Page 8 of No Judgements

I wondered why Caleb hadn’t mentioned it, although it didn’t take a genius to know why: because then he’d have to admit his friend wasn’t perfect after all, and that he’d been wrong to say I’d “overreacted” about what had happened.

Unfortunately, my mother went on:

And I know you think you don’t need to listen to me anymore after that ridiculous genealogy test. But there are some bonds that are stronger than DNA, Sabrina. What about the fact that I carried you around in my womb for nine months, and breast-fed you for six? Do those things count for nothing?

I hit delete without listening to the rest. I’d heard enough. I loved my mother—and I did consider her my mother, even if we weren’t genetically related. She was the woman who’d given birth to me and raised me.

But sometimes she was a little much.

Since it was hard to concentrate on anything with all the drilling going on outside—and the throbbing going on in my head now that I’d listened to Justine’s messages—I decided to go to the store to buy the supplies Daniella had recommended.

So, after carefully checking that Sonny was not right outside my bathroom window—he was a sweet boy, and not at all the Peeping Tom type, but I didn’t want to flagrantly strip in front of him—I showered, washing the smell of bacon from my shoulder-length pink hair (it had been blond for most of my life, but on impulse I’d asked Daniella to help me dye it: new life, new hair), then changed from my work clothes into shorts and a T-shirt, and finally opened the front door to my apartment.

Sonny was carefully drilling a precut steel shutter to the front window of my apartment. The sunshine poured brightly into the front courtyard—my apartment was one of three other identical two-bedrooms, all built in Spanish-style stucco around a single decoratively tiled courtyard, in the center of which grew a large frangipani tree, currently in full bloom.

Gary, who could not resist any opportunity to both lounge in the sun and greet a visitor, darted past me to fling himself against Sonny’s bare legs.

“Oh, hi, Bree.” Sonny bent down to stroke Gary’s ears. “Did you hear about the new version ofBattlefront? They just put a new edition out this week. I’m already up to level sixty-eight.”

“No,” I said. “I can’t say I knew about that. I’m more concerned about this hurricane. Do you think it’s going to hit us?”

“Oh, no,” Sonny said dismissively, straightening up. “But my mom is making us evacuate to Orlando anyway.”

“But you don’t think it’s coming here?” I felt the alarm I’d been experiencing since watching the news—and listening to my mom’s message—growing. Maybe I was making a terrible mistake. Maybe all the people who’d left me those messages, including my mother, were right.

Except that, honestly, what did they know? None of them lived in the cone of uncertainty, or even knew what one was, really. If Drew Hartwell wasn’t evacuating (and he didn’t seem to be), why should I?

“Well, we were going to go to Orlando anyway,” Sonny explained. “They have a new park devoted toStar Wars. I want to see that! You know I’m up to level sixty-eight inBattlefront?”

“Yeah,” I said. “You mentioned that. So when are you two leaving?”

“Later tonight, I guess,” Sonny said. “As soon as she can find some gas. You know there’s no gas anywhere on the island? Except maybe the Shell over by the high school, she says. But there’s a three-hour wait.”

Oh. Well, so much for using Dani’s car. The impendinggasoline shortage was a problem they’d mentioned on the Weather Channel, but I hadn’t thought it was something that would affect Little Bridge... until now. A previous but much less powerful hurricane that had hit Texas and the Gulf side of Florida the week before had been causing fuel shortages all up and down the Keys and throughout much of the Southeast. I supposed I should feel lucky that the scooter I drove required only three dollars’ worth of fuel to fill the tank.

Not that you could evacuate from a Category 5 hurricane on a scooter. Well, you could, but you wouldn’t get very far.

“Wow,” I said to Sonny. “That’s tough. But I’m sure you two will get out of here in plenty of time.”

“Oh, yes,” Sonny said, looking unconcerned. “Hey, you can come if you want.”

“What?” I was shocked. “With you and your mom? To Orlando?”

“Yeah, why not? It will be a lot of fun! You like rides, don’t you?”

“Um.” If it had been any other guy, I’d have suspected him of hitting on me. But Sonny genuinely only cared about rides and games—of the amusement park variety. “That’s so sweet of you. Thanks so much for the offer. But I can’t, I’m afraid. I have to stay here to take care of Gary.”

He looked down at my cat, who now was lounging in the shade of the frangipani, Gary’s favorite place in the whole world, outside of my bed. A gecko—there were thousands, maybe millions of geckos, all over Little Bridge. You couldn’t seem to walk a foot down the sidewalk withoutnearly stepping on one of the small, fast-moving lizards—darted toward Gary, who swiped a lazy paw at it. The gecko darted safely away.

“Oh, right,” Sonny said. “They don’t allow pets at Disney. Or at least, not the hotel where we’re staying. That’s why we’ve got to leave R2-D2 and C-3PO at home.”

R2-D2 and C-3PO were Sonny’s pet guinea pigs, of which he was not only inordinately fond, but quite proud. He spent hours every day brushing and caring for them.

“But you have someone to look after them while you’re gone, don’t you?” I asked.

“Oh, yes,” he said. “My cousin Sean said he’d come over. He can’t evacuate because he works for the electric company, and they need him here to turn the electricity back on if it goes out.”

I knew Sonny’s cousin Sean Petrovich. He performed the more complicated repairs around the building.