Teardrop

5 STORMED OUT

Cat Estes had a particular way of arching her left eyebrow and parking one hand on her hip, which Eureka knew meant Dish. Her best friend had a splash of big, dark freckles across her nose, a charming gap between her two front teeth, curves in all sorts of places Eureka didn’t, and highlighted hair braided in thick pigtails.

Cat and Eureka lived in the same neighborhood near campus. Cat’s father was a professor of African American studies at the university. Cat and her younger brother, Barney, were the only two black kids at Evangeline.

When Cat spotted Eureka—head ducked, sprinting away from Ander’s truck in an attempt not to be noticed by Coach—she capped the tirade she’d been directing at the sophomore uniform-violators. Eureka heard her order the girls to do fifty push-ups on their knuckles before she swiveled past them.

“Part the seas, please!” Cat shouted as she plowed through a group of freshman boys staging a lightsaber battle with triangular paper cups. Cat was a sprinter; she caught Eureka’s arm just before Eureka ducked into the locker room. She wasn’t even out of breath.

“You’re back on the team?”

“I told Coach I’d run today,” Eureka said. “I don’t want to make it a big deal.”

“Sure.” Cat nodded. “We have other things to talk about anyway.” The left eyebrow rose to an astonishing height. The hand slid up the hip.

“You want to know about the guy in the truck,” Eureka guessed, swinging open the heavy gray door and pulling her friend inside.

The locker room was empty, but the lingering presence of heat and hormones brought on by so many teenage girls was palpable. Half-open lockers spilled hair dryers, foundation-stained cosmetics cases, and blue sticks of deodorant onto the tan tiled floor. Various items of Evangeline’s lenient dress code lay haphazardly on every surface. Eureka hadn’t been in here yet this year, but she could easily picture how that skirt got flung across that locker door in the midst of a conversation about a horrible religion exam, or how those oxfords had been unlaced while someone whispered to a friend about a game of Spin the Bottle the Saturday before.

Eureka used to love locker-room gossip; it was as elemental to being on the team as running. Today she was relieved to change in an empty locker room, even if it meant she had to hustle. She dropped her bag and kicked off her shoes.

“Um, yeah, I want to know about the guy in the truck.”

Cat pulled Eureka’s running shorts and polo shirt out of her bag helpfully. “And what happened to your face?” She gestured at the airbag scrapes on Eureka’s cheekbone and nose. “You’d better get your story straight for Coach.”

Eureka flipped her head upside down to gather her long hair into a ponytail. “I already told her I had a doctor’s appointment and might be a little late—”

“A lotta late.” Cat extended her bare legs across the bench and reached for her toes, settling into a deep stretch. “Forget that. What’s the story with Monsieur Stud?”

“He’s a moron,” Eureka lied. Ander wasn’t a moron. He was unusual, hard to read, but not a moron. “He hit me at a stop sign. I’m fine,” she added quickly. “Just these scrapes.” She ran a finger along her tender cheekbone. “But Magda’s totaled. I had to get her towed.”

“Ew, no.” Cat scrunched up her face. “Cory Statutory?” She wasn’t from New Iberia; she’d lived in the same nice house in Lafayette her whole life. But she’d spent enough time in Eureka’s hometown to know the local cast of characters.

Eureka nodded. “He offered to give me a ride, but I wasn’t going to—”

“No way.” Cat understood the impossibility of riding shotgun in Cory’s truck. She shuddered, shaking her head so that her braids whopped her face. “At least Crash—can we call him Crash? Least he gave you a ride.”

Eureka tugged her shirt over her head and tucked it into her shorts. She started lacing up her running shoes. “His name is Ander. And nothing happened.”

“ ‘Crash’ sounds better.” Cat squirted sunscreen into her palm and brushed it lightly across Eureka’s face, careful of her scrapes.

“He goes to Manor, that’s why he drove me here. I’ll be racing against him in a few minutes, and I’ll probably suck because I’m not warmed up.”

“Ooh, it’s sooo race-y.” Suddenly Cat was in her own world, making big hand gestures. “I’m seeing the adrenaline high of the run transforming into burning passion at the finish line. I’m seeing sweat. I’m seeing steam. Love that ‘goes the distance’ ”—

“Cat,” Eureka said. “Enough. What is it with people trying to hook me up today?”

Cat followed Eureka toward the door. “I try to hook you up every day. What’s the point of calendars without dates?”

For such a smart, tough girl—Cat had a blue belt in karate, spoke non-Cajun French with an enviable accent, got a scholarship the previous summer to a molecular biology camp at LSU—Eureka’s best friend was also a horn-dog romantic. Most kids at Evangeline didn’t know how smart she was because her boy-craziness tended to obscure it. She met guys on her way to the bathroom at the movies, didn’t own a bra that wasn’t full-on lace, and really was trying to fix up everyone she knew all the time. Once, in New Orleans, Cat had even tried to put two homeless people together in Jackson Square.

“Wait”—Cat stopped and tilted her head at Eureka—“who else was trying to set you up? That’s my specialty.”

Eureka pressed on the metal bar to open the door and stepped out into the humid late afternoon. Low, green-gray clouds still coated the sky. The air had the smell of aching to be a storm. To the west was an alluring pocket of clearness where Eureka could see the sun sneaking lower, turning the sliver of cloud-bare sky a deep shade of violet.

“My wonderful new shrink thinks I have the hots for Brooks,” Eureka said.

At the far end of the field, Coach’s whistle drew the rest of the team together under the rusted football upright. The visiting team from Manor was gathering in the other end zone. Eureka and Cat would have to pass them, which made Eureka nervous, though she didn’t see Ander yet. The girls jogged toward their team, aiming to slide in unnoticed at the back of the huddle.

“You and Brooks?” Cat feigned amazement. “I’m shocked. I mean, I’m just—well, stunned is what I am.”

“Cat.” Eureka used her serious voice, which made Cat stop jogging. “My mom.”

“I know.” Cat enveloped Eureka and squeezed. She had skinny arms, but her hugs were mighty.

They’d paused at the bleachers, two long rows of rusty benches on either side of the track. Eureka could hear Coach talking about pacing, the regional meet next month, finding the right position at the starting arc. If Eureka were captain, she’d be talking the team through these topics. She knew prerace drill backward in her sleep, but she couldn’t imagine standing up there anymore, saying anything with certainty.

“You’re not ready to think about boys yet,” Cat said into Eureka’s ponytail. “Stupid Cat.”

“Don’t you start crying.” Eureka squeezed Cat harder.

“Okay, okay.” Cat sniffed and pulled away. “I know you hate it when I cry.”

Eureka flinched. “I don’t hate it when you—” She broke off. Her eye caught Ander’s as he was coming out of the visitors’ locker room on the other side of the track. His uniform didn’t quite match the other kids’—his yellow collar looked bleached; his shorts were shorter than those worn by the rest of the team. The uniform seemed dated, like the ones in the fading photographs of cross-country teams of yesteryear that lined the walls of the gym. Maybe it was a hand-me-down from an older brother, but it looked like the kind of thing you picked up at the Salvation Army after some kid graduated and his mom cleaned out his closet so she’d have more room for shoes.

Ander watched Eureka, oblivious to all else around him: his team in the end zone, pregnant clouds pressing closer in the sky, how peculiar it was to stare like that. He didn’t seem to realize it was unusual. Or maybe he didn’t care.

Eureka did. She dropped her eyes, blushing. She started to jog again. She remembered the sensation of that tear gathering in the corner of her eye, the astonishing touch of his finger against the side of her nose. Why had she cried on the road that afternoon when she hadn’t been tempted to cry at her own mother’s funeral? She hadn’t cried when they’d kept her locked up in that asylum for two weeks. She hadn’t cried since … the night Diana had slapped her and moved out of the house.

“Uh-oh,” Cat said.

“Don’t stare back at him,” Eureka muttered, certain Cat was referring to Ander.

“Him who?” Cat whispered. “I’m talking about Sorceress over there. Don’t engage and she might not see us. Don’t look, Eureka, don’t—”

You can’t not look when someone tells you not to, but one swift glance made Eureka regret it.

“Too late,” Cat mumbled.

“Boudreaux.”

Eureka’s last name seemed to shudder like a shock wave across the field.

Maya Cayce had a voice as deep as a teenage boy’s—it could fool you until you caught a glimpse of her face. Some never fully recovered from that first glimpse. Maya Cayce was extraordinary, with thick, dark hair that hung in loose waves all the way down to her waist. She was notorious for her fast clip down the hallways at school, her surprising, slender grace thanks to legs that stretched for decades. Her smooth, bright skin bore ten of the most intricately beautiful tattoos Eureka had ever seen—including a braid of three different feathers running down her forearm, a small cameo-style portrait of her mother on her shoulder, and a peacock inside a peacock feather underneath her collarbone—all of which she’d designed herself and had done at a place called Electric Ladyland in New Orleans. She was a senior, a roller-skater, a rumored Wiccan, a transcender of all cliques, a contralto in the choir, a state-champion equestrian, and she hated Eureka Boudreaux.

“Maya.” Eureka nodded but didn’t slow down.

In her peripheral vision, Eureka sensed Maya Cayce rising from the edge of the bleachers. She saw the black blur of the girl taking long strides to stop in front of her.

Eureka skidded to avoid a collision. “Yes?”

“Where is he?” Maya wore a micro-length, flowy black dress with extra-long, extra-flared bell sleeves, and no makeup, save for a coat of black mascara. She batted her eyes.

She was looking for Brooks. She was always looking for Brooks. How she could still be hung up on Eureka’s oldest friend after they’d been out but twice last year was one of the galaxy’s most inscrutable mysteries. Brooks was boy-next-door sweet. Maya Cayce was spellbinding. And yet, somehow, she was deranged for the boy.

“I haven’t seen him,” Eureka said. “Perhaps you’ve noticed that I’m on the cross-country team, which is about to begin a race?”

“We can maybe help you stalk him later.” Cat tried to angle past Maya, who was over a foot taller than Cat in her six-inch platform wedges. “Oh, wait, no, I’m busy tonight. Signed up for this webinar. Sorry, Maya, you’re on your own.”

Maya raised her chin, seeming to weigh whether to take this as an insult. If you studied her small, lovely features individually, she actually looked far younger than seventeen.

“I prefer to work alone.” Maya Cayce looked down her nose at Cat. Her perfume smelled like patchouli. “He mentioned he might stop by, and I thought Freak Show here”—she pointed at Eureka—“might have—”

“I haven’t.” Eureka remembered now that Brooks was the one person she’d confided in about her agreement with Coach. He hadn’t told her he’d planned on coming to the meet, but it was a sweet gesture if he was. Sweet until you added Maya Cayce; then things soured.

As Eureka pushed past, something swatted the back of her head, just above her ponytail. Slowly she spun around to see Maya Cayce’s palm retreat. Eureka’s cheeks blazed. Her head stung, but her pride ached. “Is there something you want to say, Maya, maybe to my face?”

“Oh.” Maya Cayce’s husky voice softened, sweetened. “You had a mosquito on your scalp. You know they carry diseases, flock to standing water.”

Cat snorted, grabbing Eureka’s hand and pulling her down the field. She called over her shoulder: “You’re malarious, Maya! Call us when you get a stand-up gig.”

The sad thing was, Eureka and Maya used to be friends, before they’d started Evangeline, before Maya had entered puberty a dark-haired angel and exited an unapproachable Goth goddess. They used to be two seven-year-old girls taking theater at the university summer camp. They’d traded lunches every day—Eureka would swap Dad’s elaborate turkey clubs for Maya’s white bread PB&Js in a heartbeat. But she doubted Maya Cayce remembered that.

“Estes!” The shrill screech of Coach Spence—Eureka knew it well.

“Let’s do it, Coach,” Cat responded with zest.

“Loved your pep talk,” Coach barked to Cat. “Next time try to be a little more present for it?” Before Coach could rail on any further, she spotted Eureka at Cat’s side. Her grimace didn’t soften, but her voice did. “Glad you’re here, Boudreaux,” she called past the other students’ turning heads. “Just in time for a quick yearbook picture before the race.”

Everyone’s eyes were on Eureka. She was still flushed from her interaction with Maya, and the weight of so many gazes made her claustrophobic. A few of her teammates whispered, like Eureka was bad luck. Kids who used to be her friends were scared of her now. Maybe they didn’t want her back.

Eureka felt tricked. A yearbook picture hadn’t been part of her deal with Coach. She saw the photographer, a man in his fifties with a short black ponytail, setting up a massive flash apparatus. She imagined huddling into one of the lines alongside these other kids, the bright light going off in her face. She imagined the photo being printed in three hundred yearbooks, imagined future generations flipping the pages. Before the accident, Eureka never thought twice about posing for the camera; her face contorted into smiles, smirks, and air kisses all over friends’ Facebook and Instagram pages. But now?

The permanence this single photo would imply made Eureka feel like an imposter. It made her want to run away. She had to quit the team right now, before there was any documentation that she’d intended to run this year. She imagined the lie of her high school résumé—Latin Club, cross-country team, a list of honors classes. Survivor’s guilt, the one extracurricular activity Eureka was invested in, was nowhere in that file. She stiffened so it wouldn’t be obvious she was shaking.

Cat’s hand was on her shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

“I can’t be in this picture.”

“What’s the big deal?”

Eureka took a few steps backward. “I just can’t.”

“It’s only a picture.”

Eureka’s and Cat’s eyes lifted skyward as the sharpest crack of thunder shook the field. A wall of cloud burst open over the track. It began to pour.

“Just perfect!” Coach shouted at the sky. The photographer raced to cover his equipment with a thin wool blazer. The team around Eureka scattered like ants. Through the rain, Eureka met Coach’s steely eyes. Slowly she shook her head. I’m sorry, it meant, this time I really quit.

Caught in the storm, some kids were laughing. Others shrieked. Within moments, Eureka was soaked. At first the rain was cold on her skin, but after she was drenched, her body warmed the way it did when she was swimming.

She could hardly see across the field. Sheets of rain looked like chain mail. The triple tweet of a whistle sounded from the huddle of the Manor kids. Coach Spence triple whistled back. It was official: the storm had won the meet.

“Everybody back inside!” Coach bellowed, but the team was already sprinting for the locker room.

Eureka sloshed through mud. She’d lost Cat. Halfway across the field, something shimmered in the corner of her eye. She turned to see a boy standing there alone, gazing up into the torrent.

It was Ander. She didn’t understand how she could see him clearly when the world around her had become Niagara Falls. Then she noticed something strange:

Ander wasn’t wet. Rain cascaded around him, pummeling the mud at his feet. But his hair, his clothes, his hands, his face were as dry as they had been when he stood on the dirt road and reached out to catch her tear.