The Beau & the Belle
Page 19
“You don’t know what you’re doing. This isn’t a good idea.”
“I won’t tell anyone. No one will know.”
His eyes open again and they aren’t gunmetal blue now—they’re black. “I’ll know, Lauren!” he booms. “I’ll know. The storm is coming—you’re just scared. You’re not thinking straight.”
I’m angry now, fisting my hands by my sides. “I am thinking—god, you don’t have to be so fucking condescending!” For the first time I hear the slight shrill to my voice, the desperate plea. My cheeks redden and for a quick moment, I see myself from his perspective: I’m a simpering fool.
“I hate you,” I say, and it feels so indulgent that I say it a second time. “I hate you!”
He glances down at the floor. “That’s fine, Lauren. I’ll be the bad guy if it convinces you to stop trying to grow up so fast. You’re only innocent and young once.”
Innocent and young.
I sneer and step toward him. His assessment makes me want to rage and rebel. I want to dip my blonde curls in a vat of black dye. I want to rip and tear the unblemished skin he seems to hold in such high regard. For the last few months, I’ve listened to Rose go on and on about what it’s like to be felt and touched like a woman, but I’m done listening. I want Beau to enlighten me, to give me a kiss I can cling to as we drive away from the city.
“Lauren!” my dad calls from the front of the property. “Are you out here?”
They’re looking for me.
Beau’s attention sweeps out the door and his jaw tightens. I know he doesn’t want to get caught.
I brush past him and he doesn’t try to stop me.
My mom sees me as I step outside and relief floods her features. She doesn’t even think twice about the fact that I just walked out of Beau’s apartment. She probably assumes I was telling him goodbye, and that’s exactly what it was—a big, fat adi-fucking-os.
“Are you ready, hun? We really need to go.” I nod and her gaze sweeps past me. “Beau, you’d better leave soon too. The roads are only going to get worse.”
“In a minute,” he says behind me. “I’m almost done packing.”
She nods. “All right, well make sure to lock the gate when you’re done. I’m sure we’ll all be back here in a few days, but stay safe all the same and let us know when you get to your mom’s place.”
“Thank you, ma’am. I will.”
That polite farewell is the last I hear from Beau before we load up and drive away from our house. I sit in silence in the back of my dad’s Range Rover, watching as the outermost bands of the swirling tempest start to cut across our city.
The storm is here.
IT TAKES 18 hours to reach Houston. Most of the gas stations along the way have placed apologetic signs near the road—OUT OF GAS, DRY TANK, KEEP GOING. We wait at one for a few hours after hearing from the attendant that a resupply is en route. Finally, a giant gas-toting truck escorted by two Louisiana state troopers pulls in to a chorus of cheers and applause. Even still, we’re running on fumes when we make it to my aunt’s house, where we hunker down in the living room and watch Hurricane Audrey’s destruction. She tears into New Orleans with all the expected fury, bringing sustained winds of over 150 mph. Tidal surges inundate the French Quarter. For those who were unable or unwilling to evacuate, there is no electricity, no running water. Emergency personnel work overtime carrying out risky rescue operations. We don’t sleep for two days, abandoning our circadian rhythms in favor of the nerve-racking swell of the 24-hour news cycle.
Beau calls my parents the night after the hurricane hits. He and his mom stayed at her house, but now with food and gas shortages, they’re planning on heading north to stay with a family friend. I hear his voice on the other end of the phone line and I press closer to my mom, imagining that he’s calling to talk to me and not her. Ask if he wants to talk to me, I mouth, but my mom doesn’t see me and they hang up before I can ask to talk to him.
Three days after the storm, news crews tout Hurricane Audrey as the single worst natural disaster in American history. The city was prepared for storm surges and wind, but there was no way to fortify against the unrelenting rain. The fast-moving storm that raced landward stopped on a dime over the city, where it hovers as if held by some malevolent god. The squall picks up trillions of gallons of warm gulf moisture and dumps it over the region. Reports surface every hour and we all grow numb to the damage: Mississippi River 50 feet over its banks. Roads impassable. Millions without power. No one is able to get in or out of the Crescent City.
Mayor Westcott urges citizens to stay put until officials can assess the damage. Emergency crews are still at work. Boats, then buses ferry people away from New Orleans to surrounding regions. Houston becomes a hub for evacuees. My mom and I volunteer at the George R. Brown Convention Center, trying to help families who weren’t as fortunate. Initial reports promise that most of the Garden District was spared. That means we can potentially go home soon. Beau can go back to living in our apartment.
I live off of that hope for another week, and then my world shifts yet again.
Even though most of our neighborhood was spared, my school wasn’t. The first floor of McGehee took in a significant amount of water and they’ve closed it indefinitely for repairs. A sister boarding school in Connecticut reaches out and partners with McGehee, agreeing to take in any displaced students to minimize educational disruption. My parents sit me down at my aunt’s dining room table so we can have a frank conversation about what I’ll do. My dad’s job means they have to get back to New Orleans as soon as possible, but I won’t be going with them.
This boarding school is the best option, they tell me. You can’t continue to fall behind in your junior year.
I fight for a public school back in New Orleans, a different private school, anything that takes me back to the city, but it doesn’t make sense. Most of the public schools are shut down or overburdened as well. Students are being shuffled all over the state. The news reports New Orleanians have affected the largest diaspora ever in the United States. I tell them I don’t even know what that word means.
For days, we argue about what I’m going to do. They don’t understand why I’m protesting so much. Rose will be attending the same boarding school, as well as a few of my other friends from McGehee. They want me to look at it like it’s an adventure, but I keep thinking about Beau. It’s not that I really think he and I will ever be something, but I like him and I liked being around him. It would feel good to know I could look out my window and see him down in my parents’ apartment, safe and close.
They agree to give me a few days to think it over, but life makes the decision easier for me.
I’m sitting down with my cousins the next morning, eating breakfast in front of the TV. The news is on like always and a breaking report catches my attention: TULANE SHUTTING DOWN FOR REMAINDER OF YEAR. I blink, but the headline doesn’t disappear. I lean forward and listen.
“The dormitories and campus buildings sustained so much damage that school officials are estimating close to $650 million in restoration costs. The board is meeting this morning in Houston to discuss all possible options. For now, public universities around the southeast are opening their doors to the displaced students…”
They go into detail about how it will work, but I barely listen. The numbers sound fake. 650 million dollars? That’s insane. Besides, I only care about one part of Tulane.
“Have they said anything about the law school?” my mom asks.
Apparently, she’s as curious as I am. I shake my head and turn up the TV, angry with her for cutting off the reporter. They might have just mentioned it and we missed it.
“The article I just read mentioned something,” my aunt says, flipping back through her newspaper across the room.
I’m quick to mute the TV. “What’d it say?”
She continues flipping through with one hand, trying to find the article, all the while casually spooning cereal to her mouth with the other. She doesn’t see that I’m hanging off the couch, knees bouncing, eyes wide, impatient for even a drop of information.
“I won’t tell anyone. No one will know.”
His eyes open again and they aren’t gunmetal blue now—they’re black. “I’ll know, Lauren!” he booms. “I’ll know. The storm is coming—you’re just scared. You’re not thinking straight.”
I’m angry now, fisting my hands by my sides. “I am thinking—god, you don’t have to be so fucking condescending!” For the first time I hear the slight shrill to my voice, the desperate plea. My cheeks redden and for a quick moment, I see myself from his perspective: I’m a simpering fool.
“I hate you,” I say, and it feels so indulgent that I say it a second time. “I hate you!”
He glances down at the floor. “That’s fine, Lauren. I’ll be the bad guy if it convinces you to stop trying to grow up so fast. You’re only innocent and young once.”
Innocent and young.
I sneer and step toward him. His assessment makes me want to rage and rebel. I want to dip my blonde curls in a vat of black dye. I want to rip and tear the unblemished skin he seems to hold in such high regard. For the last few months, I’ve listened to Rose go on and on about what it’s like to be felt and touched like a woman, but I’m done listening. I want Beau to enlighten me, to give me a kiss I can cling to as we drive away from the city.
“Lauren!” my dad calls from the front of the property. “Are you out here?”
They’re looking for me.
Beau’s attention sweeps out the door and his jaw tightens. I know he doesn’t want to get caught.
I brush past him and he doesn’t try to stop me.
My mom sees me as I step outside and relief floods her features. She doesn’t even think twice about the fact that I just walked out of Beau’s apartment. She probably assumes I was telling him goodbye, and that’s exactly what it was—a big, fat adi-fucking-os.
“Are you ready, hun? We really need to go.” I nod and her gaze sweeps past me. “Beau, you’d better leave soon too. The roads are only going to get worse.”
“In a minute,” he says behind me. “I’m almost done packing.”
She nods. “All right, well make sure to lock the gate when you’re done. I’m sure we’ll all be back here in a few days, but stay safe all the same and let us know when you get to your mom’s place.”
“Thank you, ma’am. I will.”
That polite farewell is the last I hear from Beau before we load up and drive away from our house. I sit in silence in the back of my dad’s Range Rover, watching as the outermost bands of the swirling tempest start to cut across our city.
The storm is here.
IT TAKES 18 hours to reach Houston. Most of the gas stations along the way have placed apologetic signs near the road—OUT OF GAS, DRY TANK, KEEP GOING. We wait at one for a few hours after hearing from the attendant that a resupply is en route. Finally, a giant gas-toting truck escorted by two Louisiana state troopers pulls in to a chorus of cheers and applause. Even still, we’re running on fumes when we make it to my aunt’s house, where we hunker down in the living room and watch Hurricane Audrey’s destruction. She tears into New Orleans with all the expected fury, bringing sustained winds of over 150 mph. Tidal surges inundate the French Quarter. For those who were unable or unwilling to evacuate, there is no electricity, no running water. Emergency personnel work overtime carrying out risky rescue operations. We don’t sleep for two days, abandoning our circadian rhythms in favor of the nerve-racking swell of the 24-hour news cycle.
Beau calls my parents the night after the hurricane hits. He and his mom stayed at her house, but now with food and gas shortages, they’re planning on heading north to stay with a family friend. I hear his voice on the other end of the phone line and I press closer to my mom, imagining that he’s calling to talk to me and not her. Ask if he wants to talk to me, I mouth, but my mom doesn’t see me and they hang up before I can ask to talk to him.
Three days after the storm, news crews tout Hurricane Audrey as the single worst natural disaster in American history. The city was prepared for storm surges and wind, but there was no way to fortify against the unrelenting rain. The fast-moving storm that raced landward stopped on a dime over the city, where it hovers as if held by some malevolent god. The squall picks up trillions of gallons of warm gulf moisture and dumps it over the region. Reports surface every hour and we all grow numb to the damage: Mississippi River 50 feet over its banks. Roads impassable. Millions without power. No one is able to get in or out of the Crescent City.
Mayor Westcott urges citizens to stay put until officials can assess the damage. Emergency crews are still at work. Boats, then buses ferry people away from New Orleans to surrounding regions. Houston becomes a hub for evacuees. My mom and I volunteer at the George R. Brown Convention Center, trying to help families who weren’t as fortunate. Initial reports promise that most of the Garden District was spared. That means we can potentially go home soon. Beau can go back to living in our apartment.
I live off of that hope for another week, and then my world shifts yet again.
Even though most of our neighborhood was spared, my school wasn’t. The first floor of McGehee took in a significant amount of water and they’ve closed it indefinitely for repairs. A sister boarding school in Connecticut reaches out and partners with McGehee, agreeing to take in any displaced students to minimize educational disruption. My parents sit me down at my aunt’s dining room table so we can have a frank conversation about what I’ll do. My dad’s job means they have to get back to New Orleans as soon as possible, but I won’t be going with them.
This boarding school is the best option, they tell me. You can’t continue to fall behind in your junior year.
I fight for a public school back in New Orleans, a different private school, anything that takes me back to the city, but it doesn’t make sense. Most of the public schools are shut down or overburdened as well. Students are being shuffled all over the state. The news reports New Orleanians have affected the largest diaspora ever in the United States. I tell them I don’t even know what that word means.
For days, we argue about what I’m going to do. They don’t understand why I’m protesting so much. Rose will be attending the same boarding school, as well as a few of my other friends from McGehee. They want me to look at it like it’s an adventure, but I keep thinking about Beau. It’s not that I really think he and I will ever be something, but I like him and I liked being around him. It would feel good to know I could look out my window and see him down in my parents’ apartment, safe and close.
They agree to give me a few days to think it over, but life makes the decision easier for me.
I’m sitting down with my cousins the next morning, eating breakfast in front of the TV. The news is on like always and a breaking report catches my attention: TULANE SHUTTING DOWN FOR REMAINDER OF YEAR. I blink, but the headline doesn’t disappear. I lean forward and listen.
“The dormitories and campus buildings sustained so much damage that school officials are estimating close to $650 million in restoration costs. The board is meeting this morning in Houston to discuss all possible options. For now, public universities around the southeast are opening their doors to the displaced students…”
They go into detail about how it will work, but I barely listen. The numbers sound fake. 650 million dollars? That’s insane. Besides, I only care about one part of Tulane.
“Have they said anything about the law school?” my mom asks.
Apparently, she’s as curious as I am. I shake my head and turn up the TV, angry with her for cutting off the reporter. They might have just mentioned it and we missed it.
“The article I just read mentioned something,” my aunt says, flipping back through her newspaper across the room.
I’m quick to mute the TV. “What’d it say?”
She continues flipping through with one hand, trying to find the article, all the while casually spooning cereal to her mouth with the other. She doesn’t see that I’m hanging off the couch, knees bouncing, eyes wide, impatient for even a drop of information.
