The Waiting Sky Page 8

  “Ethan, it’s okay—”

  “It’s not okay! This can’t ever happen again. Understand?”

  His raised voice makes my skin crawl. I nod, but part of me wants to get up in his face. Because it’s not like I was trying to lose contact with him. That was purely an accident. What’s more, Ethan can’t go missing for five years and then suddenly decide to play Parent of the Year. It doesn’t work like that.

  Except now’s not the time to fight. The cameras are on us and, besides, there might be another storm on the way.

  “Do we need to get all these people to safety?” I ask, glancing around. “Is there another storm rolling in?”

  “It looked bad for a bit,” Ethan says, taking a breath, “but it’s breaking up and going north.”

  That’s one bit of good news at least.

  “You going to tell me what happened out there?”

  “We found this woman Danny,” I say. “She needed help, so I stopped for her. I wasn’t about to leave her there.”

  I don’t mention the part where Victor abandoned her, hurt and untreated.

  “She’s over there,” I add, pointing to the ambulance. “She’s a spotter, and during the storm she got turned around and ended up right underneath the twister.”

  Ethan rubs his eyes for a moment. “Then that’s two people hurt in Patchy Falls,” he says. “The police said the pastor of that church we saw went to the hospital for some minor injuries and then there’s Danny here.”

  I let Ethan take the conversation in a different direction. “So no deaths,” I say.

  Ethan nods. “No deaths. Jersey Street has a lot of trees and wires down, but the houses are mostly in good shape. They got lucky.”

  “They got really lucky,” Stephen says, approaching us. Another Weather Network light snaps on, and suddenly I can see all the dirt and dust from the earlier chase in Stephen’s beard and Ethan’s hair. I wonder if we’ll all make our first appearances on national television looking like refugees.

  “EF-2 you think?” Ethan asks. He’s back in weather mode, one hundred percent.

  Stephen nods. “Yeah, EF-2.”

  EF stands for Enhanced Fujita, and is a scale that measures a twister’s size based on factors like wind speed and damages. The scale goes from zero to five.

  “Definitely would have been an EF-3 if it had stayed on the ground much longer,” Ethan says. “Everyone’s fortunate it wasn’t worse than it was.”

  “I wouldn’t use the word fortunate if I were you,” says a voice. It’s Alex Atkins, now standing with us. Somehow his pants and Twister Blisters polo look fresh and pressed. Every one of the hairs on his head is perfectly in place. “From what I can tell, you guys were pretty far behind the storm. We were closer, so I guess we count this tornado as ours.”

  Stephen’s expression doesn’t change. “Not sure this is the best time to be talking about the bet, Alex,” he says. “Our focus should be Patchy Falls. Don’t you think?”

  Alex just laughs. “Oh, that’s rich, coming from the Torbros.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Come on, don’t act like you don’t know.”

  “Don’t know what, exactly?” Stephen asks.

  Alex looks around, like he’s searching for people to agree with him. “Just heard from our cameraman Volksie that your brother was walking through Patchy Falls ignoring storm victims. That lady over there,” he hitches his thumb toward Danny, “was bleeding in an overturned van, and he wouldn’t help. Ask your little intern here.” He looks at me. “She saw the whole thing.”

  Stephen locks his gaze on mine. “Is this true?”

  I know Ethan is staring at me with the same intensity as Stephen. I know he’s thinking I should have told him all this right off the bat. But the cameras were still rolling, and Ethan was acting like a tool. I look at the wet blacktop. “Yes.”

  Stephen clears his throat. “I’m sorry to hear that. This isn’t how anyone in the chasing community should conduct themselves.” He pauses. “I think the Torbros need to have a meeting immediately. Ethan, help me round up Victor. Jane, please head back to the van.”

  I nod, glad to have somewhere to go, a direction to get me away from the cameras. Before I take two steps, Stephen presses a functioning walkie into my hand. “Just in case,” he says. “The van’s about twenty yards off to your left. Mason and Hallie are already there. Join up with them, and we’ll see you in a few minutes.” His deep voice is soothing. It’s like he’s telling me not to worry, which is more than I can say for Ethan, who I wish hadn’t gone all Lifetime movie on me and acted like I’d tried to stir up drama.

  I count my steps to clear my head. Thirty-one, thirty-two . . . By the next block, darkness engulfs me, and I stop counting. The clouds overhead thin for a moment, and I see a patch of stars. Then I feel a hand on my elbow and jump.

  “We have to stop meeting like this,” Max says.

  12

  Max keeps his hand on my elbow, and I don’t ask him to move it. The air is thick with the smell of grass and splintered wood. There are no floodlights or police cars on this street. A few shapes and flashlight beams move here and there, but for the most part, Max and I are wrapped in darkness.

  “I have an idea,” he says.

  “I have two,” I reply, thinking I’d like to put my hand in his hand, my lips on his lips. In the space of one twister, my mind’s gone from being blank around Max to a kaleidoscope of thoughts vivid enough to make me blush.

  “Mine first,” Max says. I tune in when I hear the urgency in his voice. “That footage of Victor is a total cluster. Makes your team look awful. I heard one of the camera guys say it could really bite you in the ass if they show it. Loss of funding maybe.”

  I nod. I’m guessing Stephen thinks the same thing, which is why he’s calling an emergency meeting.

  “But I heard something else, too. Alex was asking the Weather Network if they’d want footage of the Blisters sticking around Patchy Falls to help clean the place up. The network guys were practically jizzing in their pants they were so excited about it.”

  “Okay,” I say slowly, trying to follow Max’s logic. “And all this affects me because?”

  “Because of my idea.”

  “Why do I have this sudden feeling I should be worried?”

  “Because maybe you should.”

  Every hair on my arms is standing on end. I suppose the way Max takes charge, takes what he wants out of every situation he’s in, should piss me off. But instead, it’s making my body feel like it’s hooked up to a generator.

  “Let’s hear this idea.”

  “I think your team should stay and help clean up Patchy Falls, too. Weather Network cameras will be here filming the Blisters anyway, and there’s no way they won’t put the Torbros on camera if they’re around too. I mean, come on. Two rival teams helping clean up a town? It’s so money. And you can put Victor front and center doing good deeds that show he’s not an asshole. They film that and air it, you guys don’t look so bad.”

  “Clean up the town?” I ask. “Like, we get hammers and nails and help them rebuild or something?”

  “Or just help them get those downed branches into Dumpsters. Or get them hot meals. Whatever they need.”

  “And who, exactly, convinces the Torbros this is a good idea?”

  “You do.”

  I stop walking. Somewhere in the distance, a police siren wails, then fades. “You found me in the dark to tell me I should convince my team to stop chasing and clean up a town? Sorry if I sound a little skeptical here, but you are a Twister Blister. How do I know this isn’t a setup so you guys have a better shot at winning the bet? How do I know the Twister Blister trucks won’t be gone in the morning?”

  Max steps closer to me. We’re not touching, but I swear I can still feel him. “It’s not a setup.”

  “Then why?”

  Max steps back. He clicks on his flashlight so we can actually see each other’s faces.

  “
Maybe I think you’re cool, and I want to see more of you. I’d rather not wait for the next twister—whenever that might be. I’d rather make it so running into you happens less by chance and more by design.”

  I’ve never had a guy tell me he thinks I’m cool and wants to see more of me. Ever.

  “Yeah?” I ask.

  Max laughs. “Yeah. I wouldn’t make that up.”

  I hear voices and see bouncing pinpoints of light approaching. Max grabs my hands. “Look, whatever happens, just know—I’m not bullshitting you. And I mean what I say about wanting to spend more time with you. If it doesn’t happen in Patchy Falls, that’s cool. Maybe we can make it happen some other time.”

  I nod, even though some other time sounds far away and impractical. Max squeezes my hands, and fireworks go off in my brain.

  “All right,” I agree. “I’ll talk to the Torbros.”

  Max releases me, and I want to touch the place where his fingers were, but I don’t. “See you soon, I hope,” he says, and disappears into the night.

  * * *

  Victor is the last one into the van, probably because he knows Stephen is furious with him. The air inside the vehicle is close and heavy. The dim dome light barely cuts the darkness. Hallie moves to start the engine, but Stephen stops her. “Not yet,” he says. “We have some things to discuss.”

  In the following seconds, no one asks him what’s up. We all know what Victor did. We all know this could be the end of the Torbros’ funding.

  “I want to remind everyone,” Stephen begins, “that our mission—the reason we’re out here in the first place—is to help people. And the minute we stop doing that, we have failed on every level.”

  “Look,” Victor says, turning around in the front passenger seat, “that lady didn’t seem that hurt. I wasn’t trying to—”

  “Quiet,” Stephen says, cutting him off. “This isn’t just about you. This is about the team. And if we lose our funding because of your issues, then everyone’s got to regroup. And I just want to remind everyone that whether you chase with the Torbros or someone else, the point of everything we do is to help people. At every turn. Got it?”

  The whole van mumbles yes. Except Victor. “Lose funding? What are you talking about, Steve? That lady is fine. Just a scratch.”

  “It wasn’t just a scratch,” Stephen says. “She needed medical attention.” His eyes flash with anger and, for a second, Victor looks crushed by the hardness there, but he regroups quickly.

  “Well, I didn’t give the Weather Network permission to record me. It’s not like they can just put my face on TV. I still don’t understand how this is such a big deal.”

  “Your shirt, dumbass,” Mason says from the backseat. “Even if they pixel out your face, you’re clearly a Torbro.”

  Victor looks down. His face pales as the realization sets in. “Well, it’s . . . it’s hardly a . . . what I did wasn’t that bad,” he stumbles.

  “Yes, it was,” I say. “You said on camera that we should leave someone who was hurt. And then you ran away and left us.”

  Victor glares at me. “I was only there in the first place because of you. I had to go back and make sure you had a babysitter.”

  “Don’t blame me for this,” I snap.

  “Jesus, what are you even doing here?” Victor says. “Can we all just admit we don’t need all those fucking pictures on the site? I mean, whatever mommy issues you and Ethan have to work out, I think maybe it’s time you work them out somewhere else.”

  “Back off, Victor,” Ethan interrupts. “You’re the one screwing up here, not Jane.”

  “Oh, sure,” Victor retorts, “says the guy who couldn’t wait to put Polly up for collateral in that bet, on the off chance he could get his face on television. You had no right putting my invention up there like that. We lose her this season, it’s your fault.”

  “You could have said something about it at the time if you’d been there. But you weren’t. You’d run off. Again.”

  “Whatever,” Victor says. “You’re just mad because we’re in a van that says Tornado Brothers on the side. And last time I checked, you weren’t a brother.”

  “Oh, right, because you being Stephen’s older brother has helped us out so much,” Ethan says.

  “Hey!” Stephen shouts. “That’s enough. We don’t need to tear ourselves apart here. We’re a team. All of us are Torbros. Everyone. Period. End of story. Got it?”

  My hands tremble, even as I nod. I hate Victor. I want him to get what he deserves. I want thousands of people to watch the Weather Network and hear him tell me to leave Danny. But I can’t not pitch Max’s plan just because Victor’s a selfish jerk. All the rest of the Torbros could lose big if we don’t do something.

  “Listen,” I say after a moment, “there could be a way to fix this. Maybe.”

  As clearly as I can, I outline the plan that Max came up with: that we hole up here, cleaning Patchy Falls with the Twister Blisters. The Weather Network crews can get footage of Victor and the whole team doing more good than bad. And that might be the PR we need to keep our funding.

  “How do you even know that’s going to work?” Victor says when I’m done.

  “I don’t,” I reply. “But it’s not like you’re coming up with any plans.”

  Ethan studies me. “It’s not a bad idea if the Twister Blisters are going to stick around. Without them, the Weather Network cameras go too. But do we know if the Blisters are staying put or taking off?”

  “We don’t, not for sure,” I say, “but I heard a Blister talking about it.” I can’t very well tell them I’m going on the word of a boy I met at breakfast that day.

  “But what if other storms crop up?” Mason asks from the backseat. “Aren’t we supposed to have Polly out in the field? Aren’t we supposed to be chasing?”

  “The forecast for this week looks fairly calm,” Stephen says. “It could all change, of course, but we might not be missing out on that much.”

  “It’s a good plan,” Hallie says, her fingers tapping the steering wheel. “We should at least try it.” I give her a small smile, grateful for the support.

  “All right,” Stephen says finally. “Maybe I can find Alex tonight, talk to him, and try to suss out what his team’s going to do. They’re staying in Clarkstown, a few miles over. Let’s head that way too. I hear they have a couple hotels and the power’s not out.”

  Hallie starts the engine and flicks on the headlights. The beams illuminate scattered branches and torn trees. We pull onto the main road and speed away from Patchy Falls—for now, anyway.

  13

  Two hours later, I’m lying like a starfish on the polyester motel bedspread and staring at my cell. Three missed calls, three voice mails, all from my mom.

  I push Play and listen. They start out fine. “Hey, Janey. Call me, okay? I’m sorry I hung up on you. I’m mad at Ethan, not you. I love you.”

  I delete it and hit Next. “Heeey, Janey.” Larry’s is louder in the background now. It must be filled with people by this time. I can practically see the cracked leather on the old seats at the bar and the bright neon Pabst sign that makes everyone’s skin look blue. “I forgot to tell you about my friend Rodger. He’s right here. Say hi, Rodger.” The phone sounds like it’s dunked underwater, then my mom comes back on. “Rodger is soooo nice. He sells”—she giggles—“he sells ball bearings. You’d like him.”

  I can picture Rodger just fine. Early fifties, cheap shirt, too much booze in him. The next in a long line of guys my mom is too good for.

  “Oh, that reminds me,” she continues, “that man you like is coming to Minneapolis. To one of the museums. Adam. Aaaaddamm . . .” She trails off, trying to remember. The phone snuffles again. “Oh, yah, Larry. I’ll have another. Thanks. Okay, well, good talking to you, Janey. Right, it’s Ansel Adams. His stuff is—well, I think it’s on a wall somewhere. In Minneapolis. Okay? I love you.”

  I close my eyes. Mom wants to take me to an Ansel Adams exhibit.
I haven’t been to one of the Minneapolis museums since fifth grade when we went on an all-day field trip. My stomach should be fluttering, thinking about the way the sharp prints hang perfectly against white walls or the way people’s heels click as they file by, taking in images of Yosemite. Joshua Tree. Mexico.

  Except the thought of it just makes me tired.

  Because it won’t happen the way you want it to. Cat’s words find me, even in my daydream. I can already hear her asking if my mom will be drunk when we go. And if so, will I let her drive? It doesn’t even take Cat’s voice to point out the next truth. That there’s an even better chance that, when I get back to Minnesota, my mom will pretend like she never suggested the Adams exhibit at all.

  But the hope of it happening is so real, I can almost fold my fingers around it. It could happen. And it could be crazy and fun and hilarious—all those things my mom can be when she’s not sitting on a barstool at Larry’s or wetting her own bed.

  But how much more tired will I get waiting around for could?

  I press Play on the third message. “Heeeeey, Janey.” Larry’s is still pounding in the background. “Yoouu knoow, I just—”

  I can’t take it. I hit Delete and shove the phone back in my pocket. Enough.

  I stand up and smooth out the bedspread. I fluff the battered pillows and straighten the early-model alarm clock on the bedside table. It reads 11:34. I’m not tired, and there’s a twenty-four-hour diner next door. My stomach rumbles, since we chased straight through dinner. Maybe some eggs and a cup of coffee will make me feel better. I grab my sweatshirt and room key and head for Happy’s.

  * * *

  The parking lot of Happy’s is all but deserted, save for a single truck and an old beater that looks more like a boat than a car. The warm lights from inside reflect on the still-wet concrete in panels of gold.

  Inside, booths with fat, red plastic seats line one wall. On the other side of the checkered floor is a counter flanked by stainless-steel stools. On one of the stools sits Ethan. His head pops up when I enter. “Look what the supercell dragged in,” he jokes, patting the seat next to him. I hop up and swivel so I’m facing him.