Chapter 5
The shopping list my mom just texted me is basically a clone of what the news has been telling everyone to stock up on in preparation of the hurricane. Water, non-perishable food, batteries for flashlights, games or puzzles to keep busy if the power stays off too long, ice for coolers, etc. I didn’t need her to text me this list. I’ve grown up in Texas, and I’ve seen the hurricane warnings every single year when hurricane season rolls around. I know the drill. The thing is, up until now, the drill didn’t matter much because my parents were here taking care of it. Now it’s just me.
The only good news is that the landlord called my parents again and said not to worry about the plywood for the windows, because he’ll get home in time to do it himself. So that’s one thing on my list that I can cross off. I text Ethan and tell him not to come over just yet because I have to run to the store first.
April texts me as I’m getting my shoes on before I head to the grocery store. It’s just a few picture messages, instead of words.
The first one is a picture of the grocery store aisle that sells water. It’s almost completely gone, and there’s a store employee on a forklift with a pallet of water right there in the middle of the aisle. I guess he’s reloading from the stock they have in the back. The second photo shows the bread aisle, totally empty except for a few expensive fancy brands of bread that no one ever wants. The third photo is of the check out lines, and I can see that all twelve of them are packed, with probably twenty people in each line waiting to be checked out.
I drop to the couch as I take in the magnitude of her photos. Another text from her comes in.
April:This is insane. There’s like no supplies left at all. Mom wants to try a store further away.
I look at my shopping list and then back to my phone. Dammit. There’s no reason for me to go now, especially since the shelves are already empty. I head into the kitchen and open the fridge, taking mental inventory of the contents. We have a few bottles of water, lots of soda and tea. In the pantry, I find an unopened case of bottled water, and enough food to last me a few days. I’m probably fine since it’s only me, and not a huge family who has to hunker down here until the storm passes.
With a sigh of relief, I text April back.
Me:That’s crazy! I have enough stuff at home so I’m just going to stay here and avoid the stores.
I don’t bother telling my parents that I’m not following their advice because I don’t want them to worry. Funny how they went running into the face of danger to help out, and they ended up leaving where the danger is supposed to hit. I go back to the kitchen and turn on the news to see where exactly this hurricane is supposed to land. If we’re just on the outskirts of it then my party can still happen. We’ll just party indoors at Ethan’s house to avoid the rain.
I have to mess with the antenna on our TV stand for a while until the local news station comes in clearly. Finally, it stops being blurry and I turn up the volume. The news is showing footage of the local grocery stores and how they’re emptying out. I snort. People are so annoying when it comes to hurricanes. They freak out and buy way too much stuff. I kick off my shoes and lay back on the couch, waiting for the weather report to come on. I’m anxious and excited for this party on Friday and I really hope we don’t have to call it off. April and I have put in way too much planning for it to all be for nothing. This will be my last fun night wit Ethan, and I need to make it count.
My phone blares out a high pitched wail. I jump, not expecting to hear such a sharp warning sound from my phone. It’s never made this sound before. I look at the screen and see EXTREME WEATHER ALERT pop up on the home screen. But at the same time, the news on the TV makes a warning beep as well.
A blue banner scrolls across the bottom of the TV screen, warning about extreme weather and mandatory evacuations. Above it, our local news anchors sit at their desks. They talk about how the hurricane has switched course unexpectedly and is now headed for Texas, instead of Louisiana. They say there’s now voluntary evacuations for some areas and mandatory orders for others. I glance back down at the scrolling marquee, which is listing counties and cities that have to be evacuated. Most of them are closer to the coast, which makes sense.
I bolt up straight when the next word scrolls across the screen: Hockley.
Is quint my eyes and lean closer to the TV, because even though the reception is clear and my vision is perfect, I am certain I saw it wrong.
There’s no way it’s saying Hockley, Texas is in a mandatory evacuation zone. But it is.
My mouth falls open as my town scrolls across the screen again. I look down at my phone and read the full text of the weather alert. It also has my town’s name. And my zip code. And the words: MANDATORY EVACTUATION.
What the hell am I supposed to do now?
I am temporarily frozen with indecision. Just a few months ago, I heard the wail of an emergency siren at school and had to shelter in place in the hallways while a tornado ravaged my house and my town. Now, a hurricane is coming for us. I breathe out slowly, my heart still pounding despite the calming gesture. At least my parents are safe in another state.
At least that’s a good thing.
My phone rings, and I’m relieved to see Ethan’s name on the screen. He’ll know what to do.
“Hey,” I say, breathlessly even though I’m just sitting here. Being told the government is making you evacuate takes a lot out of a person. “What the hell are we supposed to do?” I ask.
“It’s okay,” Ethan says, his voice calm. “My parents just reserved a hotel room suite with three bedrooms in De Sota. There’s room for you to come with us.”
I don’t know much about De Sota, Texas, but I have seen it on the map when I looked up the route to my new college in Dallas. It’s far enough north of here that it’ll be out of harm’s way when the hurricane hits. I breathe a little easier now. Ethan’s parents can afford the hotel cost, even if I can’t. Even if my parents can’t.
“Okay, that’s good.” I glance at the TV screen where the news anchors are now dishing out advice for prepping your house before a hurricane. Ironically, I don’t really care about this house. It’s not like we own it, and the person who does own it has insurance.
Ethan continues, “Pack up your stuff, and we’ll be leaving in about half an hour. I have to take in the yard furniture and help board up the windows and stuff. Do you want me to come get you?”
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “I’ll drive myself to the hotel.”
“Ella,” Ethan says hesitantly. “Wouldn’t you rather ride with me? It’s a three hour trip. It’ll be boring alone.”
I shake my head again even though he can’t see me. My dad lost his truck in the tornado and this stupid Corolla is all he has left. I’m not leaving it here so the hurricane can throw a tree through the windshield. “I’ll drive myself, but I’ll follow behind you.”
