Chapter 8

CHAPTER 8 "Barry! Barry!" Dad was pounding down the stairs. He splashed through the water, grabbed Barry by the arm, lifting him up, and pulled him toward the staircase. Furniture and other objects floated around them like bath toys — the new couch Mom had saved for a year to buy, the little square lamp table where Gramps used to play chess, framed pictures of Barry and Cleo from school. The water was rising fast! It was up to Barry's waist by the time they reached the stairs

— and it kept getting higher. It was like their house was a bucket being filled up by the biggest hose in the world. Where was all this water coming from? The water in Gramps's stories hadn't been this wild. Mom burst out of her room with Cleo in her arms as Dad and Barry made it to the top of the staircase. She looked down the stairs and gasped. She wrapped her free arm around Barry, pulling him close. "The levee, Roddy," she said to Dad. "The levee broke?" Barry asked, picturing the Industrial Canal. The canal was five miles long and very deep. Was all that water pouring into their neighborhood? Mom and Dad seemed frozen, staring at the rising water. Panic boiled up inside Barry. "What will happen?" Barry asked. "What will we do? What…" His voice trailed off. He wasn't even sure he wanted to know the answers to his questions. They all stood there, huddled together, watching the water move up the stairs.

"We need to go up to the attic," Dad said. "Now." Dad pulled open the hatch in the ceiling and a blast of hot air came down. Barry had been up there only once in his life. It was a tiny space, dark and hot like an oven, with a ceiling that sloped down so you couldn't stand up straight. Cleo started to cry. "No!" she yelled. She tried to run away. "No go up!" Dad caught her. "Cleo!" he said. She struggled to escape, screaming and squirming. There was no way they could force her up the rickety stairs. "It's all right," Barry said, taking hold of his sister's hand. "No! No!" she insisted. "Clee," he said, working hard to keep his voice steady, "Akivo might be up there." Cleo sniffed. She let Barry pick her up, and put her arms around his neck. She buried her head in his chest. She still felt feverish. He held her more tightly. Dad sent Mom up first. Then Barry put Cleo on the ladder and climbed up right behind her.

Dad came up last, and they all sat down together in the darkness. There was barely enough room for the four of them, and they were squashed together. The air was so hot it burned Barry's lungs. It stunk like mildew and dust. He tried not to imagine what was happening just below the attic floor: every single thing they owned — their furniture, Cleo's toys, Mom's cookbooks, Dad's trumpet and all his music — being covered with water. And Akivo. He was trapped in Barry's room somewhere. Lost. For the past few weeks, thinking about Akivo had given Barry the feeling — a secret, happy feeling — that maybe he wasn't really the scared little kid he saw in the bathroom mirror. He and Jay had created something unique, something special. Somehow, the bright colors of Barry's drawing seemed to have gotten inside him. But now the bright and powerful feeling drained away. With every minute that ticked by, Barry felt more helpless and terrified. Cleo was whimpering again. Mom held her on her lap,

rocking back and forth, singing softly to calm her. he water was rising past the second floor. They could hear the whooshing and banging of furniture below. What would they do? Where could they go? Barry's whole body was shaking. His mind was spinning. And then Dad leaned in closer. He put one hand on Barry's shoulder and the other on Mom's. "I want you to listen carefully," he said softly. "We are all together. And as long as we're all together, we are going to come through this." Even in the darkness, Barry could see Dad's eyes blazing. "Soon this will be over," Dad said. "We just have to get through the next few hours." Mom wiped away Barry's tears. "We can't stay here in the attic," Dad said. "We're going up onto the roof." Mom's eyes got wider. She swallowed. "All right," she said. "But there's no way out," Barry said. "Yes, there is," Dad said.

"How?" Barry asked. "Your grandfather." Barry stared at Dad. Gramps had died three years earlier. Dad wasn't the kind who believed in angels flying around. What was he talking about? Dad crawled to the darkest corner of the attic. He started back with what looked like a stick. As he got closer, Barry saw what it was: an ax. "Gramps always said there'd be another bad storm," Dad said. "He kept this ax up here for forty years. And he made sure I knew about it."