by Lara Zielin
My brother raises his eyebrows. “Remind me again, Alex. How many tornadoes have you guys seen this season?” One of the camera guys adjusts his angle so he has a better view of Ethan.
The room goes quiet. I sneak a glance at Max, who has his tongue poked into his cheek.
“None, yet. But the season’s barely started.”
“Huh,” Ethan says. “We’ve already seen two.”
One of the Twister Blisters whistles at Ethan. “Is that a challenge? Because it sounds like a challenge.”
“It can sound like whatever you want it to. I’m just pointing out the facts.”
Alex laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “Since you’re so good at pointing things out, Ethan, then maybe you can point out Stephen’s brother.” Alex looks around the room. “Where’s Victor? I don’t see him here. He wouldn’t be . . . afraid to show up for work, would he?”
More crap about Victor. What is going on with that guy?
Stephen’s face darkens, but it’s Ethan who speaks. “Our team is just fine, Alex. All of us. And all of us are going to have a blast kicking your ass in the chases this summer.”
“You can’t touch us,” Alex says, like he knows our equipment is on the fritz. Like he knows our van is rusted and needs new tires, and the grant money we’ve scraped together for the season barely covers food and lodging.
Ethan shrugs. The camera hasn’t moved from him. “Why not? Let’s see who can catch the most twisters this season. Or get the closest to one. What do you say, Stephen?”
Stephen’s face is still cloudy, and I wonder what he’ll do. Stephen might not be the oldest Torbro (at twenty-seven, Victor’s got that honor), but he’s been chasing for way longer than anyone else on the team. Among the Torbros there’s a rumor that Stephen’s first word as a baby was atmosphere. Whatever happens is his call.
“Loser cleans out the winner’s van at the end of the season,” Stephen says after a moment. “And buys the whole group dinner.”
I almost shudder. I can only imagine what the inside of the Twister Blisters vans look like after an entire summer of chasing.
“Those stakes seem a little tame,” Alex says. “I say we raise them.”
Ethan’s eyes narrow. “In what way?”
“We win, we get the blueprints for Polly.”
Stephen harrumphs. “Never.”
“You win, you get the Weather Network.”
Even the camera operators look up from their lenses to see what Ethan and Stephen will say to that.
“You can’t guarantee the Weather Network,” Hallie says, chiming in after a moment. “You don’t own the network. You can’t tell them which chase teams to follow.”
Alex’s eyes drag slowly over Hallie’s body, up and down. Flames of anger light my insides when I see that. Hallie is a kick-ass chaser and an even better scientist. She also happens to be five-ten, with a completely banging body. It totally sucks right now that all Alex and the Blisters—and no doubt the cameras—can see is her looks.
“I don’t own the Weather Network, it’s true,” Alex says, “but I am an executive producer. And I absolutely do get a say in who the network follows on chases. Especially next season. The field’s wide open.”
In three steps, Hallie is standing in front of Alex, towering over him, even though his cowboy boots have a heel on them. “No way,” she says. “You’re full of crap. There is no chance in hell the Weather Network made you an executive producer.”
Alex stares into Hallie’s brown eyes and doesn’t back down. “Is this a bet within a bet?” he asks. He gestures to the cameraman on his left, never taking his eyes off Hallie. “Ask him. If he confirms I’m an executive producer, you have dinner with me. If not, I have dinner with you.”
“Ha-ha, very funny, Alex,” Hallie says, her voice flat. “But I think I’d rather hang out at that pig farm in the next county over.”
“Probably Alex’s mom is over there,” Mason chimes in. Next to me, Max guffaws so loudly that the camera lens finds us, and I look at the floor, mortified to be anywhere near their footage.
“It’s true,” the cameraman says as he pans away from us, finally, and back to Alex. “Alex Atkins is an executive producer at the Weather Network.”
“Good for him, then,” Hallie says. “But I’d still rather hang out at the pig farm.”
Alex ignores her and refocuses on Stephen and Ethan. “So deal or no deal, boys? Polly if we chase more twisters or get close enough to lose our shirts in an updraft, and the network if you do. What do you say?”
I can almost feel the dilemma tangling my brother’s brain. If next season they could have Polly and the network on them, they’d be the new A-listers of chasing. They might have better equipment too—after all, who knows what the network might give them, especially considering the Escalades parked at the next motel over.
But if they lost, they’d lose big. The cameras wouldn’t be such a hard defeat, since they never really had them in the first place. But losing Polly? They’d forfeit their edge, the technology that could set them apart. Losing Polly could mean losing everything.
Stephen raises an eyebrow at Ethan. “What do you think?” he says.
Ethan takes a breath, and right then, I know. This is going to be like the time Mom told him that he couldn’t get all B’s on his report card and, the next semester, he brought home all A’s. This is going to be like the time Tommy Letrowski boasted he could hold his hand over a candle for five seconds, and Ethan said he could do it for fifteen, and even though his flesh bubbled and smelled like charred barbecue, he didn’t once move it.
“We should do it,” Ethan says. “We got this.”
“All right,” Stephen agrees.
“Oh, just one more thing,” Alex says, before anyone can shake on the bet. “I think we should ensure the chase teams stay as intact as possible for the bet. If anyone from one of the teams goes AWOL, so to speak, that team forfeits automatically. Deal?”
I look at Max, who shrugs, clearly as confused as I am. Stephen’s hands clench, like he wants to grab Alex’s jugular and start squeezing at any moment.
“Fine,” Ethan says quickly. “Whatever.” He extends his hand. Alex grins and shakes it. Alex offers his hand to Stephen, who pauses long enough to have everyone shifting uncomfortably. Finally, they shake.
“Gonna be a hell of a season,” Alex says, heading for the door.
The cameras are still rolling when they leave the room.
Rather than watch the Twister Blisters and their TV crew file out, I put my back to the scene, my insides heavy. That felt . . . gross. Like I was watching a corrupt deal go down in a back alley or something. It was also completely confusing. I have no idea what the part about the teams remaining intact meant.
Max elbows me. “If you’re worried about the bet, don’t sweat it. Alex has been spending more time lately fixing his hair than plotting storm courses. It means we’re missing tornadoes.”
“Really?”
“Really. And Alex might be a Weather Network executive producer, but that doesn’t mean the Twister Blisters are the only game in town. I heard one of the guys in our group saying the network’s considering covering the Hail Yeahs too. This season.”
“Thanks,” I say to Max. He’s trying to be encouraging, which is sweet of him. Not to mention Max’s face is open and kind, and right then I think it’s too bad he’s interning for the Twister Blisters and not the Torbros.
We both get to our feet. “It was nice meeting you,” he says.
“You too.” I find myself meaning it.
“Probably I’ll see you around. If Alex ever pulls his head out of his butt, maybe we’ll be chasing the same storm one of these days.”
“Totally.” I want to say more, but my vocabulary has disappeared.
Max gives me a wave and heads back to the Motel 6. While the Torbros collect their laptops and power cords, I stack the dishes on the table and wipe it down. I’m glad my suitcase is already zipped up and ready to go.
If we can locate Victor, my guess is we’ll be out chasing ten minutes from now.
6
Somewhere north of Wichita, we pull off Highway 96 and into a two-pump gas station. I jump out of the van, and dust billows at my feet.
The bright afternoon sun glints off a rusted Texaco sign. Across the street is another gas station—but it’s boarded up. Next to that is a small brick church with a sign that reads GIVE THE LORD YOUR TROUBLES. HE CAN TAKE THEM!
Mason hops out of the van behind me. “Another beautiful day in beautiful Kansas!” he says, spreading his arms wide. His freckled skin is borderline reflective in the afternoon light. “There’s a bright golden haze on the meadooow!” he sings. He motions to the flat road like it’s a rolling wheat field.
“Are you seriously going to sing Oklahoma! in every state?” Hallie asks, coming around from the other side of the van.
“Why not?” Mason asks. “It’s a classic. Say you throw Oklahoma! and Cats into a twister. Only one can survive. I pick Oklahoma! every time.”
“Because Cats sucks,” Hallie says. “Say you throw Oklahoma! and Lord of the Rings into a twister. Only one can survive. Which is it?”
“Dur,” says Mason. “Lord of the Rings. But that’s an awful setup for the vortex game. The decisions are supposed to get increasingly difficult, not easier.”
“But some people might pick Oklahoma! over Lord of the Rings,” I say.
“Some insane people,” Mason replies. “Worst round of the vortex game ever.” He wipes his forehead—already turning pink in the sun—and heads toward the gas station convenience store. “I need a beef stick.”
“Ah, the vortex game,” Hallie says. “So ridiculous, only a chaser would love it.” On the other side of the van, Ethan’s using an ancient gas pump to fill the tank. The numbers are the old-fashioned kind, not digital, so you can actually hear a click as the price goes up and up.
“I’m not even sure I understand the vortex game,” I confess. “What’s the deal again?”
“The way your brother explained it to me when I started playing last season is that you’re supposed to picture a twister out on the plains. And say you know it’s going to suck up two things. Your cat or your homework, maybe. Only one is going to survive the encounter. Which do you pick?”
“The cat,” I answer, even though my mom and I don’t have any pets.
“Okay,” Hallie nods. “Now put the cat up against something else. Something you’d have a harder time letting go of. The cat and the six-hundred-dollar emerald earrings you got from a secret admirer, maybe.”
“I don’t have a secret admirer,” I say, thinking that Hallie—with her Bambi-brown eyes and her long legs—must have a thousand of them.
“Well, whatever the choices are, I guess you’re supposed to learn something about yourself with every decision you make,” Hallie says. “Ideally, at the end of the game, because you’ve discovered so much about yourself, you’ll be able to know which decision to make when you put two huge showstoppers up against each other. It’s like chaser theology or something. Chaser dogma.”
I’m about to ask Hallie which she’d pick if Victor or Alex Atkins were sucked up into a tornado, when my cell phone erupts with my mom’s ring. “Sorry,” I apologize, pulling it out. “I have to take this.”
“No problem.”
Desperate for a place where I can talk privately, I duck behind a rusted truck at the back of the building.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Hi, Janey. How’s my favorite storm chaser? Have you caught any tornadoes today?”
She says it like they’re all over the place and we just have to rope one into the van.
“I’m good. We’re in Kansas right now and hoping to get a twister before the day’s out. Stephen thinks we have a good shot.”
“Which one’s he again?”
“The founder. Big guy? Deep voice?”
“Of course. I’m so proud of you, honey. I tell everyone how you’re taking award-winning pictures down in Tornado Alley. I showed the girls at work that link you sent me. Your pictures were right there. I knew they were yours the second I spotted them, they were so beautiful.”
I stare at the few tough blades of grass at my feet. “Thanks. But they’re not actually award-winning or anything. They’re just up on the Internet.”
“You taking them with the camera I got you?” she asks. She’s talking about last year when she gave me a camera for my birthday. She told me she’d squirreled away money for months to buy it for me. Tears had rolled down my face then, because as tight as things were for us, she’d still managed to give me the thing I wanted most. I loved her so much in that moment, I thought my heart might burst.
It wasn’t until the collection bills started coming that I realized she hadn’t saved for the camera at all. She’d bought it on a no-interest, no-payments-for-six-months plan. When the six months were up and she hadn’t paid a dime on the thing, the creditors came calling. I finally set up a payment plan myself, taking on more babysitting and odd jobs just so the camera wouldn’t get repossessed.
“I’m using the camera,” I say, skirting the issue.
“You’re the most talented girl I know,” my mom says. “You really are.”
Before I can say thanks, she’s launched into her next thought.
“Honey,” she says, “the washer’s doing that funny thing again. That clanking? Remind me again—how do I fix it? I can’t remember if I do the thing with the screwdriver or if I have to shove it.”
“Right, give me a sec.” I close my eyes to think, but I can’t picture the machine. All I can see is my mom on the other end of the phone, wearing her scrubs and sitting in the break room of the women’s clinic. Maybe she’s cradling the phone in one ear while she inspects her nails. I’d bet anything she bitched about her weight to her coworkers this morning but that there’s an open bag of Skittles in front of her. If she’s drinking anything, I bet it’s a Diet Coke. Hopefully unspiked, but who knows.
“Definitely call Henry,” I say. “He’ll know what to do about the washing machine.” Henry is our next-door neighbor, who was a handyman back in the day. He threw out his back a year ago and pretty much sits around living off workers’ comp, but if he’s feeling up to it, he’ll sometimes shuffle over to make free repairs for us.
“Okay. I’ll call him. And I’m not sure, but I think my cell is fritzing. The screen looks all weird.”
The glare of the sun is suddenly making my head hurt. “Have you tried a reboot? Where you turn everything off, then turn it on again?”
“No. Not yet.”
“That’s probably the best bet. If that doesn’t work, you might just need to take it into the store. See if they can look at it.”
“Do we have the money for that?”
“I haven’t looked at the bank statements in a little while.” Not since I cobbled together enough to get the water and electricity turned back on before I left, anyway.
“I just—I’m no good at this. You know that. I need my girl. You’re so smart at everything. Photography. Money. Keeping your mom on track. We’re a team, right?”
“We’re definitely a team.”
“You’ve been down there so long. Three weeks now! You think you’ll come home soon? I just miss you so much.”
“Yeah, I’m sure I’ll be—” I stop. I hear loud conversations in the background on the other end of the phone. And maybe what sounds like a TV. I’ve seen my mom’s break room. The most raucous it gets is when two women are in there at the same time, usually knitting and chatting.
“Where are you?” I ask, glancing at my watch. It’s three here, same as it should be there, and it’s a Thursday. So my mom should definitely be at work.
“I just walked into Larry’s. Took the afternoon off.”
“What happened?” I ask, praying she wasn’t fired.
“Sick day. Daisy covered the desk for me.”
“Mom. That’s, like, a lot of sick d
ays recently.” After the accident, she must have asked me to call the clinic for her at least five times. In the few minutes it took me to make the call, then pack my bag for school, my mom had already gone back to bed and was snoring with her mouth open.
“Well, in case you didn’t notice, I’m doing everything around here, Janey. I’m exhausted. I’m just trying to keep it together.” I can hear her take a long swallow of something. Probably Larry’s cheap house wine. I can picture the way it stains her teeth purple-gray. “Ethan’s not helping my cause either. Probably he’s telling you to stay down there. To leave me high and dry. Just like he did.”
“Mom, no,” I say. “Ethan would never say that.”
“What wouldn’t I say?” I spin around. Ethan’s standing right behind me. I have no idea how long he’s been there. Even though I know I haven’t done anything wrong, I feel like I’ve been caught at something clandestine.
I shake my head at him and mouth “nothing.”
“The van is gassed up. We need to get a move on.”
Mom pipes up in my ear. “Who’s that talking? Is that Ethan? Is he ready to talk to me finally? Well, give the phone over. I’ll talk to him.”
“No, Mom, I don’t think that’s wh—”
“Put him on, Janey.”
“Wait,” I say before Ethan can walk off. “It’s Mom.” I hold the phone out, inviting him to take it.
Ethan shakes his head. “I can’t talk to her. Not now. Maybe sometime, if she gets sober. She knows that’s the deal.”
Anger rushes in. I hate the way he’s so formulaic about it, like it’s an equation. Except that Mom’s not a theorem, she’s a person. X + Y is the square root of Ethan’s bullshit. I don’t call him on it, though. Now’s not the time. If Mom hears us fighting, she’ll just use it as one more reason I should come home.
“He can’t, Mom. Sorry.”
“Are you kidding me?” Mom says. I can hear her swallow again. “Well, I hope you see this for what it is, Janey. I hope this is crystal clear. Ethan, he thinks he can do whatever he wants and just forget his own family. He’s going to leave you too, you know.”
