Eruption (Yellowblown™ Book 1) (14 page)

“Nope,” he answered. When we wer
e ready, he told me the plan. “I thought we could ride north, toward the city. There’s supposed to be a cool bridge. If we get there and double back we’d have about twenty miles in.”

“Sounds good,” I said. “I think I’m finally rested up after Sunday.”

The old rail bed wound along the Monongahela River, the trail surface packed with firm gravel where unpaved. We settled into a comfortable cadence, both of us selecting gears on the big ring of our bikes. We rode side by side as we skirted small towns jammed together in an industrial age version of urban sprawl.

“How’s
calculus going?” Boone asked.

“Better. I’ve figured out I have to do my homework right after class or I’m screwed.”

He laughed. “Exactly how I feel about Applied Econometrics. I’ve decided I’m okay at math and okay at economics, but I officially despise statistics.”

“Is it required for your major?”

“Yep.”

“And what is your major, so I don’t make the mistake of picking anything
with math worse than calculus?”

He laughed again. “Agricultural Economics. It’s the
main reason I chose Western Case, one of the smallest schools with the major I wanted.”

“So, you knew as a freshman what you wanted to do?”

“Pretty much. Drew was a straight Ag major. I’m supposed to become the business mind. Of course, if the ash keeps falling the way it is, that whole plan might be shot.”

“Really?
It’s bad at your ranch?”

He squinted down the trail dappled with late afternoon light, the leaves overhead ranging from green to yellow to brown. “The corn crop was
standing in the field when the ash started. Everyone is finding out corn harvesters don’t like ash. Their diesel engines don’t like it. The cutter heads don’t like it. The grain elevators don’t quite know what to do with corn that’s all mixed together with grit. On Tuesday, Dad says even some hauler trucks had broken down already. I haven’t gotten through since then.”

“What about water? You said before he was out making sure the cattle had water.”

“The ash seems to settle out of still water, so the troughs have been good so far. What cattle don’t like is eating sandy grass and grain. At least their guts aren’t as sensitive as horses. Ranchers are trying to keep them in under cover but, well, Nebraska is windy. Ash is blowing everywhere, infiltrating everything, and horses are getting colic.”

“They say the ash is going to
be here today.”

“Yep. How are things in Indiana?”

“I dunno. My parents are acting weird. When I talked to them last night, they were asking how things were here. I think they might be thinking about coming east, which is freaking me out.”

The conversation
with them had been odd. Both Mom and Dad had been on the phone with me, and for a moment they’d taken a tangent into a head of household conversation about heating oil and electricity and food, wondering out loud if they should go somewhere warmer, like down to Nana’s—my mom’s mom’s—house in Florida. The prospect kept me awake last night. Could I stay in Pennsylvania while they went south? Would I?

“Can
they pick up and leave? What about their jobs?”

“That’s part of why they’re worried, I think. My
dad sells dental equipment. A couple of doctors already cancelled big orders for next month. Everybody is so unsure of what’s going to happen they’re scared to do anything.”

Boone slowed to ride behind me past a fallen branch
that blocked most of the trail then accelerated to regain his lost ground.

“What’s your mom do?”

“She writes science articles for the paper. Local stuff like whether wind or solar makes more sense in Martin County. She’s in her geeked-out glory right now.”

“I guess it
’s an awesome time for scientists.”

“Has anybody heard from Dr. Potter?”

“No. I asked the department head after he taught Intro yesterday. He seemed kind of ticked, but how can he blame the guy for going to rescue his family? I mean, I don’t expect anybody to put his job before his wife and kids. Family comes first.”

Traffic sounds grew around us from a major highway nearby.
We stopped talking for a mile or so. A steep ramp led to the Hot Metal Bridge, a pedestrian and bicycling bridge originally used to carry crucibles of molten steel across the Monongahela River. Or so the historical plaque said.

We lean
ed on the railings to absorb the view of the urban skyline to the north. On the far side of the river, steep banks lifted into impressive hills packed with trees and buildings.

“
If you squint and take the hills away, this could be Omaha,” Boone noted.

“You miss home.”

He hesitated to answer. “I don’t cry myself to sleep at night, but I’m anchored there.” He looked westward. “Feel it more now with this going on.”

Family comes first.
“I never thought I’d want to go back home,” I said. “Still not sure I do. You’re right, though. The separation is weird while a national disaster is going on.”

The river flowed far beneath our feet, though the scene wasn’t peaceful. Traffic and a nearby train yard muffled any gentle lapping sounds the wa
ter made against the supports. The odors of dampness and exhaust reminded me of the great population rather than the great outdoors.

“I brought some sandwiches,” Boone said. “It’s close to five o’clock. Do you want to eat now or after we’re done?”

“Now’s good,” I said. His pack had seemed heavy when I lifted it out of the car, but I thought maybe he carried bike tools or parts.

We s
at with our back to the railing. He handed me a bundle of white paper. Opening it felt like Christmas as I revealed half a roast beef and provolone hoagie with lettuce, tomato, and Italian dressing, obviously from my favorite off-campus sub shop. I gave him a questioning look.

“Mia,” he said nonchalantly
. He stretched his mouth wide to bite down on a concoction with every kind of meat imaginable piled on.

“What
’s that monstrosity?” I asked.

“Combo of a club and an Italian special
,” he mumbled around the food. “My own protein-packed creation.”

“Yuck,” I said. He
tossed a bag of nacho corn chips on my lap.

“Are you kidding me?” I said. “Mia told you all my bad habits, didn’t she?”

He swallowed his mouthful. “I like those too, so don’t eat them all. I left the sodas in a cooler in the truck. I can’t ride after all that carbonation.”

I laughed and settled in for the perfect dinner
. The harsh lines of the city silhouette softened as the light transitioned from afternoon to early evening.

We pedaled back to the truck, away from the sunset.

 

Text to Dad:

A week later, Boone and I rode south from the Duquesne parking lot. We followed the rail-trail into a less populated area along the river. I counted these Thursday afternoon rides as dates. Ideal, comfortable, invigorating dates compared to occasions like prom and Parker’s big productions that had always turned me off. Especially his last fiasco. Anyway, the uncertainty I’d felt about Boone reciprocating my feelings for him faded with every turn of the pedal, replaced by the steady hum of excitement.

He liked me. I liked him.
We enjoyed spending time together at the same activities. Hard to believe, but real.

Boone
drove back toward campus as another sunset cast the sky in flaming red, a symptom of the ash now sifting almost imperceptibly through the air of western Pennsylvania. His right hand curved around my thigh when he didn’t need it on the steering wheel. We passed a gas station at the exit near school. I shook my head at the skyrocketing prices. “Pretty soon you won’t want to drive to football games or rail trails.”

My cell rang. Normally I’d ignore it, but I hadn’t gotten through to my parents all week. When I saw HOME on
Caller ID, I explained to Boone as I accepted the call.

“Violet? I’m so glad we finally got through
.”

“Hi
, Daddy,” I said, instantly embarrassed I’d let such a childish moniker slip. I hadn’t realized how much I’d worried until I heard Dad’s voice. “Has your phone been out?”

Boone removed his hand from my leg.