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Show Twisters . . . 49 in the laundry room with Stacey directing us. The window there had blown out clean as a whistle, frame and all, and the washing machine gave us something to stand on. In no time we were at ground level shining our lights over the unbelievable rubble. Our yard looked like a World War II battlefield. Dad's prized white Corvette lay on its top next to the flattened garage like a discarded matchbox toy. Somewhere under that trash heap, I knew, was my bike. My beloved ten-speed racer. When I saw our big maple tree-uprooted and stripped clean-on its side where we'd been watching "Happy Days" so shortly before, I really hit rock bottom. Hooked on one branch was a scrap of lavender cloth. I guess seeing that top half of Grandma's birthday dress snapping and twisting in the wind made me sadder than anything. It was like . . , . . . well . . . like seeing unfinished dreams, I guess. "The whole neighborhood's gone," Stacey said, flashing onto the scrambled walls of the house next door, then onto a section of roof lying across our driveway. Wreckage was scattered in every direction as far as we could see. Stacey handed me the torch so she could snap her dad's big denim jacket around Ryan. "Stacey, I have to find my mom," I blurted out suddenly. "What do you m e a n ? Don't you know where she is? I thought you were tending." I could feel the corners of my mouth pulling down. I turned away, so Arthur had to tell her for me. When he finished he asked Stacey if she could take Ryan to their house so the two of us could go look for Mom. |
