by Lara Zielin
“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.
The waitress drops off our check. There’s a big fat question mark behind her eyes, like, everything okay here?
“Thanks,” Ethan says, reassuring her with a smile that shows all his straight, white teeth. I scowl as she walks away.
I pull a crumpled ten-dollar bill from my pocket for the check. Ethan waves it away. “I got this,” he says. “My treat.”
“No, let me pay my share.”
Ethan pulls the tab closer. “Nope. Not this time.”
I stuff my money back into my pocket. I don’t know why, but Ethan paying feels like a power move. Like he’s trying to prove how completely awesome he is. When, really, it’s only pie and French toast. It doesn’t make him Captain Amazing.
Maybe it’s the expression on my face or the way I’m balling my fists, but it doesn’t take Ethan long to figure out I’m pissed.
“Hey,” he says, putting a hand on my shoulder. “I’m just trying to help you. Okay?”
I know he’s talking about more than the tab. I know he’s trying to do what he thinks is best for me. Just like Cat.
But how can they both be so confident they know what’s right when they’re not in it? They don’t live it. They don’t know how it is.
“You want a trophy or something?” I ask, and hurt flashes across Ethan’s face, but only for a second. When the bill is paid, we leave and head back to the motel, the plains flat and silent all around us.
14
The next morning, we all gather in the lobby at seven to hit Happy’s for breakfast because we’re sick to death of motel buffets.
The front desk is empty, and I’m leaned against it, trying to stay awake while we wait for Victor. Of course he’d be late. Ethan and Stephen are parked nearby in wide, overstuffed plaid chairs that have—get this—built-in ashtrays in the armrests. Ethan had nodded at me when I came into the lobby, but he didn’t say anything. For my part, I barely looked at him.
To my right, Mason is leaning against a rack of brochures. He’s thumbing through a pamphlet for the Kool-Aid museum in Hastings, Nebraska.
“Whoa, that is amazing,” Hallie says, sidling up to me and pointing to the metal owl hanging around my neck on a long chain. “Where in the world did you get it?”
“I can’t remember,” I hedge, because the answer is a dingy flea market on the outskirts of Minnetonka Mills. It was all of twenty-five cents.
“I wish I could pull off wearing something like that,” Hallie says. “I’d give anything for some style.” I bite my lip at that because girlfriend is wearing jeans with a thick silver belt buckle in the shape of a horse head. On anyone else it would look ridiculous, but on Hallie it’s the perfect mix of glamour and cowgirl.
“Yar, methinks there’s only one style to have,” Mason pipes up. “High-seas swashbuckling attire!” Hallie and I both turn. Mason’s speaking like it’s International Talk Like a Pirate Day, which he does a lot, even though the official “holiday” is in September.
“So where’s your ruffled shirt and boots?” I ask, playing along.
“Arrr, they be at the dry cleaners.”
“They have dry cleaners in pirating, huh?”
“Aye. Ishmael opened a chain after the whaling business didn’t turn out so good for him.”
I laugh until I notice Mason’s face is suddenly pale and his smile is gone.
“Hey, what’s wrong?” I ask. “You okay?”
I follow the direction of Mason’s gaze and see one of the motel’s employees enter the other side of the lobby. She’s short with curly brown hair. Cute, for sure. “I saw her last night,” Mason says, his voice suddenly low. “She helped me get my change out of the vending machine. I—I tried to get her to play the vortex game with me.”
Hallie and I glance at each other. “How did it go?” Hallie asks.
“I tried to pick a good setup. Like, one that could really spark conversation. So I said: if Captain Kirk or Admiral Adama got sucked into a twister and only one of them could survive, which would you choose?”
My eyes widen. “You led with Star Trek and Battlestar Galactica?”
“I know, right?” Mason’s light brown eyes are flooded with regret. “I realize it was dumb. But at the time I just thought—I figured maybe she’d seen the shows before.”
I’m almost afraid to ask the next question, but I do. “So what’d she say?”
“Nothing,” Mason says, crossing his freckled arms. “She had no idea what I was talking about. She just got my money out of the machine and told me to have a good night.”
“Aw, Mason,” Hallie says, “I’m sorry. That sucks.”
Mason shrugs. “It’s how it goes, you know? The assholes always get the girl, while the nice guy who can calculate horizontal velocities in his head just gets his change back.”
I stare at him. “You can calculate horizontal velocities in your head?”
“Yeah. But it doesn’t do much for me. Apart from weather, I mean.”
“Jeez,” I say, “sorry, man.”
Mason looks genuinely hurt. “I’m beginning to wonder if I’ll be single forever. Maybe I’m just going to wind up like those dudes who only ever date in Second Life.”
“That’s not true,” I say, knowing Mason deserves better than a love life with online avatars. For the right girl, Mason’s a catch. He’s smart, he’s kind, and he’s not afraid to sing Oklahoma!—in Kansas. Or wherever.
“Thanks,” Mason says, but I can tell he’s not convinced.
Just then, Victor saunters into the room—finally.
Ethan and Stephen pull themselves out of their plaid smoki
ng chairs. “Now that we’re all here,” Stephen says, smoothing his huge beard, “I wanted to update you on the Patchy Falls situation. I was able to speak with Alex last night, and the Twister Blisters are going to stay put for a few days. I think, based on what happened last night, that it’s smart if we join them in cleaning up the town.”
The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Max. His plan worked, and now we’ll be sticking around Patchy Falls together.
“It’s not for very long,” Stephen says, “and I imagine we’ll be chasing again in no time. But while we’re here, we’re going to be around a lot of cameras. Which means that after breakfast I need each of you to head to the Weather Network trailer in Patchy Falls and sign a waiver saying you give them permission to record you.”
My stomach drops. Waiver or no, the idea of being on television is terrifying.
“What if we don’t want them filming us?” Victor asks. “What if we think the plan is bullshit?”
Stephen folds his arms. “This is the only way it works, Vic. You of all people have the most to gain by complying with the release.”
Victor just scowls.
“So after breakfast,” Stephen continues, ignoring Victor’s glares, “we’ll head to Patchy Falls, sign the paperwork, then we’ll coordinate with the other volunteer crews. I want everyone to pitch in and do whatever’s needed, okay? And if there’s a Weather Network camera around, smile while you do it. Got it?”
We all nod, and Stephen seems satisfied. “Okay, then,” he says. “Let’s go get some grub.”
* * *
“Here,” Hallie says, handing me a pair of work gloves. “You’re going to need these.” I eye a two-by-four sprouting rusty nails and think maybe it’s not such a bad idea.
“Thanks.” I take the gloves and slide them on. Within nanoseconds, my hands are sweating. I squint up at the sun. It’s barely ten o’clock in the morning and already it must be at least ninety degrees. Cleaning up Patchy Falls today is going to be a bitch. I wish suddenly that Jersey Street, where we are and where Patchy Falls was hardest hit, had more trees to shade us. And then I realize it probably did—before the storm snapped them like toothpicks and sent them sailing into the next county.