There—a note of bitterness, right at the end. Before I could say anything, Logan charged on. “Either way, the silver lining is that you’ve built capital, notoriety. You can use it however you want. Keep rallying for teachers. Run for a union position. Start a nonprofit. The sky’s the limit for you.”
That infernal question again:What did I want?I heard Lee’s voice in my head, telling me to stop sitting on the sidelines and do something gutsy. That’s what everyone had always wanted from me. The orchestra music swelled, tragic and beautiful, and the notes pulled back memories. I ducked my head, pressing my temple to Logan’s shoulder. I could see myself at thirteen, shy and gawky and heartbroken by my parents’ divorce, but trying to hide it. Because Lee—seventeen-year-old Lee—was so angry, and there wasn’t room for two of us.
For years she’d refused to see or talk to our father, and that scared me. I couldn’t forget what my mother told me that night alone in her bedroom, that my father left because she’d stopped being what he needed. The realization that family was as fragile as glass made me heartsick that Lee’s behavior would push my father even further away, that she’d lose him for all of us. I did everything in my power to balance her out, spending time with our dad when Lee shunned him, reassuring him I loved him when her anger was at its sharpest. I felt the pressure of holding my family together like a weight on my shoulders every day.
As the years passed, I buried my own feelings of anger and disappointment so I could keep my father’s love. I went to his house every holiday and made nice with his new wife, Michelle. I said yes to every invitation, called him, texted him, hung his Christmas cards on the corkboard in my room. From thirteen to twenty-three, I tried so hard to be accommodating, to be the glue.
I could remember settling into a chair next to Dad’s at Lee’s college graduation, an orchestra playing sweeping, swelling music, just like the music tonight. Lee had refused to acknowledge our father’s presence yet again, and I knew that unless I sat with him, he would be alone. I wanted so much for none of us to hurt.
When Lee’s name was called and she strode across the stage, the way helookedat her. The pain in his eyes. I could feel him slipping away—not just from her but from me—and there was nothing I could do to stop it, no matter how affectionate I was, no matter how I contorted myself to be what he needed. When the ceremony was over, he disappeared with a few gruff words, and for weeks it was strained between us. Things eventually got more normal, but I couldn’t help but feel a new distance between us, one I wasn’t ever able to mend. Because the year afterIgraduated from college, he left in the most permanent way a person could, his life stolen by a car accident. Despite how hard I’d worked to keep him, to keep some semblance of our family together, in the end I failed.
The violins trembled their final quiet notes, mournful and resigned, and applause sounded from the dining room. Logan’s steps slowed, but I shook my head and pressed my face into his jacket. Tears spilled down my cheeks. I couldn’t let anyone see me like this. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why...” My voice broke. “My father...”
His hand moved from my waist to the back of my head, clutching me tighter. As the orchestra began their next song, Logan pressed his lips into my hair and whispered, “As many songs as you need.”
31
Forces of Nature
When I woke Monday morning to an NPR report of a severe thunderstorm warning for Travis County, I lay in bed and smiled, thinking of Lee and Logan in their houses, laughing at the weather. It remained wild and windy all day, tree branches beating against the library windows, driving the students inside at lunchtime. They mostly holed up in the cafeteria, but a few trickled in and out of the library. The thunderstorm made me contemplative—rain was the perfect background for reading, and as I reshelved books, my mind roamed. I wondered what it would feel like to see a book with my name on it on a library shelf. I hadn’t been able to stop replaying my conversation with Logan about writing a children’s book. It seemed like a nearly impossible thing to turn a dream like that into something real, but I’d been doing some impossible things lately, so...what if?
I was idly imagining a plot when an alarm pierced the air, high-pitched and urgent, a sound that came from the walls. I jolted from the bookshelf and looked up at them, as if expecting the walls to explain themselves. Strangely, they did.
“This is a tornado warning,” a tinny voice said through the loudspeaker. “Staff, please gather students and shelter in place until further notice.”
A tornado? We’d prepped for the possibility, but tornadoes were rare, especially in the fall. Suddenly Lee’s and Logan’s warnings about climate change didn’t seem like something to laugh about.
My training kicked in as the alarm kept firing. I rushed out of the aisle and took stock of my library. I was alone today, Muriel off for a dentist appointment, but the room looked fairly empty. “Students,” I called, trying to keep my voice calm and authoritative. “I need everyone in the library to please come find me.”
I swept through bookshelves and came upon the Beanbag Cranny—there was Sable, curled in the squishiest chair, looking stricken. “Come on, Sable. We need to find a safe place.”
She jerked her head no.
“I have to insist,” I called, voice raised over the alarm, my hands on my hips.
“Ms. Stone, I’m here.” Mildred appeared, clutching a copy ofOona Battles the Monsters of the Rainbow Ravine. “Where should we go?”
“Stay right there,” I said, and crouched to meet Sable’s eyes. “Hey,” I said gently. “Everything is going to be okay. Look.” I pointed back to Mildred. “It’ll just be you, me, and Mildred. We’re going to be fine.”
Sable looked at Mildred, who waited patiently. “She isn’t scared?”
“She might be, but she knows the best thing to do is shelter in place. So she’s being brave. You can be, too.”
“Okay,” Sable whispered. I helped her up and we scurried back to Mildred. I led them to a tiny closet tucked away in the corner of the library, far from any windows. Leaving them, I did one more sweep of the library, satisfying myself that it was empty, then dashed back to the closet, creaking the door closed. The minute I sat down next to the girls, a great wailing noise sounded, farther away but more monstrous than the tornado alarm. It sounded like the very walls were groaning.
“What do we do?” Sable was shaking.
“I have a book,” Mildred said quietly. “We could read it. But it’s...about...”
“It’s an Oona the unicorn book,” I said, when it became clear Mildred was too embarrassed to finish. “It’s an award-winning series, you know. That’s very nice of you to share, Mildred.”
Sable and Mildred eyed each other in the dimly lit space.
“Okay,” Sable whispered. Fear seemed to have stolen her bluster.
I got out my phone and turned the flashlight on so Mildred could read the story aloud to Sable. Minutes passed, then half an hour, with Mildred’s soft voice battling against the sounds of a freight train coming from outside. At one point, something wrenched and crashed, and all three of us jumped, gripping each other. But as Mildred came to the end of chapter three, the noise from outside faded and died, leaving an eerie quiet. No wind, no alarms.
“Chapter four,” Mildred intoned, and then Principal Zimmerman’s voice cut her off.
