L. Marie Adeline- S.E.C.R.E.T

I took the stairs in twos, ripping open the card as I ran. It said: Step Five, Fearlessness,
which sent a little chill down my spine. The card also said a limo was fetching me rst
thing in the morning, and that “appropriate attire is included.”
As the wind rattled my windows that evening, I felt grateful that Scott and I had
arrived a year after Hurricane Katrina and her sisters, Wilma and Rita, ravaged the city.
Except for Isaac and a couple of other tropical storms that bent the trees and shattered
some glass, there hadn’t been a huge disaster on the scale of those hurricanes since,
something this Michigan girl was grateful for. I was prepared for wet weather, but not
the dangerous kind that sometimes happened down here.
I sliced open the pillowed envelope and spilled its contents on my bed. An outt for
tomorrow had been selected for me: a pair of tight white capris, a pale blue silken tunic
cut low, a white scarf, black Jackie O–style glasses, and heeled espadrilles, all of which
of course fit beautifully.
The next morning, I kept the limo waiting as I tried knotting the scarf dierent ways
around my neck, eventually settling on wearing it as a kerchief. A glance in the mirror
and I had to admit I looked a bit aristocratic. Even Dixie, who stretched out at my feet,
seemed to give her approval. But I’ll never forget the look on Anna’s face, a Bayou
woman born and bred, as I plucked a collapsible black umbrella from the stand in the
foyer.
“If it storms, you’d be better o using an umbrella that comes on a fancy drink,” she
huffed.
I wondered if I should say something to her, make up a rich boyfriend, just to stop the
curiosity about the limo from brewing into something bigger and less benign. Not today,
I decided. No time.
“ ’Morning, Cassie,” said the driver, holding open the door.
“Good morning,” I said, trying not to sound too accustomed to being picked up by a
long black limousine in the middle of Marigny.
“You won’t be needing that where I’m taking you,” he said, nodding towards my little
umbrella. “We’re leaving this gray weather behind.”
How exciting, I thought. The trac was sparse that morning, and if there was any, it
seemed to be heading away from the lake we were driving towards. Near Pontchartrain
Beach we kept right and drove past South Shore Harbor, hugging the violent shore,
which, from time to time, I could make out between construction gaps on the dam. The
water was choppy and angry, even though not a drop of rain had fallen. At Paris Road,
the driver stayed left, moving along the bumpy gravel road and keeping the lagoon on
our right. Five minutes later, we made another right down yet another gravel road. I
clutched the leather seat, fear creeping up on me. We came to a clearing in the brush,
where the propeller of a dark-blue helicopter was making slow, ominous circles before
speeding up.
“Um. Is that a helicopter?” A stupid question, the better one being: Do you expect me to
go up in that thing? But the second question was lodged in my throat.
“You’re going on a very special trip.”
Am I? He clearly didn’t know me very well. The idea of my getting into a helicopter