by R.K. Ryals
~Peregrine Storke~
It was raining when my mother pulled up to the simple two-level brick home. Drops of water pounded on the roof of her beat up red Toyota, the sound both ominous and comfortable, before tunneling down her windows in rivers and tiny tributaries. The damp infiltrated the interior, soaking my skin despite the vehicle surrounding us. Rain was never simple this time of year in Louisiana. It always came followed by lightning, thunder, and a myriad of warnings. Leaves blew against the windshield, still full and green from summer, and I watched as one of them stuck against the glass, the leaf’s veins prominent. I wanted to sketch the way it looked now, alone and surrounded by tears, but there was no time.
“Don’t forget to call me when you get there,” Mom murmured.
Her knuckles were white against the steering wheel, her lips pinched. She wouldn’t cry. Mom seldom cried, she stewed.
I nodded, my gaze going to the concrete wraparound porch just beyond the curb. Camilla stood in front of a whitewashed screen door, her feet surrounded by suitcases, her long arms waving, a grin plastered on her face. Her mother was smoothing her hair, and Camilla kept trying to brush her away.
My mom simply shooed me from the car. “You won’t get there any faster sittin’ here.”
I grabbed a large duffel bag from the backseat, lugging it over my head before pushing at the car door. The door was barely closed before Mom pulled away from the curb and drove away. Cold rain sluiced down my face, leaving my long, dark blonde hair in a twisted, stringy mass around my face. Mom wasn’t good at good-byes.
“Get inside before you get soaked,” a male voice ordered gruffly.
Throwing the strap of my duffel bag over my shoulder, I glared at the auburn-haired man leaning against the porch railing, his muscled arms crossed. Foster Evans was good at handing out orders. He’d joined the military straight after high school, and after four years active duty, he relished issuing commands. He’d always been that way. The stint in the military just gave him an excuse to be worse. I didn’t like him any more now than I had at fourteen.
“I like the rain,” I mumbled. I wasn’t any good at witty comments.
Foster’s eyes tracked me from the yard to the stairs. Mud sucked at my weathered tennis shoes, murky rain water seeping slowly down into my socks from the slick front yard.
The screen door slammed open and a breathless, red-faced Mrs. Evans rushed forward. She’d pulled her crimson hair on top of her head. Stray wisps of it had fallen on to her forehead, most of the strands more grey now than they were red.
She blew at her hair, her eyes raking my figure. “Your mama couldn’t send you with an umbrella?”
I shrugged.
Mrs. Evans ushered me inside, her tongue clicking. “Never mind that.” Her gaze took in the ratty duffel bag slung over my shoulder. “Is that all you have?”
I shrugged again.
Camilla exhaled. “Really, Mom, not everyone has to take an entire supermarket, department store, and pharmacy with them to college.”
Mrs. Evans blew at her hair again. “You’re not everyone, Cammy.”
Laughing, Camilla brushed a kiss over her mom’s flushed cheek. Mrs. Evans’ eyes filled with tears, but she held them in check.
“You two need to go,” she muttered. Her gaze slid to the porch beyond the kitchen. “This weather isn’t getting any better.”
The door swung open and Foster shuffled in, the faint scent of soap and rain tickling my nose as he lifted two of Camilla’s suitcases.
“It’s a good thing we’re taking the TrailBlazer.” Foster swore, his head shaking as he kicked the last two suitcases toward the door, his mother on his heels.
Grabbing the back of Camilla’s yellow blouse, I pulled her toward me, ignoring the fact that I looked like a drowned street peddler next to her in my faded GEEK sweatshirt and hole-ridden jeans.
“We’re?” I hissed.
She grimaced. “Mom wasn’t comfortable with us driving all the way to New York alone.”
My stomach churned. “Camilla—”
She grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the door. The sky beyond had grown more ominous, the thick clouds more black now than grey. Lightning streaked across the heavens, the loud boom of thunder that followed causing us both to jump.
“I know how you feel about him, Perri, but he’s my brother. And he’s changed. Really, he has.”
The look I gave her was full of skepticism, but I had no room to argue. As it was, I depended on Camilla; my scholarship didn’t cover travel expenses.
Foster returned to the porch and hefted the last two suitcases onto his back before trudging toward Camilla’s black TrailBlazer. It was an older model, a long scratch marring the paint from a run in with a fence two years before. It was far from luxurious, but Camilla kept it tuned and clean. Each air conditioner vent had those little aromatic air fresheners clipped into it, giving the interior a distinctly coconut scent.
My grip on Camilla was broken by her sobbing mother. Mrs. Evans paused just long enough to kiss my forehead and ruffle my damp hair before she enveloped Camilla in a hug tight enough to cut off oxygen. Camilla sniffled, and I turned away to find Foster standing next to me, an umbrella open in his hand. He was as wet as I was now, his white T-shirt plastered to his chest. I caught a glimpse of a tattoo on his bicep, but he turned and gestured at the TrailBlazer before I could determine what it was.
My eyes skirted his as I ducked beneath the umbrella’s cover. The pounding rain drained out all other noise. Our feet splashed through shallow puddles, his black combat boots better protection against the elements than my worn, marker-covered shoes. I doodled on everything.
Foster pulled open the vehicle’s back door, and I scooted in, my clothes sticking instantly to the dry interior. He left me then, the door closing between me and the sight of the small family now gathered on the porch. Water blurred the scene, but it didn’t obliterate it. Mrs. Evans embraced both of her children, her pale skin splotchy as she swiped at tears on her cheeks. Mr. Evans worked construction and was working a contract job out of town, but I’d been there two days before when he’d said good-bye to Camilla.
Foster winked at his mother, saying something that made her slap him on the arm, her tears temporarily replaced by hiccupping laughter. My hand found the rain-covered window, the glass cool against my palm. I wanted to capture the scene and make it mine. Turn their reality into my fantasy. I wanted to draw the window, the rivulets of rain with mirrored images of love reflected in it—hugs, kisses, and sorrow. True sorrow like true happiness comes from love. I was seeing that now in Mrs. Evans face, my fingers splayed over the image of her through the glass.
Foster’s head shot up, and I let my hand drop, my eyes moving forward. I was intruding in a moment that wasn’t mine.
A gust of wind blew into the TrailBlazer, chilling me to the bone, as Foster pulled the passenger side door open for his sister. She climbed in, her lips moving with excitement, but I didn’t hear her words. I was thinking about Camilla and her family, and a sketchbook I’d left behind. Those pictures were my family. Those characters were my siblings, the parents of my heart, and friends that knew me like no one else ever would. I could see them now, all of them, gathered beneath the cover. They were patting me on the back, their smiles hiding tears as Elspeth and Queen Norma brushed my cheeks with kisses. Nimble sprinkled me with fairy dust, something that made my tongue taste like watermelon and lightened my heart.
“You sleeping back there?” Camilla screeched.
I started, my eyes finding the back of her head. Foster’s gaze found mine in the rearview mirror. We’d already pulled out of the driveway, the TrailBlazer eating the road beneath us hungrily. Surprisingly, despite my excitement, I was afraid. Even though I was scared to stay behind, scared to turn into my parents, I was just as afraid of leaving.
Glancing behind me, I watched the road transform from uneven pavement to blacktop, rolling black clouds chasing
us, lightning burning away the past.
“New York!” Camilla cried. She threw her arms up, a laugh escaping.
Her enthusiasm was contagious. My lips parted, and I captured her hand with mine above the back of her seat. She squeezed, her fingers trembling, and I realized her excitement hid as much fear as I felt. I squeezed back.
A scream shattered the moment, the sound chasing us. Dropping Camilla’s hand, I twisted around, my heart pounding. No one else in the TrailBlazer reacted, but I was almost certain I saw Princess Elspeth’s face in the storm clouds outside of the rear window, her spectacles askew and her mouth open in horror.
Chapter 2
“That awkward moment right before you die when you realize you haven’t done enough in life to be considered living.”
