The Waiting Sky (8 page)

12

M
ax 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

T
wo 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.

“Fancy meeting you here,” I say.

“Of all the diners in all the towns in all of Tornado Alley,” he says in an awful
Casablanca
impression, “she walks into mine.” He smiles, but his eyes are tired and bloodshot. A five-o’clock shadow darkens his jaw. I wonder if he’s thinking about Patchy Falls . . . or something else entirely.

“So just you tonight?” I ask. “No chasing entourage?”

“Nope. Just me. And my thoughts, which are few and far between, so it’s good to have your company.”

A round waitress with dark hair and friendly hazel eyes parks herself in front of me. “What can I get you, sweetie?” she asks.

I glance over the menu. “French toast,” I say, scrapping the idea of eggs. “And a cup of coffee, please.”

The waitress glances at Ethan’s half-eaten pie. It looks like lemon meringue. “You still working?”

Ethan nods. “Still working.”

She puts a hand on one ample hip. “The apple’s better. Didn’t I say the apple was better? I didn’t take you for a lemon meringue man. And look here. I was right.”

“I didn’t know I wore my pie preference on my sleeve,” Ethan says, studying his forearms, like maybe it’s there and he just doesn’t know it.

The waitress laughs—a deep sound that fills the whole diner—and grabs the plate of lemon meringue. “Why don’t I get you a slice of that apple, hmm? Best pie in the county. Guaranteed.” She winks at Ethan. “On the house.”

Ethan tips an invisible hat. “I can’t refuse.”

“Jeez,” I say, once the waitress is gone. “You’re certainly Prince Charming out here on the plains, aren’t you?”

“Pft. No.”

“Oh, come on. I bet the ladies love you.”

I act like I’m teasing—and I am, mostly. But part of me really
does
want to know about this side of Ethan. Not that I think he’s always hitting on waitresses, but he
is
charming. And at six-four with Abercrombie looks, he must have a few girls in his recent past, or heck, in his present—we’ve just never talked about it.

“Hardly,” Ethan says. “I think I bore the snot out of most of my dates. I literally talk about the weather all the time. It even happened to me in high school. Remember Abby Orland?”

I nod, thinking back to the curvy, dark-haired girl who stopped by to pick Ethan up sometimes. Ethan never did let her come in the apartment (thinking she’d get slurred at by Mom), but I know she and Ethan dated, and they even went to prom together. Ethan had showed me the photo of them standing in front of the cardboard ocean, his arm around her waist, both of them smiling.

“She dumped me because she said I paid more attention to the clouds than to her. Plus she was pissed I didn’t get drunk with her after the prom. Or any other time. Also I think she was mad I didn’t sneak her pizza when I had that job at Roberto’s.”

I grin. “She wanted free slices?”

“A free
pie
more like it. That girl could eat.”

We’re still laughing when the waitress brings my coffee, and I load it with cream and sugar. “It’s hard, though,” Ethan says, getting serious again, “being on the road for so much of the year. And even when we’re not, there’s lab work and research. And Polly. Cripes, what a project.”

“Did Victor get any good data from her, from the chase?” I ask.

Ethan shakes his head. “I don’t know yet. We only had her on the ground for such a short time before the twister lifted. It’s bittersweet, really. Patchy Falls gets a lucky break, but our data set gets the shaft.”

The waitress stops by to drop off my French toast and Ethan’s pie. “Enjoy,” she says, refilling our coffee cups.

“Thanks,” Ethan says, and we dig in.

After a few bites, Ethan sets down his fork. “I wanted to let you know, I go to some Al-Anon meetings down here. Have for a few years now. I was thinking maybe you’d like to join me for the next one? When we’re back at my house, that is, not on the road.”

French toast gets stuck in my throat. Cat’s list has followed me.

Al-Anon is a support group for people affected by alcoholics, and I had no idea Ethan had ever set foot inside a meeting. I’d read about Al-Anon online, but I’d never imagined going. Even though I know Mom has a problem, I could
never
imagine airing my dirty laundry in front of a crowd. What if someone there knew me? But somehow, Ethan has been going—for
years
.

“I don’t know.” I busy myself stacking my creamers and folding my sugar packets into tiny squares. Al-Anon is for people who have no idea how to cope with alcoholics. Up until the accident, I thought I was coping just fine, thank you.

“My standoff with Mom? That came out of the Al-Anon meetings,” Ethan continues. “I told her I would always love her and that she’d always be my mom. But I wanted her to get help. I encouraged her to admit she has a problem, and I told her I’d stand by her when she did.”

“And when she didn’t, you cut her off. Cut
us
off.” The words come out hot and fast.

Ethan wipes his mouth with his napkin. “If that were true, really true, would you be here right now?”

I’m here because of Cat,
I think. But I don’t say that. I haven’t told Ethan about that day, and I don’t intend to. “I’m just here to figure a few things out,” I reply, “and to work a summer job that doesn’t have me washing dishes.”

Ethan stares at me. “Good for you. And when the summer’s over? You’ll go back to . . . what, again? Remind me, because when I was seventeen and living in that apartment, all I can remember is grocery shopping and cleaning the bathroom and trying to keep you out of Mom’s bedroom before eleven on a Saturday morning.”

In my head I am counting backward from ten so I don’t lose it on Ethan right there and then. “No family is perfect,” I say. “But call me crazy, I thought families were supposed to stick together. Not
abandon
each other.”
Who do you think had to start cleaning the bathroom once you were gone?

Ethan rubs his forehead. “I left to build a life for myself, Jane. I got a scholarship to the University of Oklahoma. You think I wasn’t going to take it? I wanted to start
doing
something instead of cleaning up after Mom. You should start thinking about that, too. About the future. You know?”

“I can think about the future without
deserting
people,” I fire back. “Mom isn’t perfect, but she’s our mom. Except all you do is focus on the bad stuff, even though our childhood was totally normal. I mean, considering she had to raise us solo since Dad only came around to knock her up twice and disappear, she did okay. She bought us costumes for Halloween, and most years we had Christmas presents under the tree. You remember how we used to make Wonder Bread sandwiches and toast them over the stove? Why don’t you ever focus on
that
stuff?”

Ethan leans in, gets close to me. “Because Mom has a problem,” he says. “She’s an alcoholic. And no matter what else she is, she’s that first. She’s addicted to a drug, and she’ll do anything to get it. It defines her. It defines
life
with her. Do you understand that?”

I swallow the pinpricks in my throat. I don’t let myself think for a second he could be right, because nothing in this world is that black and white.

“No,” I say. “She’s still more than her drinking. You can’t just look at it like that. And for the record, she went to rehab after you left. But you never seem to take
that
into account.”

“Oh, right,” Ethan says, smacking his forehead. “My gosh, how could I have forgotten how she half-assed that one attempt at sobriety when I threatened to call Social Services on her? And then when I didn’t, she went right back to her old habits. How stupid of me.”

My heart slams into my ribs. “You threatened her?”

“Hell, yes, I did. To try and make things better for you. Force her to clean up. But I could never make that call, because then what if you got shipped off to some awful foster home? I couldn’t live with myself if you landed in some family where they treated you even worse. Took advantage of you or—God, I don’t know. Mom called my bluff, kept on drinking, and I did jack.”

“You
manipulated
her?” I ask, hardly believing what I’m hearing. “And when she couldn’t do it, you
blamed
her?”

“You say that like she deserves a medal for her one pathetic attempt. The stakes for which were losing
you
, I might add. If I were a parent, I might try harder than that.”

“Jesus,
nothing’s
good enough for you!” My anger is boiling over, spilling out between us in hot waves I can practically feel.

At the other end of the counter, the waitress looks up from where she’s wiping down glassware with a gingham cloth.

“You know what,” Ethan says, dropping his voice, “let’s stop talking about what’s good enough for me and talk about what’s good enough for you. This supposed life you have with Mom? No way that should be good enough for you.”

“Don’t tell me wh—”

Ethan doesn’t let me finish. “It’s just a theory, but I’d be willing to put money on the idea that somewhere inside, you
are
taking a good, hard look at your life. I think that’s part of the reason you’re here. Maybe something happened. Maybe Mom’s really losing it over her dead brother. Hell, maybe she’s not, and you just decided to come to Oklahoma for a summer to see me. But I think there’s a wheel turning in your brain that keeps squeaking at you. And the more it turns, the louder it squeaks, and it’s telling you that something isn’t right. That
Mom
isn’t right. That there’s more to life than a dingy apartment in Minnesota with her.”

The accident. Uncle Pete. The hours at Larry’s. The disappearing money. The calls into work. Were those all squeaking at me?

Okay, yes. Of course. I wasn’t blind enough not to admit that much. But the answer couldn’t be to run away like Ethan did. Or to do all the things on Cat’s list and let my mom wind up in a cardboard box somewhere. The answer was to figure out how to make life better. To make sure the same mistakes didn’t keep happening over and over.

Right?

“Things are fine,” I say. “Mom and I are fine.” No thanks to you. “You can go to all the meetings you want, but I’m the one who knows how things are up there. Not you.”

Ethan shrugs. “Suit yourself.”

How can he be so oblivious? I want to toss my cold coffee in his face and wake him up. I want him to admit I’m right. That he screwed up by leaving us. That he’s sorry. That he’s coming back.