Authors: Kathleen Van Cleve

Drizzle (15 page)

BOOK: Drizzle

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And I’m especially scared of the Silo. At least the shed has a purpose. The Silo does nothing. It just stands there, looming over our farm, casting its deep black shadow over everything that’s good.

I look away from my window.

Sorry, Spark. I can’t do it. I never claimed to be anything but a coward.

FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 5

The Water Cycle

So far this week, I’ve ignored Jongy when she whispered to me that she thinks Aunt Edith went to Antarctica. I’ve ignored Charlie and Billy and Christopher when they asked me if they could buy up our remaining chocolate rhubarb, before it all dies. I’ve ignored the nice person who left an article on my desk about droughts in Africa.

But I can’t ignore today’s science class. When I first see the topic on the SmartBoard, I think it’s a joke.

THE WATER CYCLE.

The availability of fresh water is the single most important element in sustaining our global community.

Jongy hoots from the corner.“Maybe we can move this whole class over to the Peabody farm. I think they need some water now that the rain dances aren’t working.”

My classmates giggle. I get that St. Xavier’s is a prettier, richer school. But it turns out to be exactly the same as any school on the inside. I suppose that shouldn’t be surprising. I shut my eyes and try to think of something good. Charles Dickens. Chocolate rhubarb. Silly movies.

“Miss Jong, would you come up here?” Owen barely looks away from the papers he’s skimming at his desk.

Jongy rolls her eyes. “Why?”

“I’d like to ask you a question.”

Jongy strolls to the front of the classroom.

Own puts down his papers and leans back into his chair.

“Would you please explain the history of rain dances for the class?”

“What?”

“I just heard you referencing rain dances. I’d like to hear what you know about them. It’s a tradition that has been a major element of many ancient and contemporary societies, particularly those that rely on the weather for their food. So, please, elaborate. What do you know?”

“You’re just mad I picked on your pet.”

“My pet? My dog is here? Winston!” He looks to us. “I can’t imagine you wouldn’t see him. He’s an eighty-pound chocolate Lab.” His head whips around to Jongy. “Did you pick on him? Pick a flea? Pick something else? What are you talking about?”

“You’re not funny,” Jongy says.

Owen pushes his chair back hard, so it makes a squeaky sound. When he stands, his expression changes.

“Neither, Miss Jong, are you.”

I close my eyes, breathing deeply. I know that Owen was technically doing this for me, but there’s something about their interaction that makes me think he’s doing this for him too. He seems determined not to let someone like Jongy act the way she usually does. And it’s working.

When I open my eyes, Owen is saying, “. . . lab partners. We’re going to measure the temperature of the shifting phases of water molecules, which, I promise, is
exactly
as boring as it sounds. So try to pick an interesting partner so you don’t go a little nutso.”

I immediately look at Basford. He nods and I feel a sense of relief.

“Basford!” Jongy breaks into my thoughts. “You’ll be my partner, okay? That’s all right with you, right, Polly?”

She could have a zillion lab partners. I have exactly one friend here and she’s trying to ruin that too.

I look at Basford. He’s clueless.

“Polly.” Owen smiles. “You can be with Dawn.”

Owen points over to Dawn Dobransky. The one who wears pink. Pink headbands, pink shirts, pink socks. I gather my things.

“Sorry,” Basford whispers. Jongy smiles at him with her big dimples and he actually smiles back. Ugh. Boys. I shake my head and walk to where Dawn stands.

“I’ve already begun,” Dawn informs me. She’s very fair-skinned and has thin, pink lip-glossed lips. “I downloaded copies of all the labs during the summer. Did you do that too?”

“No,” I say.

“Okay, well, you’re going to be so happy you’re doing this with me!” She grins. “We get to watch water heat up and become vapor, and then watch as it condenses—condensation, naturally—and then be able to see it precipitate!” She beams. “Just like rain! I love science! Don’t you?”

“Sure.” I sigh.

Owen walks around the classroom as Dawn assembles plastic soda bottles and shoelaces. I pretend to help.

“Doing okay?”

Dawn smiles. “Yes, Mr. Dail! I mean, Owen.”

I focus on threading the shoelace through the hole in the cap of the soda bottle so I don’t have to look at him. Dawn keeps talking to me, telling me exactly what to do. We fill the bottom of one of the bottles with about three inches of water.

“Now take it over there,” she orders, pointing to the grass section of the classroom. “I’ll fix up this bottle while you’re doing that.” She starts to pour dirt into the bottom of the other bottle.

I pick up the bottle with the water and carry it toward the grass. I purposely avoid Jongy, but again, she steps in my path.

“Rhubarb witch,” she whispers.

I turn and run into Margaret. The bottle hits her on the waist.

“Ow!”

“I’m sorry,” I say immediately.

“It’s burning hot,” Margaret says, pointing at the bottle.

I look down, surprised. The water in my bottle isn’t boiling, exactly, but condensation has started and the water’s swirling. I lift it higher so I can see it against the light.

Owen turns around. “What’s going on?”

I look at him guiltily, even though I haven’t really done anything. “Here,” I say, handing him the bottle.

He takes it, curious. Then he looks up to the sky. The whole class is watching.

“Guess the sun heated it up,” he says. He looks at me as if I’m the one who has water steaming out of my ears.

“That’s what’s supposed to happen, right?”

He nods slowly. “Yes.” He stares at the bottle. “Kind of.” He places the bottle down on the floor, against the brick partition. “Exactly. Kind of.”

I sense all my classmates gawking, as if weird things like this could only happen to freaky Polly Peabody. I walk back to Dawn’s table as fast as I can. When I turn around, I see that Owen is still watching me from his desk.

Dawn is impatient. “Here’s the other one.” She hands me another plastic bottle, this one filled on the bottom with dirt. “I already put in the grass seeds.” This time I rush to the other side as fast as I can and place it down. I don’t know if anyone is watching me, but I examine it after I put it down, to make sure nothing’s boiling. The bottle just sits there and soon I feel foolish, watching dirt.

After class, I head toward Basford, but Owen stops me.

“Got a second?”

He’s still thinking about the soda bottle. “That was pretty cool. Any idea what happened?”

“Nope,” I say. I shift my backpack to the other side. “Is it that weird?’

He stares at me for a long second. “Nah. The pyramids, they’re weird. Walking on the moon? Weirdo-rama. Wax museums? Have you ever been to one? Totally weird. Nope. On a scale of one to ten, this is just a . . .” He smiles as he searches for the word. “Not even a number. A mystery.”

“I thought you said it was the sun.”

“Maybe, but I kind of doubt it.The bottle got awfully hot, awfully fast.” He shrugs. “But no harm, no foul.”

I bite my lip. “So it’s okay?”

“Yes.” He grins. “Are you always this worried?”

I look him straight in the eye and answer truthfully. “Yes.”

SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 6

Spiders

It was stupid of me to expect that Aunt Edith would be waiting for me yesterday afternoon. But on the way home from school, I suddenly believed that Aunt Edith would be there and we’d go on a tutorial where I’d learn something amazing, something so special and important that I’d be the envy of everyone.

I know my face showed how disappointed I was when we pulled up and there was no Mercedes waiting in our driveway. It’s my fault anyway, for even hoping. I’m pretty sure Aunt Edith is traveling now—she would travel to a different country every second if she could. She says there’s no way to learn about the human condition without seeing it from a front-row seat. I’ve been reading
Self-Reliance
every night, though, and Mr. Emerson doesn’t agree with her.
The wise man stays at home,
he says, sounding more like Grandmom than Aunt Edith. But the real truth is, I have no idea what Aunt Edith is doing or thinking. She could be anywhere, doing anything. I don’t know her as well as I thought.

Yet she was right. Things are changing around here. This morning, I walked outside and saw that the thick mass of green mist under the cherry tree had begun to leak out from under the branches. I ran over to the tree and gasped. Now a part of the mist floated a few feet past the branches, hovering over the water. Cautiously, I leaned over to touch it. Again, it had that wet, cottony feel. But this time, it wasn’t quite as tight—as if the net had loosened just a bit, allowing the strands to pull apart and cover this new section of the lake.

When Grandmom died, I never thought to touch the mist itself. I wonder if it was the same thing. Maybe this is how it starts? Under the tree, to gather strength, and then pushing itself over the water? Perhaps it will continue to stretch out just like last time, wrapping itself around our lake, waiting for our next savior to come and fix us, just like Aunt Edith did four years ago.

And then I think, if that’s true, I wish he or she would hurry up, because there’s a general feeling that we’re all walking along the edge of the world, ready to fall off if it doesn’t rain on Monday. The truth is we have no Plan B. It’s always rained. That’s all we know.

Gently, I pour some water on Harry’s spot. I come here every morning before school, making the sign of the cross, hoping to see some sign of progress. But so far, nothing’s happened. Today, Saturday, I stare at his one white strand of root so hard it hurts. It hasn’t changed at all, but there’s a part of me that’s clinging to that skinny little string. As long as it exists, I have a chance.

“Is there anything else I can do?” I ask the spindly root as nicely as I can. Then I turn to the other sagging, unhappy plants. “I’ll do whatever you say.”

But it’s like all the plants are asleep. Or they’re ignoring me, their friend’s shredder. I don’t blame them. Coming here every day, knowing how all the plants must be mad at me, is part of my punishment. I want them to know that I’m genuinely sorry and that I’m not going to give up.

Suddenly I feel something faintly scrape my ankle. I look down, full of hope, expecting to see a leaf rustling or a stalk reaching out to me.

It’s neither. It’s a spider.

A big, black, long-legged spider with two heads and three stripes on its body.

“Eww!” I recoil.

“Seeek!” I hear in response. It’s so faint that I think it may be a mouse lost in the fields.

“Seeek!” I hear again, louder. I look to the plants, feeling suddenly panicked. Now the bugs are
really
talking? Am I hearing correctly?

The spider scrambles up the leaf of the plant directly in front of me.

“Seeek. Seeek.” The spider speaks from his left head.

I didn’t even know spiders had mouths.

“Seek.” The spider quickly scuttles to another plant, dropping from one leaf to another as if on stairwells. Then he speaks with his right head. “Seeek!”

“Seek?” I ask.

The spider shakes his right head no.

“Seeek!”

“Sick?”

Both heads move up and down. Then the spider moves, crawling from the leaf in front of me, down the stalk and onto the ground.

“Who’s sick?” I hear my voice catch in terror.

I watch as the spider scampers away. “Wait!” I hurry after him.

The spider pauses, turns his right head so that it’s facing me.

“Seek!” Then, without a second glance, the spider darts into the field. I follow him into it. Then I stop. I stop because in front of me are hundreds of black two-headed spiders. A virtual army of them, thousands and thousands of skinny black legs and striped bodies, all standing still in the middle of this chocolate rhubarb field, all of them looking straight at me.

“Seeek! Seeek!” I gawk at the bugs, mouth open, eyes wide. In one sweeping moment, the spiders fall silent. And then they’re gone. Every single one of them.

Gone.

MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 8

For Real

BOOK: Drizzle

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