Magnolia Page 12

  He rakes a hand through his hair, leaving it sticking up in all directions. “I’m okay.”

  I shake my head and reach for his hand. It’s trembling. “No, you’re not. What is it, the thunder? The lightning?”

  He takes a deep breath, exhaling slowly before he speaks. “You remember that documentary they showed us in sixth grade? The one about Hurricane Katrina?”

  “Yeah.” I shrug, remembering how we’d all piled into the media center to watch it on the big, pull-down screen. I don’t recall much about the movie itself, but I’m pretty sure Brad Pitt had narrated it. “What about it?”

  “I had nightmares for weeks. I have no idea why it affected me the way it did.”

  “Seriously?”

  He nods. “Ever since, well . . . let’s just say I don’t do well in storms. Especially hurricanes.”

  I just stare at him in stunned silence.

  “You’re going to have fun with this, aren’t you?”

  “No, I . . . of course not. Jeez.” How big of a bitch does he think I am? “I’m not going to tell a soul. I promise. Okay? What happens in the storm shelter stays in the storm shelter,” I quip, trying to lighten the mood.

  His whole body seems to relax then, as if I’ve taken a weight off him.

  “Did you seriously think I was going to rag on you for this? I mean, we’ve been friends forever.”

  He quirks one brow. “Friends?”

  “Well, okay, not friends, exactly. But you know what I mean. Our moms used to put us in a crib together. Back when we were babies.”

  He winces. “I know.”

  “When we were little, things were fine. But then . . . well, middle school. It was just . . . I don’t know . . . awkward. And then in eighth grade, I thought maybe . . .” I shake my head, obviously unable to form a complete sentence. “Never mind.”

  “You thought what? C’mon, don’t stop now. You’re doing a good job distracting me.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. Call it a public service. Or . . . pretend I’m just one of the pets.”

  “Poor babies,” I say, glancing over at the cats. Kirk and Spock are curled up together in the back of the crate, keeping the bromance alive. Sulu is sitting alone in the corner, just staring at us. “He’s a she, you know.”

  “Who?”

  “Sulu. Considering she’s a calico, you’d think Daddy would have figured it out. Ow!”

  “What?”

  “My ears just popped.” I reach up to rub them, wondering what’s going on. The last thing I need right now is to get sick.

  A crack of thunder shakes the walls, and then everything goes eerily silent—the rain, the wind just seem to disappear. And then we hear it—that freight-train sound that everybody warns you about.

  Holy shit.

  “Hold on tight!” I yell, reaching for Ryder’s hand. There’s really nowhere to go, but I lean into his chest, and we somehow curl around each other, bracing for impact.

  ACT II

  Scene 5

  Ryder’s heart beats madly against my ear as we cling to each other, holding on for dear life. Adrenaline races through my veins, making my breath come in short gasps. I can feel Ryder’s fingers in my hair, his nails digging into my scalp as he presses me tightly against his body, his muscles bunched and rigid.

  I know I’m supposed to hate him, but all I can think right now is how glad I am he’s here—glad that I’m not alone. I’ve never been so scared in all my life, but I know it would be worse without him.

  It’s over in a matter of seconds. The freight-train roar quiets, the rain returning with a vengeance. I don’t need Jim Cantore to tell me it’s a rain-wrapped tornado. I’ve watched enough Storm Chasers to recognize it, even from my little hidey-hole under the stairs. If we had been outside, we probably wouldn’t have seen it coming, not till it was too late.

  Ryder releases his grip on my head, and I pull away slightly, peering up at him. His deep brown eyes are slightly wild-looking, but otherwise he looks okay. His face isn’t a shade of green, at least. I lean back against him, my head resting on his shoulder now. We’re still holding hands, our fingers intertwined. Somehow, it doesn’t seem at all weird. It just feels . . . safe.

  Neither of us says a word, not till the sirens are silenced a few minutes later.

  “I guess we should give it a few minutes,” I say, my voice slightly hoarse. “You know, just to make sure that’s it. No point in going out just to climb right back in.”

  He nods. “Besides, it’s perfectly comfortable in here.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t go that far.”

  “Okay, let me rephrase. It’s not uncomfortable.”

  I swallow hard. “I hope it’s not bad out there. I’m afraid of what we’re going to find.”

  “No matter how bad it is, we’re fine; the dogs and cats are fine. That’s what matters, Jemma. Anything else is replaceable.”

  “You sound like my dad, you know that? Have you been studying at the Bradley Cafferty School of Platitudes or something?”

  “Your dad’s a smart guy,” he says with a shrug.

  “True.” I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. “You think it’s safe now?”

  “I guess,” he says, though he doesn’t sound so sure of it. “For now, at least. I mean, the tornado’s gone, but we’ve still got the hurricane to worry about, right?”

  “Yeah, but we can’t hole up in here all night.” For one, there’s no bathroom—and I’ve really gotta go. Two, it’s a little cramped, what with the dogs and cats and . . . you know . . . the fact that Ryder isn’t exactly a small guy.

  “Let’s just go see how bad the damage is,” he says, releasing my hand. “Then we can figure out what do next.”

  “I should probably call my parents,” I say, flexing my fingers. “I’m sure they’re worried sick. Here, can you get that lantern?”

  Rising, I shuffle over to the door and unlatch it. The dogs raise their heads, watching, but make no move to get up. I guess they feel nice and safe here too. Ryder follows me out, bent at the waist to keep from whacking his head on the ceiling.

  It isn’t as bad as I expected—and not nearly as bad as it could have been. A tree—or part of one—crashed into the side of the house, right through the roof of one of the sleeping porches—my mom’s. It’s a mess, debris everywhere. But it looks like it’s only the porch affected, so that’s good. The rest of the house seems fine.

  It’s too dark to assess the damage outside, but a flash of lightning illuminates the yard well enough to see that Ryder’s Durango is still there. I assume my Fiat is still out there too, though I can’t see it. My parents’ cars are parked in the detached garage behind the house, so hopefully they’re safe. Assuming the garage is still standing.

  I guess we’ll find out tomorrow, when the sun comes up.

  * * *

  After a quick supper of leftover sandwiches, we try to get our parents on the phone to tell them we’re okay. Only, the regular house phone is out and, for some reason, we can’t get through on our cells. Which is totally freaking me out because Nan’s surgery is tomorrow. My cell has exactly one bar—and as soon as you dial a number, it drops the call. Ryder’s is doing the same thing. Which means we’re totally and completely cut off from the rest of the world, with no way of getting in touch with anyone.

  Just great.

  Also, it’s pitch-dark out now. We have no electricity—no lights, no access to the Weather Channel. Jim Cantore might be warning us that the entire state of Mississippi is about to blow away, and we’d never even know it.

  The cats are locked in the laundry room. They’re not happy, but I’m not sure what else to do. If the tornado sirens go off again, we need to be able to get them quickly.

  “We should probably try to get some sleep,” I say, glancing over at Ryder seated opposite me, a Scrabble board between us. We’ve played exactly four words in an hour. Between the dim light cast by the lanterns and the distraction of the howling w
inds and branches slapping the windows, well . . . let’s just say they aren’t ideal conditions for Scrabble.

  He sets aside his tiles with a scowl. “You tired?”

  “Not really.” I doubt I’m going to get any sleep tonight, no matter how hard I try. “But what else are we going to do?”

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right.” He glances uneasily at the stairs.

  It’s easy to follow his train of thought. “You’re not sleeping up there. It’s way too dangerous, just like you said.” There’s all kinds of debris blowing around, crashing into the roof. The ground floor is definitely safer—at least, as long as you stay away from the sleeping porches.

  Ryder pats the cushion beside him. “I’ll get some blankets and a pillow, and I’ll be fine right here.”

  Before the words are even out of his mouth, a particularly forceful gust of wind rattles the windows, making us both jump.

  “It’s getting worse out there. Wait . . .” I rise and reach for a lantern, hurrying off toward the dining room. I’d totally forgotten about the emergency radio! I’d grown so reliant on my cell phone for just about everything—music included—that the idea of regular radio hadn’t even crossed my mind. But I’d set out the emergency radio when I’d first collected the emergency supplies my dad had listed. I’d even bought replacement batteries for it, though you could power it by manual crank if you had to.

  There it is, sitting right on the dining room table where I’ve stashed extra candles, batteries, and bottles of lamp oil. We’re not totally cut off after all.

  I tuck it under my arm and hurry back out to a puzzled Ryder.

  “Look what I have!” I set down the lantern and hold up the radio. “It’s even got a special emergency weather channel.”

  “That’s handy,” Ryder says as lightning illuminates the room in strobe-light-like flashes.

  Even in the dim light, I can see him flinch as he waits for the accompanying crash of thunder. It doesn’t disappoint, shaking the walls dramatically. Beau lifts his head and lets out a whimper. I imagine Ryder would do the same if I weren’t here to witness it.

  I sigh, realizing that I can’t leave him alone out here all night. That would be cruel. I know what I’ve got to do. “Let’s go get ready for bed,” I say. “You’re crashing in my parents’ room with me. Go on and get your stuff. As soon as we’re settled, we’ll turn on the radio and see what’s happening, okay?”

  He just nods, his mouth set in a tight line. Six foot four and scared as a puppy.

  Ten minutes later, I’ve changed into my sleep shorts and tank top and piled pillows onto my parents’ enormous king-size bed. The dogs are curled up together at the foot of the bed. I’ve lit a hurricane lamp on one of the bedside tables, and it’s casting flickering yellowish orange light across the pristine white bedspread—the counterpane, as my mom likes to call it. There’s something beautiful about it, the play of colors. It’s peaceful, a stark contrast to the storm raging outside.

  I reach for my camera, thankfully fully charged, and turn it on. Silently, I pan around the room, capturing it all—the deep shadows, the flickering light, the roar of the wind.

  “What’re you doing?”

  I glance up to find Ryder there in the doorway, his duffel bag beside him. He’s changed into a pair of plaid pajama pants and a heather-gray T-shirt, and he’s carrying a sleeping bag.

  “Just filming,” I say with a shrug.

  “Got this out of the storage room,” he says, holding it up. “Figured I’ll sleep on the floor.”

  I can’t help but roll my eyes. “The bed’s huge, Ryder. I’m pretty sure you can stay safely on your own side without getting my cooties.”

  “That’s not . . . it’s . . .” His words trail off, and we just stare silently at each other across the broad expanse of bed—the bed I’ve suggested we share. As in, both of us. Together. All night long.

  Have I lost my mind?

  Clearing my throat uncomfortably, I flip on the radio, twisting the dial with shaking hands. A station comes in, and I recognize the voice of a local weather forecaster.

  “. . . came ashore just west of Gulfport around seven p.m., packing category-two winds. Many of the casino resorts on the coast are reporting damage. The bodies of two young men who disregarded the no-swim warnings along the coast have been found near Orange Beach, Alabama. So far, these are the only storm-related fatalities reported. Hopefully, the mandatory evacuation of low-lying, coastal areas will reduce the number of life-threatening injuries as the storm moves slowly northward at about fifteen miles per hour.”

  Ryder perches on the edge of the bed as we continue listening.

  “Residents of Lafayette County should expect worsening conditions throughout the night and into the morning hours. Pay special attention to low-lying areas as we near high tide at 8:02 a.m. Storm surge pushing up the Mississippi River will continue to make local rivers and creeks breach their banks and flood local roadways. County officials have put a curfew into effect—only necessary personnel should be on the roads until further notice. Everyone should remain indoors throughout the duration of this dangerous storm and prepare to take shelter in a safe, interior room if the need should arise. With the memories of Hurricane Katrina still fresh—”

  “Turn it off,” Ryder says, his voice strained.

  “Let’s find some music,” I suggest hastily, twisting the dial till I find a station playing a popular indie-rock song. “This is good. C’mon, you might as well get comfortable. It sounds like it’s going to be a long night.”

  The wind picks up again, so strong that I swear the walls are going to blow down. Thankfully, they don’t. But Ryder’s face turns that odd greenish shade again.

  “You okay?” I ask him.

  He nods. “I’ll live. Hey, it’s your turn.”

  “My turn for what?”

  “I told you my deepest, darkest secret.” He tilts his head at me. “Now you’ve got to tell me one of yours.”

  “One of my secrets?”

  “Yeah. C’mon, I know you’ve got a bunch of ’em.”

  “Oh, I do, huh?”

  “You’re too perfect not to be hiding something,” he says, and my cheeks flood with heat.

  Me, too perfect? He’s got to be kidding. Only . . . he looks serious. And earnest. I look down at the camera in my hand, studying it, and then back up at up him. I can’t explain it, but I suddenly want to tell him. At least, I want to tell someone, and he’s here, a captive audience. I hesitate a second or two, then blurt it out before I lose my nerve.

  “I want to go to film school.” I meet his gaze, his eyes round with surprise. “In New York.”

  ACT II

  Scene 6

  You want to do what?” Ryder asks, his voice laced with disbelief.

  I take a deep breath before answering. “I want to go to film school next year. In New York City. Instead of Ole Miss,” I clarify, in case he doesn’t get it.

  His gaze meets mine, and I expect to see judgment there in his eyes. I brace for the criticism, for the rebuke that’s sure to follow my declaration.

  Instead, his eyes seem to light with something resembling . . . admiration? “Seriously, Jem? That’s awesome,” he says, smiling now. His dimples flash, the fear seemingly vanished from his face.

  “You really think so?” I ask hesitantly. “I mean, I know it seems a little crazy. I’ve never even been to New York before.”

  “So?” He scoots closer, so close that I can smell his now-familiar scent—soap and cologne mixed with rain. “If anyone can take care of themselves, you can.” He rakes a hand through his dark hair. “Damn, Jemma, you just shot a cottonmouth clean through the head. New York will be a cakewalk after that.”

  A smile tugs at the corners of my mouth. “Well . . . it’s not exactly the same thing. I won’t be . . . you know . . . shootin’ stuff up there.” My tongue loosened, I launch into the whole spiel, telling him all about the program, about the campus and the cultural opportuni
ties.

  He just nods along, making approving noises, occasionally throwing out a “wow” or a “cool.” When I finally stop talking, he says, “That sounds awesome, Jemma. Seriously. You should go for it.”

  I look at him skeptically, not quite expecting such overwhelming support—and from Ryder, of all people. “Well, it doesn’t really matter because Mama and Daddy pretty much nixed the idea.”

  “They won’t even let you apply?”

  “At first they promised to look over the materials and think about it. At least, Daddy did. But then . . . well, after we learned about Nan’s tumor . . .” I trail off with a shrug.

  “They said no?”

  “Not exactly,” I say. “Just . . . you know . . . that it wasn’t a good time, or something like that.”

  “When’s the application due?”

  “November first for early decision. I’m almost done with the application portfolio—everything but the film project.”

  His eyes flash with determination. “Let’s do it, then.”

  “What, now?” In case he’s forgotten, we’re right in the middle of a pretty epic storm. I hate to remind him, not wanting to see the terror creep back into his face.

  “Yeah. Where’s your camera? We should be documenting the storm.”

  “The storm?” Huh, I guess he didn’t forget, after all. “You don’t think that’s a little . . . I dunno . . . boring?”

  “What else did you have in mind?”

  “I was going to do something on the county—tying in the whole Faulkner thing, you know? I already shot most of the footage, but I never quite figured out the narrative. Here, you wanna see what I’ve got so far?”

  “Sure,” he says.

  I flip out my camera’s screen, switch it into playback mode, and cue up the footage before hitting play. Ryder leans in, our shoulders touching as we watch the images sweep across the screen—the picturesque town square, the library building, the historical society headquarters, the courthouse, two covered bridges, the old Ames House, Flint Creek from several vantage points, a few different shots of Magnolia Landing and its surrounding property.