Another Kind of Hurricane (4 page)

Brae followed Henry up to his room. Henry put his hand in his pocket and touched the marble. Freaking marble. He should have left it outside. Let a bird find it and put it in its nest.

But he didn't.

He couldn't.

He had grabbed it back up.

Henry kicked open his door.

“You scared me!” Mom said.

Henry's clothes were in a big pile on the floor. Some of Wayne's too. Mom folded and stacked them.

“What are you doing?” Henry demanded.

“Did you forget about the clothing drive for the victims of the hurricane?” Mom asked. “I wanted to give some clothes to the drive.”

He had forgotten. He grabbed Wayne's red sweatshirt out of Mom's hands.

“Henry—” said Mom.

Out his window, the sun lit Mount Mansfield from behind so that it glowed. Henry's arm shot out. His fist punched the edge of the window frame, a loose joint exploding. Even in his room. Freaking mountain.

“Henry—” Mom said again. “That's not like you—”

Henry rubbed his knuckles.
Shoot, that hurt
.

“You said you wanted to donate some clothes too.”

Henry turned around. “I know. But not this.” He wrapped the sweatshirt around his throbbing hand.

“It's Wayne's, isn't it?” Mom asked.

Henry hung his head. “Can you just leave?” he said under his breath.

“Why don't you stay home from school again tomorrow, Henry,” said Mom. “You're not ready yet.”

“Please go.”

Mom sighed. “Somehow,” she began, “I don't know how, but somehow you're going to be okay.” She walked out of Henry's room.

“I will never be okay.” Henry sat down on his floor. Brae lay beside him and Henry patted the perfect black circle on the top of his head.

Henry unwrapped the sweatshirt from his hand and laid it flat on the floor. It was much bigger than him. Wayne had been tall and lanky, the perfect size for playing shortstop. He could make a diving lunge for the ball and still throw to first for the out. More of Wayne's clothes lay on the floor. Henry grabbed a pair of sweatpants and a pair of socks. He laid the pants under the sweatshirt and the socks under the pants. He dug under the heap of clothes and found Wayne's Cougars baseball cap, their school team.

“Oh, man.” The words were loud and rough coming out of Henry's mouth.

Brae turned his head to see what the fuss was all about.

Henry had built Wayne.

He lay down on the floor on his back, his head almost touching the baseball cap. The night they'd snuck out of the house, they were in sleeping bags at the top of Mount Mansfield. Like this. Head to head. At the top of the world. A billion stars, the two of them and Brae.

Henry sighed. But Brae didn't turn around this time. It wasn't that kind of sound. Instead he curled himself into a ball and settled in, like he had that night on the mountain, for a sleep.

Then both he and Henry, next to the Wayne that Henry had built, closed their eyes.

People filled every inch outside of the convention center. A woman bathed her children out in the open parking lot. Poured bottled water over them. Next to her, a man slept on the concrete. Rested his head on a pillow he had made from the edge of a wooden pallet. People everywhere. Fear everywhere. Zavion could see it. It crawled in every corner of the convention center, leaving footprints over everyone.

Papa pushed his way toward a door. His hand gripped Zavion's arm. The man and woman and grandmama followed them.

“Hey, Zavion, up you get,” said Papa.

Zavion hadn't noticed that his legs had buckled underneath him.

“He needs some food,” said Papa. “Excuse me, ma'am.” He grabbed the arm of a woman who was hurrying out. “Is there food and water inside?”

She was scared. Zavion could see the footprints.

“No,” she said. “No, there's no food or water in there.” Her voice shook. She hurried away.

“Zavion, stand up,” Papa ordered. “We need to find some food.”

“We all need some,” said the woman holding hands with the grandmama.

“Let's you and I go find something,” said the man, pointing to Papa.

“I can't leave him,” said Papa.

“He's too tired to walk,” said the woman. “Look at him. Leave him with Mama and me.”

“I can take care of myself,” said Zavion, still on the ground. Feeding himself, feeding Papa, that was his job. He did the food shopping at home. He struggled to stand up. “I'll go,” he said. “You all stay here.”

“No,” said Papa, putting his hands under Zavion's armpits. “You can't even stand on your own. We'll go together.” Papa pulled Zavion up onto his feet. “Thank you all, but Zavion is coming with me.”

Zavion and Papa walked through water that was only up to their ankles. The word
street
floated back into Zavion's tired mind. They kept walking. The word
block
floated in after
street
. Ten blocks later they found a market. Or the remnants
of one.
LUNA MARKET
, the green and purple sign read. The front window was smashed in. Rows of shelves were tipped over one on top of another like dominoes that had been lined up and knocked down. Papa tried to open the door, but it only moved a few inches. It was blocked by more fallen shelves.

“Over here, Zav,” said Papa, leading him back to the broken window.

Papa stepped over the window frame and turned back to take Zavion's hand. Zavion lifted one leg over the frame too, but he was so tired that he lost his balance and jabbed his other leg on the broken glass sticking out from the sill.

Pain shot through him. He moaned without thinking and was immediately ashamed.

“Sweet Jesus,” whispered Papa. “Enough is enough, don't you think?” He looked toward the sky.

Yes
, thought Zavion.

“Don't move,” said Papa. “I'm going to pull.”

Zavion held his breath as Papa pulled his leg off the glass.

“I'm sorry,” said Zavion.

And he was. He was so sorry. He didn't think he could lose any more control, but it kept happening.

Papa examined the gash. “We need to cover that up,” he said. “You don't need an infection on top of everything else.”
He tore a strip off his t-shirt and folded it against Zavion's leg, then tore another one and tied it around the makeshift bandage. The gash ached in a steady, pulsing beat.

“Now can you walk?” asked Papa.

Zavion nodded. “Of course.”

Papa and Zavion walked through the aisles of the store, stooping under tilted shelves and stepping over spilled food. It looked ransacked, by the hurricane and by humans. Wet boxes of cereal were disintegrated on the ground. Jars of tomato sauce were shattered. Ice cream oozed out of freezer units. The air smelled like sour milk and rotting fruit. Zavion tried to take shallow breaths.

Papa sat on the floor. He closed his eyes and put his head in his hands.

“Papa?” Zavion whispered. He pushed against the t-shirt, and blood seeped through its corner onto his fingers. He wiped his hand across his shirt.

“I don't know what to do.” Papa's voice was muffled behind his thick hands. They were clean. No paint on them at all. The floodwater must have taken the paint away. Papa's hands looked naked. In a funny way, Zavion felt embarrassed by them.

Zavion didn't know what do to either. But he had to figure
something out. That was his job. It always had been and he was good at it. He knew how to take care of himself and Papa. Ever since Mama died.

Until now.

Zavion felt heat creep from his neck to his face.

“Papa—” Zavion said it loudly this time. “Papa, I know what to do.”

Papa dropped his hands from his face and stared blankly at Zavion—

—who didn't know what to do, not at all.

But he had to.

He had to know—

“Chocolate bars,” Zavion said suddenly. “Chocolate bars. They're still safe to eat.”

He made his way to the front of the store. Papa followed him. Two candy bar and gum shelves were empty, but one lay on top of the conveyer belt by a cash register. Zavion lifted it. Chocolate bars. He grabbed a handful.

I'm stealing
, he thought.

“Let's go,” said Papa.

“Wait—”

We need to pay for these. But there's no one here
.

“Now,” said Papa.

Zavion's thoughts raced. His leg pulsed. His head spun.

We're stealing
.

We're surviving
.

We're stealing
.

Papa walked back toward the broken window. Zavion reached into his pocket and pulled out the two shingles from his roof. The only things he had left in the world. He put them on the checkout counter. A sort of IOU. A record that he had been there and had taken something. A promise that he would be back.

Sometime in the middle of the night, Henry woke with a stiff neck and no memory of how he had ended up on the floor. He sat and turned his head from one side to the other. Mount Mansfield glowed in the moonlight and Henry locked eyes with its eyes. His gaze traveled to its forehead, nose, and chin. In his groggy state, the famous face in the mountain looked real.

“Wayne will kick your butt,” he said.

Wayne would tackle the mountain to the ground, rip it from the earth, and fling it into space.

But that wasn't going to happen.

Wayne was gone. And the mountain was here to stay.

Henry staggered to his feet. He slid his blue jeans off his tired body and chucked them onto the floor. He made his way to the bed and collapsed. Brae lumbered to his feet and lay
down next to the bed. Henry reached his hand down and put it on Brae's belly and felt his muscles vibrate with each breath. But Henry's own body felt still.

Like a corpse.