At last the final layer of gauze fell away. She held in her hands an isosceles-sided stone about the size of the lapis lazuli locket, but several times heavier. She studied its surface—smooth, with some crags and imperfections, like any other rock. It was shot through here and there with grainy blue-gray crystals. It would have made a good skipping stone for Ander.
Eureka’s phone buzzed on her nightstand. She lunged for it, inexplicably certain it would be him. But it was coquettish, half-dressed Cat’s photo on her phone’s display. Eureka let it go to voice mail. Cat had been texting and calling every few hours since first period that morning. Eureka didn’t know what to tell her. They knew each other too well for her to lie and say nothing was going on.
When her phone faded to black and her bedroom was dim again, Eureka became aware of a faint blue light emanating from the stone. Tiny blue-gray veins glowed along the surface of the rock. She stared at them until they began to resemble the abstractions of a language. She turned the stone over and watched a familiar shape form on the back. The veins were making circles. Her ears rang. Goose bumps blanketed her skin. The image on the thunderstone looked precisely like the scar on Brooks’s forehead.
A faint crack of thunder sounded in the sky. It was only a coincidence, but it startled her. The stone slipped from her fingers and slid into a recess of her comforter. She reached for the glass again and poured its contents onto the bare thunderstone like she was putting out a fire, like she was extinguishing her friendship with Brooks.
Water splashed back from the stone and hit her in the face.
She spat and wiped her brow. She gazed down at the stone. Her bedspread was wet, her notes and textbooks, too. She blotted them with a pillow and moved them aside. She picked up the stone. It was as dry as a cow’s skull on a juke-joint wall.
“No way,” she muttered.
She slid off the bed, carrying the stone, and cracked open her door. The TV downstairs was tuned to local news. The twins’ night-light cast feeble rays through the open door of the room they shared. She tiptoed to the bathroom, shut and locked the door. She stood with her back against the wall and looked at herself holding the stone in the mirror.
Her pajamas were splattered with water. The edges of the hair framing her face were wet. She held the stone under the faucet and turned the water on all the way.
When the stream hit the stone, it was instantly repelled. No, that wasn’t it—Eureka looked closer and saw that the water never even hit the stone. It was repelled in the air above and around it.
She turned off the tap. She sat on the lip of the copper baignoire tub, which was crammed with the twins’ bath toys. The sink, the mirror, the rug—all were soaking wet. The thunderstone was absolutely dry.
“Mom,” she murmured, “what have you gotten me into?”
She held the stone close to her face and examined it, turning it over in her hands. A small hole had been made at the top of the triangle’s widest angle, large enough for a chain to slip through. The thunderstone could be worn as a necklace.
Then why keep it wrapped in gauze? Maybe the gauze protected whatever sealant had been added to repel water. Eureka looked out the bathroom window at the rain falling on darkened branches. She got an idea.
She dragged a towel across the sink and floor, trying to mop up as much water as she could. She slipped the thunderstone into her pajama pocket and crept down the hall. At the head of the stairs she looked down and saw Dad asleep on the couch, his body lit up by the glow of the TV. A bowl of popcorn was balanced on his chest. She heard frantic typing coming from the kitchen that could only be Rhoda torturing her laptop.