Secret of the Storm, page 2
Finally Joe claps his hands and grins triumphantly. “Here you go. A black hole. As promised.”
Being that I’m the kind of person who does not raise her hand in class, Joe has every right to be surprised when I hip check him out of his seat for a better view of the image on the monitor. It turns out a black hole looks like a glowing orange doughnut with blurred edges, resting on a black sheet of paper. The orange on the bottom half of the doughnut is much brighter than the top.
“Wow,” I stammer. “That’s really it?” I guess he was telling the truth about his hacking abilities, not that I ever actually doubted them.
“Yup. First image ever. It took eight radio telescopes from around the world to capture it.” Joe goes on with the details, but I’m not listening. I stare at the black hole, sure I can see the razor edge of the event horizon. The actual event horizon, right there in black and white. Well, black and orange, but whatever, the idea makes my skin tingle.
“What do you think?” Joe asks, examining my face.
“It’s cool.” But that’s not the half of it. It thrills me right down to my tennis shoes. My hands shake. It makes me believe that anything is possible, that things we cannot see or understand still exist. The world seems much bigger than it did five minutes ago. “Thanks for sharing it with me.”
Joe glows. “You’re welcome.”
“Kids?” It’s Miss Asher, striding toward us. Joe smacks the keyboard, and the image vanishes. I spring to my feet. Nothing to see here. “Joe, I need you at the printer. It’s exploding ink, and it got all over a patron, and, well, it’s turned into kind of a situation.”
“On it.” Joe follows Miss Asher out of the computer room, and I flop back in the chair, the image of the black hole taking up all the space in my brain. My face feels funny, stretched somehow, and I realize I’m smiling.
Two hours later, books shelved, I collect my backpack and say goodbye to Miss Asher, who stands behind the reference desk, gazing into the far away. Like, over-the-rainbow far away. At least the vampire is nowhere in sight. She clutches a pale yellow spiral notebook with a strange colorful symbol sketched on the front.
“What’s that?” I ask, pointing to the notebook. The sketched symbol looks like a medieval cathedral stained glass window, like something I should recognize, although I can’t say why.
Miss Asher’s eyes widen as she abruptly returns to the here and now. “Oh! I didn’t see you there, Cassie.” She looks down at the notebook in her hands, surprised to find it there. “This old thing? It’s nothing. Just… something from a long time ago.” And she stuffs the notebook into the top right-hand drawer of the desk, the one that is always locked, the one where I’m convinced she hides the really good candy. You know, like the king-sized Snickers bars and giant bags of M&M’s that she does not want to share. I can’t say I blame her.
“Back tomorrow?” Miss Asher asks. The key to the drawer is on a chain that she slips over her head.
“Yup,” I reply. What else am I going to do? Work on my time machine? Seeing the black hole was amazing—mind-blowing, even—but remembering that moment in science class was not. That’s what I get for opening my mouth. No wonder Mia doesn’t want to hang out with me.
As Miss Asher gives me a hug, I catch a whiff of citrus and shampoo. I always try to breathe extra deeply when she hugs me so I can take some of her along when I go. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” she says. “Stay warm!”
When I step outside into the wind, I’m surprised to find Joe sitting on one of the benches outside the entrance, holding his hat on his head. His hands are covered in blue ink. Even his fingernails are tinted. As I navigate around him, he jumps to his feet. “Hey. I thought we could walk home and talk some more about black holes.”
Being spotted with Joe in the library is risky enough, but out here on the street, pretty much anyone could see us. It’s about a twenty-minute walk to my house from the library. The route cuts through downtown Lewiston, a tidy grid of streets hosting a collection of coffeehouses, burger joints, pizza places, and bubble tea shops. Miss Asher says this is because we are a college town and coffee, pizza, burgers, and bubble tea are what college students want. I’m about to say no to Joe’s offer of walking together when I catch the look in his eyes, and my answer sticks fast in my throat. Maybe the weather is so lousy, everyone will be inside and no one will see us.
“Sure,” I croak. “We can walk.” And this way I can grab his ankle if a strong gust of wind tries to carry him away. Miss Asher would certainly appreciate that. Joe launches into a moment-by-moment reenactment of his heroic attempts to stop the ink geyser, which he claims was 80 percent successful. Although now that he really thinks about it, it was possibly closer to 75. There was collateral damage. The library patron’s favorite Hawaiian shirt was ruined.
A few minutes later, we turn down the alley behind Buddy’s Best Burgers. The alley smells like a grease fire but is a shortcut around the intersection with the streetlights that take forever to change. It’s also a wind tunnel, the howling concentrated to an unbearable pitch.
Joe stops to adjust his hat, which is determined to fly away. Hunched over, leaning into the wind, we look like two turtles, overstuffed backpacks as our protruding shells. For whatever reason, this makes me laugh. The sound erupts like lava and feels so weird that I want it to stop, but just glancing at Joe the turtle sets me off again.
“What’s so funny?” Joe squints into the wind. “The ink was a disaster, a total catastrophe. It almost got on my eyeballs. I might have gone blind.”
“You look like a turtle,” I yell, clutching my chest, breathless. “I mean, we look like turtles.”
“What?” Joe shouts. “Hurdles?”
“No! Turtles!” The blue dumpster pushed up against Buddy’s back wall stinks, and escaped burger wrappers dance wildly in the air. One of them smacks me in the face. Gross.
“Did you say curtains?” Oh boy. I wipe the tears from my cheeks and wave off a confused Joe. There is no point in talking until we leave the alley. I motion for Joe to get going. He squares his shoulders and presses into the wind. And just as we pass the blue dumpster, at that exact moment, things take a sharp right turn into completely weird.
Chapter 4 AN ATMOSPHERIC EVENT
THE AIR SNAPS WITH ELECTRICITY and the acrid funk of melting plastic. “What the heck?” I yell. But my words are drowned out by a sharp crack. A perfect zigzag lightning bolt slams into the dumpster, sending it five feet in the air, as if weightless. It lands with an awful crash. A jolt runs from my feet through the top of my head. Joe yelps and leaps behind me, burying his face in my backpack. He might be screaming. My skin prickles in the charged air. The dumpster glows red hot.
“Cassie!”
“It’s okay!” I shout. But really it’s not. Pressure bears down from above, like a powerful ocean wave pushing us to the sandy bottom. Hail, the size of golf balls, rains from the sky. I hold an arm above our heads against the assault as we huddle close to the back wall of Buddy’s Best Burgers. The temperature plummets as the hail smashes the scorching dumpster, sizzling and popping, a splash of water in a hot frying pan. My pulse races.
“It’s an atmospheric event!” Joe yells in my ear.
A what? And more importantly, when is it going to end? The wind howls. Joe keeps his eyes squeezed shut, still clinging desperately to my backpack. My dad was always saying how much he loved the climate in Lewiston, the mossy, damp smell, the constant drizzle keeping everything green and alive, the moody fog. But this was not what he was talking about. The noise crescendos.
And then, abruptly, as if some weather god flipped a switch, the storm stops. The wind dies down and the temperature returns to normal cold, wet Lewiston. But the intense burned-plastic smell lingers. I poke Joe in the bicep.
“You can look now. It’s over.”
“Really?” He doesn’t open his eyes, and he doesn’t let go of me. “Are you sure?”
“Pretty sure.”
He squints with one eye and scans the alley. Everything looks exactly as it did five minutes ago, before we were almost turned into human French fries. I shake free of Joe and stand up on wobbly legs. Joe works his way to his feet, back pressed firmly against the wall for support.
“The dumpster,” he whispers. “Was it… glowing?”
I nod. Had I been alone in the alley, I would have assumed my mind was playing tricks on me because, well… weird. But Joe saw the red-hot dumpster too.
“I am one hundred percent freaked out,” he adds.
“What did you say this was?” I ask.
“An atmospheric event.” He rolls the tension out of his shoulders and shakes out his arms and legs as if we are in gym class. When I look at him blankly, he sighs. “A weather anomaly. An unusual occurrence. A rarity. Random lightning and giant hail in Lewiston? I mean, we only get two kinds of weather: raining and raining.”
I hold up my hand for him to stop. “Okay. I get it.”
But he is captivated by my feet. “Your sneakers,” he whispers. I am well aware that they are a little worn and definitely not fashion forward, but does he really want to discuss that now? “Look.”
I glance down to see that the rubber soles of my sneakers have melted and are cooling into a lumpy mess. Joe’s shoes have suffered the same fate. We stare at our feet and at each other.
“I think our soles saved our, you know, souls from the lightning.” Joe gulps. “Part of me is freaking out, and part of me thinks this is really, like, cool.”
“Same.”
“Do you think anyone else saw what we saw?” Joe asks.
The alley is empty. There is no evidence that anything happened beyond our shoes. And I’m not one of those people who manages to catch every interesting thing that ever happens on video, mostly because I do not own a phone. This experience is mine and Joe’s alone. “I don’t think so.”
We stand in awkward silence for a moment, thinking about what to do next. “We should get going,” Joe says finally.
“Yeah.” But walking on our mangled shoes is no easy thing. We sway this way and that, unable to keep our balance. That I hear the sound at all over Joe’s giggling is a surprise. It’s so faint, for a moment I think I imagined it, like it happened in my head. The words “stuck” and “help” flash bright in my mind, but they are fragments, attached to no larger thought.
I grab Joe’s arm to stop him. “Wait. Do you hear something?”
“What? No.”
“Listen.” There it is again. A tiny little meow. “A cat.”
Joe shakes his head. “Maybe your brain got fried?”
“Quiet.” I follow the sound back down the alley, right to the gross big blue dumpster. The meowing grows louder and more insistent, as if the tiny creature responsible knows I’m out here.
“Oh, now I hear it,” Joe says.
“It’s in the dumpster.”
“But it was just a thousand degrees. It got hit by lightning! There is no way any living thing could survive the glowing, smoking hot dumpster of death.” Joe waves his arms around like a windmill. “Not possible!”
“Whatever,” I say. “Help me get it open.”
The metal is still hot to the touch as we heave up the lid, releasing a terrible stink. Joe gags and turns away. “Aww, this is worse than a corpse flower,” he moans. “They smell like a rotting corpse, in case you were wondering.”
“I wasn’t, but thanks.” Burying nose and mouth in my sleeve, I peer inside. The dumpster is full of smoldering Buddy’s garbage, half-eaten gray burgers, limp leftover fries, pieces of bun crusted with ketchup. Puffs of smoke rise up, but there are no actual flames. My eyes water. “Hello in there.”
In the back corner, a tiny black kitten, fur sticky with some unknown goo, struggles to get out from under a small cardboard box. His paws are no bigger than pennies, and his fuzzy ears strain forward with the effort. But he’s too small, and the box is too big, and he slips back behind it. Joe appears at my shoulder.
“What is it?”
“It’s a cat,” I say.
“No way. Not possible. Not. Not. Not.”
“It’s a kitten. But he’s stuck.” The kitten pops his little head up above the box and fixes his green eyes on me, and I feel a shock as vivid and intense as when the lightning passed through me not ten minutes ago and melted my sneakers. And without a second thought, I hoist myself up onto the lip of the dumpster.
Naturally, Joe is concerned. “Are you crazy? You can’t go in there! It’s on fire! You’ll burn. And the smell! Did you not hear the thing about the corpse flower?” His breathing is fast and sharp. He’s losing it. But those green eyes hold me hostage. I have no choice but to get in the dumpster and rescue this kitten.
“It’s fine,” I explain calmly. “Just a tiny bit hot. Hold on, little peanut. I’m coming.”
“I cannot believe you are doing this,” Joe cries, burying his face in his hands. “There’s a one hundred percent chance you come out completely gross and possibly dead.”
“I won’t die,” I mutter. “And I’ll take a shower.” Swinging my legs over the edge, I hop down into the garbage. It’s like walking on a recently extinguished campfire, each step sending up little puffs of ash. But really, my worry about the fire is overwhelmed by the smell, so much worse than a corpse flower on the inside. I sway a little as bile works its way up my throat.
“Cassie! Are you going to pass out? Do you need me to come in there with you? I really don’t want to, but I will.”
All things considered, that might be the nicest thing anyone has said to me in a long time. “No,” I say quickly. “I got it. But thanks.” The kitten holds my gaze as I step lightly toward it, trying not to sink deeper into the trash. It’s quiet, watchful. “You’re okay now,” I say. “You’re safe. I’m not going to let anything happen to you. I promise.”
It’s shivering when I scoop it up, runny yellow cheese stuck to its scrawny tail. Trembling and wet, its whole body fits right in the palm of my hand. I bring it close to get a better look and get a noseful of old Buddy’s burgers and something else. Forest. Pine needles stick in his fur, like green stars in a night sky. But the kitten’s eyes are bright and alert. “Hello there.”
It regards me with curiosity, long black whiskers twitching furiously. Emblazoned on its chest is a curious splotch of golden fur, like it’s wearing a medallion. Or got hit by a paintball gun. “How did you get here?” I ask gently. “Are you lost? Did someone leave you? You must be superstrong to have survived that lightning bolt.”
“Not superstrong. Not possible,” Joe says. “Besides, she’s not going to answer. Or he. Or whatever. Can you just get out of there already? Seriously. I’m going to barf.”
Ignoring Joe’s pleas, I flip the tiny kitten onto its back. “Boy,” I declare. “I think so, anyway.”
“Get out of there right now! I’m all the way stressed out!”
“Okay. Jeez. Relax.” Cautiously, I retrace my steps, careful to keep the kitten balanced in my hand. I can feel his heart thumping strong and steady against my fingers. “Take him. I need both hands to climb out.” I hold the kitten out to Joe, who recoils as if I am offering him a shopping bag full of vipers.
“I’m allergic,” he whines. “And he smells. And he might have a disease. He shouldn’t even be alive. He’s probably a zombie cat. Or…”
“You’re afraid of cats,” I say flatly.
“I am not.”
This animal barely weighs as much as an apple. Does Joe really think he’s going to eat his brains?
“Fine.” Gingerly, I tuck the kitten into the pocket of my hoodie, where he fits perfectly. “Don’t worry, little guy. I’m getting us out of here, no thanks to Joe over there, who is afraid of you.”
“No reason to be mean about it,” Joe says with a sniff.
Back on solid ground, I pull the kitten out for closer inspection, only to find he is fast asleep.
Chapter 5 MINE
AS WE’RE WALKING HOME, Joe asks me every six seconds if the kitten is alive. He insists on double-checking that his tiny chest is rising and falling.
“He’s sleeping,” I say, annoyed.
“He might be dead.”
“He’s not dead.”
“He’s so small.”
“Bacteria are small and they aren’t dead. Why do you care, anyway, if you’re afraid of him?”
“I’m allergic. And even if I wasn’t, just because I’m afraid of something doesn’t mean I want it to be dead. By the way, you smell bad.”
I roll my eyes and increase my pace, frantically running through scenarios of what will happen when I get home wearing ruined shoes, smelling like a rotten corpse, and with a stray kitten tucked in my pocket. I’m almost certain Mom will be sleeping. But the remote possibility that she’s not worries me. My jaw clenches. On the positive side, I have not given the other troubles in my life a single thought since getting struck by lightning.
Joe runs to catch up with me. “He needs a name. Can we check if he’s alive again, please? Like, right now?” I give in to his pleading and pull the sleeping kitten from my pocket, but this time the black ball of fuzz opens one eye and scans us, as if taking our measure. “He’s awake.” Joe sounds so surprised, I realize he’s not just being a pain in the neck. He really believes our small charge might be dead.
As I rub my knuckle gently between the kitten’s velvety ears, I swear he sighs. “I’m going to call him Boots,” I say.
“Huh? Why? He has, like, three white hairs on his back foot. You should call him Tuxedo. That golden fur on his chest looks like a bow tie.”
“It doesn’t look anything like a bow tie. It looks like the black hole photo. Hello, Boots.” I bring the kitten up to eye level. Is he scowling? I think he’s scowling. Okay, maybe Boots is a stupid name. Joe stands right next to me and peers at his face. The kitten yawns, showing off a set of tiny teeth.
“Fang?” Joe suggests.
“Are you kidding me?”
“Brainstorming here. Besides, Boots?”
