Cloudburst

by VC Andrews

  “Why?”

  “You give me hope.”

  “So? That’s good, isn’t it?”

  “Not if what’s usually been true comes true again. It’s a longer, harder fall when you raise yourself higher only to be disappointed.”

  “You won’t be,” I said.

  He took my hand. “What do you feel? More hate or more love?”

  I smiled. “I’m not a psychic because I lived out here, Ryder.”

  “Exactly,” he said. He held me a moment and then walked off. I watched him. He never turned to look back at me.

  I wanted to believe I had helped him, but he seemed to be walking into the darkness from which I had been rescued.

  13

  Bad News

  I remembered promising Donald that I would go to his office after school to see his advertisement campaign for the High Rollers, the rock group, but I was too upset to go. I thought I would simply say that I wasn’t feeling well if he called the house. I should have known none of it would matter.

  I knew my friend Jessica had a big mouth. Sometimes, when I asked her to keep something to herself, as I had done with the information she had dug up about Summer Garfield, I felt as if I was trying to plug up a leaky faucet with a piece of cotton. Good luck, I would tell myself. I already knew what her mother was like, and as Mr. Denacio was fond of saying every time a sister or brother did something wrong or right, “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

  I suppose the Garfields were a big topic for discussion at the homes of most of the Pacifica students, anyway. It hadn’t taken long for me to see that parents of students at Pacifica took pride in whose children were sent to attend school alongside theirs. Their bragging rights were boosted with the news that a popular actor and model had entered their son and daughter at the same school. Maybe they thought this validated their own decision to choose Pacifica for their kids and pay the very high tuition.

  Bad news always has a way of being sent special delivery, but bad news involving Ryder Garfield had e-mail speed. It arrived at the March home before I did, which probably shouldn’t have astonished me, but what especially amazed me was how quickly the information had been shared with Donald. After I spoke with Jordan, I had the distinct impression that they had already had considerable discussion about my budding relationship with Ryder Garfield since I had brought him home with me. The intensity of this new concern about whom I associated with surprised me, especially because it seemed to originate more with Donald than with Jordan.

  Jordan came hurrying down the corridor and called to me as I was opening the front door. I had the impression that she had been watching one of the video feeds of the gate, just sitting there and waiting for me, and therefore knew exactly when I had arrived.

  “I heard about the terrible event at school,” she began. “Apparently, the Peters boy had to be taken to the hospital to check for a concussion.”

  “No, probably to check for brains,” I said. I even sounded like Kiera. My comeback startled Jordan, and for a moment, she stood there speechless. “I always thought I could look through one of his ears and out the other.”

  “This isn’t at all funny, Sasha. Donald is very upset,” she said. “He’s very, very worried about you.”

  “Me? Why?”

  “Why? Well, this boy . . . whom you’re now seeing . . . he’s the son of famous people, but obviously, he’s unstable. We saw some of that when he was here, but this terrible event at the school makes it all so much worse.”

  “Don’t say that. You don’t even know what happened and why,” I said.

  “You don’t condone such behavior, do you?” she snapped back at me. “You, of all people should know what violence can do to everyone involved.”

  “Yes, I do. That’s why I feel sorrier for Ryder, Jordan. There are all sorts of violence. Saying and spreading hateful things can be just as devastating as a blow to the face. You, of all people, should know that,” I countered.

  It was a poorly veiled reference to the stories about Donald having affairs. Her face reddened, and she bristled. I had never been disrespectful or combative with either her or Donald, even when I had been accused of doing all sorts of things to Kiera. I was younger when that all happened, of course, and far more fragile than I was now, but I didn’t feel I was defending myself as much as I was defending Ryder, who, despite what everyone thought about him and his rich and famous family, needed defending.

  “Well, we’ll talk about this later,” she said.

  “Good,” I said. “We should.”

  I started up the stairway, trying to look strong and determined, even though my legs were trembling. Yes, the Marches owed me a lot, perhaps more than they could ever repay, but they had given me a great deal, too, and provided for me. I didn’t need to be reminded that I was still technically a foster child, their ward, someone without any of my own family willing to claim me and provide for me. I was, for all practical purposes, an orphan. I didn’t have to hear the threat of their giving up on me. They had almost done that when Kiera had them believing I was responsible for the bad things that were done when she was trying to destroy me. The echo of that threat lingered despite the revelations and my accomplishments. It hung out there like smog. The Marches could give up on me and turn me back to the state until I was eighteen.

  It was a topic I was naturally interested in learning more about. At the moment, in America, there were an estimated half a million children in foster care. About half were in nonrelative homes. I was part of that statistic and felt like a second-class citizen even though I lived in a palatial home and had more than most girls from wealthy families had.

  Sometimes, when I thought about my status in the world and compared myself with the other girls my age who were at Pacifica, I would think about my real father. My memories of him now were so vague. I had no pictures of him. Mama was so angry at him when he left us desolate that she destroyed any pictures of her and him that there were. There was never a letter from him since Mama’s death. I wondered if he even knew about that. He never tried to contact me. Whenever I thought about him now, I had to rely more on my imagination than my memory.

  Before Jordan brought me to the March home, she had a detective search for my father or for information about him. She was the one who had told me he had gone from Hawaii to Australia and had a new daughter. What greater rejection was there for any girl to experience than her father totally ignoring her very existence?

  At first, especially when I was much younger, I used to think it was somehow my fault. It wasn’t that I had done terrible things that he couldn’t tolerate or understand; it was that he couldn’t look at me and think of me as his daughter. It was one thing for him to have a love affair with an Asian woman and even marry her. For him, as for so many people, apparently, marriage wasn’t that big a deal anymore. I often heard Jordan say that marriage today is like what young couples in high school and college did when they decided to go steady. For a while, it was hot and heavy, but there was always the expectation of a breakup. A wedding ring had become no more important than a class ring. Divorce, she said, was a new industry.

  What I came to believe was that my father couldn’t tolerate my Asian features. I was too different. I would look in the mirror and try to imagine what it was about me that disgusted him. Did he hate my eyes, my hair, the shape of my mouth? What? That was how I thought when I was so much younger. I couldn’t think of any other reason he would be able to pick up and leave me forever without a good-bye or a phone call or a card. It had to have been my fault.

  Even so, I couldn’t help imagining him appearing one day. Of course, in my fantasy, he would be as young and as handsome as he had been when my mother first fell in love with him. He would be like someone who had awoken from a long sleep, my own Rip Van Winkle, who realized that he had left his daughter behind when he lost his mind and left us. He would have worked hard at tracking me down, and when he had, he would come here. I would see him drive up an
d see him out there looking up at my room. Somehow he would know exactly where I was in this great mansion. Mrs. Duval would call me down to meet someone, and I would descend the stairs wondering who this handsome person could be.

  “Hi,” he would say. “You’re as beautiful as I imagined you would be. I’m so sorry I left you. I made a terrible mistake. I want you back. I know I can’t make up for all the pain, but I want to try. I want to take care of you now. Please find it in your heart to forgive me.”

  Of course, I would be hesitant, even a little afraid, but his smile would wash that all away, and I would run to him, eager to have him embrace me. Now I would walk with my father and hold his hand, and I wouldn’t feel that I was less than any other girl. He would tell me wonderful stories about his own youth and his own family.

  “You’ll never be an orphan again. You’ll never be anyone’s ward. You’ll never be without family,” he would promise.

  Later I would take him to Mama’s grave, and he would kneel in front of her headstone and beg her forgiveness. He would promise her that he would take good care of me, and we would both stand there and cry for her.

  How many times I had dreamed this scenario. Right now, feeling more vulnerable than ever, I longed for such a dream to come true. Of course, it never happened. His name was never mentioned, nor was there ever any reference to him and where he was now. I had a father made of smoke. A strong onshore breeze had washed him away.

  I snapped out of my reverie and looked at the clock. The time drew closer to when I knew Donald would be arriving home. I tried to occupy myself with my homework but couldn’t concentrate. Every time I heard a footstep or a door slam, I anticipated a knock on my bedroom door. Finally, Mrs. Duval came to tell me that Mr. and Mrs. March wanted to see me in Mr. March’s office. I thanked her, put my books away, glanced at myself in the mirror to fix my hair, and started out.

  We hadn’t had one of these meetings in Donald March’s office for a while. Most of the time, I had met just with Jordan in the living room or occasionally, as recently, with only Donald in his office. Our “family” conversations were usually held at the dinner table, but having one among the three of us like this in Donald’s office made it seem much more serious and much more important.

  Jordan was sitting on the settee looking meek and small, and Donald was behind his desk looking glum. Because of the long pause when I entered, I thought something even more terrible had occurred. Could it be that Shayne Peters really did have a concussion, perhaps something even worse? Had Ryder been arrested?

  “Just sit on the settee,” Donald said, spinning his chair so he could look directly at me.

  I sat. Jordan dropped her gaze to her hands in her lap. She looked absolutely terrified for me.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t come to your office today,” I began.

  He put his hand up to stop me talking. Then he straightened up in his chair. “That’s hardly important at the moment. We’ve been through quite a great deal together in the short time you have been with us. I suppose it has been like a roller-coaster ride for you, as well as for us. Last night, we were way high up because of your academic achievements, and today we’re way down.”

  “Mr. March,” I began, “before you start on what happened at school today, let me explain what . . .” His smile caused me to pause.

  “You’re not going to call me Donald anymore?”

  Why was that so important right now? I wondered.

  “Donald. What I wanted to say was that this whole thing was not Ryder Garfield’s fault.”

  “Not his fault? Who hit those boys and sent one to the hospital?”

  “They brought it on themselves. They went after him in the hallway first.”

  “Why?”

  “They have been jealous of Ryder from the moment he entered the school.”

  “Jealous? Shayne Peters? He’s the school’s basketball star, isn’t he? His father is a famous attorney, too. Maybe he’s not on Entertainment Tonight, but everyone in this city knows who Austin Peters is. And they’re quite well off financially. Why would Shayne Peters be jealous?”

  “He’s been trying to get me to go out with him. He doesn’t take rejection well.”

  Donald paused. From the way his lips quivered, I thought he was fighting back a smile. He looked at Jordan and nodded. “Hear that? He doesn’t take rejection well. Do you remember when Kiera said something very similar about the Myers boy when he acted out?”

  She nodded obediently.

  “She claimed he was practically haunting her,” Donald explained. “I understood. Kiera was and is a very beautiful young lady. Eventually, he spray-painted our front gate with an obscenity. Some young men can’t handle their hormones well. Now, this Ryder Garfield—”

  “He can handle his hormones well,” I said quickly. “It’s his sister who can’t. She’s angry at Ryder because his parents have made him police her every action. They made him responsible for her behavior at Pacifica.”

  “Why?” Jordan asked. I looked at her. Could it possibly be that Jessica’s mother hadn’t told her?

  “She got pregnant at the last school they were at.”

  “Pregnant?”

  Donald nodded and smirked. “Star families.”

  “So, what did she do today?” Jordan asked.

  “She spread terrible rumors about Ryder and me in school today, and Shayne and Kory Taylor said terrible things to him just at the moment Ryder learned what his sister was doing. He was angry. Anyone would be as angry and—”

  “What sort of rumors?” Donald asked.

  “Rumors about us . . . about what happened when I visited their home.”

  “What did happen?”

  “Nothing,” I said, probably too quickly.

  I saw him wince and his eyes darken. “We’ve been through something like this before with you, Sasha. Those stories . . .”

  “Those were all untrue. You found that out,” I said, looking to Jordan. She looked incapable of saying anything that would help me.

  “Um,” Donald said. “But let me tell you, accusations are on the front page. Acquittals are always on an inside page, sometimes buried away. People love to say where there’s smoke, there’s fire. You’ve done a terrific job of overcoming all that, Sasha. We don’t want your efforts wasted.”

  “They won’t be.”

  He looked away for a few moments. “As you know, I didn’t have good vibes about this boy when he was here.”

  “He’s a very sensitive, very intelligent person. It’s not easy to grow up with famous parents.”

  “Maybe so, but that’s not our concern. Our concern is you. We have taken on the responsibility for your welfare, Sasha. You know firsthand how difficult things have been for us with Kiera. We are determined not to make the same mistakes with you.

  “For now,” he continued, turning directly to me, “we would like you not to be seeing this boy socially. Let things die down, and maybe—”

  “That’s not fair!” I said. “This wasn’t his fault!”

  I knew I was shouting. My words thundered around me. Jordan stared at me, and Donald’s face hardened.

  He spoke very quietly, with obviously forced self-control. “We would like you to step back. You’re not to bring him here again, and you’re certainly not to go to his house.”

  “But he needs me,” I said.

  “Needs you?” Now Donald did smile. “You’re barely seventeen, and I don’t think you’re experienced enough to provide therapy to an obviously troubled teenager, Sasha.”

  “That’s not what I mean. I mean, yes, he needs a friend, and that would be like therapy, but—”

  “We don’t want you to see him socially,” Donald hammered, pronouncing each word distinctly. “Is this clear? Do you understand? If you defy us, you’ll be grounded, and I’ll see to it that the car is taken away from you.”

  Tears actually burned my eyes. I looked to Jordan, but she looked down.

  “Why don’t you r
eturn to your room, calm down, and then come down to dinner?”

  “I’m not hungry,” I said defiantly. I stood up and started out.

  “Be sure you come to dinner even if you just sit and stare at your food,” Donald called after me. “We’re not going to put up with tantrums.”

  Not going to put up with tantrums? Where were you throughout Kiera’s life? I wanted to ask, but I hurried away to the stairway instead. I was to suffer not only because of the things their daughter had done to me but also because of the things she had done to them. The tears broke through as I went up. I flicked them off my cheeks and marched to my bedroom, closing the door behind me.

  At first, I just stood there looking around the suite. Not since I had first come here had I felt more like a stranger. When I was younger, I had quickly embraced Alena’s things. She was about my age when she died. The suite had a sacred feel to it, but now, perhaps because of how Donald was treating me, all of the business with the giraffes, the pictures, the wallpaper, and the replicas, looked babyish. Ryder was right. I should have insisted on being in one of the guest rooms. No matter what, that’s what I was, after all, a guest.

  I went to my desk and plopped into the chair. For a good minute or so, I just sat there sulking. Then I saw that I had another e-mail from Kiera. If ever I had wanted to talk to her, it was now, I thought. I should let her know that all of the bad things she had done were still rippling through my life. I was angry enough to get her and her parents into a bad argument. If they were going to be mean to me, I could be mean to them, the consequences be damned.

  I opened her e-mail.

  Dear Sasha,

  Richard had to go back to England yesterday because his father is seriously ill. Believe it or not, I miss him already. He might be gone ten days.

  I heard you have a day off Tuesday. Why not drive up to my college Friday? You can skip one day of school on Monday and have a four-day weekend.

  Or can’t you pull yourself away from Ryder Garfield?

  Tell you what.

  You know my college is near Santa Barbara. Why don’t we all just meet there? I’ll book us a room with two double beds at the motel Richard and I go to on weekends. Don’t tell my parents. Tell them you’re coming here to spend the weekend with me at the dorm. I’ll have one of my roommates cover for us.