Uncertian Weather

Hope hated almost-thunderstorms. If it were up to her, weather would only happen in extremes. If it was going to thunder and flash and carry on, there would be slashing rain to pelt the poor people walking on the sidewalks and to scratch furiously at her windows. If not, then there would be brilliant sunshine and periwinkle skies with a hint of breeze.

There wouldn’t be this threat of rain that rumbled off in the distance, keeping her from making certain plans, not that she had any, even on such an important day. Or making her grandmother pace up and down the apartment, wringing her hands around a wet washcloth that was already gray from half a day’s good use.

The sky was a putrid, bile color that promised neither a satisfying, hellcat storm, nor the clearing up of the mid-afternoon that would sometimes happen on bleary autumn days in Seattle.

Hope couldn’t say that she was horribly fond of Seattle either. However, Hope’s mother and her Aunt Joyce had taken off that fall to find a new home for everyone in the southwest, leaving Hope to finish up her last year at the local primary school she’d attended for as far back as she cared to recall.

It seemed that in some distant piece of memory, there had been an ocean without rocks. Just miles and miles of powder white sand and a strange little hut-house that sat on the water. Hope, however, thought this memory to be more than likely a dream that had seemed real at the time, and had never properly cleared itself out.

She justified this on the fact that once, when she was eleven, she’d dreamed that her grandmother had brought home a gray kitten that she’d found on the steps, and told Hope she could keep it. Upon waking, though, Hope had been positively devastated to find that the kitten never existed, and that she wouldn’t be getting a new pet after all.

When she reflected on this dream, she called the kitten Sniffles. She used this as justification for coming down with them when she thought about it too hard.

She couldn’t help but worry, though, about a little gray cat shivering in the hard lashes of wind being dealt outside of the window. Usually, under these circumstances, she’d busy herself with a game or a task, but without being sure how the weather would turn out, Hope just felt mixed up, and had resigned herself to laying flat on her back in the middle of her grandmother’s living room, while her grandmother continued her pacing.

Hope was watching her out of the corner of her eye, but otherwise tried not to move at all.

“I wish Sebastian would get back with the groceries,” her grandmother sighed, wringing the washcloth a little too hard and making some of the dishwater splash onto the floor.

Hope didn’t respond. Bastian was what Mrs. Cleaton, of the eighth grade Algebra room, called ‘infernal.’ He lived just below them, though, in the second floor apartment, and sometimes ran errands for grandmother. Just as well, Hope had decided, that she wasn’t expected to run all over town and pick up things.

At first, she’d worried that having someone in her class would make things strange when school was in session, but Bastian still ignored her just the same as always while in school. He never offered an explanation for this when acting perfectly friendly at the apartment, and Hope had decided this was for the best. She reasoned that if it was never brought up, she’d never have to admit that it bothered her, or in fact that she noticed the difference at all.

The crack of thunder outside didn’t make her jump, but the fact that it was followed by the front door being slung open did cause her to snap up in alarm. She pushed her elbow-length tangle of hair behind her ears and watched Bastian sidle in, carrying two paper bags full of groceries. He had the keys to the apartment dangling from his teeth.

Her grandmother rushed over and took one of the bags from him. She balanced it on her hip and kicked the door shut.

“There you are, boy. What took you so long?” she demanded, looking harassed.

He shrugged, swiping the keys from his mouth, then took the bag back from her and walked over to the counter to set everything down. Bastian wasn’t the type of boy one passed on the street and immediately pegged as a troublemaker. He had a mop of chestnut hair and big, blue eyes that had fooled many a teacher into believing false claims of innocence. His winning smile, Hope’s grandmother claimed, he’d inherited from his mother, who was once a Miss Washington. He was using that smile now.

“I had a few other errands to run for my mom,” he said, separating the canned foods by size. “I hope I didn’t keep you waiting.”

Hope’s grandmother sighed again, louder this time, and eased her slight frame into a kitchen chair. “No, no, boy, just didn’t want you out there if the rain blows in.”

“Ah, you don’t have to worry about me,” he said, still grinning. “How are you, Hope?” he asked, glancing up in her direction.

This time, Hope nearly did jump, and she didn’t appreciate that at all. She’d assumed, as usual, that Bastian had simply looked over her. The surprise, she told herself, had caused the lurch in her stomach at being directly addressed.

“I’m fine,” she answered, in what she hoped was a cool voice, though his smile didn’t waver. “And you?”

He didn’t answer. He winked.

Hope felt agitated enough to scream.

“What do you want me to set out, Miz Finn?” Bastian asked, though he didn’t bother to turn his attention away from Hope, still propped on her arms in the middle of the living room carpet.

The wind picked up with a howl that slapped some shutters on a downstairs apartment against the building.

Any moment now, Hope thought, it would rain. That would be something.

“Well, let’s do a beef stew to counter the weather,” Grandmother Finn said, pushing herself from the chair. “And I’ll whip up Hope’s birthday cake too.”

“Birthday?” Bastian said, an unmistakable twinkle coming to his eye. “Fourteenth?”

“Same as everyone in our year,” Hope snapped, then winced at the bitterness in her voice that she hadn’t managed to mask.

“Well, happy birthday then,” he said, pulling out four potatoes with both hands from the bottom of the last bag, and setting them in the sink. “If I’d known, I would’ve brought something.”

“Aren’t you sweet,” Grandmother Finn said in a hasty voice, as if she knew she were masking a retort from her granddaughter, whose mouth had flown open. “You should stay for supper. In fact, I insist, seeing as your mother is still at school, bless her. You can pack some of this up for her afterward, and she won’t have to prepare anything when she gets home.”

“Thank you very much, Miz Finn,” Bastian said, reclining in the chair that she’d just left as she began to scrub the potatoes. “She’ll appreciate that.”

Bastian’s mom worked during the week as a trauma nurse in the local Emergency Room, but on weekends, she studied at the local community college in hopes of getting her practitioner’s license, and eventually her doctorate.

“Of course, of course,” she replied, unable to hide her smile. She chose a moderately large knife from a drawer, and took to slicing the potatoes into thick chunks.

Hope, feeling uneasy under Bastian’s amused glances in her direction, eased herself back onto the carpet and took to staring at the ceiling again as the rain finally started to patter down on the roof. Gentle at first, even though the wind was still howling.

The rain picked up some as her grandmother started humming softly to herself, filling the apartment with a warm comfort that Hope feared wouldn’t exist when they moved to Arizona, or wherever Aunt Joyce and her mom found. Texas, Nevada, they all seemed the same to someone from the city.

There was a bright flash from outside, then with an almighty boom that shook the windows, the power flickered out. Hope had frozen in shock on the carpet, but she heard a sharp curse from her grandmother, followed by Bastian’s cry of concern.

“Oh, God, Miz Finn, that looks bad. Oh, God, let me get you a towel. Should we call 911? Do you need stitches?”

“No, no,” she hissed through her teeth. “It’s just a cut, and I can’t drive to the ER in this weather anyway.”

Hope was on her feet and in the kitchen without really having become aware of movement. Her stomach dropped at the sight of what appeared to be a large amount of blood on the sink, and her grandmother gripping a once-white towel around her arm. She eased slowly into one of the kitchen chairs that Bastian had pushed over next to the sink.

“Gran!” she choked, unable to tear her eyes away from the blood. “What–I mean, how do I help? What can I do?”

Her grandmother’s eyes darted around the kitchen for a moment, then came to rest on Bastian. “You, can you call your mother?”

Bastian nodded and went for the kitchen phone. He picked it up and pressed it to his ear, then punched in a few numbers, sighed, and turned. “Phone’s dead.”

Hope glanced out at the sheets of rain slashing ruthlessly against the window, then back at the blood soaked towel her grandmother was holding over her upturned hand. The community college was three blocks away, and a decent walk in good weather. “I’ll go get her.”

And with that, she marched across the living room to grab a scarf she’d tossed on the back of the couch the day before.

“Don’t be ridiculous, you can’t walk in this,” her grandmother said, as Hope resolutely wound the scarf around her neck and reached for the jacket hanging on the back of the door. “You’ll be struck by lightening.”

“I’ll go with you,” Bastian said, reaching for the hooked end of an umbrella that poked out from behind the refrigerator.

“Just keep applying pressure to it, Gran,” Hope said, opening the door. “We’ll be back in just a few minutes.”

“Hope! Sebastian! Please, just wait out the storm,” she said, attempting to stand, but swaying dangerously on her feet before sitting back down. “For God’s sake!”

“Gran, it’ll be fine,” Hope said from the doorframe. “Just stay there and keep applying pressure. We’ll be right back.”

“Be careful!” she managed in a feeble sort of voice, as Hope disappeared and the door clicked shut.

Bastian shook the umbrella loose and pushed it open as they reached the bottom of the stairs and stepped out into the storm. The huddled together under it, but it was no use, the ran was coming in head-on, so Bastian lowered the umbrella like a shield to ward it off as they walked.

“We have to cross here!” he yelled, pointing at the street ahead, which at the moment resembled a white-water obstacle course.

“What?” Hope yelled back, brushing water out of her face.

“We-have-to–,” Bastian cut himself off as a large truck whizzed by, sending up a great splash of dirty water and slackening his grip on the umbrella, which took the opportunity to turn inside out and pull away from them.

Hope lurched forward and gripped onto the hooked end pulling with Bastian, but the umbrella seemed intent to escape, and when a second car sent up a wave of rain-water, the hook painfully wrenched itself from both of their fingers, and sent them hard, bottom-first, onto the cement.

The umbrella flew away so fast that Hope wasn’t even able to catch what direction it’d gone in. She pushed herself to her feet, and attempted to clear her vision.

Her hair, which was unruly after the most honest of efforts was completely hopeless wet, and hung in great, black ringlets over her face and shoulders. Rain, in its continuous downpour was in her eyes, and the street appeared to be a long, black river swimming with the reflections of the overhead streetlights.

There was a tug at her elbow, and Bastian was yelling something and motioning across the street. Hope took a deep breath, nodded, and they took off at a run, sending large torrents of water up and around them as they went.

They continued to run for the next two blocks or so, before both of them, completely drenched, were out of breath, and collapsed under the overhang of a closed up sidewalk vendor to compose themselves before rushing across the street to gather Bastian’s mother.

Hope glanced over at Bastian, who looked shell-shocked, propped up against a wooden fruit crate, with the intention of saying something encouraging. There was a large smudge of mud on his cheek and he was looking ahead with a suspiciously vacant stare. He turned slowly to lock eyes with Hope, who unable to control herself, burst into laughter.

The absurdity of the situation was beginning to sink in with Bastian too, as he watched Hope double forward, clutching herself around a very soggy middle. A slow grin spread across his face, and soon he was laughing too.

He pushed himself to his feet and extended a hand toward Hope, who was still trying to control a fit of giggles when she took it. He heaved her up a little too enthusiastically, to where she surged upward, and fell against his chest, still consumed with laughter.

She looked up at him, her eyes sparkling with amusement, and before either of them had time to think, he bent his head and covered her mouth with his.

Hope stiffened for a moment, unsure of whether or not she should push away, but the kiss was so soft, and sweet that she doubted it was something he was doing in order to tease her with later. So she closed her eyes, and tried to kiss back, picturing what she’d seen in movies, and brushing her lips lightly over his before breaking away.

They looked at each other for a moment, lost in what to do next, then Bastian dropped his arms from around her, and pulled a hand through his hair.

He glanced behind Hope, then at the sidewalk at her feet before looking back at her, but she was smiling in a self-satisfied way. Indeed, this was the first time she’d ever felt she had the upper hand where he was concerned.

She jerked her head toward the college, then took off running again across the street and into the foyer, where a harassed looking receptionist gasped as Hope slid on the tile floors and balanced herself against the wall.

Bastian followed her in mere seconds later. By this time, the receptionist had risen from her desk and was walking forward.

“Excuse me, but you can’t come in here and–.”

“We need to see Alberta Kenyon, please,” Bastian said, cutting her off. “It’s an emergency. She’s my mother.”

The receptionist stared at them for a moment, then went back behind her desk and clicked at her computer for a moment, then picked up the phone and dialed a classroom.

Hope and Bastian waited, not looking at one another, until Mrs. Kenyon came hurrying down the staircase that led up to the second floor.

“Sebastian? Hope? What–?”

“Mom, Miz Finn cut herself cooking. She needs for you to sew her up.”

Mrs. Kenyon hesitated. “Did you ... did you walk here?”

“Please,” Hope said, finding her voice. “There was a lot of blood. We’re worried.”

Mrs. Kenyon was already digging car keys out of her purse, and walking toward the exit. “Of course, come on. Both of you.”

They followed her, still avoiding one another’s eyes, and stepped out into the parking garage that was opposite of the entrance they’d come in. Mrs. Kenyon gave them both a resigned look and said, “Well, I suppose there’s nothing to be done about how wet you are. I’ll get the car.”

They stood there while she rushed off, facing opposite directions. A flash of ginger caught Hope’s eye, and she knelt to where she was eye-level with a drain run off.

Behind it cowered a small ginger cat, curled into a ball.

“Ooh,” she cooed, reaching behind the pipe and pulling out the kitten. Who immediately curled up against her jacket, shaking.

Bastian was watching her with interest. “What’re you going to do with that?”

“Take him home, of course,” Hope said, beaming. She slipped the small cat into the opening of her jacket, to keep it warm as Mrs. Kenyon’s car pulled up.

“You think your Gran will let you?” he hissed, as they both climbed into the back seat, where Mrs. Kenyon had attempted to pile up some newspaper for them to sit on.

Hope shrugged. “She won’t tell me to put him back out in the storm. Maybe he can be my birthday present.” She stroked the top of the cat’s head where it poked out from her jacket.

Bastian looked doubtful, but Hope ignored it. Her grandmother would surely let her keep the cat.

The car spun into a spot outside of their apartment building, and all three of them slammed out of the car, and went tearing up the stairs. Mrs. Kenyon got there first, and pulled the door open.

“Diane?” she called, opening the door.

Grandmother Finn was still at the table, looking positively sick with worry, still clutching the bloody towel to her arm.

Mrs. Kenyon rushed in and pulled back the towel, looking at the cut, which turned out to be a small, but deep gash down the side of Grandmother Finn’s arm. She sucked in some air through her teeth, and said to Bastian, “Go get the first aid kit from my night stand.”

He rushed out, but Hope stood frozen where she was, dripping onto the living room carpet. “Is she okay?”

Mrs. Kenyon nodded, and went to the sink to wash her hands. “Yes, honey, she’s fine. It’ll only be three or four stitches.”

Hope nodded, feeling her body relax in relief as Bastian came tearing back in holding the little first aid box.

“Right,” Mrs. Kenyon said, looking from her son over to Hope. “Best you two wait outside, if you don’t mind.”

Hope nodded and slipped out the door, then crouched to a sitting position against the wall, and unzipped her jacket. She lifted the kitten out and set him on the ground, where he lapped nervously at her fingers before curling up against the heat of her leg.

Bastian closed the door quietly behind him, and ran a hand through his hair.

“Well,” he said, as if that summed up everything.

“Well,” Hope agreed, feeling impossibly lighthearted as she ran her fingers down the back of her new kitten.

“What–,” Bastian coughed, then cleared his throat. “Sorry, what’re you going to name him?”

Hope pondered this for a minute, staring down at the slick, orange fur, and then said, “Seattle.”

“But you live in Seattle,” Bastian pointed out, a hint of his usual amusement in his voice.

“Mm, not for long,” Hope said, lifting the kitten and setting it in her lap. “My mom is looking for a place in the southwest. She says the dessert air will be good for Gran, and the change of scene will be good for the rest of us. We’re going to move down there over the summer.”

Bastian seemed to have no response to this for the longest time. Then he managed, “I didn’t know you were leaving.”

Hope glanced up at his face, which said clearly that he hadn’t been expecting this news, and was torn between being touched and being irritated. “Well, if you talked to me at school, you would’ve heard it at the same time as everyone else. Months ago.”

She glared at him for a moment, furious with him, and with herself for finally saying something about it, and went back to looking at her cat.

The door creaked open, and Mrs. Kenyon poked her head out. “You two can come back in now. We’re going to order some pizza and finish Hope’s birthday cake.”

Hope stood up and brushed past Bastian, shielding her cat from view until she was in her bedroom, where she could change into something dry. She spread a towel out on the bed and set the cat down before peeling off her ruined clothes.

She decided on pajamas for the rest of the day, seeing as it was her birthday and she’d like to be cozy while the storm finished out. So she pulled on pink pajama pants and a matching tank top, then attempted to secure her mass of wet hair in a ponytail before gathering the kitten to her, and stepping back out into the living area, where her grandmother was attacking the blood on the counter as though it had found its way there of its own accord.

Mrs. Kenyon was beating cake batter on the other end of the kitchen, and Bastian, Hope assumed, had also gone to change into something dry.

“Um, Gran?” Hope said, inching forward. There were mean, black stitches standing out against the wrinkled pallor of her grandmother’s arm.

“Yes, Hope, you can keep it,” her grandmother said without looking up. “If you think I raised three daughters without knowing how to spot a smuggled animal, then you underestimate me.”

She plopped the washcloth she’d been using into the sink, and wiped her brow before looking up with a smile. “I was actually thinking you were old enough now to go pick a pet out from the pound, but it looks like the pet found you first.”

A glowing warmth spread itself through Hope. She set the cat down on the ground and leapt forward to hook her arms around her grandmother’s neck. She tried to exercise a bit of restraint, still unsure of how fragile she’d be after the cut, but there was already a little bowl of milk set out next to the sink where Grandmother Finn had been cleaning, and it was all much too perfect for Hope to give anything less than a full-scale hug.

She broke away and set the bowl down before the cat, then did an impromptu pirouette in place as Bastian came back into the apartment. Too happy to care, she finished the twirl and smiled at him.

He looked properly sheepish, and opened his mouth on what Hope was sure was going to be some awkward sort of apology.

“Hush, Bastian,” she said, walking over and wrapping her arms around his shoulders in a tight hug. “You only get to say one thing, so make it good.”

He returned the hug with a squeeze, and said, “Happy Birthday.”