The Beau & The Belle

  What will happen to my house? My city?

  My stomach feels tight thinking about it, and then my mind wanders to Beau and his mom. Her house is outside of New Orleans, but not that far. Surely they aren’t going to stay there to wait out the storm. It doesn’t make sense.

  “Lauren!” my mom shouts from downstairs. “Are you packed, hon? Only the essentials!”

  I look down at my suitcase, feeling silly for the paperbacks I have stuffed on top. I force the zipper closed then rush back downstairs.

  My dad is rinsing off quickly so we can leave. My mom takes my suitcase and goes to load it in the car.

  “Ten minutes, Lauren!” she calls out behind her.

  Ten minutes!

  I look around me in a panic, trying to think of anything else I’ll regret leaving behind, and then my attention snaps to Beau. Beau—he’s the only thing I don’t want to leave. I rush through the back door and out across our yard. I can’t see his truck out on the street. The windows on his apartment are covered.

  Is he gone?

  I rip open the door to his apartment with so much force that it slams against the side of the building.

  “Beau?!” I shout, and then I turn and he’s there, standing beside his bed and collecting the things from his nightstand.

  His inky hair is wet. The scent of his body wash hangs thick in the air. I haven’t seen him since he dropped me back home yesterday, but he’s here now and his gunmetal blue eyes are locked on me.

  Surprised.

  That’s how he looks, and well, so am I.

  I thought he was gone. I thought he’d already left.

  Without thinking, I rush toward him and wrap my hands around his waist. My cheek presses against his hard chest and I squeeze and burrow myself against him until I feel his heart hammering, barely concealed behind the thin cotton of his t-shirt.

  I’m there, using him as a source of comfort before I even realize what I’m doing. This isn’t kosher, I think. We’ve hardly touched and now I’m embracing him like he’s the only thing keeping me standing.

  His arms are up, like he threw them there in surprise when I rushed toward him and now he’s stuck, too confused about how to proceed. I don’t care what he does though, because this isn’t for him. It’s for me. My eyes pinch closed and I inhale, wondering why my body is choosing this exact moment to let a tear slip down my cheek.

  “It’s going to be okay, Lauren,” his calm, husky voice assures me.

  It doesn’t feel that way.

  The way people were acting at the gas station, the panic in the air punctuated by occasional yelling—the city is descending into mayhem and he’s about to leave. We’re leaving. I won’t even be in the same state as him in a matter of hours. Regardless of what’s right and wrong, regardless of what’s proper, he’s become like part of the family. Can’t he sense how wrong it feels to split up now?

  I want to blink and go back to the moment at his mom’s house before we were aware of the storm. I was outside on the porch with Mrs. Fortier and we were laughing about Beau. She was telling me stories about the kind of child he was: quiet, curious, respectful, so much like the man standing in front of me who’s too scared to touch me.

  “You’re shaking,” he says, his breath hitting the top of my head.

  Am I?

  His hands come down on my biceps and he wraps his fists around them like he’s about to fling me off him, but he doesn’t. His hands tighten, and it’s an embrace in its own way.

  He’s probably wondering what would happen if someone saw us like this, but the windows are covered up. My parents can’t see us right now. No one can. Two people hugging consensually is the last thing on anyone’s mind at the moment.

  I blink open my eyes and tip my head back until I can look up into his gaze. His dark brows are knitted together. His attention is on my lips. I wet them, and his hold on my arms tightens even more. I think he’s cutting off circulation, trying to keep the oxygen from reaching my limbs.

  “Beau?”

  His eyes pinch closed and my gaze drops to his lips—the soft, full lips that don’t belong on a face as chiseled as his. Kiss him. The thought leaps into my mind and I push it down. Kiss him! Fear grips my spine like a fist, but temptation wins out. My body moves before I’ve confirmed it’s a good idea. I press up onto my toes and take the only opportunity I’ll ever have to steal my first kiss from him. It’s the quickest I’ve ever moved, a desperate act, but then I’m rewarded with the feel of his lips on mine. They’re soft and still. I’m too inexperienced to know how to coax a reaction out of him. I feel so small in his arms, so small and so naive. His non-response makes me angrier than ever and I press my body against his. Our chests touch. A wild jolt of lust barrels through me as I pull back slightly and brush my lips against his. He’s an inanimate object and then suddenly, animate—he lets go and pushes me away. Air rushes back into my lungs as he puts distance between us.

  I turn and he’s already at the door, holding it open for me. The hurricane might destroy the city, but this moment is destroying me.

  “I wanted my first kiss to be special,” I declare, trying to convince him to give in to me, to this one tiny moment that is about to be eclipsed by a million panicked ones. “But that doesn’t count. You didn’t even kiss me back.”

  He pulls his hand down his face and I can tell he’s so frustrated with me. It’s taking all of his strength to keep his anger contained. Maybe I don’t want him contained. Maybe I want to see everything, every facet of the man who’s stolen my attention these last three months.

  “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 po
lite 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.

  “Yeah, here. This is it.” She nods, shakes out the page and folds it back so she can hold it up to her face. “It says here that they’re merging with the University of Texas. The school will provide them with temporary housing options and classrooms. All the students will continue classes there for the foreseeable future. It’s actually pretty cool—their professors from Tulane will transfer with them and everything.”

  No.

  My chest tightens and I drop the remote to the floor.

  “That’s a relief.” My mom sighs. “I’ve been so worried about what would happen to Beau.”

  “Beau?” my aunt asks.

  Every time they say his name, it feels like a punch to my gut.

  “He’s that student who was renting the apartment from us.”

  “Oh right. Well that’s good. It looks like he’ll be taken care of.”

  “Maybe he won’t go,” I say suddenly.

  My mom turns over her shoulder toward me and frowns. “Why do you think that? He’s so close to finishing his degree. He wouldn’t abandon it now.”

  When she says it like that, so matter-of-factly, clarity starts to sink in. I sit back on the couch and stare at the TV screen, letting my eyes lose focus, the news anchor’s red pantsuit becoming a distorted blob. Of course Beau wouldn’t abandon his law degree for me. Of course he’s going to go to Austin. He’d be horrified to learn that I was hesitating about boarding school for him. What was I thinking?

  My parents are relieved when I agree to Connecticut during dinner that night.

  The planning starts right away.

  I’ll need to get my things from back home, but they aren’t sure when the roads will be passible again.

  “Why don’t we make a fun day of getting you some new clothes?” my mom asks, squeezing my forearm.

  It’s impossible to feel excitement over something as trivial as a shopping spree. My city is bleeding. Hundreds of thousands of families are displaced. I’ll probably never get to see Beau again.

  “Do you have Beau’s email address?” I ask her one night while we’re planning the classes I’ll take in Connecticut.

  “I don’t know it off the top of my head, but it’s on my computer. Why?”

  Because I need to talk to him. Because I feel like life is peeling us aw
ay from one another and if I don’t resist, I might never get to speak to him again.

  “You guys formed a little friendship, didn’t you?” she prods.

  I nod, scared to use words.

  “He taught me how to dance,” I whisper.

  “I’m sure you’re worried about him, but you shouldn’t be. Your father talked to him yesterday about rental stuff and Beau said he’s in Austin. He’s focusing on catching up on classes and getting his mom settled back in her house.”

  “She’s back home?”

  “Apparently.”

  “How far away is Austin from Houston?”

  She laughs. “Hon, we aren’t going to go visit Beau. We have enough on our plate right now, and I’m sure he does too.”

  Her cavalier laugh is so frustrating that I push away from the table and storm to the back of the house, to the small room I’m sharing with my parents. I close the door with a loud slam and slide down to the ground, breathing so hard I can see my chest rising and falling.

  I feel helpless and forgotten, as if the storm is still raging around me. Everything is changing and I’m just expected to go with the flow. I’m supposed to see this all as one big adventure, but it feels like one big heartbreak. I have no way to contact Beau unless I steal his phone number from my one of my parents or get his email from my mom’s computer, but haven’t I thrown myself at him enough at this point? An email filled with all my thoughts and feelings feels desperate. My pathetic words would live on that white screen forever, and Beau could always refer back to me as the silly girl he once knew.

  “I think I keep hoping he’ll turn into something he’s not…someone like you.”