by Ginger Scott
The complete dominance doesn’t last forever, and by the time the first quarter ends, we’re only up by six. With my focus back where it should be, I stand and take advantage of the short break between quarters, tagging along with Lola to search for something sweet at the snack bar. I give her money while she stands in line and then rush to the dimly lit restroom, happy to find it completely empty.
It’s here, in the last stall of the gym lobby women’s restroom, that the first hint of something ominous finds my ears. I only recognize it because of the nightmares I’ve had most of my life. The deep moan that the wind makes—as though it’s alive, when a thunderstorm like this one crawls along the Indiana landscape—is undeniable. The forecast said rain, and it’s December, so this sound is unexpected—unwelcome. The last tornado to touch down remotely near Allensville in December happened eleven years ago.
It sounded just like this.
I finish my business quickly, rushing my hands under the sink water, and kicking open the door with a flourish that cracks the handle against the wall outside. My pulse is thumping throughout my entire body, but the beat is loudest in my head. It’s annoying because right now, more than any time ever in my life, I need to hear. My ears are the one sense I can count on against the dark sky outside.
I pop open the side door and breathe in the moisture, the air thick with dirt and destruction. A rumble echoes along the ground, different from thunder. This sound can be felt; the earth is being moved by nature, and the beast is coming for us.
“Tornado!” I scream over my shoulder, disobeying all the rules of calm civility I’ve been taught through every storm drill we’ve practiced at this school. That shit is out the window, because that wind is picking up, and the whistle is getting steadier—louder.
Lola is the first to react, dropping the pretzel and cheese she just spent a few bucks on before rushing over to see what I’m seeing.
“She’s right! Shelter!” Her voice crackles with panic. My voice disappears.
The next few seconds happen in blinks. I’m rushing toward the middle of the gym. Players are pushing, and whistles are blowing.
“Hey!” One of the referees grabs my arm, but his grip loosens the second more shouts echo my initial warning. His admonition quickly turns into crisis management as he motions me toward the double doors on the other end of the gym. His whistles morph into the kind that guide people where to go, and order in this chaos still feels achievable.
And then the lights flicker.
That’s when the screaming begins, somewhere along my route to the school’s storm shelter, a large, concrete corridor with zero windows and emergency lights buried in the walls. A blur of purple jerseys, the ones worn by the Vanguard team, surrounds me as their team runs past to safety, and a stray elbow cracks my nose with enough force that I’m instantly dizzy and on my ass.
The hit was hard enough that I might have passed out if it weren’t for the straight-up terror coursing through my veins. I manage to stumble to my knees when I’m instantly swept up in someone’s arms.
“I’m bleeding,” I mutter, my hand awkwardly assessing my nose. I expect a gush, but miraculously it’s only a few spots on my palm.
“You’re okay,” the familiar voice says.
My hand flattens against the chest of my rescuer, over the emblazoned number 2, damp with sweat with a wildly kicking heart underneath. I look up enough to see Tory’s worried eyes scanning for a way in. Too many people cram into one opening, and the lights have completely gone out. The backups will kick on, but not right away.
Tory bypasses the crowd still pushing to enter the tight hallway, running with me against his chest toward the men’s locker room. He pushes it open with his foot and weaves around rows of lockers and tiled walls until we’re in the center of the cluster of showers. He sets me down in front of a main pipe, and I wrap my hands and legs around it on instinct. He crouches down with me, his body cocooning mine while he reaches around my body and grabs the same pipe with both hands. The heavy weight of his head leans into the back of mine, and for the first time ever, I hear fear in his ragged breathing.
“It’ll pass soon,” I say, somehow able to get words to leave my quaking lips.
He doesn’t give me a verbal response, but I feel him pull in tighter around me. I do the same, and within seconds we’re practically one with the metal pipe that runs deep into the ground. The vibration against the palm of my hands is making me numb, but worse—I can no longer hear the screams from other students in the gym or nearby hallway. The storm, it’s too loud.
A large branch, or perhaps a piece of a nearby building, crashes against the heavy metal door that leads outside, and I flinch. Tory’s hands slide from above and below where mine are gripping to cover mine. His hands are nearly double the size of mine, his fingers filling in the gaps where I wrap around the pole, locking me against the metal. His head shifts just enough to bring his chin over my shoulder, and strangely, he begins to hum. I focus on the sound, learning the tune as he gives it to me in faltering bits and pieces. It’s vaguely familiar, and I’ve found my breathing has started to follow along.
“So, hoist up the John B’s sail,” he sings in a soft murmur. If I didn’t know how scared he was, I’d assume he’s nervous. He shouldn’t be; his singing voice, even this soft, is really nice.
“See how the main sail sets,” he continues, this time the faintest touch of his lip brushing against my ear. It isn’t on purpose, but every single nerve in my body tunes in as my skin reacts with a rush of pebbles that trail down my arms and legs.
The wind is crying outside our walls, and panic takes hold of my emotions. I shudder out cries as more debris smacks against the walls outside, but Tory continues to hum his sweet song against my ear. His voice shakes every so often, but nothing deters him from keeping up the rhythm and pace.
And then it happens.
There’s a difference in the way his mouth touches my exposed neck. It’s purposeful, even if feather light. There’s a taste taken with his lips, and he lingers for longer than a second, long enough for him to consider what his lips should do next. I’m frozen, less scared of the storm for this brief moment and more afraid of what’s happening and the question beating down my conscience. Do I want it to continue?
As if he can read my thoughts, Tory’s head tilts just enough to remove his mouth from my skin, the cool spot left from his lips drawing all my focus. The wind seems to be at its peak, a relentless hiss beating its way inside. Fear crawls back inside my chest, and Tory’s body rocks me side to side in slow movements, as if we’re lost at sea.
“Call for the captain ashore, let me go home . . .” His voice is a little stronger with this part and I blurt out a short laugh mixed with tears at the sentiment in his words.
“I want to go home!” I shout as the building quakes around us and we both start laughing hysterically, a mania taking hold in the moment.
“You know this song?” His voice is loud at my ear.
He seems so happy that I recognize whatever this is that I shout back, “Sure!”
The heavy patter of rain fills in the gaps left behind as the wind shifts direction, the destruction headed somewhere else. As the pounding subsides, Tory shifts enough to check my face, but his arms are still locking me down, his muscles still flexed as if ready to hold us both to the earth.
“You’re such a bullshitter,” he says, his voice raspy and mixed with laughter that’s probably leftover from the massive dose of adrenaline.
“Thanks, and I’m glad you survived, too!” I bite back.
“No, the song. You have no idea what that is,” he explains, finally easing his grip and scooting back enough for me to unglue myself from the pipe.
I stand, ass damp from the shower-wet floor, which I guess is a small price to pay for not losing the roof over our heads. I glance down and meet his sideways look and crooked smile as he stills with legs outstretched and palms flat behind him.
“You seemed so
excited that I knew it, so I went along.”
I smile and extend a hand to help him to his feet, and he studies my palm for a few seconds with an amused look on his face. I’m about to rescind the offer for help when his eyes flit to mine and he grasps my hand, barely using it to get to his feet. His hold is firm, and he doesn’t let go right away, the pressure of his thumb against my knuckle bringing the raised bumps back to life along my neck and spine.
“Are you okay?” Tory steps close enough to have to look down at me from his height. My stomach tightens and I’m not sure whether it’s because he’s got me feeling strangely nervous or because of the question he just asked. I haven’t heard those three words in a very long time, from anyone, about anything.
“I will be,” I say, which isn’t the answer I meant to utter at all, but it’s the one that’s honest.
His slight smile remains, even as his lips close tight and his eyes wrinkle at the sides with thought. The bustling of students and parents and players filing out of the hallway adjacent to us draws his attention behind me briefly, and I take that opportunity to glance at our still connected hands. I shouldn’t be holding his hand like this. The acceptable time has passed. I’m not fighting to get free, though.
“I liked it, the song,” I say, bringing his attention back to me. He shakes his head with confusion and our hands naturally part. Perhaps both of us realize that things were venturing into awkward territory.
“Come on, people will be worried if they don’t see us,” he says, his hand pressing softly against the center of my back, directly over his brother’s number.
“Sloop John B, by the way. That song I was singing? Beach Boys version, not the really old folk version.” There’s a giddiness in his tone when he talks about the song as we find our way back to the door leading into the gym. I had no idea about this side of him.
“You have a great voice,” I say, squeezing out one more compliment before we go back to trading snarky insults in public.
His feet stop briefly and I jump, nervously afraid he’s seen something bad. When I catch the expression on his face, though, I realize I’m the one who surprised him.
“Thanks. My dad played that on the guitar when we were kids. It’s the one song he taught me that I really mastered.” A proud grin pushes into his cheeks, but it’s fleeting as he’s still racked with nervous energy.
“Maybe you’ll play it for me sometime.”
Those are the last words I get out before we open the locker room door and step into the panic and mess. The gym is intact, mostly, though a large section of the metal roof is either missing or bent. It’s hard to tell with the harsh glow of the emergency lights. The floor is soaking wet, and people are shouting random names in search of each other. It’s chaos, and I find myself drifting silently through the midst of it with Tory at my side.
I don’t hear my name being called, but I recognize the way it’s formed on Hayden’s lips as he rotates slowly, scanning the crowd with his hands cupping his mouth. His face is pale, and his eyes are deep, dark circles. He’s like a ghost of himself, a shadow left in the wake of a rare December tornado. When he spots me, he rushes in my direction and instantly folds me in his arms. I can’t understand the words he’s muttering into the top of my head, and I don’t feel settled at all. If anything, I somehow feel more scattered than when the wind was threatening to tear down the walls. I also feel guilty, because the only thing playing through my mind is the slow hum of that sweet song and my inappropriate hope that Tory might sing it to me again.
7
Tory
Hayden and I spend most of the morning clearing the debris from Mom’s front yard. Somehow, the damage from last night’s surprise twister is minimal. The gym roof is the worst of it, along with flooding in some classrooms, and the shingles on the nearby Coffee Shack. It’s enough to cancel school for the day, until they figure out where to put the displaced teachers.
The rest of the damage was sustained by the old maple trees that line the entire main drag through town—fifty or sixty years’ worth of growth wiped out in five minutes. When I drove in to meet up with June and Lucas for lunch, I counted maybe six still standing out of the more than twenty that should be. Most of the businesses look fine; the streets are messy as hell.
I’m a few minutes late, and it looks as though my friends have already ordered and gotten their food, which is fine because really, I just came to talk.
I slide into the booth to join them and dive right into the meat of my problems.
“I fucked up.”
June and Lucas don’t even flinch.
“Did you guys hear me?”
Both of them are staring down at their bowls of pasta. I’ve been eating at this joint my entire life and I know the pasta here is shit. They’re teaming up on me, which is seriously irritating.
“Hey!” I smack my palm on the table between their two drinks. June flinches and drops her fork, quickly running a napkin over her mouth to clean the splatter of sauce left behind. Lucas merely glances up, still masticating the world’s worst penne.
“We’re listening.” June clears her throat and sets her napkin to the side, folding her hands on the table in front of her. After a few seconds she elbows Lucas, and he huffs, but sets down his fork and pushes his bowl away.
“Yeah, what she said. We’re listening,” he says with a preteen-girlish roll of his eyes.
“Wow. I didn’t realize I was such a burden. I mean, it’s not like I didn’t spend the last three months listening to both of your bullshit.” I move to slide from the booth, but Lucas juts out his leg and leans forward with a stiff arm, staring me down.
“Relax, dude.”
I glare at him for a hard second, still considering barreling through his barrier and jetting out of here, but then who’d I have to talk to about this? I breathe out long and hard but slide my way back into the booth, centering myself across from them.
“We didn’t mean it,” June starts, but before her apology gets wings, Lucas makes sure it crashes and burns.
“Speak for yourself,” he cuts in. “I meant it. Tor, you’ve been telling us the same thing for the last five days. It’s this endless circle of ‘I wasn’t really that into her’ followed by ‘I really blew my chance.’ Just . . . pick one.”
By the time Lucas is done, June’s glare at him does the job so I don’t have to. When he slowly turns to meet her gaze he flinches a little in his seat.
“What? You know I’m right.”
June just shakes her head then turns her attention back to me.
“Anyway, please, Tory. You can talk to us, or me at least,” June says. Lucas snorts out a laugh and shakes his head, pulling out his phone to scroll through social media.
June waves her hand to bring my attention solely to her. I take another deep breath and shift in my seat, leaning forward on my elbows and resting my forehead into my hands so I can knead away at my temples.
“I’m guessing you haven’t talked to Abby.” I stop rubbing my head long enough to raise my brow and glance up at June.
She tilts her head sideways and squints her eyes.
“I have not.” Her voice sounds suspicious.
“Okay, maybe I’m not fucked, then,” I say, leaning back into the soft, squishy padded back and let my shoulders sag. Damn, they were up to my ears tense.
“You’re going to have to give me details if you want my advice, Tory.” June’s method has always been no-nonsense. I think it’s kinda why we clicked all of a sudden. She’s helped me get my shit together more than she realizes. We both assist Coach Newsome’s class for our last hour, which means we basically sit in the back and do whatever. I don’t think June would let me out of that room, though, without checking to make sure I actually did my homework or studied for whatever test is coming up. This might just be the first semester I pull off a 4.0.
“Things got pretty chaotic at the game last night, with the tornado and shit. Everyone was running toward the back hallwa
y, through those main doors—you know the ones?”
June nods, and Lucas puts his phone down—I guess he’s over his pouty fit and ready to listen.
“Abby was there watching the game, and in the rush, she took an elbow to the nose. She was a little stunned and getting pushed around so I picked her up and took her with me.” I sound like a fucking hero if I stop the story here, and given the way June’s looking at me, I’m half tempted.
“Seems like the human thing to do, man,” Lucas says.