Another Kind Of Hurricane Part 7

One time Wayne wanted him to cut school so they could climb Mount Mansfield and spend the whole day up there. Henry had been tempted to say yes, but Brae had sat down between them, looked up at Henry, and yowled. Brae kept Henry on the straight and narrow. But Wayne had begged him so hard and for so long that Henry finally suggested they leave really early one weekend morning and spend the day on the mountain. Wayne said that was boring, but what if they slept up there one night? And even though Henry had felt a little of that candy-in-the-belly feeling, he swallowed it down and said hed ask Mom. Wayne said no, that he wanted to sneak out of the house one night and do it, and the sickly sweet feeling got bigger, and so Henry said no, but Wayne grabbed the idea between his teeth like Brae with a bone and he wouldnt let go.

Brae had been taking a nap at the time or he wouldnt have ever let Henry agree to the plan.

Wayne had sealed the deal. "Its your turn with the marble," he said. "Youve got the luck. Nothings gonna happen. We wont get caught."

Henry had felt in his pocket, felt the cool, smooth curve of the marble, and that was when hed said, "Okay, lets do it."

Henry stared up at Mansfield from under the pine tree. He would never, ever get out from under the accusing fingers and glares pointed right at him. Every single tree and rock blamed him, and every stream shouted you did this, you did this, you did this as they flowed down the mountain. He could see Mansfield from every window in his house.

Mom pulled into the driveway. Henry waited until shed gone inside, and then he walked around the house to the front door and let himself in.

"How was school?" Mom called from the kitchen.

"Fine."

Mom came into the mudroom. "Was it really? You didnt have to go, you know-I was worried-but then I thought it might feel better to be there-"

"I said it was fine," said Henry sharply.

Mom put her hand on Henrys cheek. "Okay, okay," she said quietly. And then she changed the subject. "I brought the clothes to the police station," she said brightly.

Henry pulled himself away from Mom. "What clothes?"

"Dont worry," Mom said. "I didnt take Waynes."

"Which ones did you take?" Henry ran for the stairs.

"The ones on the floor," Mom called after him.

Henry flew into his room. The Wayne he had built was still lying on his floor. But the rest of the clothes were gone. Including his blue jeans.

With the marble in the pocket.

Henry yanked open his dresser drawer. Maybe Mom had put the jeans back. He threw sweatpants and shorts and corduroys on the floor. No blue jeans.

"What are you looking for?" Mom had followed Henry up the stairs.

"My blue jeans! Where are my blue jeans?"

"I gave them away."

"But I wear them, Mom!"

"They were too big. I dont know why your father bought them for you. He is a grown man and he keeps thinking that hes going to grow taller than five foot eight. Hes not. And youre not. You were never going to grow into them."

"They were mine, Mom!" Henry got close to her face. "I wore them! I liked them! You had no right to give them away!"

"Ill buy you another pair."

"I dont want another pair!" Henrys belly felt worse than on Valentines Day morning. "Take me to the police station now! I need to get those blue jeans back!"

"Henry, calm down-" Mom put her hands on Henrys shoulders. He ducked down out of her grip and walked away. "We cant go get them. Theyre on the highway by now, honey, heading to New Orleans-"

The marble.

It was gone.

Henry had wanted to throw it into the woods, had wanted to get rid of it, but he hadnt. He couldnt. He had kept it. And now it was in his jeans pocket, in a garbage bag, in a truck, speeding away down the highway.

marble journey part I

MARGARITA MONTERO.

Margarita turned the radio down so she could hear better.

"Marco did what?" she asked into the phone. She couldnt have heard Christo right. "He scored a goal?" She couldnt believe it. How many hours had she and Christo spent in the backyard with Marco, showing him how to dribble, showing him the sweet spot on the side of his sneaker, taking turns standing in the goal as Marco shot soccer ball after soccer ball to the outside of the metal posts?

In this case it was like mother, like son. When Margarita had been five-no, maybe it was even earlier, like age four or even three-her father had taken her to the park almost every day to practice goal kicks. Margarita remembered him leaning against the white post, his hair back in a ponytail, smoking a cigarette, shaking his head, disappointed as she missed every goal.

At home, in Spain, everyone played soccer. Margaritas father played, her older brother, even her two younger stepbrothers played. It was expected that Margarita would too. But she didnt want to. Her feet had no interest-or her feet had no skill-in kicking the ball, and her fingers always itched to fit themselves around the markers she had under her bed in her room. The ones her abuela had given her. She spent hours pulling the markers out of their plastic sleeve and rearranging their order.

Rainbow order-rojo, anaranjado, amarillo, verde, azul, prpura.

Complementary order-rojo y verde, anaranjado y azul, amarillo y prpura.

Favorite color order-prpura, verde, anaranjado, azul, amarillo, rojo.

- Margarita pulled her hand away from her ear to adjust the rearview mirror. She could barely see with all the garbage bags piled up in the back of the truck. She grinned. It felt good to be doing something useful. Taking these clothes to the kids down in New Orleans. Almost a year in Vermont now, and she was still trying to find a teaching job. She put the phone back to her ear. She had missed some of what Christo had said.

"Yes, I promise. Ill let you know when I get there. I love you and Marco too," she said. "Oh, and tell Marco I challenge him to kick a goal past me when I get home." She clicked off her phone.

Margarita stretched her neck from one side to the other and saw a small green car pa.s.s her on the left. Two little kids were in the backseat, their heads close together, hunched over something, maybe playing a game. She checked the truck clock. 6:14 p.m. She decided shed drive as far as she could. Until she began to experience that almost-asleep feeling. The truck driver at the Williston Police Department had left her with that one piece of advice.

"Stop driving as soon as you feel your eyelids get heavy. Even if its for a half second. Those half seconds can turn into seconds, and then those seconds can turn into sleep really fast," he had said.

Margarita turned the radio back up. She tapped her thumb on the edge of the steering wheel. Right now she felt wide awake. And she felt other things too. Happy to be on the way to New Orleans. Proud of Marco. Lonely for her papa. Itchy to do something with her fingers.

And then out of the blue, she said, "Jacks!" and took her hands off the steering wheel for half a second-no worry of falling asleep-and snapped her fingers.

All of a sudden she had a vision of her abuelo playing jacks with her great-uncles in front of his house-she hadnt thought of that since she was a little girl-and she wished her papa were alive. Why hadnt they ever played? It was a family game that hed liked, but she could have used her hands instead of her feet. It wasnt something Papa had thought was silly, like art.

Margarita would play jacks with Marco, then. In honor of Papa. Shed buy a bag of jacks and a few rubber b.a.l.l.s, maybe rainbow-colored b.a.l.l.s-rojo, anaranjado, amarillo, verde, azul, prpura-and teach Marco how to play when she got home.

chapter 17.

ZAVION.

"I think I might have kneaded the bread too much," said Zavion.

Night was hard.

He didnt sleep much, and when he did, he had the same nightmare.

And that made the next morning hard too.

"I dont know what went wrong. I kneaded forty-five times-" He winced as he pulled on the bread. "Its too tough. Im sorry-"

"No apologies, Zavion, honey," said Ms. Cyn. "Its bread. Its flexible." She chuckled. "It stretches just fine." She pulled on a corner of the dough and let go. It snapped back.

"But its better to knead less than knead more. I have to remember that-"

"Its all a process, Zavion. Youre a good learner."

Zavion did have to admit that even though he could do better, he was getting the hang of this bread-making thing. It was only his second day on the job and he had made the bread by himself. It was his job now. He was putting the two loaves on the paddle when the kitchen door opened and three men-the clowns-tumbled in.

"Do they always travel together?" said Zavion.

"Yes, they seem to," said Ms. Cyn.

"Yup, we do," said Enzo.

"Weve all got plenty of biceps-" said Tavius, flexing his arms.

"-but not enough brains," said Skeet.

"A third each," said Tavius. He flicked Skeet and Enzo on their foreheads. "One, two"-he tapped himself-"three."

"Together we have a fighting chance," said Skeet.

"Sometimes Im not so sure about that," said Ms. Cyn, pouring cups of coffee. "Where were you?"

"The question is-" said Enzo.

"-where are you?" said Tavius.

"Or who are you?" said Skeet. "My mother-in-law would never set even one tiny baby toe in the kitchen-" Ms. Cyn swatted Skeet with a dish towel. "Just kidding. Sort of. But not really." She spun the towel and swatted him again. "Oooooh-wheeee! All right! We went to Dianas house."

"The bird lady?" said Ms. Cyn.

"Yup. Birds everywhere," said Enzo.

"And a vet is staying at her house too," said Tavius. "She said theyve rescued more than one hundred birds already."

"Diana said she gets twenty calls a day from families who had to evacuate and leave their birds behind," said Skeet.

"Why were you visiting Diana?" Ms. Cyn settled herself at the kitchen table and picked up her scarf and knitting needles.

"We wanted to see if we could help," said Tavius.

"Go back into New Orleans with her," said Enzo.

"Maybe catch some birds," said Skeet.

"And...," said Ms. Cyn.

"She said wed just be in the way," said Skeet.

"Us!" said Enzo.

"Can you believe it?" said Tavius.

"Do you want me to even answer that?" Ms. Cyn looked up from her knitting and grinned. Zavion stared at her long trail of orange scarf. "You three clowns in the way?" It was enormous now. He wondered how big the person who was getting the scarf was. Maybe it was for Enzo, Skeet, and Tavius all at once!

"You can never have too much of us!" said Skeet. He reached into the bowl at the center of the table and pulled out three apples. He tossed one to Tavius and one to Enzo. "Right, boys?"

They circled Ms. Cyn and tossed the apples to one another over her head.

"Hey, now-" she protested.

"Hush, Ms. Cyn," said Skeet. "We got it-"

"-together-" said Tavius.

"-oooh, baby, do we ever," finished Enzo. And as if on cue, they all spun in a circle and bit down on their apples at the same time.