Natalie’s Storm: Chapter 1

Early September in the small town of Chicory meant cicadas singing in the pine trees, humidity that turned the air into soup, and heat so intense that the horizon trembled. Warm mornings melted into blazing afternoons, followed by hot evenings swarming with mosquitoes. Frogs croaked in the ditches, and huge brown roaches ran across the pavement after dark, standing tall on their crackly legs.

From a teenager’s perspective, Chicory didn’t have much to offer, but it was the only home I had ever known, and I felt a connection to it that could only be explained by the fact that it reminded me of precious things I could never get back: time I had spent with my parents and memories of being happy.

A railroad track split Chicory in half from east to west. Most of the buildings occupied the southern side of this boundary—a gas station, a police station, a fire station—every building in Chicory was a station except the library and the grocery store. All the houses were built in the southern part of Chicory, too; only one major structure stood in the northern part: an old monastery that had no business being there.

The monks were long gone, but a group of religious fanatics had moved in about twelve years before I was born. They called themselves Tribe Thirteen, which I thought sounded more like a gang than a church. Their compound stood on a tall hill behind a mighty white wall that encircled their property, which was quite large—at least the size of several football fields. A deep ravine separated it from the rest of Chicory, and the gate remained closed except when trucks rolled out carrying the fancy oak furniture they built in their workshop. That was how they made their living.

They had no spiritual competition in Chicory; the nearest church, a Baptist congregation, was located in the city of Welch, about ten miles south of Chicory, just off the interstate. I used to go there every week with my parents before they died, but I didn’t go anymore. It hurt too much. Luckily, my aunt and uncle didn’t care about my soul, so they didn’t make a fuss about it.

I attended high school in Welch, too. The first month of class had already dragged by, and on a particularly stuffy Tuesday afternoon, I found myself struggling to pay attention to my history teacher, Mrs. Jackson, who was talking about a project we were supposed to complete by the end of the week. I didn’t know what it was about because I hadn’t been listening.

While she wrote on the whiteboard with a squeaky red marker that smelled like artificial cherry flavoring, I picked at the chipped nail polish on my little finger. After it was gone, I gazed down at my purity ring. Its diamond was fake, of course, but it sparkled in the light almost like the real thing.

Mrs. Jackson began distributing papers. Her voice demanded my attention.

“I’m handing out the grading rubric. You’ll have a week to work on this project, which should be plenty of time for you to do a good job. I’ll give you our class period on Friday to write your reports, so try to finish your research before then.”

“What about the hurricane?” said a boy named Mikey who I despised with my whole heart. He was the class snob who got away with everything because his dad had donated a ton of money to the athletic program, and he seemed even more obnoxious this year than he had before.

Mrs. Jackson frowned.

“I didn’t know there was a hurricane.”

“Well, it’s not a hurricane yet, but it’s going to be, and it’s coming here. It’s supposed to hit Friday night. If the school gets destroyed, can we have a little more time to finish the project?”

Mrs. Jackson gave him a withering smile.

“If a natural disaster wipes out Welch, I promise to be lenient.”

I looked down at the grading rubric, and the blood drained out of my face while my stomach flipped. The first line was too horrible to accept.

“You will work in groups of two.”

Why did it have to be a group project? I felt absolutely sick about working one-on-one with someone. None of them were my friends. My behavior during my first year of high school had guaranteed that, and even though it was now the beginning of my junior year, they hadn’t forgiven me.

“I’ll write your group assignments on the board,” said Mrs. Jackson.

I couldn’t decide which was worse: being picked last by someone with an artificial smile or being forced to work with someone who despised me openly. Mrs. Jackson began writing. I noticed immediately that the groups were strategically designed to prevent trouble, and my dread grew. I was known for being studious. She would probably pair me with a rowdy loudmouth who didn’t know how to work.

The suspense became almost unbearable before she wrote my name. The class held its breath to learn the identity of my partner. I sensed their silent pity for whoever it was. I closed my eyes, and when I opened them again, my fate was sealed.

“Maya and Paul.”

Who? Paul was new. I knew nothing about him except that he was already popular. He spent his blissful days surrounded by a crowd of happy admirers with a perpetual smile on his face. His curly brown hair and freckled cheeks were cute enough, I guess, but I had never truly seen him because I had never actually looked at his eyes. I suspected his gaze held the same empty indifference or dismissive scorn that I saw everywhere, and I didn’t want to see it again.

When Mrs. Jackson stepped away from the board, I heard a sympathetic whistle from some of the boys who sat in the back.

“Tough luck, Paul.”

“Yeah, dude,” said Mikey, his voice tinged with a mixture of triumph and disgust that made me wonder if he secretly hated Paul. “Sucks to be you.”

I hung my head, twisting the purity ring around on my finger. The uselessness of the trinket baffled me. Why worry about attention from boys when they avoided me like the plague? If purity were loneliness, I suspected I would have it forever, whether I wanted it or not.

I skimmed the rest of the rubric. We were supposed to research a historical building, photograph it, build a model of it, and write a report about it. I guessed I would end up doing most of the work, but I didn’t care. If I did it by myself, at least I could guarantee the quality of the final product. My life might have disintegrated after my parents died, but I still had good grades, and I didn’t intend to lose them.

The bell rang. School was done for the day. I gathered my courage and looked for Paul. The sooner we divided the tasks for the project, the sooner we could avoid each other. He was already hurrying toward the door with his friends. I followed him, my heart racing.

“Paul?”

I don’t think he heard me. My words had no strength. They emerged in a faint whisper from the very top of my throat. Why was it so hard for me to speak up? I felt invisible. Mikey shoved Paul in a joking manner. He stepped back to regain his balance and stumbled into me hard, almost knocking me down. For a moment, his glance passed over me, and I saw a brilliant flash of blue.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t see you there.”

The story of my life. I cleared my throat.

“When should we work on the project?”

He was already turning away, but he hesitated.

“There’s no hurry. We can just do it this weekend.”

“Are you sure that will be enough time?”

Mikey elbowed him.

“Dude, I think she wants to hang out with you.”

I felt my mouth going dry.

“That’s not true. I just want to do a good job on the project.”

They all started giggling and muttering to each other at Paul’s expense while he rolled his eyes. My cheeks burned. If he hadn’t hated me before, he probably hated me now for embarrassing him. I wanted to run away, but I couldn’t leave without resolving the issue of the project.

“I can email you about it.”

As soon as I spoke the words, they sounded so ridiculous that I wanted to disappear, but how else could I communicate with him without asking him for his number? I certainly couldn’t use social media without attracting the concentrated bullying of my peers. He shrugged.

“I’m fine with whatever, but I’m busy with soccer practice and youth group, so I don’t really have time to hang out. Just tell me what part of it you want to do, and I’ll take care of the rest.”

I nodded and fled.

“Good job,” said Mikey to Paul as I walked away. “The hurricane will be here by Friday, so you probably won’t have to deal with her at all.”

Paul’s reply crushed me.

“Hey, it’s not my fault Mrs. Jackson made me work with her.”

Their voices faded. I trudged down the hall to my locker and gathered my books. Maybe school wouldn’t have bothered me so much if I could have escaped to a peaceful home full of people who loved me, but that home didn’t exist anymore. I went outside. As I waited for the bus, the emptiness in my heart burned more painfully than usual for a reason I didn’t want to admit even to myself: today was the second anniversary of my big sister Natalie joining Tribe Thirteen.

I had thought the second anniversary would be easier than the first, but it wasn’t. I climbed onto the bus, sat down at the back, and stared out the window as the businesses of Welch gave way to the fields surrounding Chicory. Questions that didn’t have answers tormented me relentlessly. Why had Natalie left without saying goodbye? I understood why she had wanted to escape from Aunt Beth and Uncle Charles, but why hadn’t she told me about her plans?

I missed her too much to be angry about her sudden disappearance. Leaning my head against my hand, I closed my eyes and wondered what she was doing. The women of Tribe Thirteen never showed their faces in town, but the men sometimes ventured out in their blue shirts and black pants. Their hollow eyes and bearded cheeks gave them an ominous aura that combined haughty superiority and impenetrable mystery, and they gave me the creeps whenever I saw them.

Natalie’s departure had set my fear on fire and turned it into something hideous that never left me. Sometimes it felt like pain in the core of my body; sometimes it felt like a hand at the top of my abdomen, shoving my diaphragm into my chest so I could barely breathe. It loomed over me from the moment I opened my eyes each morning until the moment I shut them each night. While I slept, it invaded my dreams. It was hatred, and I couldn’t get rid of it.

When the bus finally arrived in Chicory, I climbed out and walked slowly down the road, feeling the sweat rolling down my back as the afternoon sun suffocated me with its heat. I knew exactly how late I could be without getting into trouble, so I took my time, but my aunt and uncle’s house materialized before I was ready. It was made of white brick with a steep roof, and it nestled under an enormous cluster of pine trees, some of which must have been more than fifty feet tall.

I felt like I was approaching a lions’ den, and my hand trembled as I rang the doorbell. If only Aunt Beth would give me a key! I had begged her for one, but she had said I might sneak out during the night if I could get in by myself. I’m convinced she had other motives, though: I think she wanted to eliminate any chance that I might ever view the house as a home.

While I waited on the porch, I heard Uncle Charles screaming profanities. He was actually a rather harmless man—even a bit of a pushover—but whenever he played video games, a different persona emerged. The violence in his voice made my whole body grow tense with anxiety. Only once had his ire turned on me when I had interrupted him during a game, and he had apologized afterward. Still, I hated being around him because that unpredictable side of him always lurked under the surface.

Aunt Beth opened the door. She was a tall woman with rosy cheeks, round eyes, and dark hair that curled down to her shoulders. Her business casual attire clung uneasily to her lumpy frame, and her gaudy necklace glared into my eyes. I didn’t look into her face, so the necklace was all I could see.

“How was school?” she said in the most disinterested voice I had ever heard.

“It was fine.”

She stepped out of my way, and I shuffled into the house, hanging my head. If I could get into my room without making her angry, I might be able to enjoy a peaceful afternoon. I was about to walk into the hall when her voice stopped me.

“What’s that on your shoe?”

I glanced down. My shoes were made of white synthetic leather decorated with faint impressions of hearts on the sides and heels, and even though I kept them clean to avoid breaking the dress code, they weren’t the nicest in the world. Still, they didn’t look bad enough to explain the irritation in Aunt Beth’s voice.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Your left heel.”

I glanced down, and my chest tightened. During lunch, I had been sitting alone in the corner of the cafeteria. To make the time pass quicker, I had colored one of the hearts on my left shoe with a pink marker. I opened my mouth to tell Aunt Beth the school wouldn’t care if I had a tiny pink heart on my shoe, but she exploded in anger before I got the chance.

“I bought you those shoes. You’re supposed to wear them, not draw on them. What’s wrong with you?”

Frustration overwhelmed me.

“Who cares? They’re mine, aren’t they?”

She slammed the door, and my heart leaped into my throat.

“You haven’t worked a day in your life. What makes you think they’re yours?”

I was drowning.

“You gave them to me.”

“That doesn’t mean they’re yours. I’m sick of your attitude. You’re clearly determined to be rebellious, so go right ahead, but when you get yourself into trouble, don’t expect me to bail you out. God, you’re just like your sister.”

Her unprovoked assault on Natalie was too much. Tears burst from my eyes. I ran into my room and collapsed on my bed. She didn’t pursue me. I cried until I couldn’t breathe, and after I was exhausted, I lay there with a throbbing head and stared through blurry eyes at the wall. I thought about the two long years that lay ahead of me before I could leave, and despair filled my heart.

“Natalie, how am I supposed to survive?” I mumbled.

My phone pinged. Without getting up, I groped around in my backpack and finally pulled it out. I saw a message from a number I didn’t recognize, and when I read it, a chill ran down my spine. It couldn’t be true, but there it was:

“Hi, Maya. It’s Natalie.”

***

Thank you for reading the beginning of Natalie’s Storm. I’m currently finishing the first draft, and I can’t wait to share the final product with you! I would love to hear what you think about the story so far. Also, if you’re interested in reading an early draft of the story and giving me your opinion about it, please let me know. I worked with beta readers when I wrote Lakewood Lodge, and it was a great experience. I would be delighted to have your input while I write this exciting story!

Marian

P.S. I hope you never have to deal with a hurricane. It’s not fun.