This is a story about a ridiculous man who got struck by lightning and fell off a wagon and was kicked by a cow and had all his pretty hair eaten by an iguana.
The sky is a thick green haze today. It isn’t raining, but there’s a film of moisture in the air, and no wind at all. I turn to study a window that peers into Candleland, but my view’s mostly blocked by Trevor’s back (the letters across his jersey spellT-Sizzle). I fidget. Minimize my document to check my email, check the news, check my social media. I can’t possibly work when it’s this quiet.
Brrrrring! Brrrrring!
I reach for my phone: the screen flashesCavern. “This is Zelda. What can I do for you?”
“You can do a lot for me, but we’ll start with a kiss and see where it goes.”
Ugh. “This line is for book recommendations.”
Morgan’s tragic sigh wears stage makeup and perspires in the heat of three spotlights. It dreams of a starring role inHamlet. “Please recommend a book about forgiveness,” he warbles.
“Sorry, we don’t have anything like that in stock.” I hang up.
My phone rings again.
“Don’t hang up!” Morgan begs. “I’ve written you a song. It’s called ‘Let’s Be Friends Again. Or More, if You Want, I’m Not Picky.’ It took me a long time to come up with the bridge, so please listen.” There are some clumpy noises as he sets his phone down. Morgan then begins to serenade me with a piece that sounds questionably similar to “If You Leave” fromPretty in Pink.
I hang up.
He calls back twenty minutes later. “I’ve written another song. It’s called ‘Zelda Tempest Is Cold and Unforgiving.’ ”
“Sounds accurate. Bye.”
After I cut him off, Morgan’s faraway, muffled voice shouts: “So mean!” and then he begins to play the violin as badly as he can muster. Now my concentration is broken. Thanks so much, Morgan! I might as well grab some brain fuel—a blueberry bun is all I need, and then I’ll be able to generate a brilliant book concept, no problem.
I slip through the back door but am cut off by my niecebefore I can leave for the bakery. Aisling drops to her knees in the doorway, flops onto her back, and piles her bookbag on top of her face. “Nobody speak to me. I’m decompressing.”
Luna delivers a plate of French toast sticks to her daughter. Ever since we were kids, my sisters and I have celebrated special occasions (and cheered ourselves up on sad days) with frozen French toast sticks sprinkled liberally with powdered sugar. It tastes like funnel cake that way, and this treat is a fixture of Aisling’s first day of school every year.
Ash lets out a frustrated groan, chewing one. “Seventh grade is going to be awful, you guys. They don’t have strawberry milk in the cafeteria anymore. They say we’re too old for recess. It’s scientifically proven that kids learn better when school doesn’t start until nine a.m., but of course they make us go at seven thirty because they don’t actually care about our well-being and the only thing theydocare about are test scores! Anyway, can I have ten dollars? Cannon and I wanna go to the arcade.”
“Have you fed the—” Luna starts to reply, but a fist of wind punches the front door, glass rattling, and we all turn to look outside. Vallis Boulevard is glazed emerald, and in the direction of Hope Furnace, the sky is apocalyptic. “You’re staying home.”
“Whaaat!”
Luna points at the incoming storm. “Do you want a house to fall on you?”
“We’ll walk fast.”
Tornado sirens split the air.
“We’ll walkrealfast,” Ash persists, hands steepled beneath her chin.
“Sorry, but I want you in one safe piece, un-barbecued.”
“So unfair.” Ash slumps into my arms. “Aunt Zelda, everyone’s against me. Even the weather.”
I pat her head. “I’ll give you twenty bucks for the arcade tomorrow.”
“Yay!” She ponders this. “How about twenty-five?”
Despite trapping Ash at home, my sisters don’t take tornado warnings seriously until radar indicates there is rotation in Moonville and not simply anywhere in the county, so they do the hilljack thing and drag lawn chairs out front to storm-watch. Romina’s somehow acquired a giant slushie from Pit Stop Soda Shop and popcorn. I snatch up our sandwich board before it can fly away, then secure the food and water bowls we leave out for stray cats in our neighborhood.
“Hypocrites!” Aisling shouts at us from the other side of the door. Luna won’t let her outside until she’s finished cleaning her room (which she said she did yesterday but did not).
“Hey, look, it’s raining,” says Trevor, standing on the sidewalk. He holds out his hands, collecting what is clearly hail in his palms. “It hurts.”
