Page 1 of The Storm

ONE

NICK

15 YEARS OLD

Just for the record,I’ve had a bad feeling about this trip from the start.

Mom says a change of scenery will be good for us, and then I’ll have something to share once school starts up again in the fall.

The radio is on low, and the wipers are still ticking even though it stopped raining a few miles ago. Mom’s gaze is aimed into the distance, her fingers clutching the steering wheel.

I’m slouched in the passenger seat, the collar of my T-shirt pulled high over my nose so only my eyes are visible, arms crossed over my chest. I inhale the scent of oranges. All my clothes smell like oranges from the homemade detergent Mom uses.

I reach out and turn the wipers off.

She glances at me and sends me a small, apologetic smile. All her smiles have been apologetic for a while now.

She reaches out and slides her fingers through my hair. She doesn’t tell me to sit up straight like she usually would. We’re both too distracted, and there’s nothing usual about the trip we’re taking today.

She keeps throwing those glances my way, and I keep moodily slouching deeper in the seat.

She sighs. “It’s going to be?—”

“Do we have to go?” The words fall out, even though I’ve been trying so hard to keep them locked inside me.

She sighs again and bites down on her lower lip.

This isn’t easy for either of us, I know that, and I told myself I wouldn’t make it harder.

So, that’s a fail.

I turn my head to the side and the collar of my T-shirt falls away from my nose.

“We’re doing fine,” I say.

A plea.

A promise.

She presses her lips into a thin line until they turn white.

“Baby,” she says gently.

“We’re doing fine,” I repeat. “We don’t need help from a bunch of strangers.”

She turns the already low music even lower. Talking takes effort nowadays.

“Everybody needs friends.” Her voice is steady, but she pauses afterward, breathing in through her nose. “It’s just… being proactive. They’re nice people.”

“How would you know? You said you haven’t seen them in forever.”

The road curves uphill. Mom leans forward in her seat and takes a slow, fortifying breath like she’s preparing to climb the hill on foot. Her exhale is long and careful, like she’s rationing air. When she speaks again, her words come out slower.

“They used to be. And she was nice on the phone. Eager.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t care,” I mutter. My heart gallops in my chest. It’s been going too fast for days now. Ever since Mom sprang this visit on me. I wish it wasn’t. I wish I didn’t care.

“It’s going to be okay.” She nods.