The Dysasters Read online

  Foster nodded stiffly to herself, gripped the letter opener tightly behind her back, and stomped after Tate for the second time in as many days.

  “I swear to God, Tate, if it’s any of the Core Four, I’m pushing you out the door and locking it behind you,” she snapped as Tate unlocked the deadbolt and twisted the handle.

  “Hey!”

  Foster lifted onto her tiptoes and peered over Tate’s shoulder at the owner of the cheery, unfamiliar voice.

  “There you are!” He angled his crooked smile at Foster. “I’d recognize you anywhere. Man, she said it was strawberry red, and she was not lying. The pictures don’t do it justice, though.”

  “What?” Foster asked, nudging Tate over as she claimed a space next to him in the doorway.

  “Your hair. It’s really red. Strawberry red. Just how Ms. Cora said it was. Where is she anyway?”

  “Wait,” Foster slid the letter opener into the back pocket of her sweats before crossing her arms over her chest. “Who are you?”

  “Finn,” Tate answered.

  “My man!”

  Tate and Finn leaned forward simultaneously, each extending their right hand to slap, grip, and then shake before effortlessly half-hugging.

  “No, no, no. You can’t just ‘my man’ someone and instantly become best friends. You don’t even know his name,” Foster said, pointing at Tate.

  “Sounds like you don’t understand the power of a good ‘my man,’” Finn punctuated with a wink.

  “It’s Tate, by the way,” Tate added, looking truly relaxed for the first time since the storm.

  Foster huffed, “What are you doing here, Finn?”

  “I work here.” Finn hooked his thumbs around the front belt loops of his grass-stained jeans. “Just came by to let out my girls and check on the fields when I saw the truck in the driveway. Figured you and Ms. Cora were finally ready to settle in. Thought I’d come down and welcome you back.”

  “You work here? For how long? Did Cora hire you?” Foster fired off the questions, her tone more demanding with each one.

  “Hey, take it easy. You’re going to give yourself a stroke.” Tate stepped between them, mouthing unclench as he signaled for a time-out. “How about this, Finn, you hungry?”

  Finn’s softly angled eyebrows shot up at the mention of food. “I can always eat.”

  Foster blew out a short puff of air as Tate and Finn once again did that slapping, gripping, shaking hands hug thing.

  “Foster and I were just about to make breakfast. Come have some food. Then at least you’ll get something out of being interrogated.”

  “I never turn down a free meal.”

  Foster readied herself to ground out a witty insult when Tate caught her eye. He had that little-kid “please, please, please will you let Finn come over and play” look in his big blue, puppy dog–sweet eyes. Foster sighed. She might not need friends, actually, the thought of having to go make any made her skin feel all hivey, but Tate wasn’t cut from the same icy blue loner cloth she was. If anything, he was from the pastel-colored, squishy baby elephant print variety.

  Foster made sure to lock the deadbolt before following the boys into the kitchen. “Did you get eggs when you went to the store?” she asked, surprising herself by how semi-happy and normal she sounded—like this was a regular day in her regular life and not the first day of the horrible, shit-show, freakazoid nightmare that would be her new norm.

  “If you didn’t, we can go out back and grab some. They’re better straight from the coop anyway. No pesticides, GMO corn, none of that crap. Just simple, speckled eggs as nature intended.”

  “There are chickens here? We have chickens?” Tate fluttered around the kitchen with so much excitement, Foster thought he might take flight. For a big, jocky guy he can sure act like a little kid.

  “And a pig, two cats, one burro, three goats, one cow, a sheep, and two horses.”

  “It’s a zoo,” Foster grunted, hunting through each of the yellow cabinets for pots and pans.

  “Oh, and a duck and a goose. Did I mention them? I lose track sometimes when I’m not calling them each by name.”

  “Because it’s a zoo,” she reiterated, pulling out a skillet and setting it on the stovetop.

  “Horses?” Wistfully, Tate set down a carton of orange juice and a few glasses in front of Finn. “Oh, man, I love horses.”

  “If you’re ever out in the pasture,” Finn motioned to the window above the kitchen sink. “Just bring them some carrots and they’ll love you right back.”

  “My grandpa raised running quarter horses. What kind are they?”

  “They’re not horses,” Foster remarked, staring out at the pasture at the two almost identical, dapple-gray Hulk-sized creatures. “They’re dinosaurs. Big, hairy dinosaurs.”

  “Close. They’re Percherons.”

  Foster shivered. Horses were pretty much gigantic cars with minds of their own, and Percherons looked like the monster truck version. Why would anyone drive a car that had its own brain?

  “No way,” Tate breathed as he stared through the window at the beasts. “I can’t wait to get out there with them. I’ve never been up close and personal with a draft horse that size. Are they broke?” he asked, absentmindedly pressing the carton of eggs against Foster’s stomach as he slid into the breakfast nook.

  “Oh, yeah. And sweet as can be,” Finn said.

  “Umm, excuse me. What exactly am I supposed to do with these?”

  Tate shrugged. “We’ll eat ’em any way you make ’em.”

  Foster didn’t conceal her scoff. “I’m sorry. I must have heard you incorrectly.”

  “Uh-oh,” Finn said, resting his scruffy chin on his knuckles. “You’re in trouble now.”

  “Yeah, so, I’m just going to set these right here. You want eggs, you make them yourself.”

  “No, wait. I didn’t mean that since you’re a woman that—”

  Foster shoved her hands on her hips, waiting for him to finish.

  “I—I mean,” Tate stammered, “that you should cook because—”

  Foster clenched her jaw so tight her teeth might shatter.

  “I just…” Tate looked at Finn who simply smiled at him with that silly crooked grin. “I think I’m going to make us some eggs.”

  “I think that’s for the best,” Foster said.

  “You are so much like Ms. Cora,” Finn said with a deep, appreciative chuckle.

  Anguish squeezed Foster’s chest so tightly her inhale sounded more like a labored squeak than a drawing of breath. “She’s dead.” Foster numbly lowered herself into the chair opposite Finn. “Her heart. She, uh … she’s dead. You’re the first person I’ve told, actually. The very first. Wasn’t that hard. Ripped it off like a Band-Aid.”

  “Foster,” slowly, Finn reached across the table and covered her hand in his. “I’m so sorry.” His deep umber skin against her pale, freckled hands reminded her of Cora.

  She jerked her hands back, balling them into fists in her lap. “I’m fine. Really.” She slathered on her best attempt at a smile. “Thank you, though. I appreciate it.”

  Tate squeezed her shoulder as he slid a steaming plate of scrambled eggs in front of her, his eyes glistening. There it was again. That bond, that pull that made her want to stand up and bury her head in his chest and tell him that she was losing faith that this time it would all turn out okay. That she was actually starting to think that maybe she couldn’t fight all of this alone. That maybe she had already had her allotted amount of people who would love her and that she had gone through all of them already.

  “These are great, Tate. Thanks, man,” Finn said around a mouthful of fluffy yellow. “You had some questions, Foster. Did you want ask now or—”

  “No.” The word came out a whisper and Foster cleared her throat and reapplied her smile. “Some other time. I, uh, my stomach is feeling kind of wonky, so…”

  Finn’s phone chimed. “Sorry to cut this short, but I have to go pick u
p the Gator from the shop.”

  “There are alligators out here, too?” Foster asked, thankful for the distraction.

  Finn laughed. “It’s a UTV.”

  Foster blinked up at him.

  “A utility vehicle. It’s like a golf cart, but built to handle farm life,” Tate said. “Guess being homeschooled didn’t teach you everything, huh?”

  “Actually, I could use some help if you don’t mind, Tate,” Finn said.

  “Sure! I’ll just go put on…” He glanced down at his sweatpants and slippers. “Well, I guess this is all I have.”

  “Okay, we can fix that while we’re out, if you want,” Finn offered as if Tate’s lack of clothing wasn’t weird at all.

  “But we have to go do, you know,” Foster said.

  Finn scrubbed his hand across his lips to hide a knowing smile.

  “Gross!” Foster’s face pinched. “Not that.”

  “Finn needs my help, too. Plus, I have to get something else to wear if I’m going to be here for the rest of my life. I have some cash left over from what you gave me yesterday, and I won’t be gone long. It’s guys shopping, not girls.”

  “I’ll have your man back ASAP,” Finn called from the foyer.

  “But—” Foster’s thoughts were an unorganized whirlwind of snarky retorts. There were so many shitty stereotypes and assumptions happening that she didn’t know where to begin. Not to mention the fact that they needed to find out what the hell was going on. Cora did all of this to keep them safe. Figuring out who the other people were, what those four crazies were up to, and whether or not Doctor Rick was as nuts as Cora thought he might be was the least they could do.

  “He’s not my man” was all Foster could manage as the front door slammed shut.

  Without Tate there to distract, no, scratch that, annoy her, Foster deflated into her chair, resting her forehead on her hands. “I don’t know if I can do this, Cora. I don’t know if I can do this by myself.” Tears slid off her nose, spotting the powder blue place mat. “What good are these stupid freak powers if I’m sad and lonely and without you? I need you. If you were here, we could figure out how to do it together, but you’re not here and I’m all alone. I need help, and I just…” Her throat ached with sobs. “I just want to go home.”

  Warm air tickled her cheek and twirled through the waves of hair resting on her shoulders. Sniffling, Foster lifted her head. She and Tate hadn’t opened any windows, and he’d closed the door when he left. But he hadn’t locked it. Foster wiped her cheeks dry as she trudged to the front door to latch the deadbolt. Did he not understand the kind of danger they were in?

  The refreshing breeze returned, reaching around her with such a soothing, comforting embrace that she couldn’t help but relax.

  With it, each gentle gust carried the deep, velvety scent of chicory and coffee. “Cora?” Foster’s voice broke, her eyes once again swelling with tears. Gentle ribbons of wind nudged against her back as playful gusts caressed her arms, offering the familiar scent as they drew her forward.

  Cora.

  The rich, dark aroma of Cora’s favorite coffee enveloped her as she followed the ghostly threads of scent down the hall. Fingers of air cupped her cheeks, and Foster closed her eyes as she thought of Cora and how the stocky woman swished and sang around the kitchen every morning as she made a pot of the only coffee she ever drank. She’d discovered it at Café Du Monde while on their family vacation in New Orleans and had it shipped to her every month since. Foster inhaled deeply, remembering that trip when they were still a family. She could almost hear the syrupy sweet notes dripping from saxophones, could almost taste the pillowy dough of plump, warm beignets, and could almost feel Cora and Doctor Rick’s hands in hers.

  Rustling papers drew Foster from her memories and from the aroma of chicory and coffee and home.

  “Cora?” She tentatively stepped into the office, every cell in her body humming with the hope that her Cora would be around the corner. A gust pushed open one of the folders Foster had piled on Cora’s desk, blowing its contents onto the floor. Foster gripped the doorjamb as a mini cyclone of papers spun in the middle of the room.

  Oh, my little strawberry baby girl. I’ll never be too far from you.

  Foster’s heart squeezed as Cora’s words brushed against her ears on a gust of chicory.

  We can do this together.

  The papers settled in a mess on the floor. All but one. A wrinkled, coffee-stained piece fluttered just in front of Foster, resting at her feet.

  “Cora,” she choked out, plucking the page off the hardwood. “I’m sorry.”

  The breeze returned, drying the tears from her cheeks, and pressing warm against her aching chest.

  “I love you,” Foster whispered as the scents of chicory and home melted into the air and disappeared.

  Foster willed herself to stop crying and her hands to cease trembling as she blinked through the remaining tears at the wrinkled page. “Doctor Rick’s handwriting.” Foster traced the first line of numbers and letters with her finger. “And Cora’s.”

  In her sweeping cursive, Cora had drawn circles and arrows and written annotations around Doctor Rick’s notes.

  Foster blindly shuffled to Cora’s chair, almost tripping over one of the boxes she’d had Tate haul out of the Batcave.

  “One A,” Foster read aloud, following Cora’s arrow to her first comment. “Air.” Breath fled Foster’s lungs as she read the date written next to it. “August twenty-fifth.” Her hands shook so hard she had to set down the paper. “My birthday.”

  11

  FOSTER

  “Okay, August twenty-fifth. My birthday and Tate’s birthday, but what do eighteen fifty and eighteen twenty-one have to do with anything? What am I missing? What am I missing?” She sat back, tapping the end of the pen against her chin. “Maybe it’s math. Maybe if I add up the four numbers, it’ll…” she trailed off, dropping her head into her hands. “It’ll what, Foster? Equal some number that’ll magically answer all of your questions? No,” she sighed. “It’ll just lead you right back to where you are now—hungry and frustrated. But I can fix one of those things, and maybe that will help. Maybe getting something to eat will refuel my brain as Tate’s dad would’ve said.” She massaged the nape of her neck. “First I hear Cora and now I can’t stop talking to myself. God,” she groaned, her slippered feet shuffling out of the office on her way to the kitchen, “I’m some kind of crazy ghost-whispering freak.”

  “Storms! Come to me!”

  Foster paused, her head swiveling to take in the empty living room and hallway. “Tate?” She listened. Nothing. “Nope, not a ghost whisperer. Just a crazy person who hears people who aren’t actually here.” She shrugged and continued into the kitchen. “Guess I’ll add it to the list of crap I don’t know how to deal with.” She opened the frosted-glass pantry door and immediately found what she was looking for. Three red and black boxes of Kind bars sat on the shelf at eye level, and Foster had to fight back another wave of sadness. Cora had thought of everything.

  Foster unwrapped a granola bar and nibbled at a chunk of chocolate the same way she did every time she ate one. She paused, her mouth going dry as she waited to hear Cora’s ghost (if that’s what it was) say something about being glad Foster was actually eating something vaguely healthy for a change—the same way Cora always had. To which Foster would reply, “I only eat them for the chocolate.” She almost choked on a bubble of laughter. How ridiculous was it that she was standing in the kitchen talking to a person that wasn’t even there?

  “I call upon the powers of the rain and the lightning and … other stormy things.”

  Foster stopped chewing, spinning around to look out through the kitchen window at the pasture. “Tate?”

  He had changed into real clothes, but it was definitely him, his cowboy-boot clad feet planted firmly in the grass as he stretched his arms overhead. “The power of Christ compels you!”

  No, she definitely wasn’t the crazy one
.

  Foster shuffled out of her slippers and stuffed her feet into the tennis shoes waiting for her by the back door, refusing to acknowledge that their placement was yet another thing her Cora had done to make sure she felt like Strawberry Fields was her forever home. No matter how badly she wanted one, she couldn’t have a home without a family.

  “Aren’t you supposed to be with Finn?” Foster called as she clomped over to Tate, the dewy grass moistening the toes of her shoes.

  Tate’s arms snapped down to his sides where his hands fidgeted with the cuffs of his plaid shirt. “I was, but then he offered to let me have some of his stuff so I decided to come back.” He stopped fidgeting and crossed his arms over his chest. “And now I’m back.”

  “I see that.” Foster took a bite of her granola bar. “So, what were you doing?” she asked, unable to keep the laughter from her voice.

  “Oh,” Tate’s cheeks blazed pink. “You saw that, huh?”

  “Yeah, I saw that.” Foster passed the back of her hand over her mouth to hide her grin.

  Tate chewed his bottom lip before lifting his chin proudly. “Practicing.”

  “Practicing?” Foster’s brow wrinkled with the question.

  “Yeah,” he nodded. “I know it sounds crazy.” He shifted uncomfortably and blew out a short burst of air. “Look, everything that’s happened, is happening … it fucking sucks. And even though I have to force myself every second not to jump in that truck and speed back home, I don’t know what I’d do if I had to live in a house full of stuff that reminded me of my parents and the fact that they’re never coming back.” His swallow was audible. “But, uh, whenever my mom was upset, my dad and I would find little ways to cheer her up. And I thought that if I showed you that I figured out how to channel my powers, that maybe it would cheer you up.”

  “Oh,” Foster fought the urge to back away from the very sweet, and, now that he was dressed in real clothes, possibly very cute boy. (Well, minus the cowboy boots.) In Foster’s experience, strangers weren’t nice for no reason, and Tate was still a stranger.

  Wasn’t he?