Taken by Storm (18 page)

Read Taken by Storm Online

Authors: Angela Morrison

Tags: #Social Issues, #Dating & Sex, #Christian, #Friendship, #Juvenile Fiction, #Sports & Recreation, #General, #Religious, #Water Sports, #Death & Dying

 
“The ones flying south.”
 
We linger at the edge of the pond waiting for ducks. i stand behind her with my arms around her middle, my face in her hair. “Speaking of diving—”
 
“We weren’t—”
 
“i called the dive shop in Spokane. They run trips over to the wrecks near Vancouver. Advanced heart-pumping stuff.” i hug her.“How far is Vancouver?”
 
She tenses up. “How can you want to dive a wreck?”
 
“Probably too rough this time of year. Summertime, though. We should check it out.”
 
“You’ve totally lost me. What am I supposed to do? Paddle around in my canoe?”
 
“Learn to dive. Scuba is so easy, babe.” i nuzzle her neck to get her to relax. “Your fear of the water will disappear after the first day.” She’s still uptight. i try rubbing her shoulders, but she shrugs away. “i know there’s still a fish swimming around inside you.”
 
“Did the doctor change his mind?” Why does she go there?
 
“i need to dive.” That comes out too harsh. “i never realized how hard it would be.” i try to keep my voice in coax mode. “If you go with me, it makes it all easy.”
 
“But I can’t keep you safe.”
 
i’m hanging on to playing nice by a strand of her gorgeous hair. “i’ll keep you safe.”
 
She shakes her head. “The doctor said—”
 
“Come on, babe.” i lean over and kiss her temple. “Dive with me,” i breathe into her ear. “i need
something
from you.”
 
She twists in my arms so she can scold me eye to eye. Her face drifts deep into frown territory. “I’m doing my best.”
 
“Shopping trips and dances? i’m not a chick.” i capture her lower lip and suck on it. “Learn to dive.” i kiss her again and whisper, “Be my buddy.”
 
She settles her face on my neck. “You’ve got yourself convinced diving will make your parents’ deaths go away.”
 
Now i tense up.
 
She strokes my face. “It won’t. Nothing will. You need to open up. Talk to me. Cry.”
 
i push back from her. “Like i really need a snivel fest. i’m trying to be strong.” i pull her close against me, kiss her hard and urgent. “i need to dive.”
 
She hides her face in my chest, breathless, clinging to me. “It’s not safe.”
 
“How about this”—i tangle both hands in her hair—“you do one pool dive, just easy resort course stuff to try it out, and i’ll cry on your shoulder the whole next day.”
 
She tilts her head back and glares. “That’s so sincere.”
 
“It’s just a pool.” i glare right back. “We’ll have a dive instructor with us. What more could you ask for?”
 
Her eyebrows draw together. “What does Gram say?”
 
i stroke Leesie’s cheek. “She doesn’t need to know.”
 
She pulls back. “I draw the line there.”
 
“Crap, Leese.” i lean over her. “Why do you have this compulsion to make everything difficult?”
 
“I’m just trying to do what’s right.”
 
She squirms, but i don’t let her loose. “One day you’re going to wake up and realize it’s all wrong.”
 
She stops twisting. “Where will you be on that day?” Her voice is so sad it makes me hurt. “Cheering as I crash and burn?”
 
i rest my forehead against hers. “How can you say that, babe?” i swallow hard. “i’ll be waiting to catch you.” i try to convince her with my lips, but she breaks it off.
 
She leads me to the barn and opens the door. i balk at the smell.
 
“Don’t be a wimp.” She pushes me inside the hot barn.
 
The place reeks like a giant outhouse. A pig snorts.
 
Leesie gives me a smile to brave me up. “Heat lamps and mama pigs.”
 
My eyes water. “This better be good.”
 
“Relax.” Her voice has that authoritative tone she uses when she’s on a rant at school. “You won’t smell it after a minute.” She drags me down the aisle to where a big, fat mama pig, basking in the glow of a heat lamp, stretches on her side and feeds a bunch of squirming, pink, rat-like babies.
 
Leesie grins and leans over the pen. “There’s eight. Good litter. Shoot, Dad’s cut their tails already.”
 
A bucket at my feet holds a razor knife and a pile of tiny tails.
 
My stomach foams into the back of my throat. “This is making me sick.”
 
“I thought you’d like to see them. The piglets. I didn’t know about the tails.”
 
i rush outside. Inhale. Blow it out. Inhale again.
 
Leesie follows. “You’re just a squeamish city boy, aren’t you?” She fakes a laugh. “Guess I better not tell you what else Dad cuts.”
 
“Should i be afraid?”
 
Her grin evaporates.
 
“Is this some kind of a twisted warning?” i kick a mound of clean pine shavings.
 
“Of course not.”
 
“i’ve heard about shotguns, but a farm dad with a razor knife? i don’t need that.”
 
“We’re not hillbillies. My dad doesn’t want to hurt you.”
 
“Right.” The guy tosses around fat mama pigs all day. Compact but powerful. He could break me like a toothpick. “He looks at me like i’m Jack swiping his favorite goose.”
 
“Golden eggs? That would come in handy. Maybe he could get a new combine. Too bad you are totally delusional.”
 
“He scares the crap out of me.”
 
“My dad is the sweetest man on earth. You’ll see when you and Gram come out next week for Thanksgiving.”
 
“Can’t we just eat at Gram’s?”
 
“You want to make Gram cook? She’s psyched. I promise you all the pie you can eat.”
 
“Freak, Leese, pie isn’t the answer for everything.”
 
She reaches for my hand. “Don’t get upset.”
 
“Why shouldn’t i be upset?”
 
“You’re right.” She lets go and steps back. “Throw a fit. It’ll be good for you.”
 
Instead i lunge up to her, pull her tight to my body, kiss her until we’re both hotter than is good for us. She calls it quits when i shove my tongue into her open, trusting mouth.
 
We walk back to her house in silence. i drive home to Gram’s, steaming. Then i start freaking. i’ve blown it. She’ll dump me for sure.
 
But that night when Isadore blows and my mother screams and my dad pounds on the door trying to get in and i wake up breathing like a new diver in panic mode, Leesie’s there, waiting online, spouting something about Job, ready to tell me it’s going to be okay.
 
Someday.
 
chapter 25
 
DANCING
 
LEESIE’S MOST PRIVATE CHAPBOOK
 
POEM #35, PERFECTION
 
Each crazy ice crystal melting
in his chocolate brown hair.
 
 
snowboarder jacket
and black wool dress pants
I convinced him to buy.
 
 
gray shirt compromise
that sets off his eyes—I
 
 
wanted white, he went for black—
 
 
tawny yellow valentino
eBay’d tie—more
money than I’ve ever spent.
(maybe I won’t eat at BYU.)
the Winchester knot
I practiced all week
and tie on his surprised
neck. the taste
of his lips when I
 
 
smother
his protests.
 
 
my rose-colored hip-hugging
swishy skirt, the clingy
v-neck top showing off my
clavicle.
 
 
Him and me in the privacy
of gram’s Chrysler
not riding up with my
parent chaperones
and Phil the Pill.
 
 
a fluttering white snowfall
purifies the night.
 
 
Should I drive?
 
 
I can do it. Time
I learned to in the
snow.
 
 
Perfect.
 
We make it for the opening
prayer—I can tell he’s scared.
 
 
You pray at dances?
 
 
refreshment tables ooze
brownies on doilies.
a chocolate fountain gurgles.
the girls are all beautiful,
wearing colorful dresses—no
cleavage, shoulders, barely a knee;
fresh, pure faces.
the boys, even the skinny
ones who still look twelve,
shooting hoops at the far
end of the gym in their white
sunday shirts and ties, wear
unique power I want to clothe
michael in.
 
 
the gym’s overhead fluorescents drop.
a hundred strands of icicle lights
set on twinkle transform
the b-ball court. the first cut:
salsa. His face gets tight.
 
 
It’s easy. I’ll teach you.
I pull him into the mass
of kids showing off all those
Wednesday night lessons.
 
He breaks my grip.
stalks the brownies.
I trail in his wake before
the tide of female eyes following
his perfection devour him
like the gooey rich brownie
he’s choking on.
 
 
the next cut is slow, about loving
a disaster, theme song
for my life. I get him on the floor,
absolutely dying to sway close to him.
I assume waltz position.
 
 
Mormon dance rules.
I clasp his right hand.
 
 
His thumb caresses the marks he made.
I place his left hand on my back.
It slips to my waist and tickles the sliver
of skin that isn’t supposed to be showing.
He settles my hand on his shoulder, kisses
my thumb, and pulls me into full body contact.
I tingle at how perfect that feels but ease back.
 
 
Rule number two:
We have to keep the width
of the Book of Mormon
between us.
 
He laughs low, a hint of mock.
But I don’t let it mar moving
as one to the beat of the haunting
melody. He bends and whispers,
 
 
You’re perfect tonight.
 
 
Our faces melt together.
I ache to whisper back
how much I love him,
and want to love him
forever, and just what
that would take.
I bite it back and dance
on a prayer the lord will
convince him
he wants perfect,
too.
 
MICHAEL’S DIVE LOG—VOLUME #8
 
The tunes suck. The clothes are stiff. The tie she bought is choking me. And her parents are here. They even dance. Her dad twirls her mom, catches her, whispers, and they both laugh. Freak.
 
“Chaperones? Are they staying all night?”
 
“Mormon dance rule number three.”
 
“That’s a drag.”

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