The Dysasters (The Dysasters #1)(36)

“The Planeteers. We’re the Planeteers!” Tate’s eyes were so wide Foster half expected them to pop in and out of his head like in a cartoon.

Foster cocked her head. “You lost me.”

“Captain Planet,” Tate said matter-of-factly.

Foster clicked her tongue. “Nope, still lost.”

“It was a huge thing in the early nineties.”

“Hello, I’m only eighteen.”

“Yeah, so am I. That’s not an excuse for not knowing anything about classic cartoons.” With an extraordinarily dramatic sigh, Tate fished the laptop out from under a stack of papers and set it in front of Foster. “Google it, Miss Millennial.”

“You are such a nerd,” Foster mumbled, typing in the password to Cora’s laptop.

“That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me. You’re gettin’ soft.” Tate jabbed her shoulder playfully.

“You wish,” she grumbled, her cheeks getting obnoxiously warm once again.

So gross.

She opened the browser. The small, colorful circle spun momentarily as the last page Cora had looked at automatically reloaded, playing a live meteorological broadcast.

“And now, as you can see, Krista, the wind has picked up considerably since we first arrived. The gusts are,” the rain jacket–clad reporter paused, squinting as ropes of water lashed his face, “extremely strong.” An icy white burst filled the screen followed by the crackling boom and fiery archs of what looked like fireworks.

The picture went dark before returning to the studio.

“Justin?” The meteorologist tucked her hair behind her ear and pressed her fingertips against her earpiece. “Justin, are you still with us?” She folded and unfolded her hands before clearing her throat. “We’re receiving reports that a transformer blew near Justin and his team. We hope they stay safe out there in this unprecedented storm.” She took a deep breath and pointed at her green screen. “If you are in any of the areas you can see here on the map—any of them at all—please, take cover immediately. I repeat, take cover immediately. As Justin was saying, tornadoes, at least three,” again she pressed her fingers against her earpiece. “Five?” Her calm demeanor faltered. “At least five F-four tornadoes have been confirmed and are heading in your direction. Again, take shelter immediately. It is confirmed that at least five tornadoes have touched down. Please—”

The video froze.

“Vermont,” Foster whispered as she read the headline. “That can’t be right. Five tornadoes don’t just touch down in Vermont on a Sunday afternoon.” She clicked the refresh button, and the page reloaded. “Have five tornadoes ever touched down in Vermont?” she asked rhetorically.

White letters glared at her from the empty black rectangle where the video had been only moments before. This station is no longer streaming live. Check back soon for more from WCAX.

“Jesus, Foster! It’s happening there, too. Just like it did back home. But it’s not supposed to. Not outside of Tornado Alley. Not usually even in Tornado Alley. Not until recently.” Tate sagged down onto the stack of boxes next to the desk. “Those poor people. They didn’t see it coming. Someone needs to help them.”

Foster snorted. “Someone? Tate, we are that someone.”

“But how? We suck as superheroes.”

“Oh, so you’re already giving up? Seriously?” Hands on hips, she pinned him with her narrowed gaze.

Then it happened. Again. A warm, comforting breeze swirled around her, caressing her heated face, before it swooped down to lift the papers they’d left haphazardly scattered on the desk, allowing all of them to fall back into place except for one—the one with the strange dates written on it. Tate’s defeated eyes found that one piece of paper the same time hers did and they reached for it as they spoke together.

“There’s something about this,” Foster said.

“Hey, I think I get this!” Tate said.

Tate lurched up from his seat on the boxes, grabbing the still fluttering paper as Foster stared at it.

“Check this out. Eighteen twenty-one is the year Missouri became a state! And that’s where I was born,” Tate said.

“How do you know that?”

Tate’s handsome face broke into a wide grin, making him look boyish again. “Public education, Strawberry.”

Foster frowned at him and sucked in air. Strawberry? No one calls me that but Cora!

“Where were you born?”

“Huh?”

He jutted out his chin and released an exasperated puff of air. “Where. Were. You. Born? As in, what state?”

“California.”

“And what year did that become a state?”

She wasn’t sure. And why was that so harped on in school that even Tate remembered it? Wasn’t it more important to know how to grow your own food or file taxes or change a tire?

Tate pointed at the open laptop on Cora’s desk.

“Fine,” she grunted. “I’ll Google it.” Her fingers flew across the keys and, sure enough, eighteen fifty popped up after the question: When did CA become a state? “Shit! You’re right.”

“Google the rest of the dates!” Tate craned his neck to look over her shoulder. “I think we’re on to something Foster, but we need to find the others, and we need to find them now.”