Cloudburst (Storms 2)

“I’m sorry, Mr. Leshner,” I said.

“Rein in your thoughts, Sasha,” he said.

I nodded. He didn’t repeat the question for me. He went on to someone else. After class, I hurried up front to apologize to him.

“It’s not like you to be daydreaming. Anything wrong?” he asked.

“No. It was just my being stupid,” I said.

“Don’t make it a new habit, and we’ll be fine,” he said. His forgiveness only made me feel worse.

I avoided Ryder for the remainder of the day. My friends sensed that I was in a bad mood, and everyone kept her distance—everyone, that is, except Jessica, who always looked like someone on the verge of a nervous breakdown when there was something she didn’t know about someone in school. She practically followed me to my car after school, waiting for me to tell her what really happened between me and Ryder Garfield. Finally, I spun on her so abruptly she stepped back like someone who thought she might be slapped.

“Look, Jessica, I’m really not in

terested in talking about him. I’ve had enough darkness and disappointment in my life to fill the Grand Canyon, and your pestering me about it doesn’t help.”

“I’m sorry. I just—”

“Just stop,” I said, and got into my car. Before I started the engine, I saw him walking out with his sister beside him, her head down. I had the feeling he had been critical of her again. I thought the look on his face would stop a clock.

How can anyone go through life so unhappy? I wondered, but shook the thought out of my head and backed out. Whether it was reflexive or whether despite my determination something inside me continually drew me to look at him, I don’t know. But I looked into my rearview mirror to see him walking to his car, and I did see him turn to look my way.

Why was he interested in seeing me leave?

It was exactly this confusion about him that fanned the flames of my interest, no matter how I tried to smother them. I was comfortable with most of the boys in this school, because they were, as Kiera might say, “as easy to see through as a new plate-glass window.” I hadn’t met anyone who was clever and subtle enough to catch me off guard—anyone before Ryder Garfield, that is. Was I thinking about him because I was genuinely interested in him, or was I simply annoyed that I couldn’t figure him out and pigeonhole him along with the other boys? Even the expert, Kiera March, would have trouble this time.

When I drove up to the house, I saw Jordan sitting out by the tennis courts. She was alone and looked as if she was so deep in thought she hadn’t heard me drive up. As soon as I parked, I hurried over to her. I knew she was deep in thought because she didn’t realize I was coming over to her until I was practically on top of her. She turned and smiled.

“Oh, you’re home,” she said, and looked at her watch. “I had no idea how late it was.”

“Are you all right?”

“Yes, yes,” she said. “Once in a while, I like to stop to smell the roses, something Donald hasn’t learned to do, apparently. Come, sit beside me,” she said, starting to move over on the bench, and then she stopped. “No, better yet, drop your schoolbag here, and let’s walk to the lake. We had some geese on it last night, you know. They’re flying south.”

I put my bag on the bench and walked beside her over the stone-tiled path.

“Did you hear the geese this morning?”

“No.” I didn’t want to tell her I had gotten up late again. “I wasn’t outside very long before I got into my car. They must have gone by then.”

“Oh, I bet you’re the cat’s meow with that car. My father loved that expression, the cat’s meow. Ever hear anyone say it?”

I shook my head.

“My father said it a lot, especially if I was feeling a bit down. He’d boom, ‘What’s the matter now?’ and then, lowering the tone of his voice, he’d add, ‘You have nothing to worry about, Jordan. You’re the cat’s meow.’ My brother, Gerald, always made fun of me when my father said that. He’d start meowing or hissing. Sometimes he does it even now. Can you imagine a man that age meowing on the phone? Imagine if his secretary overheard him doing that.”

She laughed.

“My brother, the big, important Washington lawyer.”

“Why doesn’t he come here more often?” I asked. Since I had been at the Marches’ home, Jordan’s brother, Gerald Wilson, had been here only twice, and one time was to help with Kiera’s legal troubles. He brought his wife, Danielle, only once. From what I could see, she rarely called Jordan. Their three boys had little contact with Jordan and Donald March.

“He’s like Donald, too busy to breathe,” she muttered, not disguising her bitterness.

“Maybe you two should go on a holiday.”

She paused and looked out at the lake. “Yes, to recharge our love batteries,” she said. “It’s what the doctor is ordering.”