Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3 Barry turned and put his hands over his face, bracing for the feeling of teeth ripping at his neck. But nothing happened. He peeled open his eyes and saw that Cruz was still on his leash, standing next to Abe, who was laughing his head off. Why did he think it was so funny to scare them? Barry wished he could find the courage to step forward and say, "Get off my property!" He'd practiced that in the bathroom mirror, squinting his eyes to get a fierce look.

But who was Barry kidding? He was about as fierce as one of Mom's peanut butter cookies. If only Barry was more like his father. Nothing ever got to Roddy Tucker. And then, as though Barry's thoughts had sent out an SOS, the front door opened and Dad appeared on the porch. "Hello there, Abraham," he said with a smile. Abe pulled Cruz closer and lost his usual what are you looking at? glare. Suddenly he looked like the old Abe, the pudgy guy in the Saints jersey who tried to show Barry and Jay how to shoot layups. Dad had that effect on people. He could smile at a T. rex, and next thing, they'd be making plans to have a burger together. Barry's dad was a little famous in the Lower Nine: His band, Roddy Tucker and the Blasters, played in jazz clubs around New Orleans. But Mom said that wasn't why people respected him. "Your father's got sweet music in his heart," Mom always said. "And everyone can hear it." Now Dad looked at Barry. "We're leaving in an hour," he said. "You need to pack up. That

hurricane's getting nasty. It looks like it might be a direct hit on the city. We're leaving town." Barry stared at Dad. Leaving town for a hurricane? Not the Tuckers! Never before. Every year a few storms fixed their sights on New Orleans, and they always petered out at the last minute. There hadn't been a bad hurricane in New Orleans in forty years. Was Dad making this up to get Abe to hustle on home? "I'm serious," Dad said, reading Barry's doubtful look. "There's a mandatory evacuation. First time in New Orleans history." "What's that?" Jay asked. "It means if you can leave, you've got to leave," Dad said. "Your mom already called, Mr. Jay. You're heading up to Birmingham." "What about us?" Barry asked. "Houston," Dad answered with a sorry smile. Barry groaned. He loved Mom's Texas cousins, but all of them, five wild little girls and their grumpy mama, lived in a tiny little house. Barry always went home with a whopper headache after visiting them. Dad too. The

hurricane must be bad to get Mom and Dad to head to Houston. Barry looked around his neighborhood — the little houses, the scraggly lawns surrounded by chain-link fences, the palm trees and big oaks. He and Jay used to pretend that those big oak trees were ancient creatures rising from the earth's core. There were better neighborhoods in New Orleans, and sometimes Mom and Dad talked about moving to a block where police cars weren't always blaring their sirens, where Mom would feel safe walking after it got dark. But the Tucker family had been on this block in the Lower Nine for seventy years. Gramps had helped his daddy build this house back when folks kept hogs in their backyards. Barry couldn't walk half a block without someone shouting hello from a porch and waving him up for a chat and a glass of iced tea. The Lower Nine was home. And that was that. Abe started to slink away. "They're opening up the Superdome, Abraham," Dad called after him. "For folks

without cars. You should get your grandma over to the stadium soon as you can." Abe waved and went on his way. Dad opened the door to go inside, and the news playing on the radio echoed out to the porch. "That's right," a man's voice boomed. "This storm is a monster. It's time to leave. Get out now. Get out while you can!" "You heard the man," Dad said, starting to close the door behind him. "Time to get moving."