The Waiting Sky (11 page)

17

T
he Pig & Spit door closes behind Max and me, sealing in its heat and noise. Outside, in the cool of the night, crickets are chirping and stars blanket the sky.

At the edge of the Pig & Spit parking lot, Max keeps his grasp on my hand. “This way,” he says. “I know where we can go.”

I let him lead the way into the tall grass. I step behind him and wish I could hit the Pause button on this moment. That I could lie on my back in this sea of rustling green and float away with Max holding my hand and happiness gripping my heart.

Max and I walk for what feels like miles, but I don’t mind. The grass is high, though we can still see over it. The two of us are quiet, letting the summer night make its sounds all around us.

Finally, Max points straight ahead. “We’re here.” I squint, and in the darkness, I see a looming shape.

“What is that?”

“The barn we worked on today,” Max says. It’s skeletal—mostly two-by-fours and a few sheets of plywood. I can smell new lumber and sawdust.

Max threads his way through the beams to the center of the barn, and I tag behind. “We were working on the loft today. We can get up there if I can just find the—” He stops. “Eureka,” he says, and starts to climb the ladder he’d apparently been looking for. “Normally I’d say ladies first,” he calls down, “but in this case, I think I’d better head up in front of you. Hold on a sec.” I lose sight of him in the blackness. There’s shuffling on what I can only imagine is a platform above. “Okay,” he says after a second. “It’s safe for you to come on up if you want.”

Slowly, I ascend the ladder behind him until I’m out in the open in the barn’s half-built hayloft. There’s nothing but a few scant roof beams above us, and nothing but grass and sky everywhere else.

“Pretty cool, huh?” Max asks.

There are no words for how small I feel. And, yet, I want to tell Max that I still feel special because I’m here with
him
. But I don’t want to sound like a lameass, so I just say “Awesome.” I pause. “Did we just walk all the way to Patchy Falls?”

“Not quite. The barn’s a lot closer to Clarkstown than you’d think. We only walked a mile or so.”

I inhale air filled with the smell of lumber and earth. The plains are so flat, I feel like I can see all the way to the Pacific.

“This is something,” I say, and mean it.

Max sits down on the rough floor, then pats it with his hand. “Have a seat,” he says. I join him, wondering how close I can get before it’s obnoxious. I settle for having our knees touch.

“I’m a regular here, by the way. The bartender knows me.” Max waves with his hand. “Beer and a shot, please.”

“Make that two,” I add, even though in real life I’d just have Diet Coke.

Max turns to me. I can make out his face, his lips, his eyes. “I just realized something,” I say. “I don’t know your last name.”

“Vaughn,” he says. “Maximilian Adam Whittaker Vaughn, if you want the full version. But you can just call me Max.”

I blink at how
rich
it sounds. It reminds me of
The Great Gatsby
—a movie I’d watched because I didn’t feel like reading the book for class. So instead Mom and I popped popcorn and sat on the couch marveling at the sparkling champagne, glimmering jewels, and stupid excess.

“My online profile notes I’m six-one, seventeen years old. I’m a Sagittarius, and I like long walks on the beach.”

I smile. “Very funny.”

Max ticks more facts off his fingers. “I’m from Vermont. My favorite food is sushi, but the chicken-fried steak down here is a close second. I have one older brother. My dog’s name is Boner, no lie. I named him when I was eight. I go to school in upstate New York at the Bartholomew Academy.”

“Sounds fancy,” I say, not just about the school, but about almost everything. I mean, whose favorite food is sushi?

“The academy’s okay,” Max says. “It’s all guys, though, which sucks.”

“Oh.” I wonder if next he’s going to tell me about his personal driver and how hard it is to have only an outdoor swimming pool and not an indoor one too.

“You okay?” Max says. “You got kinda quiet all of a sudden.”

“Just, uh, wondering why you’re out here in the middle of nowhere doing this internship.”

Below us, a bullfrog starts its throaty croaking. “Weather is so totally badass. I saw these chases on the Weather Network and just knew I had to do it. Plus, I really dig the science. It’s kind of a meld, you know? Physics and chemistry and math. Also it helps that my dad and Alex’s dad go way back. So I had an in.”

Makes sense that Max would be connected. People with that much money usually are.

“Not that knowing Alex is helping me,” Max continues. “Pretty much I’m just a Sherpa, carrying Alex’s shit around. But I’m trying to make the best of it, because supposedly this is the only summer I might ever be able to chase. After this, my dad says I need to use my school breaks to ‘buckle down and start working for the family company.’”

“Which is?”

“Vaughn Commodities Management. We help people buy stuff abroad. For cheap.”

“You sound like you hate it.”

Max laughs. “I can’t stand it. Which is why I know there’s no way I’m doing it. If my dad pushes it, I’ll probably drain my savings and hit the road for a while. Maybe come back down here and chase with a different team. Or I could hit Moab and just rock climb for a while.”

“Where’s Moab?” I ask, picturing the rocky coast of some far-off country.

“Utah.”

I blush, embarrassed at how little I’ve traveled outside Minnesota. Max rolls past it. “So let’s talk about you, Jane McAllister.” He pretends like he’s holding a microphone. “I need to ask you if you believe in a higher power, in the great mysterious, in fate, as it were.” He points the make-believe microphone at me.

There’s no way I believe in any of that stuff, but I play along. “Why do you ask?”

The microphone is gone. Max is stone serious. “I mean, if anyone had told me I’d meet a pretty girl at a Days Inn, who talks funny and takes kick-ass photographs, I would have told them they were smoking something. We’re in the middle-of-nowhere Nebraska, after all, during a summer where the most exciting thing I’ve done so far—apart from watch some storms—is try to hunt down Alex Atkins’s brand of hair gel. So I think that’s the universe talking. That’s fate.”

I snort. “Fate? Come on.
You’re
the one who sat next to me at breakfast.
You’re
the one who encouraged me to get the Torbros to stick around Patchy Falls.
You’re
the one who told me you’d be at the Pig & Spit like you were daring me not to come. So don’t say this is fate, Max. This is you. One hundred percent
you
.”

Max grins. “I never thought of it that way. But I did sort of lead the charge, didn’t I?”

I marvel at his ability to manipulate his environment and not even know it. “You could say that.”

“Well, apart from this irrefutable fact, I’m glad I’ve gotten to know you.”

I smile. “Know me? You’ve been in my life for a matter of hours. You think you know me?”

Max leans back. “Granted, I don’t know you
well
, but I know you some.”

He sounds so sure. “Like what?”

“Well, first of all, from that unfortunate display at the Pig & Spit, I know you can’t dance worth shit. Beyond that, I know you’re good under pressure. You could have freaked out when you found Danny, but you didn’t. Also, I know you care about your brother, and maybe all the Torbros, because you pitched the Patchy Falls plan to them, even though it meant you’d have to help clean up the town. And I’m going to guess you color within the lines a lot, because the look on your face when I pulled you out of the Pig & Spit made me wonder if you were going to ditch me and run back inside. But now that you’re here, I think you’re cool with it.”

I shiver, suddenly afraid. I don’t remember the last time anyone looked at me and tried to see me—really see me—the way Max does. It unnerves me. What if he gets too close and sniffs out the truth about my mom being a boozer? What if he finds out how we live, about how our power gets cut off? About how all my clothes are used? Someone who goes to private school and eats sushi could never understand that. If Max knew the truth about my life, he’d probably just laugh or, worse, feel sorry for me and want to pay for everything. Which is the last thing I need.

Max’s eyes are on me. A crackle of electricity ignites my body.

Have your fun,
I think.
Just don’t let him get too close
.

A moment passes, then another. Slowly, Max leans forward. I feel his lips on mine, and my eyes close. Right then, it doesn’t matter who’s rich or who eats ramen. Everything about him is powerful and gentle at the same time. His arms wrap around my body, and my hands somehow find his neck, his face. We pull each other closer, and every nerve in my body feels like it’s on fire. I have been kissed before, but never like this.

Max’s lips part slightly, and mine do the same. His tongue inside my mouth makes fireworks of color burst behind my closed eyelids. We explore and taste each other again and again, until Max finally pulls away. I want more—I think I could survive on nothing but his mouth for weeks—but I try not to let it show too much.

“I should get you home,” he says. “It’s really late, and your brother might be wondering where you are.” Reluctantly, I nod. I hate to agree with him, but he’s probably right. “But maybe we can come out here tomorrow night. I think the farmer down the road might put his cattle into the next pasture over, and it’s supposed to be quite a show.”

I smile. “Sounds riveting.”

I don’t tell him that I have my own motel room and that we probably don’t have to walk to an unfinished barn just to be together. The truth is, I’m not sure I’m ready to bring Max back to my room. I’d just had my first real make-out session and it had nearly done me in; my whole body might actually explode if I actually had sex.

“Come on,” Max says, standing. He extends his hand, and I take it. With one final look at the stars and fields all around us, we climb down the ladder and make our way back into Clarkstown.

18

T
he motel lobby is deserted as I sneak back to my room—or so I think until I hear a groan from the corner. I jump what feels like six feet in the air. Victor leans forward, out of the shadows, and laughs. “Scared you,” he says. I can barely see his face, the way his black hair falls forward.

“Cripes,” I whisper. “What are you doing here?”

“Just resting,” Victor says, looking at me with red-rimmed eyes. As I get closer to him, I catch the smell of whiskey. “Better question is, whad’re
you
doing here?”

His words jumble together. He’s trashed.

I look around, debating whether to leave him or give him a hand back to his room. I could let him suffer out here, but I figure if I help him, maybe he won’t tell Ethan that I snuck back into the motel at three
A.M.
If he even remembers it.

Besides, it’s not like I don’t know what to do in these kinds of situations.

“I’m here to get you back to your motel room,” I say, assessing whether I’m strong enough to pull him to his feet. It’s easier with my mom, who’s only about twenty pounds heavier than me. “Can you stand?”

Victor puts his hands on either side of the chair. “This is really nish of you,” he says. “I didn’ think you gave a shit.”

“I don’t,” I reply.

Victor pushes himself up a few inches, then falls back into the chair. “Then jus’ leave me,” he says. He waves his hand clumsily. “Jus’ go.”

I roll my eyes. Why are drunks so dramatic all the time? My mom starts out giddy and bubbly, but then it always
morphs into hyperbole. Everything from the television
never ever having one thing on that she wants to watch ever
to no one understanding her and what she’s going through—not even me.

“Okay, try again,” I say, holding out my hands. “I’ll pull you up. Ready? On the count of three.”

Victor clasps my hands with his. They’re toaster-oven hot.

“One, two, three—” I pull with all my strength and he comes lurching out of the chair. He stumbles forward but I catch him, or at least try to. He gets his footing and straightens.

“Thanks,” he says, looking around. He blinks. “I got losh on the way to my room. I think it’s thataway.” He points at the doors leading outside.

“Do you know your room number?” I ask.

“Fifty eleven thousand,” he says, then wheezes laughter.

“Very funny.” I glance at the empty front desk. No one’s on duty this late at night, which means Victor had better remember his room number, or he’s going to be sleeping it off in the hallway.

“Do you have your key?” I ask. “Maybe in your pocket somewhere?”

Victor fumbles in his khaki shorts. After a bit, he pulls out a key with a plastic 108 tag on it.

“Awesome,” I say, taking it from him. “Let’s get you there.”

“’Kay.”

Victor shuffle-walks while I hold an arm to steady him. “Why are you doing thish?” he asks, wobbling slightly. “I’ve bem a dick to you.”

We get to the vending machine, and I prop him up against a wall. “Hold that thought,” I say, and feed a couple dollars in for bottled water. Victor’s going to need to hydrate before bed. “Here,” I say, handing him one. “Drink this.”

He brings the bottle to his lips, misses a little, then tries again. He gets a few sips down. His scar rises and falls as he swallows.

“Can you drink and walk?” I ask. Victor nods, and we keep going.

“You didn’t asser my question,” he says. “’Bout why you’re helping me.”

“Let’s just say I have some practice at it,” I reply.

“
You
drink?” Victor says, his black eyes finding mine.

“Me? No.”

“Ethan then? Maaaan, I knew he couldn’t be that much of a Boy Scout.”

“Not him either,” I say unlocking the room. “This is your place, right?” I know it’s the right room, but I ask anyway to keep him distracted.

I flip on the light, and we both take in the unmade bed, the spare change scattered on the floor, the damp towels on top of the shabby dresser. In one corner is a suitcase that looks like it erupted clothing.

“Yup, this is right,” Victor says, and walks in to sit on the bed. He looks dazed, like he doesn’t know what to do next.

“Do you have aspirin?” I ask. “Maybe in your suitcase somewhere?”

He scrunches his brow. “Adfil, maybe.”

Advil. Right. I open the top zipper of his suitcase and, next to his razor and some hair gel, spot a small white bottle. I shake out two pills and hand them to him.

“Take these with one of the bottles of water. You’ll thank me for it in the morning.”

Victor lifts the bottle in a mock toast, then swallows the two pills while I watch. “Anything else, Nurse Ratched?” he asks.

“Who?”

Victor gives me a lopsided smile. “Nurse Ratched.
One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nes’
. Tell me you’ve seen it?”

“Sorry,” I say, glancing at the same ancient clock radio on Victor’s nightstand that’s on mine—3:12
A.M.
“Let’s take your shoes off and call it a night.”

“No, really,” Victor says, as I unlace his dust-covered Converse. “You gotta see this movie. ’S amazing. Jack Nichols’n is sick. I mean, sick like awesome. Not sick like sick. Which is sort of the point.” He pauses as I wrestle with his second shoe. “Movies are so badass. I love them more than anything.” I set his shoes by the bed. “Except one movie,” he continues. “You know the movie I hate?
Twister
. I fucking hate that movie.”

My stomach sinks. I have a feeling I know where this is headed.

“More than that,” Victor says, his dark eyes shining, “I hate storms. Fuck storms forever. If we play the vortex game and you put something up against a storm, I’ll take the other thing every time. A pile of dog shit. A rotting corpse. Drowning. I’ll take it. I’ll never choose the storm.
Never
.”

“Okay, Victor,” I say. “It’s cool. We won’t chase again for a while, so—”

“No!” he says. “Don’t you get it? I’m a chaser and piss my pants about
storms
. I’m goddamn afraid of them.” He sets down the water and presses his palms against his brow.

I sit in the ratty chair next to the bed. I can’t leave now, with Victor in full rant. “And then I just left that Patchy Falls lady,” Victor continues. “I can’t shake it, you know? And I’m mean to Hallie just because she’s a girl, and I shit all over Ethan when I can. Just because . . . because I’m so
unhappy
.”

“So why do you chase if you hate storms?” I ask.

Victor won’t raise his head. “Polly. She’s our meal ticket. All the grant money’s ’cuz of her. Something happens in the field, and she breaks, who’s going to fix her?”

“Mason could probably handle it.”

“Mason’s all right, but I’m the one who built her. And now?
Now
we’ve got this bet. Alex Atkins called me out, so no way I can leave the team. I leave, and they get Polly anyway.”

I’m still trying to figure out what to say when Victor lurches off the bed and stands above me. The scar on his face is suddenly deeper, angrier. I pull myself into the chair, my insides quaking. What if he’s a raging drunk? What if he’s about to hit me and I never saw it coming?

But instead, Victor fumbles in his back pocket and pulls out his wallet. “Here,” he says, yanking out a battered photo, “lookit.”

He shoves the creased image at me. It’s a picture of Stephen around twelve years old. He’s wearing cutoff jean shorts and a striped shirt, and his lanky frame is standing in front of a long, white tornado that’s snaking across an ebony sky. The photo is straight-on, no nonsense. Accurate, not artistic. “You know who took that picture?” Victor asks, tapping the image over and over with a long finger. “Me. I did. I was there, but you’d never know it, would you?”

Victor’s staring at me and I realize he wants an answer. “No,” I reply honestly. “You wouldn’t.”

“Stephen’s the weather boy
wondurr
who’d chase storms on his bike, for God’s sake. All while I’d be riding along with him, trying to pull him back every time he got too close.” He snatches the picture and shoves it back into his wallet.

I open my mouth, then close it. Victor sits back on the bed.

“Not that it was so bad. I liked mechanics. Parts. Stephen would get us to the storm, and I’d figure out a way to documen’ it. I’m not a chaser. I’m an
engineer
. Always have been. But when we started the Torbros, that line got blurred. I wen’ along with it, probably because deep down I was still thinking I had to keep my little brother out of trouble. He tol’ me one time he wouldn’t chase if I wasn’t there with him.”

Victor looks so crushed. If I were braver, I might reach out and pat him on the back or something. But I don’t dare.

“I bet everyone would understand,” I offer, trying to fill the silence. “If you had to quit—”

“No way. ’Specially not after last season, when Stephen had to save the whole van full of us because of me. Talk about ironic. I fucked them once by putting them in danger. How can I sit here and think about fucking them all over again by giving Polly away?”

“But you can’t stay in this life if it makes you
unhappy,
” I protest. “I mean, does Stephen know how you feel?”

Victor shrugs. “He figures I’ll snap out of it.”

“You have to tell him all this,” I insist. “Sticking around isn’t good for you or the team. And you can’t live your life for someone else. You need to—”

I stop. The rest of the words are stuck in my throat.

“What?” Victor says, looking at me with weary eyes. “Whaddew I need to do?”

I’m about to tell Victor to do the same things that everyone is telling
me
to do.

Live your own life. If you leaving means Stephen and the rest of the team have to struggle for a bit, so be it. It’s all for the best.

The blood drains from my face.
Is it possible that I really am just like Victor?
Is it possible that we are nearly the same person, only instead of acting like a douche on chases and putting people in danger during storms, I’m acting like a douche and putting people in danger in the middle of intersections, inches from getting rammed by semis? All because I can’t see the plain and simple fact that I have to stop living my life for someone else?

I think back to my recent phone call with Cat. Without even meaning to, she’d connected the dots between Victor and me. Just like nothing good could come of Victor living his life scared of storms for the supposed benefit of Stephen and the Torbros, nothing good could come of me working day and night for the supposed benefit of my mom.

Except that Stephen doesn’t have a drinking problem,
I think. And Stephen won’t be living in a van down by the river if Victor no longer goes on chases. So it’s different.

Except why does it feel the same?

Victor lies back on the bed and closes his eyes. “Fine if you don’t want to tell me,” he mumbles. “’Sokay. I’ve been a jerk. I s’pose I deserve it.”

Victor’s breathing slows, and I know he’s inches away from a deep, drunk sleep.

“What if we have to hurt the people we love?” I ask. “What if that’s the only way out?”

Victor just lets out a little snore. I pull the comforter over him as best I can and make sure the second bottle of water is on the bedside table.
I am Victor. Victor is me.

I shake the thought and pull the door closed.