Hurricane Season by Nicole Melleby

Author:Nicole Melleby
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Algonquin Books
Published: 2019-06-01T16:00:00+00:00

When Fig got home from school, Mark was outside her house, mowing the lawn. “Why’re you doing that?” she asked.

He wiped at his forehead and turned the mower off. “Just helping out. I have to do mine anyway.”

“Is my dad home?” She cut to the chase. “Did you two go to the doctor?”

Mark leaned up against the lawn mower and smiled at her. “We did. He’s inside resting now. He was pretty exhausted when we got back. Try and let him sleep some, okay?”

“I always let him sleep when he needs to,” Fig said with a slight frown. “What’d the doctor say? Is he going to be okay? Can they help him? What’s going to happen?”

Mark glanced toward the front door before looking back at Fig. “Your dad wants to talk to you about all that, Fig. Let him rest, and he’ll explain it all to you.”

“You can’t just tell me?”

Mark sighed. “It’s really between you and your dad.”

If that was true, then he and I would be the ones to know, and you’d be on the outside.

Fig tugged her earlobe. Mark reached forward to pull her hand away, but Fig flinched and pushed him away. “Don’t touch me.”

He froze, his hands in the air. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to . . .” He stopped and took a deep breath. “What can I do to get you to trust me, Fig?”

She didn’t know how to answer that. He had shaved her dad’s face. He had helped at the museum. He stayed when her dad needed him, and helped him call doctors, and went with him to the appointments. He saved him from that storm.

Fig shrugged, slumping her shoulders as she looked down at her shoes. “I’m sorry.”

Mark shook his head. “Don’t be sorry.”

She stood there with him for another moment. Fallen leaves blew around the lawn along with the newly cut grass blades. The crisp air caused Fig to shiver. Mark kept looking at her, and she almost—almost—told him everything. About how much she hated CP&P and the random drug tests, and how mad she was at Miss Williams. About her art project that she finally started and wanted, more than anything, her dad to see. About how the kids at school were finally, maybe, treating her normal again. About how sometimes she wished her dad were more like Mark because sometimes she just wanted to be able to depend on somebody.

Instead, as she stood there, watching him in his work boots and gloves, with the sweat dripping down his forehead in the crisp fall air, Fig got an idea.

“You can start by letting me borrow your tool belt.”

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