by McCall Hoyle
He’s trying a little too hard, but at least he seems more like himself with the goofy word play.
“Let’s hit it,” he says, moving toward the door and holding it open for me.
We comb the dunes without speaking. The roiling storm surge makes it too noisy to hear each other without shouting. The water rose at least five feet overnight and ripped away huge mounds of sand. The sea oats and dune where we rescued the wild horse are completely submerged.
My insides twist like a rip current. The only signs of our four-legged friend are a few smudged hoof prints.
Finn turns to face me and leans close so I can hear him. “He must’ve headed inland.”
“Or been dragged out to sea.” I peer out over the angry Atlantic.
“Why do you always have to be that way?” he barks over the waves, his jaw firm.
“What do you mean?” I ask, taking a step back.
“You always expect the worst.” The words are harmless enough, but his voice sounds accusatory.
I wasn’t expecting that from him, and I wasn’t expecting how those five simple words could hurt like a fist to my midsection. “I don’t know.” I brush the tangled hair from my face so I can see him better.
There’s pain in his eyes, as though I hurt him.
“Finn, you’re right. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be so negative. We have a lot to be thankful for. We’re alive. We made it—together. I just . . . I just can’t bear the thought of that poor animal, all alone . . .” My gut tells me to accept it—there’s a good chance the horse didn’t make it. But my heart reminds me that Finn has been right more than once. Maybe he’ll be right again.
A shadow swoops over us. We glance toward the racing clouds in unison. What looks like a black-and-white cross punctuates the sky above our heads. When the black crosspieces flap, I realize it’s not a levitating religious symbol. It’s a bird—a massive bird, like Pteranodon size. He glides on the brisk wind, inches above our heads. Peering at us from a beady black eye, he squawks, then rises on a current of air.
“Was that an—” Finn’s mouth hangs open on his unfinished sentence.
“Ha!” I shake my fist in the air, beaming. My face stretches when I smile, really smile. “An albatross!”
“No way. They don’t travel this far south.” Puzzled, he squints at the gargantuan bird as it tips one wing, rocking to one side and then the other.
If I didn’t know better, I’d think the bird was teasing us. “They don’t normally travel this far south. But that’s an albatross. The storm must’ve blown it off course or something.” I track it as it glides farther and farther away.
“How do you know it’s an albatross?”
“I just do. Trust me.” I don’t go into how Doc Wiggins is like a part of my family or how he’s an avid bird-watcher. I remember the pictures of the Hawaiian nesting grounds Doc Wiggins visited two years ago. He lectured me on the birds when he returned.
“That was definitely an albatross,” I say again.
“It doesn’t make sense, though. The only thing less sensible would be a penguin sighting.”
He’s right. It doesn’t make sense, and I’m really tired of things that don’t make sense. I’m starting to realize life might be easier if I quit trying to make sense of everything. It’s hard to believe so much has changed in two short days. It’s hard to believe how much I’ve changed in two short days.
Not knowing how to deal with the dead-serious Finn in front of me, I place a playful hand on my hip, hoping for a reaction from the boy I’ve grown close to during this storm. “Thank you, Captain Obvious.”
He cups his hand over his eyes, squinting for one last glance at the massive bird, and ignores my attempt at humor. “You know they’re a good omen, right? Like good luck on steroids.”
I let my hand fall to my side. “Um, have you ever read The Rime of the Ancient Mariner?”
“Exactly.”
My jaw drops, and I prepare my argument about how wrong Finn is about this. The stupid mariner shoots the bird that leads them out of the ice jam in Antarctic waters. The guy’s doomed with a capital D when the rest of the ship’s crew turns on him for killing the bird. They force him to wear the massive, dead bird as some sort of symbol of regret or something. That’s where the saying an albatross around your neck comes from. That’s quite a burden to have on a ghost ship lost at sea.
But before mariner-dude killed the bird—I never could figure out why he killed it—the bird was the lucky charm that brought the wind they needed to escape the Arctic Sea. To this day, sailors believe albatross are a good omen—a symbol of land. Which is totally wrong. The birds can live at sea for years without access to land.
But suddenly, I don’t want to argue. I want to hope. I want Finn to be right. I want this to be a sign from the universe—a sign that everything is going to be okay.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance.
ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON
Finn finally turns away from the speck of black and white receding on the horizon. “Let’s get out of here. When they allow residents back on the island, the Wild Horse Fund volunteers will be tracking the horses and checking the fence line.”
He’s correct, of course. One way or the other, the horse is gone. I have to focus on Mom and Mere now.
“Okay, let’s go,” I say, scanning the dunes again and praying for an equestrian miracle. When no natural or supernatural horses materialize, I lift my shoulders and prepare for the final chapter in my and Finn’s hurricane survival story.
He stops beside a clump of sea oats and pauses for a second. His shoulders lift, like he’s preparing to deliver a speech. “I kind of thought we might . . .”
“Kind of thought we might what?” I ask, glancing over my shoulder at him.
“I kind of thought we might go check for Zeke at the lighthouse before we head south. I mean, the storm was worse than any of us expected. I think we should offer to take him to the mainland with us.”
Head north. Again? Away from safety. Away from Mom and Mere.
Um.
No.
“Finn, I can’t. I have to get to Manteo. Now. My mom is going to be freaking out if I don’t get in touch with her.”
He shoves his hands in his pockets. “Fine.”
He trudges up the dune in front of us, his back stiff and straight. I remind myself that Zeke is his family. Finn is probably just as worried as my mom is.
“How long do you think it will take to get to Manteo?” I ask. “Not long.”
“Really?” It must be at least fifteen miles, maybe more. On foot, with the possibility of flooding and downed power lines, it seems it would take quite some time. “How?”
“Yeah. We’re going to borrow a car.”
Borrow? He says it so casually, like he’s going to borrow a friend’s pencil in class. As we crest the last mound of sand before the level road, I look both ways for traffic. Of course, the road is desolate—not a car in sight, but there are plenty of downed branches.
“Where will we find a car to borrow?” I ask. “What about keys?”
“In a garage. If we can’t find keys, I’ve got this.” He taps his pointer finger against his temple.
“You’re going to fire the engine with your brain power?” I slow down, assuming he’ll stop to explain. But he presses forward.
I don’t like this. Our crimes are escalating. First, it was breaking and entering for self-preservation. Then petty theft for convenience and safety. But grand theft auto sounds like something that could haunt us on our college applications and resumes.
I tell myself I would want someone to borrow my truck if it would save a life or reunite a family. Plus, we’ll be careful, and it will get me to Mom and Mere faster. I have no better solution of my own, so I tag along behind him.
We backtrack to the houses we passed on our way to our church parsonage sanctuary. But Finn’s optimism is misplaced. There’s nothing but drifts of sand an
d seaweed and broken timbers in the first garage. The next three are pretty much the same except for the overturned fishing boat wedged sideways in the second. I guess these people were smart enough to evacuate all their vehicles. That’s what Mom and I were trying to do.
The devastation around and between the houses is beyond depressing. The wreckage everywhere I look makes me wonder what Mom and I have to look forward to when we’re finally allowed to go home. Outer Banks residents, like their horses and their ancestors, are tough and resilient, but it’s going to take more than a strong will to put this mess back together. It’s going to take lots and lots of money and time—months, if not years, to piece back together what a vengeful Mother Nature ripped apart.
The sky darkens, and a light mist tickles my cheeks as we head away from what appears to be the last house as far as we can see.
“Now what?” I ask, glancing at the ominous sky. The outer bands of wind and rain that follow behind a hurricane may not be as dangerous as what we’ve experienced, but I’m not exactly keen on enduring more severe weather.
Finn seems to read my mind. “Don’t worry about the weather, Sophie.”
“Me, worry?” I deadpan. Then I sigh. “It can’t get any worse, I guess. You’re right.”
He chuckles for the first time today, and the weight in my heart eases a bit.
“My two favorite words,” he says, smiling and surveying the road to the north and south. “Now I need to be right about finding us some transportation.”
It doesn’t look promising. “What about your car?”
“It’s wrecked, Bookworm. Remember?”
“The windshield’s busted, that’s for sure. And it’s off the side of the road. But if we could get it back on the road and not drive too fast, it might get us to Manteo?” I shrug, wanting to get this show on the road and not caring much about what kind of ride we take. Plus, it would be kind of nice to avoid felony charges and a prison stay.
“I like how you think. Let’s try it,” he says, grabbing my hand and leading me down the center of the road.
“How’s your side?” I ask as we head south. “Not bad. How’s the shoulder?”
“Not too bad. The Tylenol helps.” The medicine eases the pain in my shoulder, and something about holding his hand eases some of the pain in my heart. It feels good, normal, healthy to be physically connected to another person—a boy I like, not a family member I’m holding on to for dear life.
We walk without talking. The wind and surf drown out the need for conversation. The Blazer comes into view several minutes later. Less than forty-eight hours ago, we’d fought the wind and were delayed by my shoulder injury. When we evacuated the first cottage, it seemed like we’d hiked miles in the dark.
Now, in daylight with the wind at our backs, I realize our great retreat was maybe a mile, two miles at best. Finn breaks into a jog as we near the vehicle. I scurry to catch up.
He smacks the Blazer like an old mule. “You’re one tough girl,” he says. His enthusiasm dies when he gets a better angle of the front of the car. The hood’s dented, the windshield smashed out.
I give him space as he peeks inside the front seat. “It’s pretty nasty in there.” He glances over his shoulder at me, like he expects me to complain.
“I can handle nasty if you can get it back on the road.” I try not to look at the spear-like tree limb protruding from the crack in the glass. A couple of feet in either direction could have ended with one of us as a human shish kebab.
Finn yanks the driver’s side door, reaches around the steering wheel, and wiggles the key in the ignition. Something clicks under the hood, and that’s it. His tough old girl just sits there. Cursing under his breath, he pulls a lever under the dashboard, and the hood pops up. As he steps to the front of the car to inspect the engine, I step to the back of the Blazer to check out the cargo area. Lying on top of several boxes are a couple of beach towels. I yank the rear swinging door with the intent of grabbing the towels, but it doesn’t budge.
“You need help?” Finn peeks around the raised hood. “I’ve got it.” I force a smile and give the handle a fierce pull.
“Bang down with your fist,” he says, then ducks back under the hood.
I follow his instructions, and the old girl opens on the third try—just like he said she would.
Reaching for the towels, I glance up at the sky. The clouds are dark. More rain is on the way. It’s going to be difficult navigating the roads with all the downed trees. I don’t want to think about driving in the rain with reduced visibility and no windshield to protect us from the elements. Trying to keep my mind off Mom and Mere and the weather, I keep busy drying off the front seats with the towels.
Finn steps around the hood and toward me. “I think I’ve got it,” he says.
“Well, start it, and let’s go.” I can’t take another minute of standing around.
“No. You start her. I push,” he says, heading to the back of the car.
I scrunch up my face, studying the precarious angle of the Blazer’s back tires. I’m not an engineer, but it looks risky. It looks like if the car shifts back or to the right, anyone behind it could be trapped, maybe even crushed by the back tires.
“I don’t know . . .”
“Sophie, I’ve done this a million times. She gets good traction. You drive. I’ll push, and we’ll be out of here in no time.”
I want to believe him. He’s done this a million times, and we need to get going. I take the keys when he hands them to me.
Ignoring the pain in my shoulder, I place the last dry towel on the seat and slide in behind the steering wheel. My feet swish in water pooling on the floor mat, and I notice the homeopathic book is waterlogged. An empty Doritos bag bobs in the mess. But Finn’s Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff somehow survived the crash, pressed in between the donut box and the underside of the dashboard.
“Fire her up,” he calls.
When I turn the key in the ignition this time, I remember to press down on the clutch as well. But Finn’s tough old girl seems a bit under the weather—literally. She wheezes, then sputters out a wet cough. There is no roar of an engine. No spark. No nothing. I glance back through the rear window at Finn. He gestures for me to try again. I twist the key and hold this time. An unhappy metal-scraping-metal sound complains from under the dented hood. I turn the key back to its starting position, afraid I’m going to blow up the beloved Blazer.
“Third times a charm,” Finn calls, and then slaps the rear window.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I turn the key and pray hard. The metal-scraping-metal drowns out the light sounds of the mist and breeze.
“Give her gas,” Finn shouts. “Come on. Come on,” he chants.
The beast of a vehicle rumbles to life as if she understands Finn.
He flashes a thumbs-up. “You know how to drive a stick, right?”
I shake my head. “Not really,” I say, trying not to think about my jerking and stopping and starting back at Zeke’s. We should have discussed this before I fired up the beast.
“It’s easy. Just let off the clutch and press the gas—gently and at the same time.” His head drops from sight in the rearview mirror as he prepares to push.
I let off the clutch a bit, but nothing happens. Biting the inside of my cheek, I apply pressure to the gas—gently like he said. But I’m so focused on my gentle pressing, I lose track of the clutch and release it completely. The car lurches forward. My chest smashes against the steering wheel. Cursing from behind the Blazer interrupts my wincing.
Glancing in the rearview mirror, I check for Finn. “You okay?” I call.
He coughs and sputters as I put the car in gear and turn off the engine. When I step out, I see him face first in the sand near the rear bumper.
“Finn, I’m so sorry.” I rush to help him as he struggles to a seated position.
I offer my hand. He accepts, and I pull him forward. “Do you want me to try it again?” I ask.
“No.” He
signals me to halt with one hand and massages his ribs with the other. “Let me try.”
I cross my fingers as he slides in behind the steering wheel. He turns the key and his girl fires right up. My breath catches, and my chest expands. Sucking down air, I realize it’s become almost second nature to hold my breath. Please, please, let him get the Blazer on the road.
The engine revs higher and higher as Finn presses the gas pedal, but the Blazer doesn’t budge. He gives her more gas. An angry stream of sand shoots from beneath the back tires. They dig in deeper and deeper. Clamping my mouth shut, I’m right back to holding my breath. I want to scream. Why can’t we catch a break?
“Maybe we should just keep moving.” I hug myself and rub my upper arms. I’m not exactly drenched, but the mist has picked up. The clouds hang so low I can almost touch them. My clothes and hair act like sponges, absorbing thick moisture from the air.
“No. I have an idea.” Determination etches his face. “I’ve got this.”
I follow as he moves toward the back of the vehicle. Opening the rear door a second time, he removes boogie boards, a lacrosse stick, and other sporting equipment I can’t identify. He piles everything on the ground beside the car.
I help without speaking, not wanting to interrupt his thinking. Eventually, he uncovers a long wooden board and gives it a tug. But it’s stuck, wedged in place beneath a stack of books. Pulling them toward me, I can’t help but notice the first title—To Test or Not to Test: The Pros and Cons of Genetic Counseling.
I glance over at Finn. In some ways, this ordeal has brought us much closer. I feel like I know him. There’s more to him than the class clown he portrays at school. But in other ways, he’s as much an enigma as always. I mean, who eats the way he does, lives the way he does, and studies homeopathic medicine and genetic counseling?
The top book slips to the sand, unveiling the next title—Illness in the Family. Finn looks up. Our eyes lock. His lips part like he wants to say something. His face tightens, as though he’s in pain.
“I’m sorry, Finn,” I whisper, suddenly understanding what he was trying to tell me back at the cottage about his father’s death. There was a lot of pain. I see that clearly now, but he chooses to remember and relive the beauty. In his mind, the beauty and the pain are all woven together like some intricate tapestry. I was listening to only half of what he was saying.
