Runaway Storm

by Dawne Knobbe

  “Who sells those things?”

  “Any bike shop.”

  “Yeah,” Nate said, studying his design and thinking it just might work.

  Mike glanced at his watch. “Man, time to go. I promised I’d watch Freddie at three.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Ten minutes to.”

  The boys got up and headed out the door.

  “I’ll see you at ten tomorrow,” Mike called and then sprinted toward home.

  Nate watched Mike zip out of sight. He admired Mike’s unending energy and wished he had a little more of his own. Kayaking would help him get into shape, he thought.

  He clutched the napkin with the drawing on it and headed to the hardware store.

  Nate strolled through the huge warehouse doors and grabbed a cart. It looked kind of like the one he wanted to build; only, his needed to weigh a lot less.

  In the lumber department he searched the stacks of plywood looking for the right thickness. The kayak probably weighed sixty pounds, his supplies maybe another forty. It wasn’t that heavy a load, but he couldn’t chance the board breaking. He found a piece that had been cut from a larger board. It was six feet long, two feet wide, and three-quarters of an inch thick. Good enough, and a deal, he thought, reading the sale price. He loaded the plywood onto his cart, and then he had one of the workers cut him three pieces of two-by-two that he could nail together to form a handle to attach at one end of the cart. That way he could push it on and off the ferry.

  All he needed were wheels and nails, and that should do it. The employee pointed Nate toward aisle five for wheels and aisle ten for nails.

  He wandered the aisle three times, but the only wheels he could find were brown plastic and looked like they belonged on the bottom of a couch. Still, he guessed they would work, and they did come with screws. He picked up a small package of nails, checked over his drawing to make sure he hadn’t forgotten anything, and headed for the checkout.

  The young woman at the counter glanced at his cart as she snapped a large wad of purple gum. She didn’t look much older than he was, and without the nose ring and the bad dye job of her long hair, she might have been kind of pretty.

  “You building a go-cart?” she asked, the gum bulging in her cheek.

  Nate shrugged. “Sort of.”

  She swept her bar code gun over the tags without taking her eyes off him.

  “Forty-five thirty-nine,” she said with a smile.

  Nate felt heat rush up his neck as he reached for his wallet. The girl was flirting with him. It made him feel funny but in a good way. Maybe he didn’t look too pudgy after all. Just wait till I’ve been out paddling for a few weeks, he thought, pushing his cart out of the store. He planned to be buff—less padding, more muscles—very soon.

  His steps had a bounce as he pushed his cart beyond the parking lot entrance.

  “Hey. Hey, you, with the cart.” A store employee ran toward him. “Buddy, you can’t leave the parking lot with that cart.”

  “I’ll bring it right back,” Nate said. “I promise.”

  The man rolled his eyes. “That’s what everyone says; then we find them in vacant lots or rusting in the river.”

  “Shit,” Nate muttered and turned around the cart. Now what? He pushed the cart across the parking lot toward a grassy area on store property.

  He’d have to build the darn thing right there with his bare hands. Nate picked up the smaller boards and threw them onto the grass, then dumped out the plastic bag of nails. Opening the package of wheels, he sent screws flying. Down on his hands and knees to look for them, he swore. The directions printed on the package were torn through too.

  I’m off to a roaring start, Nate thought. Jumping ahead without thinking, as usual. Nate read and reread the instructions; he wanted to do it right. He slipped a screw into place at the base of the wheel and bent over the plywood sheet. Not too far out, not too far in. He chose a spot and turned the screw. It barely made a pinhole. He pushed and twisted till his hands were red and sore.

  A horn sounded nearby. Distracted, Nate glanced up and came eye to eye with a familiar hat and faded blue eyes. “Shit,” he muttered once again but tried to smile.

  Mr. Briggs smiled in return. “Looks like you could use a lift.”

  “That would be great,” Nate said.

  Mr. Briggs hopped out of his truck and pulled on a pair of work gloves. “Let’s load your stuff into the back.”

  Once he was in the cab, Nate squeezed the torn pieces of the wheel assembly instructions together as if they described the most interesting thing in the world. The truck turned out of the parking lot. He braced for the dreaded, inevitable questions.

  “Watcha building?” Mr. Briggs asked, glancing at the wheels in Nate’s lap.

  “I’m trying to build a cart for my kayak,” Nate blurted.

  “Got the wrong wheels,” Mr. Briggs said. “Those won’t do on pavement. They’ll crack.”

  “Shit,” Nate said for what felt like the fiftieth time that day. Then, “Sorry.”

  Mr. Briggs parked in front of Nate’s driveway so Nate could unload his supplies. “I’ll see what I have lying around.”

  “Thanks,” Nate said.

  A few minutes later, Mr. Briggs walked over with four wheels, twice the size of the ones Nate had bought, plus a power drill and a measuring tape.

  They worked in the driveway, with Mr. Briggs showing Nate what to do and letting him do most of it. Neither said much as they went about measuring and hammering and getting the job done, and for that Nate was genuinely grateful.

  Once he’d moved his new cart into the garage and swept up the drive, Nate sat at the kitchen table and counted his money. After buying lunch and building supplies, he had about a hundred and forty dollars left. He’d have to give Eric forty dollars in the morning. He hoped the ferry wouldn’t cost more than five bucks, so he’d have almost a hundred left and, of course, the credit card for emergencies. He could make it on a hundred dollars. He’d eat a lot of hot dogs, but he could last a couple of weeks, maybe more. He returned the bills to his wallet.

  Hungry again, Nate padded out to the dilapidated freezer in the garage and hit a food bonanza: several packages of frozen macaroni and cheese along with a tub of ice cream. I’m right at home, he thought, before realizing he’d just referred to New York as home. He ate one package of macaroni instead of his usual two, but he couldn’t resist the ice cream. He sat on the couch with the tub in his lap, spoon in one hand, remote control in the other. This was it. His final chance for quite a while to enjoy the comforts of home!

  6

  The buzzing, like a persistent mosquito, was driving Nate crazy. He pulled the covers over his head. The sun was shining as he floated lazily on a glassy sea, listening to the soothing lap of waves against the side of his sleek yellow-decked boat. He batted at his ear, trying to shoo the buzzing pest. He didn’t want to emerge from his dream, but loud pounding permanently shattered his peace.

  Nate sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He rubbed his eyes. For a second he didn’t know where he was. Then a hockey poster came into focus, along with the rest of his old room.

  This was the day, he remembered, and he’d bet that Mike was the one who’d been pounding.

  “About time,” Mike said when Nate opened the door.

  “It’s not ten, is it?”

  “No,” Mike said, pushing past, “but you’ve got to stop opening the door in your underwear. The neighbors will talk.”

  Nate swung at Mike, who ducked.

  “Hey, cut me some slack, man. I just rolled outta bed.” Nate headed back to his bedroom and picked up the T-shirt he had discarded at bedtime. He sniffed both it and his underarm.

  “I’m gonna grab a shower,” he hollered down the hall. It might be a while before he saw one again.

  Nate scrubbed himself down with flowery soap that reminded him of his mother and washed his hair with his dad’s dandruff shampoo. Closing his
eyes, he let the water cascade down his back, trying to relax and block his parents from his mind. This was his day. No guilty thoughts were going to spoil it.

  Nate stepped out of the shower, wrapped himself in a towel, and rooted through his sparsely filled dresser drawers for something to wear. He pulled out a pair of forgotten shorts from the previous summer, but they were so tight he couldn’t breathe. He threw them into a corner and tugged on a pair of jeans from his suitcase. He avoided his eyes as he stood at the mirror. Concentrating on his hair, he slicked back the damp curls then messed them up. Messing them made him look older.

  He rubbed where someday a beard would be, but for now it felt more like Freddie’s baby bottom than his father’s morning sandpaper face.

  When he was a kid, Nate had loved to rub his cheek against his dad’s. It felt rough but soft, like a cat’s tongue. He sighed. What was he thinking? He was getting all sentimental. He shook himself and headed down the hall.

  Mike was in his usual spot at the kitchen table, leaning back in his chair, feet up, eating handfuls of Cheerios from the box. “Don’t you have any decent food in this house?”

  “Not much.” Nate took the box from him and stuffed a handful of cereal into his mouth. “And doesn’t your mom feed you at home?”

  “It’s 9:50,” Mike said. “You about ready?” he asked, grabbing back the box. “I think I’m more excited about this trip than you are.”

  “That would be fantasy versus reality, wouldn’t it?”

  “You having second thoughts?” Mike asked. “You can change your mind, stay in town. We can hang out, go to the monster truck show, check out the girls at the mall.”

  “Since when have you been interested in girls?” Nate asked.

  “Aye,” Mike replied in his best Irish brogue, “it’s a terrible but recent affliction.” He smirked. “Chalk it up to puberty and a picture of sweet Kelly Maguire that I can’t seem to shake loose of me brain. Besides,” he said, slipping into his own voice, “I had to catch up with you sometime.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Oh, get over yourself. You’ve always been a class-A flirt.”

  “Not in New York.”

  Mike mimicked him, “Not in New York. Nothing is fun in New York. All I do is lie around stuffing my face and feeling sorry for myself.”

  “Damn right,” Nate said. “What do you think this trip is all about?”

  Mike stared at him. “I dunno, Nate. What is it all about?”

  “About me getting my life back. Taking charge!” Nate scowled as he realized he’d been shouting.

  “That’s more like it,” Mike said, his face relaxing into a smile. “Let’s get to it!” He headed toward the garage, Nate skulking behind.

  “Did you solve your transport problem?” Mike asked over his shoulder.

  “Take a look,” Nate said, switching on the garage light. “I just need your help lifting the kayak.”

  “Hey, that’s pretty good,” Mike said, examining the cart. “Think it’ll hold?”

  “As long as it carries everything onto the ferry and off the other side, I’ll be happy.”

  Nate moved to the stern end of the kayak and grabbed the small handle roped to the deck as he motioned Mike to the bow. “Grip the handle like this one up there,” Nate said. “On the count of three, we’ll lift the kayak and walk her toward the cart. I’ll back the stern through the handle and then we’ll balance the boat on the plywood.”

  “Shouldn’t you put a towel or something over the wood,” Mike asked, “so it doesn’t scratch the bottom of the kayak?”

  “Good idea,” Nate said. He pulled a wrinkled towel from a box marked “rags” and spread it over the floor of the cart.

  The kayak lifted easily and wasn’t hard to maneuver as they walked toward the cart.

  “The tricky part will be sliding her in so that the stern sticks out on the other side far enough to balance the kayak, but so I still have room to push the cart,” Nate said. He backed toward the cart, looking over his shoulder, and then carefully slipped the stern up and between the wood posts.

  He shifted hands to get around the posts and stood behind the cart. “Yep, I can reach without bumping the stern,” he said. “Let her down slow and easy.”

  Once the kayak was in place, Nate rocked her gently.

  “Wow, you don’t even need bungee cords,” Mike said.

  Nate picked up the pair of elastic cords. “Maybe not, but I don’t want to take any chances.”

  He lay on his stomach and shoved the ends of both cords under the cart about two feet apart. “Pull the left one,” he told Mike.

  Mike pulled on the cord on the right. “I mean my left,” Nate said and watched the other cord move as Mike picked it up.

  They pulled in unison and hooked the cord together in the middle. Mike pulled another rag from the box and slipped it under the hooks.

  They positioned the second bungee cord and stood back to admire the results.

  “I think it’s gonna work,” Nate said. “What a team, my man!” He high-fived Mike, and both of them grinned.

  “It’s probably gonna be hard to steer,” Mike said, trying to reach the handle beyond the stern of the kayak.

  Nate smothered a laugh; he new Mike was self-conscious about his height. The five inches Nate had on him also made a difference in how far his arms could reach. It would be awkward, but he would make it.

  “You got red flags or those poles I told you about for the ends, didn’t you?” Mike asked. “Don’t want anyone bashing into it.”

  Nate slapped his forehead in frustration. “I knew I was forgetting something.”

  “Any red cloth in that rag box?” Mike asked. “We could tie them onto the kayak’s handles. Even without the flags, at least the bow and stern will stand out.”

  Nate rummaged through the box and held up a pair of red plaid boxer shorts.

  “Yours?” Mike asked. He grabbed them from Nate and ripped them in half.

  “Right,” Nate said, “just my style.”

  A loud honk reverberated through the garage, followed by the sound of a vehicle door slamming.

  “Where are you, you delinquent snails?” Eric bellowed.

  Nate pushed the button to open the garage door and up it rolled. There stood Eric, hands on his hips.

  “So, this is the big birthday present,” he said.

  Nate glanced at Mike, who shrugged. “He’s cool,” he whispered.

  Eric turned sharply toward Nate. “This little adventure of yours is bound to get us all in a heap of trouble.”

  Nate opened his mouth, but Eric held up his hand.

  “I will plead ignorant,” he said, “so don’t tell me anything. Just don’t do anything stupid like drown. You do know people on the island, don’t you?” he asked.

  Nate nodded.

  “Right, then,” Eric said. “Let’s get this baby loaded.”

  It took about twenty minutes to get the cart and kayak tied securely in the truck bed. They were finally satisfied that neither would fly off on the freeway and were clambering into the cab when a garage door across the street swung up, revealing Mr. Briggs in his floppy hat, rose clippers in one gloved hand.

  “Trouble!” Mike said, covering his mouth with his hand.

  But Nate smiled and waved, and Mr. Briggs waved back, a smile creasing his weathered face.

  “He’s not so bad,” Nate said. “He helped me build the cart.”

  “Go figure,” Mike said. Then, lowering his voice, he added, “He might not be so friendly when he finds out he just aided a runaway.”

  Nate stiffened. “I thought you were on my side.”

  “Doesn’t change reality.”

  Eric’s mood had lightened, and he cooed away, caressing the dashboard and smooching the steering wheel before daring to try the ignition. The truck swooned to life with the first turn of the key.

  “Thatsa mya sweeta bambina,” Eric said in an impersonation of Italian-accent
ed English that sounded like nothing Nate had ever heard on TV.

  As they headed down the block and out of the neighborhood, Mike fooled with the radio, trying to tune in something other than static but by the time they reached the freeway Mike had clicked it off in frustration.

  “That’ll be my next purchase,” Eric said. “A decent CD player and radio.”

  “When are you gonna get it?” Mike asked.

  “I dunno,” Eric said, checking in the rearview mirror and zooming onto the freeway. “Between saving for college books and paying for gas, I barely have enough for fries at Mickey D’s. Then again, Nate’s forty bucks will help.” He held out his hand and flashed a quick grin. “Cough it up, buddy.”

  Nate pulled out his wallet and counted off two ten-dollar bills and a twenty. He was a little nervous about his low cash supply. He checked to make sure the credit card was still safely tucked inside.

  In no time, the urban landscape melted into green fields, which eventually gave way to the ocean. Eric’s truck rumbled onto the man-made peninsula leading to the Tsawwassen ferry terminal. Signs overhead directed drivers to various lanes according to their destination. Most of the traffic headed toward the Vancouver Island lanes.

  Nate had been to Vancouver Island, but to him it wasn’t much different from the mainland. Too many people and too many cars were not what he was looking for.

  “Foot passengers are supposed to go to the left,” Eric said. “Are you a foot passenger with that kayak, or what?”

  Nate shrugged.

  “Maybe you should go through the bike lane,” Mike said, pointing to the sign with a bicycle printed on it.

  “Quick,” Eric said, “make a decision, or we’ll end up in the wrong zone.”

  “Just drop me in the foot passenger area,” Nate said. His stomach tightened. “I’ll figure it out.” He tried to act cool as Eric swung into a parking spot, but when Nate jumped out of the truck, his legs almost buckled.

  Breathe, he said to himself. Just breathe. He took in a big gulp of air. Fortunately, Mike and Eric didn’t notice because they were busy untying the kayak.