Servants of the Storm Read Online Free Page A

you see in the movies. There’s not a car here fewer than ten years old, and that includes the teachers’. That’s the thing about Savannah. What the tourists see? What they show in the movie theater? None of that is real.
    The natives use different roads to avoid tourists in minivans with out-of-town plates. We take a lonely expressway to tired neighborhoods the vacationers will never see. Everything here is broken down a little, languishing in age with less grandeur than the charmingly crooked porches that get photographed on the horse-drawn carriage tours. The city cleaned those areas up fast after Josephine, to get the tourists back. They’re pretty again, and retirees can buy their taffy and take their ghost tours and stand in line for overpriced fried chicken.
    What most people know of Savannah is a dream. But this is real life.
    I find my car and open the door, pulling up with the little hitch that keeps it from squeaking too badly. I slide in, the seat creaking underneath me on bad springs, and lean over to open the passenger door for Baker.
    “You ready for dress rehearsal?” I ask.
    “Course I am,” he answers with a lopsided grin. “I’m freaking Caliban. This part was made for me. Are you ready?”
    “Course I am,” I say. “I’ve barely got any lines.”
    There’s an awkward pause. Meds or no meds, the bitterness is sharp in my voice.
    He looks out the window, his fingers tapping patterns on the faded dash. I know him well enough to know it’s probably some complex cheat code for Xbox.
    “Do you miss being the lead?” he asks.
    I start the car with a roar and back out too fast, nearly plowing into some kid I don’t even know. He calls me a bitch and slams his fist down on my trunk. The punch probably hurt him more than it hurt my old Buick. I give him the finger.
    I ease into the line and glance at Baker sideways as the car rumbles out of the lot. He just broke our unspoken rule, the one where we never, ever talk about the past. But something has changed for me. Maybe it’s that nagging, desperate hope that Carly’s out there somewhere. Maybe it’s a tiny chemical jolt from my second day off the meds. But I answer his question.
    “I miss it,” I admit. “A little.”
    And it’s definitely true. This time last year I would have had my pick of the lead roles in The Tempest . I probably would have gone for Ariel, or maybe Miranda. I would have done a better job in that white-and-gold toga than Jasmine Pettigo, that’s for sure. Now I’m just another sprite, one of several made-up parts Mrs. Rosewater created by divvying up some of Ariel’s lessimportant lines. With my emotions blunted and my mind dull, it was the best I could do. I have one scene with Baker, as Caliban, and then the whole play is a bunch of flitting around in a leotard and tutu.
    “You would have made a great Miranda,” he says, fingers still tapping as he says exactly what I was thinking. “You think you’ll ever . . . you know, get back into it?”
    I snort. He could mean competitive acting. Or he could mean life.
    “One day,” I say.
    Normally the play is the most important thing I have, but right now all I can think about is getting out of rehearsal and going to Paper Moon to look for Carly. The rest of the drive is silent, but I can tell he wants to say more.
    We roll into downtown, and I’m struck, as ever, at the change that has taken place. For a city that survived the Civil War, Savannah got a raw deal with Josephine. It’s like the winds came with chisels and the water brought a jackhammer to the streets. Bits of buildings are broken off, and half of the beautiful green oaks are gone, leaving holes in the canopy, where sun shines through cruelly, when it does shine. Thick swaths of Spanish moss drape from the swaybacked branches of the trees that survived, framing each street with lank, gray rags. Except for the tourist areas, everything is spooky, malevolent, just a little too dark, as if one more