The Casquette Girls (Book 1)

2. The Final Stretch

An hour later, we detoured from I-10 onto Highway 90 to drive the scenic route along the Gulf of Mexico, or what used to be the scenic route. The damage to the Mississippi coastline was insurmountable. I didn't know what to feel, but none of it felt real.

I rolled down my window, twisting and turning in my seat, trying to see everything. Trying to understand how it was possible. Every single one of the behemoth antebellum homes that had lined the beach was gone. Humongous casino barges previously anchored in the Gulf had been slammed onto the other side of the highway, shattered into mountains of neon-colored steel. The souvenir shop with the monstrous shark-mouth entrance, where Dad had taken me and Brooke to buy rubber rafts when we were kids, was gone. The mom-and-pop places, the national franchises, the historic landmarks—all gone.

Am I really ready to handle the havoc wreaked by the Storm at home?

My hair blew around my face as I watched the waves crash over an enormous seaweed-slimed pair of golden arches lying in the sand. I felt like I was floating outside of my body and peering down at the beach from some transcendental reality.

"Damn," my father said coolly, attempting to hide his own shock. "The media's been so focused on Louisiana we didn't hear much about the damage in Mississippi."

"How bad do you think it is in New Orleans?"

He paused for a moment. "I think we should prepare ourselves for the worst." But the tone in his voice sounded more like, What was I thinking, bringing us back here?

Fifteen minutes later we had only driven a half mile, trying to avoid the destruction.

"Jesus!" my father whispered under his breath. A gargantuan purple guitar, formerly part of the Hard Rock Casino, was now lying across all lanes of the highway, the handle having crushed a seaside hotel. He threw the car into reverse until he had enough room to whip it around. The desire for the truth about the condition of New Orleans became unbearable as we went back to the interstate.

***

"What's that?" I asked. We hadn't passed another moving car since Alabama but were now approaching some kind of roadblock.

"Rollers . . ." my father said, taking his foot off the gas.

"An army tank? Really?" The combat vehicle was parked among five police cars with flashing lights. We slowed to a halt, and my father cranked down his window.

"Evening, Officer."

"Evening, sir," said a stocky state trooper. His forearm muscles bulged under his dark skin as he leaned in the window and took a good look at us. "Where y'all headed tonight?"

"Just heading home. Haven't been back since the Storm."

"You got some ID? Only parish residents are allowed back in."

My father fished his license out of his wallet and handed it over.

"And what about you, young lady?"

"She's my daughter," my father said, trying not to sound too perturbed. "She doesn't even drive yet."

"It's okay, Dad." I leaned over him and handed the cop my passport.

He carefully examined the documents with a flashlight. "Thank you, Mr. Le Moyne. You can never be too careful in times like this. Are you aware of the mandatory curfew?"

"Yes, sir, nine p.m. lockdown."

It was nearly impossible to imagine a citywide curfew in New Orleans, or anywhere, really. It was supposedly meant to keep people safe while the infrastructure was so poor and crime was so high.