The Waiting Sky (10 page)

16

I
smooth down my hair as best I can and grab my room key. Just as I’m ready to head to the Pig & Spit, my phone buzzes. I look at the caller ID: Cat.

It’s funny how we used to talk on the phone every day, but now a phone call from her feels like this ginormously huge deal. I take a deep breath. On the third ring, I hit Talk.

“Hey, Cat.”

“Hey,” she says, her voice as even as mine. “I wanted to call and see how you’re doing.”

“I’m great,” I say. “Really good. You?”

“I’m fine.” I can practically see her sprawled on her pink comforter, magazines spread around her in glossy, overlapping waves. I miss her so much in that moment, my chest tightens. “Are you guys, uh, seeing many storms?”

I can hear how hard she’s trying to make conversation. “Actually, we are,” I say, working to give her more than two-word answers, since she
did
make the effort to call. “Right now, we’ve stopped in this town called Patchy Falls to help them clean up after a twister.”

“Really? That sounds pretty cool.”

“It’s—yeah, I guess it is. There’s this other chase team, the Twister Blisters, and they’re here too. They have Weather Network cameras following them around all the time, and when we come into contact with the Blisters, we sometimes wind up getting filmed.”

“Are you going to be on TV?” Cat asks, sounding excited.

“I don’t know. My brother probably will be. And definitely this guy named Victor. He’s on our team, but secretly storms wig him out.”

“No way. How can you be a chaser and not love storms?”

“I know, right?” I say, my words coming more quickly now. “And you know what this guy did? After the tornado hit Patchy Falls, we were trying to help people, but Victor was so scared of another storm rolling in that he left this one injured woman. He just, like, ran away from her.”

“For real?”

“Totally for real.”

“I just can’t imagine,” Cat says, “why someone would
do
that. It sounds like he needs some serious help. I mean, he’s putting people in danger, you know? Because he can’t face . . .”

Cat trails off and I suddenly realize she’s afraid to go on, afraid of how much the Victor situation sounds like
my
situation. Or my situation as Cat sees it, anyway.

I swallow. No
way
am I like Victor.

“I didn’t mean for that to come out the way it did,” Cat says finally. “I wasn’t calling to bring anything up, I was only calling to see how you were. Really. And to tell you in person that I’m proud of you for going down to live with your brother for the summer. I know it was hard.”

I don’t tell her how my brother wants me to stay with him permanently. I don’t tell her how he wants me to go to Al-Anon too. But I do tell her at least part of the truth. “I’m pretty confused,” I admit. “About all this. About what I’m supposed to do to help my mom. I don’t even know what to think anymore.”

“Oh, Jane. I can’t imagine how awful—how hard this is.”

It’s nice that right then Cat doesn’t try to tell me what to do. She’s just in it with me. “Thanks,” I say.

“Look, I’m here, okay? I know my note was tough. But I’m not sitting here saying you have to do all these things right now, this second. It’s a process. A journey . . . or something.”

“Thanks, I guess,” not sure what to say. I reach for more of the truth. “I’m glad you called.”

“Me too.”

We make a plan to talk again in a couple weeks. When we hang up, I’m standing in front of the dusty motel mirror, and instead of turning away, I stare—really stare—at the girl in the reflection.

I’ve gained weight on the road, and even though it’s from eating fast food and sitting too much, it’s rounded out my sharp edges. My blue eyes are brighter, and being out in the sun has bronzed my skin. My copper-and-straw hair is still a wavy mess, but it’s lighter now.

I take a breath. Was I really so hungry and pale and stressed before this? I wish it didn’t take me leaving my mom to look more like a happy teenager. I wish everything could just be normal back home. I can all but hear my mom laugh:
If wishes and buts were candy and nuts, we’d all have a merry Christmas
. Even by my mom’s definition, there’s no use sitting around hoping for things that will never be.

* * *

The Pig & Spit is loud, hot, and crowded, but even so, I can spot the chasers immediately. They’re the ones with the cameras trained on their table. I know at least one lens is zooming in on me now as I cut through a bank of cigarette smoke to reach the table. I’m the last one to arrive.

Ethan waves at me. “Jane! We thought you’d been sucked into a tornado!” He’s smiling, our fight at Happy’s apparently forgotten.

“If I had, would you chase it?”

Ethan shakes his head. “And leave the Pig & Spit? No way.”

Next to Ethan, Hallie pipes up. “Hey, Jane!” she says. She jerks her head toward the other end of the table. “I made sure you had a seat. Down
there
.” At the very end of the long table is one empty seat. Next to Max. Hallie winks at me, and I try not to blush as I make my way to the chair.

Max is to my left. Directly across the table is Mason, flanked by two of the tech guys from the Twister Blisters. From the bits of conversation I catch above the din of country music, they’re absorbed in a discussion about multiple vortices, meaning a bunch of tornadoes at once. To my right, unfortunately, is Victor.

“You missed the appetizers,” Max says when I’m finally parked. “Pieces of deep-fried steak you dunk into gravy.” I don’t mind the fact that he has to lean in close so I can hear him.

“Uh, yum?”

“Crazy stupid delicious,” Max says, locking eyes with me. A funnel cloud forms in my spine. “For dinner we all ordered the ribs,” Max continues. “Well, most everyone. I think Mason got the fried chicken, and one of the Blisters got a hamburger. But the waitress said the ribs were the best.”

“Place like this, I’m not surprised,” I say.

A waitress walks past. “Want something, hon?” she asks.

Victor grunts, and drains his beer. “’Nother,” he says, interrupting my order. I’m about to mumble “jerk” under my breath, but the word dies on my lips when I get a good look at him. He’s unshaven, and his face is crisscrossed with lines I’ve never noticed before. He seems exhausted. I don’t want them to, but my insides twist for him. It must be awful, I realize, being terrified of bad weather and watching yourself turn into a monster on chases as a result.

“Honey? You want something or not?” The waitress taps her pen against her notepad. I tear my eyes away from Victor.

“Yes, um, the ribs,” I say. “And a Diet Coke, please.”

“You got it.”

“So what’d you do the rest of the day?” Max asks. He leans an elbow against the table and gets that much closer. I feel a cold thrill, even in the hot restaurant.

“More Dumpster duty,” I say. “Hot, sweaty, stupid Dumpster duty.” I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling. It wasn’t so bad—not with Hallie there, and it felt good to help Patchy Falls, even if we did it to save our own asses in the process. “You?”

Max whispers in my ear, so the Weather Network cameras won’t pick up on our conversation. The minute I feel his breath on my lobe, I take a sip of the Diet Coke the waitress has set in front of me, so I don’t haul off and kiss him right there. “We went out to rebuild a barn for this old couple. Your brother and Stephen were there, too. So was a Weather Network producer, and he got pushy about stuff. Like, making your brother and Stephen take their shirts off because they’re both so ripped. I mean, it’s smart, because it’s going to be a total ratings fest when the episode airs. But it feels so fake. There is nothing ‘real’ about reality TV. Nothing whatsoever.”

I glance down the table and, as if to confirm what Max is saying, I see one of the camera operators talking to Stephen, Ethan, and Alex. He motions with his hands and, a moment later, the three guys clink their glasses together. They make it look spontaneous—as if the two rival teams have put aside their differences to clean up Patchy Falls. “See what I mean?” Max asks. Then, to my amazement, they do it
again
—this time with Hallie in the scene. I try not to throw up when I see Alex weasel in closer to her.

A waitress interrupts the setup by bringing over a tray of shots to that end of the table. “From table twelve!” she says. Danny and four other women at a nearby booth wave at the chasers.

Ethan shakes his head at his shot and offers it to Hallie. She grins and throws back the brown liquid, one then another. I never figured Hallie for a drinker, but any girl who can take two shots like that and not get sick has to have had some practice at it. I see she’s got a beer in front of her as well.

The food arrives, and I stop thinking about Hallie and the cameras. I’m so ravenous, I don’t even wait until everyone is served before digging in. The sweet, saucy ribs are perfect, and I’m almost inhaling them. There’s also buttered corn, steaming rolls, and fluffy mashed potatoes on the side. The whole table goes quiet as everyone chews and swallows. It’s the closest thing we’ve had to home-cooked food in a long time.

The Bluegrass Aces start playing about the time I’m so stuffed I feel like I might explode. “We got a basket up here,” the bass player says, his long, gray beard touching the mic, “for Pastor Kraus and some of the folks whose homes were damaged in the twister. If you can throw a buck or two in while you do-si-do past, we’d sure appreciate it.” A cheer goes up from the bar, and the band plays a few notes then quiets again. The bass player continues, “And let’s have a round of applause for the Twister Blisters and the Tornado Brothers, who stuck around after the storm to help us out. Three cheers for them!”

Every pair of eyes in the place turns to our table, and all I can think about is ducking under my chair to hide. I feel like there’s a neon sign above us flashing
POSEURS
. Nevertheless, I smile along with the other chasers and hope the good folks of this town have heard one of my mom’s other favorite expressions:
There’s no such thing as a free lunch.

The Bluegrass Aces start a song that includes both a fiddle and a banjo, and half of the Pig & Spit gets up to dance. I’m so full, I want to put my head down on the table and nap, but suddenly there’s a hand on my shoulder. It’s Ethan. “C’mon,” he says. “Time to dance.” I want to protest, but then I see the cameras. So I get up and follow him to the scuffed-wood dance floor, crowded and sticky with spilled drinks. Everyone smiles and makes room for us.

Ethan puts his hands on his hips and moves his legs in a weird sort of shuffle skip. I look around and, to my horror, realize everyone else is doing the same thing. Except me. I have no idea what song the band is playing and no idea how to dance to it.

“It’s a line dance,” Ethan hollers above the noise. “Just do what I do.” I can feel myself begin to sweat, but I try to look like I’m having the time of my life, knowing the cameras are probably zoomed in on my shiny face and Max is likely out there somewhere watching. Ethan backs up a few steps, then leans forward. By the time I lean, everyone else is on to the next move, and I wind up bumping into a woman wearing a cowboy hat as wide as she is. Which is saying something.

“Sorry!” I manage. Ethan laughs, and I glare at him.

“Side to side!” he says, and crosses one leg over the other. I do the same—until everyone starts going the other direction. This time, I crash into a man with a handlebar moustache, who reaches out a steadying hand.

“Easy there, little filly.”

I can’t even look at him, I’m so embarrassed. I hear a roar and realize Ethan is almost bent over, he’s laughing so hard. He’s all but given up dancing. The crowd is sashaying and do-si-do-ing all around us. I smack his shoulder, which only makes him laugh harder.

“You did this on purpose!” I say.

Ethan is helpless. Tears are coursing down his cheeks.

I want to be mad, but seeing Ethan laugh so hard, I can’t help it. I laugh too. “Where did you learn to line dance?” I ask.

Ethan wipes the tears away. “I live in Oklahoma, Jane,” he says. He’s still grinning. “It’s practically a national pastime down here.”

My smile vanishes. I don’t want to, but I can’t help but think that while Mom and I have been struggling in Minnesota, Ethan’s been
line dancing
.

“Come on,” he says, “this next one’s a lot easier. And look, we have company.”

Max and Hallie squeeze onto the dance floor, followed by Stephen and Mason. One of the locals with fire-red cowboy boots tries to dry-hump Hallie to the beat of the music before she makes a scissors with her right hand and hollers something about his balls. He backs off.

Some of the Pig & Spit locals go back to their tables to make room for us. With the camera crew, we’ve taken up a good chunk of the dance floor.

A manic fiddle starts up, and both Hallie and Ethan know what to do instantly. I watch Hallie kick her feet and spin, her face getting more and more flushed. Her skin has that same sheen my mom’s gets when she drinks, but she’s smiling and laughing, her eyes bright.

Suddenly, Max is next to me on the dance floor. He grabs one hand, and my legs wobble. He takes my other hand and leads me in a little two-step, then spins me around. Somehow, it doesn’t surprise me that he knows exactly what to do. The warm lights and dark wood of the Pig & Spit swirl by. I tilt my head back and let my hair fly. I close my eyes. It takes me a moment to realize what I’m feeling:
I’m having fun
.

I stop spinning only to find Max smiling at me. His green eyes are shining, even in the dim space. I want to reach out and touch his hair—and I surprise myself by actually doing it. His eyes dart around, and I follow them. They find the cameras, which are trained on Hallie and Ethan, who are still dancing. Hallie wobbles slightly, tipsy, but it doesn’t matter. She and Ethan are
in
this moment, moving as if the music is in their blood. Their energy fills the space around them. They’re breathtaking.

“Come on,” Max says. “Let’s get out of here.”

He pulls me to the side of the dance floor, straight into the crowd. My heart pounds, wondering where we’re going and if we’ll be caught. We slip past torsos and elbows, away from the cameras, weaving through the crush of people. When the front door comes into view, Max grips my hand even harder. “Now!” he says, and we make a break for the exit.