Rising (20 page)

“Don’t you think it’s more than a
little strange how it started off the coast of Cuba instead of out in the
Atlantic like other hurricanes?
 
I mean,
it seems sort of supernatural, doesn’t it?”

I tried to sound casual, but I heard my
voice squeak a little.
 
Dad gulped some
of his iced tea and turned to me.

“Yes, it does.
 
Do you and Gabe have some theories?”

I knew he thought I was nervous because
I had some radical scientific theory that I wanted to get his expert opinion
on.
 
What I wanted was for him to open
his mind to something totally non-scientific.

“No, but do you ever think there might
be some things that we can’t explain?
 
I
mean, scientifically speaking?”

“Like what?” he asked, sounding
curious.

“Oh, I don’t know, like the Bermuda
Triangle?
 
You know, some people believe
that the disappearances have something to do with other dimensions.
 
They think that’s where those boats and
planes disappear into.”

I spit out the first example I could
think of, but after I said it I wondered if it was true.
 
I mean, now that I actually believed in other
dimensions and gates opening up from other worlds where scary monsters popped
out.
 
Was it so crazy to think there were
dimensions randomly opening up and swallowing things in our world?

“Oh, Clara, you know that’s not
true.
 
We’ve talked about that.
 
It has to do with the earth’s gases and plate
tectonics under the ocean-bed.
 
None of
that crazy stuff is true.
 
I’m sure this
hurricane formation seems odd, but it has more to do with a shift in our
planet’s weather system than anything else.
 
Everything can be scientifically explained.”

“Well, what if something couldn’t?”

He gave me a concerned look.
 
I kept rambling, trying to get that crease in
his brow to disappear.

“Hypothetically speaking, if something
happened that you couldn’t scientifically explain, would you take advice from
others who had some knowledge of it?”

“What’s this about, Clara?”

I was grasping for a better explanation,
wondering why the heck I even brought this up when mom stepped through the
front door.
 
She was carrying several new
hanging outfits and dresses, rustling in their plastic coverings, and one bag
dangling on her arm with her Coach purse.

“Hello there.
 
Oh, Philip, don’t spill on my carpet.
 
And, Clara.
 
Didn’t you make something fried on Monday?
 
You’ll get fat and ruin that pretty figure
eating all that greasy food.”

“Clara will not ruin her figure,” said
dad, turning back to the TV.

“Come see what I got you,” Mom said,
beaming down at me.
 
“Oh, but wash your
hands first.”

She clip-clopped down the hall to her
bedroom.
 
Resigned that I wasn’t going to
eat anything anyway and I might as well play like I had something in common
with my mom, I followed her to the bedroom.
 
She spread her day’s worth of shopping all over the bed.
 
Ordinarily, she didn’t bother showing me her
new things.
 
She knew I never shared her
ridiculous obsession with new clothes and shoes.
 
I mean, I like shopping as much as the next
girl.
 
I just wasn’t plagued with the
need to constantly decorate myself with something new every other day, like my
mom.
 

“Look at these,” she said, opening up a
long box to reveal black stiletto boots.

“Oh.
 
They’re cool,” I said flatly.

“They’ll be great with this black
velvet skirt for my next Ladies of Beau
Chêne
meeting.
 
Don’t you think?”

She whisked her new skirt around,
flaring it out next to the boots.
 
I
wondered if all the Ladies of Beau
Chêne
put this
much effort into their wardrobes to impress each other.
 
Probably so.
 
The entire purpose of the group seemed to be just to show off.
 
Mom said that it was a club to discuss
current events and social issues.
 
I
thought it was an excuse for all the socialites of Beau
Chêne
to hang out and admire themselves and feel important.

“Uh-huh.”

“Well, then,” she said, eyeing me
closely, “maybe this will get your attention.”

She pulled out three dresses, obviously
in my size, and displayed them on the bed.
 
There was a red halter-top style dress that flared at the bottom near
the knee.
 
The second was a black strapless
that draped to the floor.
 
The third was
an emerald green sweetheart-cut with spaghetti straps and black beading along
the bodice that disappeared at the waist.

“What’s this?”

It was a stupid question.
 
Obviously, they were dresses, but what for?

“Clara.
 
Homecoming is next month.
 
I’m
sure you’ll be going with your new boyfriend.
 
I thought I’d get a head start shopping for you.”

“Oh, Homecoming,” I said, sounding kind
of dense.

“Come on, Clara.
 
Everyone dresses up for Homecoming.
 
So, go try them on and come show me.”

She was actually giggling. I couldn’t
believe it. I knew Mom loved to see me primped and pretty.
 
My childhood pictures in Christmas and Easter
dresses made me look like a pageant girl, complete with bouncing curls.
 
As soon as I was old enough to choose my own
style, I shed all of the prissy skirts and dresses for t-shirts and beat-up
blue jeans.
 
I was way too casual for my
mom’s taste.
 
Maybe that’s why she got
excited about high school dances.
 
That
was when she knew she could get me in a dress, and I really couldn’t
protest.
 
I mean, I liked dressing up and
looking good.
 
I just didn’t want to look
like my mom’s version of pretty.
 
Maybe
it was my only way to scream at her—
I’m
not like you.
 
My mom was
gorgeous—tall, slim, great skin and reddish-brown hair thicker than the average
forty-year-old should have.
 
I knew it
was a compliment when people said I looked like her, but I winced all the
same.
 
It’s just that as long as I could
remember, she’s been more interested in appearances than anything else.
 
At my first dance recital when I was nine, I
was so excited because my parents were there beaming and clapping excitedly at
my performance.
 
My mom’s only comment
afterwards was, “You looked so pretty up there. I swear you look just like me
at your age.”
 
The next year, I turned to
soccer and baseball, which really ticked her off.
 
I think that’s when the gulf between us grew
wider and wider.
 
Every now and then, I
would try my best to connect with her in some way.
 
But it was always through something like
this—homecoming dresses.

I took the three dresses into her
bathroom and tried them on one at a time.
 
I hated the red dress.
 
It made me
look a little skanky.
 
The neck line
plunged way more than I was comfortable with.
 
I had to admit that the black dress made me feel very grown up—tall,
thin, and elegant.
 
But, the best was
definitely the emerald-green dress.
 
My
pale skin, auburn hair, and hazel eyes stood out strikingly with this dress
draped on my body.
 
I couldn’t help but
smile at my reflection.
 
I wondered how Gabe’s
expression would look when he saw me in this dress.
 
My smile faded.

What was I thinking?
 
Would there even be a Homecoming dance?
 
It was like I was caught up in a mirage for a
few minutes, dreaming of high school dances and a normal teen’s life, when I
knew very well that what was coming would change everything forever.
 
My reflection looked a little ridiculous and
sad now.
 
I couldn’t explain to my mom
that there was no point to keep the dress since I’d probably never go to the
dance because I was seeing shadow men and dreaming of monsters that I was
pretty sure were coming to kill us all.
 
Instead, I flounced out of the bathroom, spinning around in my best act
of teen giddiness.

“Oh, Clara.
 
It’s beautiful!
 
I just knew that would be the one.”

“You’re right, Mom.
 
It’s perfect.”

I smiled as genuinely as I could while
a sick feeling swelled up in my stomach.

“Just wonderful.
 
Now, see how easy it is to dress up?”

She still talked to me like I was
five.
 
Hadn’t she noticed I’d grown a
little?
 
She was pleased with herself and
all of her accomplishments for the day and some part of me wanted her to have
that feeling.
 
Who knew how quickly all
of this would change?
 
Handing her the
other dresses, I wore the green one back to my room.
 
After I changed into my white tank and blue
cotton pajama pants, I hung the dress up regretfully in my closet.
 
I stared at it for a minute, sighed, then
went back out to the living room and stretched out on the sofa.
 
I was in no mood for sleeping right now,
especially not after my encounter last night.
 
Surely, it wouldn’t happen again, but I still needed an hour or two of
mindless television to wind down.

Dad had already gone to his “lab,” in
other words the greenhouse, which he usually did for an hour before
bedtime.
 
Misty jumped up to the couch
and cradled herself in the curve by my stomach.
 
That queasy feeling had gone away.
 
I flipped through the channels, finally resting on
Extreme Home Makeover
.
 
Ty
Pennington was once again making the ultimate dream come true for a sweet
family who had been struck with an illness and poverty.
 
I couldn’t help it.
 
I knew this would probably make me cry like a
sap then feel ridiculously happy when the family got their dream house in the
end.
 
Every episode was the same, but I
liked the feeling it gave me.
 
It was
hopeful and happy.
 
I needed that like I
needed air and food and water.

Just like I thought, I
teared
up at the end, all gushy for that unfortunate
family.
 
I flipped through the channels
again and stopped abruptly on the National Weather Channel.
 
Hurricane Lucy was just sitting there right
in the middle of the Gulf, not moving.
 
The red trajectory lines for the different routes it could take looked
like a giant spider web attached to the entire southeastern coastline of the
United States.
 
Why was it just sitting
there?
 
It was so weird.
 
I sighed heavily then kept flipping.

“Goodnight, Hon,” said Dad, pecking me
on the top of my head.
 
“See you in the
morning.”

“ ‘Night, Dad.”

I heard him shuffle down the hall and
close the door.
 
I turned down the
volume, so I wouldn’t keep them up then settled on a rerun of
The Office
.
 
If that couldn’t lift my spirits, nothing
could.
 
The show was nearly over when it
happened.

Misty let out a slow growl from deep in
her belly.
 
I could feel the hairs
prickling on my neck and arms, but there was no one in the room but the two of
us.
 
Static fuzzed up the TV screen,
which just doesn’t happen with digital television.
 
I glanced toward the kitchen, thinking something
might creep up behind me then turned back.
 
I jumped in my skin and sat up in a heartbeat.
 
There they were.
 
Three shadow men standing in front of the
coffee table, staring at me.
 
They were
motionless.
 
You would think they were
statues if not for those glowing yellow eyes boring down on me with sinister
hatred.
 
Their dark, powdery auras
lingered around their black, scaly bodies, like living clouds of dust.
 
An overpowering burnt smell passed over me;
not a woodsy smell like a campfire, but a nauseating, rotten stench.
 
The middle one took a step toward me.
 
Misty hissed and spat, arching her back to
puff herself up.
 
I couldn’t move.
 
I was paralyzed by my own fear.
 
The middle one pointed a long, bony finger at
me.