Hurricane Days (35 page)

* * *

“I don’t want to hear it.” I had begun packing my clothes, a task which I’d been putting off all week.

“Please,” Adrienne begged. But she couldn’t get me to look at her. “Okay, fine.” She sat on her bed and lit a cigarette.

I immediately opened the window to show my disdain for her smoking. “I can’t stand that smell!”

“I told you,” Adrienne said. “I’m not a queer.”

I whipped around. “Is that what you think I am?” My armor immediately came out again for protection. “I’m not…queer either!”

“Okay, well why are you so mad?”

“Because…because… you said he wasn’t your boyfriend!”

“He’s not. He’s just…he’s not.” She seemed confused and off balance.

My eyes filled. I couldn’t look at her without that lump in my throat. I was back to feeling like a fool.

“I hope,” she said, “this doesn’t change our friendship.”

A bitter chuckle. “I don’t know.” I resumed my packing.
Go. Please go.

“It shouldn’t matter to you,” she said.

“Well, I guess it does,” I snapped. “I told you something, and you ignored it. But it was true. I do love you.” Quickly I added, “But not anymore, so don’t worry about it!”

“I want to still be friends.” Her voice was thin.

“Please leave.” I didn’t know how much longer I could last before the tears would come. Finally I heard the door close, and she was gone.

I leaned against my dresser, breathing out, feeling my whole body tremble. What was happening? I couldn’t understand my reality anymore. After all that had happened between us, how could she act like this was no big deal?

Chapter Sixty-Three

I wasted no time packing my car the next morning. I saw that Adrienne’s car, parked a few slots away, was only partially filled, with her boxes full of wires in the backseat, stacked up almost, but not quite, to the ceiling.

When I came back into the room for another load, it reminded me of the first day, when everything had looked so barren. Her shrine to heavy metal had been ripped off the walls. I pondered it sadly. Amazingly, we’d added color to the dead cinder blocks with reminders of our favorite things. We’d made a life in that little prison cell. I thought of the two roommates who would share that room next year, and the year after, and the year after that. No one would know what we’d experienced together, and no one would care. To every new student, that dorm room would look as cold and uninviting as it had looked to me. And somehow each student would have to find a way to make a home of it.

Last night, we moved about the space, and each other, with unspoken uneasiness and tension. We went to sleep without a word. Something had been lost—for good, it seemed.

Before I left that morning, Andrew made it over to see me. Even on crutches, he looked good. There was color in his cheeks, and he’d gained a little weight back. I was relieved to see that.

“Are you going to be okay?” I asked.

“Oh, you know me.” He grinned at me. “You have fun being a Georgia peach. We’ll see each other next year.”

“I mean, you have a place to stay?” I remembered that his home wasn’t exactly a welcoming environment.

“Yeah, I’m staying with some friends here.”

“You could still report it as a hate crime,” I said.

He shook his head. “I don’t want to make trouble. It’s better if I stay under the radar.”

“With that laugh?” I smiled at him. “You’ll never be under the radar.” I meant it as a compliment.

I hugged him gingerly, not sure what part of his body was safe to squeeze. I didn’t want to break or dislocate anything. When he left, I said good-bye to him in my mind. He didn’t know the plans I’d made last night. No one here did.

After I walked in on Adrienne and Sean last night and drove around in the rain, I went back to campus and called my parents from the library. I told them I wanted to transfer next year. They were all too happy to have me closer to home. Dad said something about “beating the liberal” out of me, pretending it was a joke, but I didn’t care.

My plan was to attend Emory and major in political science. Of course Dad was elated at the news. Even though he loved FSU, he worried that it had changed since the fifties and that it was the school’s fault for putting “crazy” ideas in my head.

I didn’t tell Adrienne. How she could want to live with me again next year “as a friend,” I had no idea. But I couldn’t. We both filled out the forms for the dormitory again next year. But I was set on my plan. I’d simply call the registrar and residence offices when I returned home, and I’d undo it all, cut any ties to her and this school forever.

I wouldn’t tell her about transferring because I didn’t want her giving me any grief about giving in to my father or how I really didn’t have a rebellious bone in my body—all things Adrienne might say out of hurt or anger. Even if they were true, I didn’t want to hear them. I was getting pretty good at ignoring anything I didn’t want to hear, even the things my dad was saying over the phone in his elation. He must’ve said “goddamn liberal” a hundred times, but I refused to hear it.

Most of all, I felt quiet relief to know that the fear—of Adrienne and the feelings she evoked—was almost completely behind me. From this point on, I’d run away from the things I feared most. I’d keep running, feeling sure that the past could never catch up with me.

That morning, I finished packing. Adrienne was outside at her car. I saw her through the window. She had a few more trips left to make, with a couple of her suitcases still waiting on her bare mattress. There was just one more thing left to do. I made sure to leave the heavy metal tape she made for me on the nightstand. I wanted to leave that music—and everything I associated with it—behind forever. I also wanted to send a message, that I was no longer pining for her, even if it wasn’t true. It would be true someday, I assured myself. Most of all, I wanted Adrienne to believe that if what we had meant nothing to her, then it meant nothing to me either.

In the parking lot I found Adrienne waiting for me. “I guess this is it.” She shrugged. There were a million questions on her face.

“Yeah,” I said.

She squinted in the light without her sunglasses. Her dark blue T-shirt seemed to fit the mood of the day. “I’ll see you next year,” she said, holding out her arms for one last hug.

I hugged her back, knowing it would be the last time. I squeezed her so hard, then finally let go.

“Next year, huh?” she repeated, shielding her eyes from the sun.

“Yeah.” My face was ice cold, as I opened my car door. I could tell she wanted to talk more, to somehow wipe away the other day with a wink and a smile as she’d done with other things. Only this time it wouldn’t change anything. In an odd way, it was the saddest and the best day of my life. The person who scared me most, who challenged me more than anyone else had, would soon be out of my life forever. It was a comfort, a supreme relief, to know I wouldn’t have to deal with her—or
this
—anymore.

As I drove out of the parking lot, I saw Adrienne in the rearview mirror, waving good-bye. I held myself together until I left the campus and turned onto the next street. Then I allowed myself a few tears. They were the last tears I’d shed for her for almost thirty more years. From time to time, though, I’d remember the sight of her, like my fear, getting smaller in the rearview mirror, and how she looked that day, her deep brown eyes squinting and shining in the sun.

Chapter Sixty-Four

Robin knocked on Kendrick’s door. “Hon? It’s Mom.”

“Yeah?”

She came in to find her daughter staring at her iPad. That was her closest relationship these days, the one she had with her iPad. She obviously didn’t have time to quickly pull out her
Bible
or textbooks, but strangely, Robin didn’t seem to care.

Robin said, “Tomorrow I have to go to—”

“Tampa. I know. The big debate.”

Robin wanted to talk to her about marriages, how they sometimes don’t last, as if she didn’t already know that. She imagined some cleverly scripted TV show parent-teen conversation that would end in tears and a hug. Then she realized she didn’t have the emotional strength for it.

“How is everything at school?” Robin asked. “With your friend?”

Kendrick looked down and traced the outer line of her iPad. “We’re not going to be friends anymore. It’s pretty much over.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. I really am.”

“It’s okay. I told you, I still hang around with the others.” After a pause, she looked at her mother and said, “I miss her.”

“I know you do.” Robin patted her leg. “You always will. But it gets better over time. I promise.” She looked at Kendrick’s iPad and headphones that were lying beside her. “What were you looking at?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“Yes, I do.”

Kendrick seemed very uncomfortable. Her face alternated between embarrassment and anguish.

All kinds of thoughts raced through Robin’s head.
Was it porn?

Kendrick turned the tablet around to face her mother. It was a video of Adrienne’s band, Eye of the Storm.

“They’re all over YouTube,” Kendrick said. “Don’t be mad, but I like them.”

“I’m not mad.” Robin smiled. She wasn’t her normal fiery self. She was odd, floating toward the door, as if she’d taken a bottle of sedatives. She turned slightly. “I wish her the best.” She patted the doorframe and left.

Chapter Sixty-Five

On the plane to Tampa, Robin went over her notes. It would be a town hall-style debate, so any question from the audience was possible. She had to be prepared for anything.

“How are you holding up, Governor?” Peter asked.

She held up her hand. “I’m fine. You know, you really should direct some of your attention to your family once in a while.”

“Excuse me?” He was bewildered. “It is the final—”

“I know what it is.” She resumed reading, occasionally sipping her Diet Coke, and looking out the window with a calm gaze that unnerved her entire staff. They could almost feel some seismic shift in the atmosphere, although they couldn’t be sure what it was exactly.

Though she appeared calm, Robin was unable to relax enough to recline in her seat. In fact, she hadn’t even removed her overcoat; she was still wearing it long after takeoff.

“Should be a short flight.” She heard the pilot say something like that in the speaker—his voice always so oddly saccharine, reassuring. Even if they were about to slam into a mountain, he’d say there was just a little turbulence ahead.

In times of stress, she couldn’t bear calm voices. She remembered Tom’s unsettling, pleasant tone as he got dressed for the family holiday photo shoot. Hearing his voice in her head, she leaned against the armrest, her fingers supporting her forehead. As she did so, she heard a crackle sound inside her coat. She realized that Adrienne’s gift to her was still in her pocket, a small, wrapped mystery. Robin had forgotten this was the coat she had worn to Adrienne’s apartment. She had planned to open it immediately, instead of doing as Adrienne said and waiting until before the debate to open it. But with all the distractions of the last few days and memories of their night together, Robin had forgotten about the gift. She was surprised at herself for forgetting something like this. She tore the wrapping paper and glanced up to make sure her staff wasn’t watching. With everyone either reading or arguing with each other, she resumed her unwrapping. She peeled back a big piece of paper to reveal what it was—the heavy metal cassette tape Adrienne had made for her years ago, the tape that Robin had made sure to leave behind before she said good-bye.

Robin held the tape, noting Adrienne’s now faded handwriting inside the case. She’d kept it all those years. Robin took a deep breath. This was a treasure worth more to her than all of the money she had.

* * *

The crowd rustled and chattered in the packed Tampa auditorium. There was an excited anticipation and crackling energy in the place.

Preparations reminded Robin of what warming up for a boxing match might be like. Political advisors rubbing candidates’ shoulders, coaching them on their talking points.

Peter kept repeating, “Whatever you do, don’t say the word ‘scandal.’ Remember!”

His voice had begun to fade like an annoying bug in her ears or the sounds of traffic noise, especially tractor-trailers, whenever she tried to sleep in a hotel…

“Nothing about scandals,” he buzzed incessantly. “Your aunt who slept on a dirt floor…”

She overheard pieces of conversations from other political advisors and their candidates: “Don’t tell everyone your plan.”

“Which plan?”

“The economic plan. People don’t want details. They want a few good phrases they can replay on the news.”

Robin felt disgusted, knowing how that was true.

Then Peter grabbed her arm and said, “Don’t sound too…you know,
loud
. When you get fired up, you know. Men can be loud, and nobody cares. But, you know, since you’re a woman, they’ll say you’re loud.”

“Shut up, Peter.” She broke away from him. “Remind me to fire you when this is over.”

He stood with gaping mouth as she walked away.

* * *

Graham Goodwin thanked everyone he could, especially God, for the opportunity to have a debate. His hair was more puffy than ever tonight, with a single silver wave that reached to the heavens. As a former preacher, he was always claiming to be the candidate closest to God. He had wasted forty minutes of the last debate, arguing with Jerry Johnson over who went to church more often.

After Graham thanked everyone enough, the other candidates did the same thing, thanking everyone for having the debate, before they could answer a question—all of them except Robin Sanders, who tried to keep her opening remarks brief. Each one received polite applause, but the loudest question hung silently in the air—everyone waited to hear whether or not Robin Sanders would remain as staunchly against gay rights as she was before all of the rumors.

Lara had told her many times before this debate: “It doesn’t matter if that chick went on TV and said nothing happened. Something was put out there, and it’s hard to close the lid. A question has been put in the people’s mind…”