Anna's Guide to Getting Even

Chapter 2

CHAPTER 1

November 10, 2018

The newscasters spent days repeating dire warnings most people ignored. After all, we’d made it through ninety-nine percent of hurricane season without any storms traveling anywhere near us. Early November wasn’t exactly known for its tropical weather in the tristate area. Still, as Mamá used to say, it’s better to be prepared por si las moscas por si las moscas, or just in case.

To avoid tempting fate, I stocked up on eggs, milk, and bread (as if I’d be making French toast in a storm), grabbed a box of strawberry-flavored toaster pastries for good measure, froze blocks of ice in plastic containers, and filled my bathtub with water. This basic nod at hurricane readiness seemed more than sufficient. It never occurred to me to cover the windows or anything like that.

When the storm hit, the entire northeastern seaboard realized the newscasters hadn’t been overreacting for once. Winds howled and shrieked, shaking the house. Rain obliterated the satellite signal to my television early in the evening. Soon thereafter, I cowered in the basement of my three-bedroom house with a battery-powered lantern from an old camping trip and Hermione, my roommate’s brown tabby cat.

The two of us huddled in the spot furthest from the row of tiny windows under a sea of blankets as the storm raged overhead. Not long after sunset, my house lost power. The dots of light provided by street lamps winked out at the same time. My phone provided a lifeline to the outer world for almost an hour before the service stopped working. At least the lantern gave off a steady glow.

Alone, scared, and bored, I unfairly cursed my roommate for not being with me. Tara was in the middle of nowhere, taking care of her sick mother. She lived in a tiny trailer with no TV, cell service, or Internet in one of those squarish-type states that started with a vowel. Tara probably would prefer to be with me, storm or no. If she even knew about the storm, isolated as she was.

Still, sitting alone in my basement listening to rain beating against the windows was no fun. My boyfriend, Jay, got stuck working late. By the time he left the office, the Mayor of New York City asked all residents to remain home unless absolutely necessary, keeping the roads clear for emergency vehicles. The last time I talked to him, Jay was about to walk the twelve blocks home to his loft apartment through a downpour so thick he couldn’t see five feet beyond the circle of his umbrella.

Thunder crashed overhead. A streak of lightning lit up the room before the roar ended. I shivered and rearranged my covers. Using my phone as a flashlight, I picked up one of about five dozen old copies of Forbes magazine stored in our basement. My own face smiled up at me from a sidebar on the cover. When the magazine ran its feature on “Up-and-Coming Executives Under Thirty-Five Years Old,” I’d warned Tara that my friends and family would read it online, but she insisted on buying all the hard copies she could find. At least Tara’s mother appreciated not having to drive thirty miles into town to read about me. The rest collected dust down here, in case the zombie apocalypse came and I needed a reminder of my old life or a way to start a fire.

The house shook, distracting me from reading about “No. 17: Katherine Ashcroft.” A lovely woman, by all accounts. I saw her at a networking event a while back, but we didn’t talk. To block out the storm, I sat trying to remember the name of her company. It worked until thunder crashed on top of me again. The rain hit the windows so forcefully, I double-checked the latches. Something banged against the roof. Cringing, I pressed my hands against my ears. The sounds of the storm grew louder, and Hermione squirmed closer against my chest, purring. The basement door rattled in its frame.

Another crash, followed by a bang. A siren wailed next to my ear. It took a moment to realize that the blaring sounded eerily like my car alarm. Uh-oh. Hopefully the wind, rather than a real problem.

I could turn the blasted thing off from where I sat. Except I’d left my car keys on the kitchen counter. Upstairs, beyond the safety of the basement.

For fifteen minutes, I sat listening, regretting my decision to pay for the extended battery. That thing would blast all night if no one shut it off. The salesman hadn’t been exaggerating. Putting my hands over my ears was about as effective as trying to put out a forest fire with a Dixie cup of water.

Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. With a sigh, I threw off my blankets. Hermione glared at me before tearing off toward a pile of stuff in the far corner. For her sake, I hoped it was quieter under there. My legs tingled after so much time on the concrete floor. I rubbed them, one at a time, while I willed myself to go deaf. When the feeling returned to my lower limbs and the alarm still blared behind me, I drew a deep breath, pulled myself upright, and told myself there was no reason not to venture into the house for a minute or two. I’d be perfectly safe.

My prosthetic left foot sat against the wall where I’d left it when Hermione and I settled in for the night. It wouldn’t take long to strap it on, but I couldn’t stand the thought of another single second listening to that siren. I’d hopped up the basement stairs before, I could do it again. The kitchen lay directly across from the basement door. Less than twenty feet of open space separated me from silence. Lots of windows, lots of potential for broken glass up there, but I had no choice. My shoes were also in the kitchen. Perhaps I should’ve shown the newscasters a little more respect.

A sturdy banister helped me to the top of the stairs. The basement door stuck, especially on humid days. Apparently, “humid” applied to hurricanes. I shoved with all my might. The wood didn’t budge. I tried again, with the same lack of results. On the third attempt, I braced my shoulder against the door, rested the bottom of my calf against the step, and slammed my full weight against the wood. The door opened—and whipped away from me. Without the support, I stumbled out into the hall, tripping over the top step. My palms and knees slammed against the ground, knocking the wind out of me.

The kitchen wasn’t overly large, and my keys hung from a hook between the French patio doors and the door to the garage. I braced myself against the gusts, wondering how many windows broke to create this wind tunnel in my hallway. Still, I needed to move forward. Either I turned that alarm off, or I’d lose my mind by morning. With a deep breath, I started across the kitchen floor as quickly as I could.

Before I made it two feet into the room, I came to a dead stop.

“¡Dios mio!”

The wind slapped my face, tearing the words from my mouth. Water drenched my hair and clothes. Shivers immediately followed. Surprised, I glanced toward the glass doors. The panes weren’t broken. They weren’t there at all. Neither were the doors. Or the walls, or the kitchen, or the roof. I stood, shivering, in the middle of the storm, surrounded by granite countertops, peering through the sheets of rain at our beautiful old oak tree, which lay across my newly topless Infiniti, alarm still blaring.

~ * ~

By the time the winds died down and the rain slowed, my phone’s battery had long since crapped out. The moon finally peeked through the clouds, sending streaks of white light through the miraculously-still-intact basement windows. I lay huddled in the blankets, wishing for the warmth of the traitor cat that still lurked somewhere in the depths of the basement. I managed a couple of hours of fitful sleep by the time the sun peeked over the horizon.

My first hysterical thought upon opening my eyes was, “I’m going to be late for work.” Of course I was. I also wasn’t likely to make it at all, since the storm smashed the roof of my car in and whisked away my kitchen. I didn’t even know if the house still contained my closet. If not, the only thing I had to wear, other than my navy blue sweatpants and Yankees t-shirt, sat folded in a box of Halloween costumes we stored in the basement. The idea of showing up at work dressed as Slutty Cop brought a ghost of a smile to my lips.

Ugh.

I forced myself to sit up and reached for my prosthetic.

“Mwar?”

“Hey, sweetie.” Now that the danger passed, Hermione was more than happy to rub against my legs and accept petting until I remembered my obligation to feed her. One problem: we stored the cat food in the kitchen. Which could be somewhere over the rainbow by now.

I picked her up and rubbed my face against her soft fur. She purred. An answering rumble from my stomach reminded me that I hadn’t eaten, either. “Let’s see if Mother Nature left us anything in the fridge. Or a fridge.”

Talking to the cat soothed me. I kept up a constant stream of chatter while I found my phone in the tangle of blankets, plugged it in, confirmed that the power remained out, and headed upstairs to assess the damage.

“Well, Hermione, it appears that we lost the kitchen. Luckily, we still have a fridge.” It lay on its side, and the cord dangled uselessly down the back, plug no longer attached, but I did have a refrigerator. “You like three-day-old burrito, right?”

“Mwar?”

Gingerly, I opened the door, thankful at least that the side with the handle landed on top. A tangle of condiments lay against the far wall, most of the containers still intact. On the top shelf, several plastic containers created a haphazard pyramid. Grabbing the top one, I pulled out a chunk of ground beef, wiped off the rice, and offered it to the cat while I kept digging. “Old lunch meat?”

She stood on her back legs when I opened the package, so I dropped a slice on the floor and grabbed a second for myself while I explored the rest of the house to assess the damage. The spare room, naturally, seemed more or less untouched.

Pretending I wandered someone else’s home was the only thing holding me together at the moment, so I held my head high and tried to imagine an invisible realtor leading me on a tour…of a very water-logged house owned by a messy homeowner.

Not much happened to the bathroom, other than a pile of broken glass in the tub and the complete lack of hot water. I shrugged and shut the door to keep Hermione out before moving on. Then I stood for a long time, surveying Tara’s room, delaying the moment before facing my own. I refused to allow myself to think about what I might find behind my closed door.

My best friend’s room always looked like a hurricane hit it. Truly, I couldn’t tell the difference until I spotted the puddles. Or, I wouldn’t have, if the roof had been attached. Instead, sunlight streamed into every corner of the room as if mocking Tara for spending three hundred dollars on blackout curtains she never opened. My lips twitched upward when I realized the curtains themselves still lay perfectly in place, not even ruffled by the winds. Too bad she wasn’t here. She’d appreciate the irony.

Finally, I turned to my room, on the same side of the house as the kitchen. As the missing pantry. The bedroom window five feet from my smashed car.

The door wouldn’t open. With one shoulder braced against the wood, my hand tightened on the knob. I shoved as hard as I could. For my efforts, the door moved an inch. Something brushed against my face. I screamed and jumped before realizing it was only a tree branch. A branch with no business in my bedroom. Wonderful.

The door wasn’t budging, so I abandoned my bedroom and continued my exploration. I felt nothing. Somewhere, deep inside, shock numbed my emotions, kept me from feeling the brunt of the pain.

My feet carried me from one room to the next as my eyes took in damage that my mind refused to process. Shattered windows. Shards of broken glass everywhere. Plaster coating every surface. A soaked couch in the dining room. Something soggy touched my right foot. I jumped, then realized it was a scrap of paper.