I almost jump out of my skin, my foot hits a concrete frog near the door. Somehow, my heart restarts itself after a missed beat.

  “Do it,” Finn says.

  Another bang, and another, cracks the night. I jump again and again. My imagination conjures images of drunk looters with guns shooting up the neighborhood and robbing homes.

  “Sophie, it’s just . . . the transformers blowing . . .”

  Oh, right. Just those little transformers blowing. Nothing to worry about. We’re stranded on a narrow strip of land, jutting out into the Atlantic in the middle of an oncoming Category 2 hurricane. Now our only source of power is apparently blowing up as we speak. Clearly, we’re perfectly safe—nothing to stress about here, friends.

  “Do it,” he says a second time.

  “Crap, crap, crap,” I whisper under my breath.

  Curse this boy.

  Curse this hurricane.

  Curse the transformers.

  Curse it all—every last bit of this horrible nightmare.

  Bending down, I grab the heavy frog. With a grunt, I heft it to my shoulder, then slam it through the glass.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  A sorrow’s crown of sorrow is remembering happier times.

  ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON

  The house is cold and dark, but it’s small, which makes finding the couch easy. I prop Finn in the corner cushions, then head back to the door and the light switch. Flicking the switch does nothing but confirm what Finn already said about the transformers: the power’s out. I try a lamp and the TV remote out of desperation. Nothing.

  I check my phone for the seventy-fifth time since I got in the car with Finn. Zero signal. Not much battery.

  I step back to the couch. Finn’s slumped over on his side in a fetal position, teeth chattering. I’m no expert, but I grew up on Dad’s forest ranger stories. And it doesn’t take a medical degree to realize Finn’s headed down a one-way street to shock and maybe even hypothermia if I don’t do something fast. Before the situation can spiral any further out of control, I wiggle his shoulder.

  He groans and opens his eyes to slits.

  “Don’t blink. Don’t blink,” I order in my most authoritative voice as I slide my finger across my phone and switch on the flashlight. When I shine it in his eyes, he winces and blinks. As soon as his eyes obey my command, his pupils constrict to pinpoints under the glare of my flashlight. I know responsive pupils are a good sign that Finn didn’t suffer a concussion, and I breathe a sigh of relief.

  He rests his arm across his eyes. “Cut the light. It hurts.”

  “What day is it?”

  “That’s. A. Stupid. Question.” His teeth chatter, chopping up his speech.

  “Just tell me.” If his pupils are responsive and he’s alert to time and place, I can let him sleep for a few hours at a time.

  “It’s Wednesday. Leave me alone. I’m freezing.” He shifts onto his side, clearly settling in for a while.

  We really need to get out of our wet clothes.

  “Finn!” I grip his shoulder, but he doesn’t budge or make a sound. After a few seconds, I take a deep breath and tug his T-shirt down the arm nearest me. Once his elbow clears the armhole, I bend his arm, slipping it inside the body of his shirt. Using the tricks I learned from Mere’s rehab nurses, I have him out of his shirt in just a minute. The jeans take longer because they have a button and a zipper. My insides turn all twisty when my fingers brush his stomach. Holding my breath, I stare at the fish mounted over the old fireplace instead of his body. I peel him from his wet jeans inch by inch. Avoiding an underwear malfunction slows me down even further.

  When I finally have him stripped down to his SpongeBob boxers, I realize my mistake. He’s freezing. Now his whole body moves in rhythm with his chattering teeth. I should have rounded up blankets first. I hate to leave him exposed and cold, but I have to find better supplies.

  The kitchen, dining, and living areas are all one room. I push through the closed door opposite the couch. It’s a bedroom. Without hesitating, I pull bedspread, blanket, and top sheet off an iron-frame bed with one aggressive yank and head back to Finn. I cover him from chin to toes and carefully tuck the covers in around him. The covers do nothing to lessen the shivering. I need to do something with his wet hair, so I hurry to the tiny L-shaped kitchen in search of dish towels.

  I return with an armload of soft towels and hot pads, then drop to my knees beside the couch, thankful Finn appears to have dozed off. As I massage his head with a towel, a bit of color seeps back into his cheeks. When his teeth stop chattering, his face relaxes. He sinks into a deep sleep before my eyes, and something in my chest loosens. It’s hard to be irritated with him when he looks so vulnerable—when he’s not smirking, when he’s not talking.

  Maybe Finn’s not the real problem. Maybe it’s just his mouth. Maybe we’d be great friends if he didn’t talk so much, and if we didn’t have that little nightmare where he stood me up at the dance. But from what I’ve seen, the talking will never go away unless someone wires his jaw shut.

  Pushing myself to my feet, I head back to the bedroom in search of dry clothes for me. If I’m going to take care of Finn, I need to take care of myself too. The person who owns the house either doesn’t spend much time here or is some kind of super minimalist. There’s one Crab Shack T-shirt, a pair of men’s jeans, an East Carolina sweatshirt, and a pair of flannel drawstring pajama pants. I don’t care how cold or wet I am or how incapacitated Finn is, I’d die before prancing around this house anything less than fully clothed.

  I take off my wet clothes and tennis shoes, throw on the T-shirt, slip into the way-too-big pj pants that, to my happy surprise, have pockets, and head back to Finn with the jeans and sweatshirt for when he wakes up. He’s breathing softly, face still relaxed, so I set to work. I remember this drill from childhood—back when we were still a four-person family with a dad. We rode out many a nor’easter and even a few Category 1 hurricanes. All Outer Banks residents know to be prepared 24/7 for unpredictable weather and power outages. There must be basic storm supplies here somew
here.

  The logical place to start is in the kitchen. Trying to take advantage of the last bits of light before I can’t see, I pick through the cabinets nearest the back door, methodically opening one, feeling around, and then moving to the next, finding a few cans of soup and other nonperishables as I go. I hit the jackpot when I open the drawer beside the sink—candles, matches, a flashlight, and a value pack of double-A batteries. I set them on the counter and run down my mental checklist.

  Shelter—check. Light source—check. Canned goods in the cabinet—check. Water—crap.

  I try the faucet. A few spurts of water and a bunch of air shoot out, then nothing. We won’t make it long without water, so I grab every pot and pan I can find and charge out to the deck, arranging the makeshift buckets in a line near the railing. Securing them with the concrete frog and a couple of heavy flowerpots, I pray they’ll withstand the predicted high winds. In an emergency, rainwater might be our only option. Shaking moisture from my hair, I step inside and bolt the door behind me.

  There’s nothing I can do now but wait for my clothes to dry, wait for Finn to wake, and listen to the rising wind. The house sways a little, and I remind myself that’s what it’s designed to do. The stilts do more than elevate the living space above water level; they also provide some give in strong winds. Staring into the blackness beyond the window, I tell myself I’ve got this. I’m pretty good at taking care of myself and everyone else. The boy sleeping soundly in the cocoon of warm blankets and sheets at my back is evidence of that.

  But guilt nibbles at my insides. I should be taking care of Mom and Mere, not Finn. I should have told Mom about my tires. Maybe all of this could have been avoided if I had.

  Sadly, there’s nothing else I can do to improve our situation right now. I don’t want to waste our light sources, so I sit in the dark, listening to Finn’s steady breathing. I draft a mental to-do list of what needs to be done at daybreak and pray the storm will turn back out to the Atlantic. Or maybe some emergency personnel will find us on their door-to-door rounds.

  A loud bang cracks the side of the house, and my head snaps. I realize I must have closed my eyes for a second and that debris is hitting the house, probably a trash can or lawn chair or something someone forgot to put away or tie down. My butt’s numb from sitting on the hardwood floor, and my whole body aches. Common sense tells me to get some sleep, but my stubborn streak insists I stay alert—stay focused. When I yawn, I realize common sense is going to win.

  I debate going to the bedroom, but I worry something could happen if Finn and I are separated, even by a wall. It’s like that reality show where people have to survive naked in the wilderness for weeks at a time. They may fight like crazy, but anything is better than being alone. Finn’s the last person I’d choose to be stranded with, but he’s all I’ve got. And anybody is better than nobody.

  I push myself to standing and arch my aching lower back. My spine pops. I survey the darkness again. We’re surrounded by windows. If the winds bear down even harder, we’ll have to move to a closet or the corner of the kitchen away from the threat of breaking glass. I gently sit on the edge of the couch in the bend behind Finn’s knees and kind of recline on the arm of the couch. I don’t have to touch anything but his calves and feet, which seems safe enough—no room for misinterpretation.

  Trying to be very still, I rest my head against the back of the couch and concentrate on the wind. At some point I must have fallen into a deep sleep, or I’m still dreaming, because I’m nestled in blankets and . . . warm. And the world on the other side of my closed eyelids is no longer black. It’s more charcoal gray.

  I exhale, savoring one second of perfect quiet and warmth. Then soft laughter rips me to awareness. My eyes fly open.

  Inches from my face is another face—a smiling face, framed by messy, towel-dried black hair.

  “Morning, Sunshine.” Finn winks at me. The goose egg on his forehead has already turned a greenish-gray.

  My body stiffens. “Did the storm miss us?” I ask between mostly closed lips, praying he found the sweatshirt and jeans I laid out for him. If I weren’t swaddled like a baby, I’d yank my hand to my mouth. I can only imagine the dragon breath I must have this morning. I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy.

  “No, I don’t think we’ve seen the worst yet. But we’ll be okay. The house is pretty well built.” He moves slowly and carefully, like an old man, as he pushes himself up to a sitting position on the edge of the couch. He seems completely unfazed by the proximity of his body to mine.

  I, on the other hand, can barely breathe.

  “I want to say thanks,” he says, changing the subject and saving me from the awkward silence.

  “For what?” I haven’t done anything. Maybe the bang to his head scrambled more than his face.

  Turning sideways to face me, he playfully bumps my hip with his elbow, then lowers one eyebrow. His face is serious, but his eyes are speckled with mischief. “Uh, let’s see. For the blankets, for the supplies I saw on the counter, for the pots on the deck, for the clothes . . .”

  Thank you, God. Thank you. At least he’s dressed.

  “Thank you for saving me,” he says.

  “It was nothing.” Anyone would have done the same thing in a similar situation.

  Now even his eyes are serious. “It was something. I should have listened to you. It’s my fault we’re stranded. I’m sorry. Good thing you’re like some kind of ninja-survivor girl.”

  Now I’m the one laughing—like a real, genuine laugh—which is completely absurd, considering the situation we’re facing with the weather.

  If the forecast hasn’t changed, we could be in for a direct hit sometime in the next few hours, which means we have plans to prepare, decisions to make, and actions to take. And no time to lie around laughing like friends . . . or like anything else.

  But for a second, laughing with Finn doesn’t seem so bad.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  A life that is half-truth is the darkest lie of all.

  ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON

  Several hours pass as we wait to see what else the hurricane has in store. My phone hasn’t had service since yesterday, and Finn’s watch is no help. It must be at least midmorning. Maybe even noon. It’s hard to say since the sky never advanced past slate-gray. Our cottage on stilts remains shrouded in gloom. We eat lukewarm chicken noodle soup I heat over a couple of candles.

  “Won’t your parents be worried about you?” I ask between bites.

  He slurps a spoonful of squishy noodles and shrugs. “It’s just me and my mom.”

  I could have sworn I remembered a mom and dad at school functions. Maybe his parents separated too. “Isn’t that even more reason for her to worry?”

  He leans forward to set his empty bowl on the driftwood table in front of the couch. The casual movement seems dreamlike with the sun camouflaged, the wind howling, and the house swaying beneath us. “She loves me. She worries, but we both learned one thing when my dad died—life is meant to be lived. Really lived. Like, suck every last drop of life out of life every day because today could be your last. That’s why we moved back here—to be closer to Zeke and to the ocean.”

  A speck of chicken lodges in my throat. I had no idea he’d lost his dad. It must have been after he moved away. I just kind of figured from his happy-go-lucky attitude that he was like Yesenia, that he’d never come face-to-face with any of the big bad Ds—disability, divorce, death. The smile on his face doesn’t match his death and dying comments, if you ask me. But he’s not really asking me. I’m caught once again by the oxymoron that is Finn Sanders. His words are those of a wise old sage, but his face is more impish, stand-up comic.

  “And she knew I might hang out with Zeke,” he says.

  When a Christmas-tree-size pine branch slaps the window, I jerk, sloshing soup out of the bowl. The wind is picking up.

  I set my bowl beside his and begin grabbing the books and blankets I’ve piled up around us. “It’s
time,” I say.

  Without arguing, he stands. When he reaches for the flashlight and batteries on the table, he struggles to catch his breath. I stop to look at him, see his hand extended but frozen in place.

  “You okay?” I ask.

  “Yeah. Fine.”

  He’s lying. The grimace on his face and the hand squeezing his ribs speak way louder than his hoarse voice.

  “You’re hurt.”

  “I’m fine.” As if to prove it, he releases his side and grabs the flashlight and batteries.

  I don’t move until he nudges me toward the bedroom. It’s a good thing the closet is on the interior wall and even better that it’s pretty much empty. I fold the sheets and blankets to fit the floor. He grabs pillows from the bed. By the time we finish, we have a cozy hidey-hole I would have killed for back in elementary school. We have the books and a deck of cards I found with the emergency candles and other storm supplies.

  “You take this thing everywhere you go?” He flicks Mere’s compass, which I have hung around my neck.

  I stand outside looking in, hoping he’ll go first. For some reason, retreating to the closet seems like a big decision, like crossing some sort of invisible line, like an admission that our lives are at stake. “My sister’s really attached to it,” I say without explaining that Dad gave it to Mere, or that it was the only thing she hung on to after the accident, or that Mom and I packed our compasses away long ago. It’s not like we’ll have the money anytime soon to travel somewhere that requires orienteering equipment.

  Finn leaves it at that, dramatically gesturing for me to enter. “Mi casa es su casa.”

  I try to smile, but I don’t like it. I don’t want to be trapped in a closet at the mercy of this stupid storm. But we have no choice, so I cross the threshold.

  “Wait!” He grabs my shoulder.

  “What?” I jump back, positive he’s spotted a black widow or some mammoth rodent.