Another Kind of Hurricane Read Online Free PDF

“We don’t know him.”
    “We have to get out of New Orleans, and I can’t paint my way out.”
    Zavion had a flash of one of Papa’s brightly colored canvases stretched across the bridge. Walking on the hands of trumpet-playing musicians from one side to the other. He blinked and had another flash of the mural in his room. GrandmotherMountain. Mama’s mountain. Mama had promised to show Zavion where she had lived until she met Papa, to take him to meet Grandmother Mountain someday. He couldn’t walk across the river on that mural, but maybe he could climb it to the sky.
    He wanted to climb it—
    “Get in.” Papa interrupted Zavion’s thoughts. “We need to get across this bridge.”
    Zavion climbed into the truck. A black canvas bag sat in the middle of the seat.
    “Sorry,” said the man. “You can just shove that over.”
    Papa extended his hand across Zavion. “I’m Ben,” he said.
    “Joe,” said the man.
    “And this is Zavion. Thank you for the ride.”
    “No problem. I’ve been traveling back and forth for the last two days, giving folk rides when I can.” Joe started the truck up again and began to drive toward the bridge. “How can they not let people across on foot, you know? It’s just not right.” He shook his head.
    “What do you do?” asked Papa. Zavion wondered the same thing.
    “I’m a photojournalist,” said Joe.
    Zavion looked at the bag next to him. “Is this your camera?” he asked.
    “One of them, yup.”
    Zavion wondered what kinds of pictures were in the camera. Were there any from his neighborhood? Or his block? Was there a picture of his house?
    Joe slowed the truck down as they approached an official-looking man, maybe another National Guardsman, stationed at the bridge. Joe rolled down his window. “Good morning,” he said.
    “Morning,” said the man. “Where you off to?”
    Papa leaned over Zavion. “Baton Rouge,” he said without hesitation. “To my friend Skeet’s house.”
    When had Papa thought of that idea?
    “He knows you’re coming?” asked the man.
    “Yes,” said Papa.
    Stealing—and now lying. The words glared shiny and bright in Zavion’s gut. What if the man pulled out a phone to check on Papa’s story? Zavion held his breath and felt his heart beating in the center of his throat.
    “This is your truck?” the man asked Joe.
    “Yes,” he said.
    “These are your friends?”
    Beat—Beat—Beat—
    Up—Up—Up—
    Just like Zavion wanted to climb a mountain, his heart wanted to climb out of his mouth.
    “Yup,” said Joe.
    The man gave a slight nod. “Have a good day,” he said.
    Joe rolled up the window.
    “We’re going to Skeet’s?” Zavion asked when they got to the other side of the bridge.
    “I thought of it this morning,” said Papa. “Maybe he can help us out. Is there a way to get to Baton Rouge from here?” he asked Joe.
    “Yeah,” said Joe. “You take I90 to 3127 and then cross the Sunshine Bridge.” He pulled a phone out of his shirt pocket. “Here,” he said. “You want to call your friend?”
    While Papa made the call, Zavion looked out at the Mississippi River and imagined Grandmother Mountain rising up from its watery bottom. What if she had traveled all the way to Louisiana? That was the story that Mama always told, that Grandmother Mountain had been a wanderer. She would trek to a valley, stay for a while, but then get restless and move on. Maybe to a stream, or a forest, or a river.
    What if she hadn’t settled in North Carolina, but had lumbered farther south, to right here? Zavion’s heart raced along with his thoughts. If Grandmother Mountain had put down her roots in the Mississippi River, Zavion could climb her all the way to the top.
    He squeezed his eyes shut and wished wished wished thatwhen he opened them he would see red spruce trees reaching toward the sky.
    But when he opened his eyes, Grandmother Mountain was nowhere to be seen.
    The Mississippi River stretched into