The remnants of hurricane Isabel are moving in. Outside, leaves are beginning to toss and flip on their stems; the house is creaking and rattling around me and I tell myself that these are just night noises, noises I have been too loud to hear before now, but I insist on believing that this is the way this place sounds before a storm.
I have taken down the umbrella and set heavy things on top of anything on the porch that might blow away. I have checked and double checked that the new windows are all sealed and locked. And yet in a part of my mind I’m already worrying about tomorrow—I’m supposed to drive to New House to help my parents unpack and then again to help my grandparents pack. (Must everyone I know have their things in boxes?) I keep saying to myself, I should have driven there tonight, while it’s quiet and not raining. To which I reply, But Carly’s sick and she shouldn’t be left alone, and the rain won’t be that bad, surely, and I really do want to sleep in.
Besides, being here in the quiet and ignoring my school books has allowed me to (maybe, almost, oh-please-let-it-be-true) write a story. We shall see.