The Magical Fucking Cyclone
The cyclone cellar is the only place in this damn house I can sit and have a smoke without Auntie Em calling the cops on me.
“There's no ventilation in here,” my friend, Yori, says, taking a drag on the joint and passing it over to her boyfriend. I can't remember his name for the life of me, but it doesn't really matter. Yori jumps between boys the way my Aunt Emily hops political causes. She's joined three new activist groups just this week, all of them for causes I'm not a fan of. One of them is pro-GMO, you know, Genetically Modified Organisms. Who the hell is pro-GMO?
“Of course there's no ventilation,” I say, taking the joint from this no-name guy's tattooed fingers. “It's a storm cellar. The whole point is to keep air out, not let it in.”
“We're going to hotbox your poor dog,” she says, tucking long dark hair behind one shoulder and gesturing at the black and brown German shepherd at my feet with ringed fingers. I drop my gaze to his silky ebon fur, chest rising and falling in a deep sort of sleep, and then I get up and climb the steps to the cellar door.
“If I let him out, he barks nonstop,” I say, using one of the boxes of canned food to prop the door open. Outside, there's nothing to look at but gray. Gray grass, gray ground, gray house, gray sky. Everything in Kansas is gray; I hate it here. Maybe there are pretty parts, but all I've ever seen of it is this dump. Sometimes there's corn. Other times, it's just flat and empty and desolate.
I lived in Washington before this, and even though pot was legal, I never smoked it.
I smoke it a lot here; I need it here.
“Hopefully this doesn't draw the witch’s attention,” I say, turning and slumping down to the step before taking a drag on my joint. My dog, Toto, is sitting there and staring at me with warm brown eyes, the level of intelligence in his gaze almost unnerving. It’s like he can see straight through my bullshit and into the dark, damaged depths of my soul.
Or maybe that's just the joint talking?
“Why do you call your mom the witch?” Yori's boyfriend asks, his hair slicked back and frozen solid with too much gel. I'm sort of glad I can't remember his name because clearly, he thinks he's the shit. My lips crease into a frown as he stands up and takes the joint back from me.
“Emily is not my mom,” I say, leaning back and putting my palms on the rough wooden step. Some people in town—like Yori's family—have these fancy shelters in their garages, underneath their epoxied floors with fancy logos and comfy couches, electricity, and mini-fridges full of Coca-Cola.
Not us.
We have this half-assed hole dug in the ground with a rickety wooden door, a rusty handle, an old sofa, and a recliner with the yellow stuffing leaking out of it. If this place is supposed to protect us from a massive cyclone, we're all screwed. Personally, if a cyclone does show up, I might just lie down in the field and watch it consume the world.
“Ozora!” A shrill voice cracks the eerie silence of the prairie and draws a growl from Toto's lips. In the year since I moved in here, I don't think I've seen the woman smile. Based on those old black and white photos from her wedding, I think my Aunt Emily used to be a happy girl. She was pretty and young and naive, but when she moved out here with Uncle Henry, things changed. It's cringe-worthy, looking through all those pictures and seeing what she looks like now. Broken, sad, desperate. “Ozora!”
I ignore her. She's so superstitious, she won't go near the cellar unless she has to. She's got it in her mind that this dumpy hole in the ground can summon tornadoes. That'd be nice, wouldn't it? To have the power to summon tornadoes?
That's such a high-person thought, isn't it?
“Em is Oz's aunt,” Yori says, waving the joint around and leaving a trail of white smoke that sits so freakishly still it looks painted in the air. Oz is the only name I answer to. If Auntie Em wants me for something, she knows how to get my attention. “Her parents got, like, killed while they were on vacation or whatever.”
I narrow my eyes and reach down for Toto, curling my fingers in the long fur of his ruff for comfort. Yeah, my family did die on vacation. Everyone I knew and loved in the world, save this dog, is gone.
And now I'm stuck in a place I hate, with an aunt who's too weak to stand up to her abusive husband, and an uncle that I'm lucky is only an alcoholic and not a pedophile or rapist. He beats my aunt, but at least he doesn't invade my bed at night. Considering all I have is a curtain for a doorway, it wouldn't be all that hard.
“How did they die?” the nameless boyfriend asks me, but I'm done sitting here and talking. The last thing I want to do is explain my life history to some guy who's wearing a shirt that says Two Hawt Fer Werdz. Gross.
“When you're done, shut the cellar door. Fuck each other down here if you want, but don't leave the door open.” Yori flips me off, but I just tweak a small smile, stand up, and head outside. My jean shorts are too short, riding up my ass, and I've got no bra under my white tank, but I don't particularly care. My aunt is so prudish, it makes me want to rebel; I can't help myself.
“Ozora,” she says, giving me a severe once-over that would be scary if it weren't for her black eye. All I feel is sorry for her now as she glares at me. I almost feel bad about calling her the witch, but she's so damn skinny, and her nose is hooked, and she just looks downright mean. Henry beats her pretty regularly, so I suppose she doesn't have a lot to smile about, but when I look at her, I just feel angry. I've been angry since I moved in here last year.
Enraged.
“It's Oz,” I say, and Aunt Em scoffs, shaking her head and drying her hands on her apron. Yeah, she still wears aprons. Who does that in this day and age? She turns with a click of her tongue and heads inside the one-room house we call home. Fortunately, my room is upstairs in the attic or else I'd have no sanity left. I might not have a door, but when I pull that curtain closed and slip my headphones on, the rest falls away.
“Oz is a boy's name,” she says as I roll my eyes and follow after her inside the warmly lit room. The table is set, the smell of fresh bread teasing the air with a hint of yeast. At least the food is good here. That's about the only nice thing I can say about this place. “Your name is Ozora.”
Gritting my teeth, I sit down at the table while Toto curls up on the floor near my bare feet. My toes are tainted with gray dust, but there's so little stimulation out here, I need to feel something beneath my feet to remember that I'm still alive, that this is not my whole world, and that I can escape this place as soon as I graduate. Not sure where I'll go or what I'll do, but there's no place like home, right? I think I'll head back to Washington and the city I grew up in.
“Ozora is a proud, strong Hebrew name,” Aunt Em continues, lifting the lid off a pot and stirring the contents inside. “It means the strength of the Lord. Be proud of it.”
“Oz is a Hebrew name, too,” I say snarkily, leaning back in the chair and balancing on the two rear legs. “It means strong, courageous, and powerful. What's wrong with that?”