Rising (11 page)

“Do you see why?” I asked, thumbing at my
grandfather in the other room.
 
Clara
giggled.

“Your grandfather sure likes his
Jeapordy
,” she teased.

“Yeah,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Let’s try
something else.”

I emptied the search box then entered
‘Hurricane Lucy.’
 
I clicked on the
National Hurricane website which popped up on the first page.
 
The tracking chart displayed several possible
routes for the hurricane, one of which plowed directly through Beau
Chêne
, Louisiana.
 
The current speed was up to 2 miles an hour, which was still five times
less than the average speed of a hurricane.

“Why is it moving so slowly?” asked Clara as if
she read my thoughts.

Scrolling back to the list of hits, I clicked
on one titled ‘Hurricane Lucy’s Movements’ by a meteorologist in Georgia.
 
The website summarized the odd formation of
this large hurricane off the coast of Cuba, stating that the super-charged
electrical storm stirred the warm waters into a massive thunderstorm then to a
hurricane.

“This is all just the same thing,” I said.
 
“It doesn’t say anything about, no, wait a
minute.
 
Look here. ‘The slow-moving mass
may be due to the fact that it is currently over warm waters in the Caribbean.
 
The hurricane should dissipate once in the
Gulf of Mexico where a cold front is expected to sweep across the span of water
later this week.’ ”

“So, the storm may die soon before it even
crosses the Gulf.
 
That’s good,” said
Clara, sipping her tea.

“Let me try something else.”

I typed in ‘Hurricane Lucy + Cuba +
storm.’
 
Thousands of hits popped up
again.
 
I scrolled down until my eye
caught something in the blurb following the title, “Hurricane Lucy: More Than
Meets the Eye.”
 
The words in the partial
blurb underneath that caught my eye were, “creatures of unparalleled force.”

As soon as I clicked on the website, Clara
gasped.
 
Neither of us read a word.
 
It was the photographs of wall carvings that
stunned us both.
 
Three pictures of
primitive carvings depicting the monsters from our dreams stared back at us.

“My God, Gabriel.
 
What does it mean?” whispered Clara.

“Is this a magazine article?”

“No, there’s no organization’s name
attached.
 
Look here at the
bottom—Theresa
Miguez
is the author.
 
Well, what does it say?”

I scanned really fast through what others had
already theorized about Hurricane Lucy, clicking the down arrow speedily
through the summary of what we already knew.
 

“Here, listen to this. ‘Although my colleagues
believe I suffered a concussion with hallucinations from my fall in that Cuban
jungle, I am one hundred percent positive that what I witnessed was real.
 
Somehow, I survived. But when I awoke, every
human on that archaeological site had vanished.
 
Not only that, but I followed through the path of these creatures’
destruction.
 
All that I found in the
next town was one survivor—an invalid—and a town misted in ashes.’ ”

Clara sucked in her breath quickly.
 
I sat back, staring at that last word on the
monitor.

“Do you realize what this means?” she
whispered.

“Yes.
 
It
means we need to talk to this Theresa
Miguez
.”

I scrolled down the page where an e-mail
address was posted.
 
I copied the address
then pulled up my Gmail account and pasted in the address.
 
After clicking the cursor into the text box,
I paused for a second, just watching it blink.

“Clara, what should we say exactly?”

“How about—”

“Would you like to stay for dinner, Clara?”
shouted my mom from the den.
 
“We’re
having shrimp and okra gumbo.”

“Uh, yes, ma’am.
 
That would be nice.”

I heard Mom hurry back to the kitchen.
 
We didn’t have company often, so I knew she
was going to pull out her good dishes.

“Scoot over,” said Clara, inching her chair
over.
 

I read along silently while she typed.

Dear Ms.
Miguez
,

We are both high school students in a small town called
Beau
Chêne
, Louisiana.
 
We have been searching for information about
Hurricane Lucy, because we believe that it could be very dangerous.

“Add, ‘more
dangerous than locals think,’ ” I said.
 
“It will make her want to talk to us, since no one will believe in her.”

“Good call, Gabe.”

“Gabe?
 
When did I become Gabe?”

“Just now,” she said
with an impish smile, while continuing to type.

More dangerous than locals think.
 
We really would like to speak with you about
the pictures posted on your website.
 
We
have reason to believe every word you’re saying.
 
Please contact us ASAP at this Gmail account.

Clara Dunaway and Gabriel Goddard

She clicked the send
button and turned to me.

“Okay.
 
Now, we wait.”

“Dinner’s ready,”
said Mom.

The table had been set more formally than when
it was just the three of us.
 
She had set
the white rice in a large, orange ceramic bowl on the table along with a basket
of sliced French bread.
 
Four large bowls
of gumbo had been placed on the table.

“Just sit anywhere, Clara,” Mom said, carrying
in the potato salad.

Clara tucked her iPhone back into her pocket
after calling home then took the seat across from me.

“So, Carla, your dad’s a science guy Gabe tells
us,” said Pop, completely embarrassing me by letting Clara know I’ve been
talking about her at home.

“It’s
Clara
,
Pop,” I corrected him.

“Um, yes, sir,” she said, staring at how Pop
was dipping every bite of potato salad into his gumbo.
 

“What’s wrong?” I asked. “You look like you’ve
never seen anyone put potato salad in their gumbo?”

“I haven’t,” she said.
 
“We didn’t eat it like that in New Orleans.”

“You never saw that before?” asked Pop, raising
his bushy eyebrows. “Shoot, when I was a boy, my mama used to put boiled eggs
in our gumbo.
 
Mmmm
,
now
dat
was good.
 
Can’t seem to get Nancy to cook it that way though.”

Pop grunted toward his daughter.

“You get pretty much whatever you want anyway,”
Mom said.
 
“So, Gabriel told me that you
and Jessie are cousins, right?”

Damn it, Mom.
 
Didn’t she understand that it was totally uncool to let a girl know
you’d been talking about her at home?

“Yes, ma’am.
 
My mom and her mom are sisters,” said Clara, taking a bite of French
bread.
 

“That’s nice to have family close by.”

“Mm-hmm,” nodded Clara, still chewing.

“I bet you and Jessie are close cousins,” said
Mom.

“Well, not too close.
 
Jessie’s got really unique interests,” said
Clara.
 
“I mean, we get along, but I’m
more the athletic type, and Jessie’s more the, well,
die-your-hair-a-new-color-every-week type.”

I laughed, trying not to spit out my food.

“You sure do speak your mind, like Gabriel
said.”

“Oh, really?
 
What else did Gabriel say?” asked Clara with a gleam in her eye.

God, this was embarrassing.

“Mom, don’t you have any dessert or something
in the kitchen?” I asked quickly.

“I only have that leftover brownie cake from
Sunday,” she said, hopping up to go fetch it.

Clara grinned across the table at me.
 
She seemed so pleased to find out how much
I’d been talking about her at home, and I was growing more humiliated by the
minute.

“So, you talked about me to your mom, huh?”

“Yep, he’s been gibber-
gabberin
’
about the new girl in his English class quite a bit around the house,” said
Pop, wiping his chin with his napkin and patting his belly.
 
“You’re not quite what I pictured though.”

“Oh?
 
What description did he give?”

I couldn’t stop the slight groan that escaped
me.
 
There was no telling what might come
out of my Pop’s mouth.
 

“He never gave one directly.
 
Sounded to me like you were kind of a pest,
the way he was
carryin
’ on.
 
You’re quite a bit prettier than I pictured.”

“On that note, I’ll be taking you home, Clara.”

I grabbed Clara’s brown hoodie on the sofa and
my red BCHS sweatshirt, then headed for the door.

“Well, it was very nice to meet you,” said
Clara, shaking Pop’s hand.
 
“I hope to
see you again.”

“I’m sure you will,
darlin
’.
 
My grandson’s not stupid, you know?
 
You’re a keeper.”

“Thanks,” she laughed.

“But, I have the brownie cake,” said Mom,
carrying in a plateful.
 
“You can’t leave
yet.”

“Thank you so much, but I’m so full.
 
It was wonderful, Ms. Goddard.”

“Alright then.
 
You have a good night,” she said, putting the plate down.

“I’ll take one of them brownies,” said Pop,
shuffling over.

“Be back in a few minutes, Mom,” I called,
heading out the door before my family could humiliate me anymore.

The air was warm and balmy, very typical for
August here.
 
I left the top down on the Jeep.

“Gabe, it doesn’t feel like a cool front is
coming. Do you think the weathermen are right?
 
Do you think the hurricane will break up before it gets here?”

“I don’t think so.
 
I’m convinced now that the hurricane has
something to do with our dreams.
 
I hope
that Theresa
Miguez
e-mails us back soon.”

“So, I’m a pest, huh?” she asked, changing the
subject.

I knew this was coming.

“No, it’s just that when I first met you,” I
said, stumbling over my words.
 
There was
no way to explain how I felt without telling her about my other sense.
 
This was a confession I wasn’t prepared to
make.
 
“I guess I just had a wrong first
impression.”

“I see.”

“But, I changed my mind fairly quickly, as you
can tell.”

I settled back onto my headrest at a
red-light.
 
I felt Clara’s numbing vibe
trembling through me.
 
I thought it funny
how I was so used to it that I only noticed it now when there was a quiet
moment between us.
 
I still didn’t
understand why she affected me this way.
 
As I pulled into her driveway and parked, I found her examining me
again.
 
There was a look of complete
wonder in her eyes as she stared at me.

“What?
 
What is that look you give me all the time?”

“Huh?
 
Oh, nothing,” she said hastily.

“Clara Dunaway doesn’t have some quick and
smart reply?
 
Come on, tell me.”

“It’s just your good looks.
 
You’re so mesmerizing, you know,” she said
with a wry smile.

“I asked for it, I guess.”

I stepped out of the Jeep.
 
Clara jogged around to meet me as I walked
her to the front door.
 
The living room
light was on.

“Your mom’s probably worried I kidnapped you or
something.”

“No.
 
Mom’s in her bath right about now, soaking the world away.”

I felt that ripple of anxiety again that I’d
felt before.
 
I decided it wasn’t the
right time to ask about her mom.
 
There
was obviously tension there.

“Now, if my dad is not discovering some new way
to cure cancer with phosphorescent algae or something, and he actually realizes
I’m missing?
 
Then you’d be in trouble.”