Impulse Control (ON HOLD)

Chapter 8

"Hold tight!" Cleo calls to me over the roaring of the wind. I don't need to be told twice. I latch onto her wrist as though it's life itself. The steps that lead down from the camper are soaked in water and debris. I shiver as the cold water seeps over my flip-flops, splashing my bare toes. "Last one!" Cleo shouts, and I follow her down the last step.

Almost immediately, as soon as I step onto the ground, water and mud buries my foot, all the way up to my ankle. Cleo tugs at my arm, trying to free me from the grip the mud has on my foot, but she's little help due to the fact that she's having the exact same problem.

If I wasn't ankle-deep in muddy water, I'd probably appreciate the fresh scent of pine all around me and the cries from the birds that nest in the tree just above our camper. 

"Leave it there!" Cleo says to me as I try in vain yet again to lift my foot and my flip-flop. "Just leave your shoe there and come on. The storm's getting worse." I loosen the tight hold my toes have on the strap of my flip-flop, allowing my foot to slide off of it. Cleo tugs my arm again, and the mud releases my foot with a squelching sound.

Feeling gooey, damp, and dirty, I follow after Cleo as she struggles to roll the awning up. It's a fairly simple process, but, needless to say, it wasn't exactly meant to be done when the wind is blowing at fifty miles per hour.

Every time she tries to grab it, the wind rips it right out of her hands. I try in vain to grasp it tightly enough, but my efforts have no better outcome than hers. By now, I'm sure, most of the neighbors have taken shelter in their RVs, so there's no one around who could help us even if they somehow managed to hear us above the wind and the torrential rain, not to mention the frightening claps of thunder that shake the ground and make me feel like the sound will strike us dead where we stand.

My heart thudding painfully against my rib cage, I direct Cleo to hold me up so that I can get higher up, to the part that's not blowing as much. She obeys, grunting with the effort as she lifts me onto her shoulders and takes a few steps forward, staggering under my weight. Hands numb and shaking, I reach out - and grasp the cloth of the awning on my first try.

Holding it fast, my hands tight in an iron grip, I slowly roll it up. When I'm finished, Cleo lifts me off of her shoulders and is about to congratulate me when we hear a tremendous roar and a sound like a tree being uprooted. Whirling, I look off into the distance just in time to see a tree on the west side of the lake lifting up, then smashing back down with an earsplitting crash.

Cleo turns to face me, her eyes wide. Fear etched into her face, she makes a dash for the steps. I follow desperately, clawing in vain at the reddish brown tangles of hair that blow across my eyes. 

As we're racing back to the camper, a mighty gust of wind sweeps through, almost knocking me off my feet. I exchange frightened looks with Cleo. "That had to be at least a fifty-mile-per-hour gust," I say. Yes, my obsession with KY3 Weather has paid off.

Cleo nods solemnly in agreement, her eyes wide in alarm. "Let's get inside," she says, and I nod vigorously, following her up the steps and into the camper.

Cleo doesn't even have to close the door - it slams shut on it's own, rattling the entire RV. I shiver, but it's more out of nervousness and fear than cold. We sit there in dripping, panting heaps on the floor for a few minutes until Cleo takes the time to actually take in my appearance.

When she does, she starts to laugh. I do, too. We look a complete mess! Both of my flip-flops are gone, leaving my bare feet wet and muddied. Cleo has only one flip-flop, and it's caked in layers of mud. I can't even see her foot! The wind has taken it's toll on Cleo's hair, leaving strands of it falling in her face while others stick up in an almost straight line from her head. Mine, of course, is completely windblown as well and desperately needs a brush.

Water and dirt is mixed in with our hair and has made dark, wet spots on our faces. My tank top has somehow ridden up and is in grave danger of exposing my bra, so I quickly yank it back down self-consciously. Cleo tugs at the hem of her jean shorts, which have been blown up a bit because of the wind, prompting me to do the same with my own.

"Who's going first in the shower?" Cleo asks, standing up and brushing herself off as best she can. I shake my head. "We can't take a shower. Too risky, with all the lightning flashing out there." She groans, bending down to remove her one remaining flip-flop. I laugh at the face she makes as she takes it off, the mud slipping down her foot and into the palm of her hand.

"So how the hell are we supposed to do anything?" Cleo asks, straightening up. I hand her a towel that's laying on the kitchen counter. "Here. Wipe your body with this as best you can. If you can't get all the mud off, scrub it with the sponge." She nods, taking the towel from me.

Fifteen minutes and eight towels later, we're both finally clean, or as clean as we can get. I plunge onto my bed, letting my tired body sink into the cushions. Instead of going to sit on her own bed, Cleo walks over to mine, laying on the pillow and draping her legs against my back.

"So what are we going to do?" I ask, looking out the window nervously at the storm raging outside. Cleo purses her lips, a thin smile stretching across her face. She takes her phone from her pocket and opens it to Spotify. She puts on a well-known pop song, jumps up, and reaches for my hand.

"We're going to dance."