by Lara Zielin
I pull my new tank top on and smooth out the lines on my jeans. I turn back and forth in front of the mirror, my ponytail swooshing with each move. On a whim, I clip an oversized flower barrette from the seventies into my hair. “You can do this,” I say out loud—hoping the sound of my own voice will neutralize any doubt that I’m ready for my first day at a brand-new school.
My cell phone rings, and I hit Talk. “Hey, you,” I say to Cat.
“Hey,” she says. “Are you nervous?”
My eyes dart around my bedroom, taking in the sparse furniture, the posters tacked up at odd angles, the futon that has to be my bed until Ethan and I can afford a real one for me. Despite how makeshift it all looks, something about it feels exactly right.
“I’m pretty freaked,” I admit. “Plus, did you know Oklahoma is still, like, blazing hot this time of year? I’m used to it being at least a little cool when school starts in the fall.”
Cat laughs. “Well, let’s hope it stays that way, and then I can bring my bikini when I come visit in a few weeks.”
“I’ll let you know if I spot some choice boys who might want to see you in it,” I say.
“The choicest boy is Max, and we all know he’s taken,” Cat says.
“Yeah, he is. But he’s also in school in upstate New York. Guess you and I will have to make do with each other.”
“I think I can handle that. In the meantime, kick ass today. I miss you.”
“Miss you too,” I say, thinking how weird it will be for Cat and me to be going to classes a thousand miles apart today. Then again, part of me is just glad we’re still talking. After the twister, I’d called her and apologized, and told her she was right—about everything. But that I was ready to change things. Between the move to Oklahoma, the fact that Ethan and I were going to Dr. Paul, our new counselor, and that I’d started attending Al-Anon meetings, everything on Cat’s list was officially checked off.
Not that it was ever about the specific tasks per se. It was more about me figuring out that helping someone doesn’t always come wrapped in the package you think it does.
The vortex game wasn’t entirely correct, after all. When you’re in the twister with someone you love, you don’t have to decide who gets to live and who gets to die.
You can get out of the tornado altogether.
“IM me later?” Cat says.
“For sure.”
We hang up just as Ethan calls to me from the bottom of the stairs. “Jane! Let’s go! I need to drop you off, then get to the lab.”
I barrel down the stairs, and Ethan smiles. “Ready for your first day of school?”
“You sound like I’m six years old.”
“I feel like you’re six years old. Is that weird?”
“Yes,” I say, “especially because I’m making dinner tonight.”
“You know it’s not just me, right?”
“Dur,” I say. “I am totally aware Hallie’s coming over. That’s why I’m cooking.”
“My only request is, don’t make the meal too heavy. We thought we might go over some of Victor’s latest field designs, and we can’t do that if a bellyful of pasta is making us sleepy.”
I laugh. “I know Victor’s engineering is amazing, but can’t you guys ever just have a regular date? Seriously. Like, pop in a movie, light some candles, and send me upstairs to do my homework? Is that too much to ask?”
Ethan bows. “For she who secured us victory in the bet, I concede.”
“No, we still lost,” I clarify. “But we did catch a break.” As it turned out, the story of how I got us as close to the twister as I did—close enough to smell its farts, as Mason likes to joke—traveled through the chasing community faster than lightning. At first I was mortified—I was that girl, the crazy one who lost her marbles and drove straight into a funnel. But when the Weather Network heard about it, especially the part about the entire team coming to my rescue, they decided that, lost bet or no, maybe we were the kind of chasers they ought to be following a bit more closely. Besides, the producers said the footage of Victor running away from Danny, then working to help the town, of Ethan fixing the Culvers’ barn shirtless and line dancing with Hallie, and of all of us cleaning up Patchy Falls side by side with the Blisters, was some of the best stuff they got all season. Next year, they agreed they’d track us solo on at least a few chases. We might not have black Escalades yet, but it’s a start.
“I wish the Network would let us know when they want to start rolling tape in the spring,” Ethan says. “You’d think they’d have already picked a date. Wouldn’t you?”
“It might be a game-time decision, depending on how warm or cold the spring is,” I offer. “Besides, if you could, you’d be out there in February chasing.”
Ethan grins. “Twisters in the winter? It could happen.”
“And you’d be the first one out there to catch them. Except, in the meantime, we have other things to worry about. Like getting me to school on time. And the daily picture.”
“Right,” he says. “You ready for that now?”
“Ready,” I reply, and he holds his phone out at arm’s length. I lean my head into Ethan’s, and we both smile. He snaps the picture, punches a few buttons, then hits Send. The picture goes to my mom’s phone with the same words every time: We love you. Get better.
We take the same picture every day.
Every day, I tell her that when she’s better, I’ll come back.
Every day, I hope she’ll tell me she’s trying. So far, that hasn’t happened yet, but I haven’t lost hope. In fact, I hold tight to hope, especially on the days when I have to remind myself it’s not up to me to save my mom. There are moments I have to fight the desire to fly back to Minnesota and make sure she’s working her new gig at the grocery store and paying her bills and eating. But I bat it back because I know now: there’s a fine line between saving someone and helping them destroy themselves.
* * *
Ethan pulls up to the school and turns down the radio. “You have your class schedule?” he asks.
“I’m a senior. I’ll be fine. This isn’t my first time at the rodeo.”
“Look at you,” Ethan says, “talking like you’re from Oklahoma already.”
“Speaking of, if I’m really going to fit in down here, then you need to teach me to line dance.”
Ethan grins. “We’ll talk,” he says. “Now, get going.”
I hop out of his truck, wave, and head toward the dust-colored two-story high school like it’s nothing. I’ve faced down an EF-3. How bad can a new school be?
Just before I get to the double doors, my cell phone rings.
“Picture a twister out on the plains,” Max says, like he does every day, “and say you know it’s going to suck up two things. Your brand-new high school or the e-mail you have waiting from me when you open your in-box. Which do you pick?”
“You wrote me an e-mail?”
“You say that like I don’t write you e-mails every day.”
I watch the kids streaming into the building, thinking they look just like the kids who stream into my high school in Minnesota. Except there are more cowboy boots here. “Does this e-mail say anything in particular I should know about?”
“Only that I applied for early admission at the University of Oklahoma,” Max says. “And that all we have to do now is sit around and wait for them to tell me if I got in or not.”
The snap of the American flag on the nearby pole sounds like applause. “For real?”
“You bet it’s for real.”
I take a deep breath, telling myself that no matter what happens with Max, it’s not about whether he ends up close to me. We both agreed caring about each other doesn’t take being in the same place or being on the same chase team.
Though, make no mistake: getting both would be a giant solid.
“What about Vaughn Commodities Management? Won’t your dad be upset if you’re suddenly back in Oklahoma?”
“Probably.”<
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“But you’re just going to do it anyway?”
“Hell, yes.”
There’s not a single part of me that’s surprised by his answer. “In that case, I want your college application to be the thing that makes it out of the twister.”
“Except that wasn’t an option.”
“I might be playing a different version of the vortex game these days.”
Max laughs. “Well, whatever the rules, I just wanted to tell you to have an awesome first day.”
“Thanks,” I say, meaning it.
“I’ll talk to you tonight, okay?” Max asks.
“Okay,” I say, “talk to you then.” We end our call, and I walk the last few steps to the doors.
Right before I duck into the building, I take one last look at the sky. It’s a brilliant blue, with long, hazy wisps of cloud floating here and there.
There’s not a twister for miles.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
In 2004, when I booked my ticket on a weeklong tornado chase (the “tourist” kind), I never could have imagined that experience would inspire an entire manuscript. But it did, and I’m grateful to the many people who helped me take that seed of inspiration and grow it into this book.
My editor, Stacey Barney, deserves a cape and sparkly tights for the superhero-like way she always makes anything I write halfway palatable. And for telling me things like, no, you can’t raise the stakes by introducing a vampire halfway through the story. Thank you for getting Jane through the storm.
And, as ever, thank you to my agent, Susanna Einstein, for her expert guidance and insight. Pthith!!!caweib!! Some days, I swear this is what I call her saying, and she always makes sense of it and steers me right. She deserves a pair of those sparkly tights too.
Thanks to the many writers who read and supported both Jane and me from chapter one. Susanna Nichols, Kelly O’Connor McNees, Ellen Baker, and Rhonda Stapleton—I’m looking at you. Thanks, too, to Neil Shurley for reaching out and supporting me through the magic of the Interwebs, and to Margaret Yang for taking my “character motivation” calls.
Daily I’m blessed by my friends in the College of LSA at the University of Michigan, as well as the women of Ypsi Studio, especially Julia Collins. I’m also surrounded by wonderful family who accommodate my crazy schedule and, at times, my even crazier attitude. Thanks for always asking how things are going and then handing me a glass of wine when all I can do is roll my eyes.
I’m supremely grateful to my steadfast cheering section of John Tebeau and Colleen Newvine. Pom-poms. You guys. Every time.
And finally, this book—as well as all of my others—wouldn’t be possible without the herculean support and love of my husband, Rob. Who else will make sure my office is clean, the chocolate is stocked, and that I’ve got everything I need to finish my novels? Also, you don’t hold your nose on day three of a showerless writing marathon, and you really probably should. Thanks for being the definition of awesome. You get me over the rainbow and back again—every time.
BY THE AUTHOR OF
The Implosion of Aggie Winchester
Donut Days