Authors: Kathleen Van Cleve
Drizzle (20 page)
“Good.”
He turns some more pages.
“Well, not really fine,” I say. “It’s actually kind of bad.”
He seems to study one particular page. For some reason my mouth keeps moving and more words keep falling out.
“The irrigation system Dad’s trying isn’t working. The plants are dying. It’s a big mess. A really big mess. And I can’t find this ring. And I killed my best friend.”
Owen’s eyes shoot up. He closes his book.
“He’s a plant,” I tell him, not even caring. “And there may be one root left. I keep watering him myself, but nothing’s happening. He’s not growing. There’s also this weird mist, and Aunt Edith’s gone and Freddy’s sick . . .”
I blink, holding back tears. I tilt my head back and look up into the sky.
Stop crying this second, Polly!
Stop crying this second, Polly!
Owen gets up and walks over to the blueberry bush. He sits cross-legged on the floor in front of me.
“Can I help?”
Immediately, I shake my head. “No.”
I wish he could. But he’s a science teacher. He doesn’t know about a farm.
Owen looks at me, his eyebrows knitted up in the middle of his head, like Mom does when she’s worried.
“You think I’m a wacko now, don’t you?” I close my eyes. “I am. That’s the truth. Look at where I live! We’re a bunch of peculiar, pathetic wackos.”
“I don’t think you’re a wacko. Someone like William Blake, maybe. You, nope. Not so much.”
“Who’s William Blake?”
“Poet. Writer. Genius. He died a long time ago.”
“You’re wrong.”
“Nah. I’m hardly ever wrong. Well, that’s not true. I’m a wrong a lot.
But
I admit it. Sometimes I even say I’m wrong when I’m right, how about that?”
But
I admit it. Sometimes I even say I’m wrong when I’m right, how about that?”
“I really am a wacko.” I look up at him. “Look.” I show him crooked finger. “This is why Jongy hates me. And it isn’t like I can do anything about it. Some women in my family have them. Aunt Edith. My grandmother.”
“Polly, it’s a finger. So it’s crooked. So what?” He laughs. “It makes you different.”
“Here’s something else. I talk to bugs.”
I expect him to be shocked. But he just smiles.
“Are they nice?”
“Yeah, a lot of them. The cricket’s kind of annoying.”
“So the problem is . . . ?”
“Well, one of them wants me to go to a place that terrifies me.”
“Why?”
“Because—I don’t know.”
“Is it a real place?”
“Of course it’s a real place,” I say. “We don’t live in Alice’s Wonderland. It’s on our farm and it looks just like the Tower of Doom. It’s creepy and haunted and even though I never wanted to go there, I tried, I did—because Spark told me to go, but then I fell into the slugsand.”
Owen just listens. I’m on some kind of rant—I can’t stop. “You probably think this is all crazy. You’re probably like my dad, right? All science, all the time.”
“Actually, I’m stuck on the slugsand, frankly. Is it what it sounds like?”
“Even worse.”
“Yuck.” He checks his watch. “Listen, Polly. There’s a big net out there, big enough for everything. Science and rain and talking bugs—”
“Spelling bugs.”
“Spelling bugs, sorry, and religion and ultimate Frisbee and literature, the whole enchilada, as they say.”
He stands up. “I like science. But I love
mysteries
. And that’s what it sounds like you have on your hand. A mystery. Yes, the farm is in distress, Freddy’s sick, the bugs and plants are talking, but who are they talking
to
? You, my friend.”
mysteries
. And that’s what it sounds like you have on your hand. A mystery. Yes, the farm is in distress, Freddy’s sick, the bugs and plants are talking, but who are they talking
to
? You, my friend.”
I bite my lip. “I’m the only one who listens to them.”
“No. You want to save your family, Little Miss Peabody. You just have to reframe how you’re thinking about all this. Forget about whether you’re wacko or not: You have a puzzle in front of you that you have to solve. Put your clues together. Use your mind.” He grins. “In other words, let’s go, Hercule Poirot.”
“Who?”
“Never mind.”
As I get up, the key on my necklace hits my stomach, which makes me think of its engravings.
“Wait. I do have one question.” I remove the necklace and show him the key, pointing to the plus and minus signs. “What does this mean?”
“Could be anything.” He hands it back to me. “I’m not sure. Math, naturally. But I don’t get the relationship with water. Maybe polarization.”
“What’s that?”
“Polarization. Positive charges, negative charges. You’ve heard the saying that opposites attract? We’re not really going to get into physics here, but essentially a positive charge here”—he holds out the index finger of his right hand—“and a negative charge here”—he raises the index finger of his left hand—“attract each other. Like a magnet. It happens with all kinds of compounds, including water.”
He shrugs. “But it could also be something called ‘margin of error’ or just addition and subtraction.” He smiles brightly. “I know the Latin, if that’s a help.”
“I already figured that one out,” I tell him. “Or rather, Basford did.”
Just then, some classmates start streaming into the room.
“The ambassador, reading Latin. We are in very safe hands.” He smiles again, very kindly. “Give yourself a break, Polly. You never know. The finger might be a good luck charm. Right?”
For the first time, I think he really may be out of his mind. “Sure, Owen,” I tell him. “Whatever you say.”
FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 19
Class Trip
The dark thoughts came back again last night, just like they’ve been doing almost every night. At night, it feels like there’s no way out; that we’ve—that
I’ve
—lost already. It’s different when the day breaks. In the morning, I feel like there is hope—I just have to find it, whatever
it
is. Today, I decide that it would be plain wonderful to have Harry grow on the same day as the class trip. That would prove to me that the farm has a chance. I run down the stairs, headed to Harry’s chocolate rhubarb field. But just as I’m about to rush out the door, I see Dad, sitting on a chair and staring out, as if he’s been hypnotized. I skid to a stop and run back to him.
I’ve
—lost already. It’s different when the day breaks. In the morning, I feel like there is hope—I just have to find it, whatever
it
is. Today, I decide that it would be plain wonderful to have Harry grow on the same day as the class trip. That would prove to me that the farm has a chance. I run down the stairs, headed to Harry’s chocolate rhubarb field. But just as I’m about to rush out the door, I see Dad, sitting on a chair and staring out, as if he’s been hypnotized. I skid to a stop and run back to him.
“Dad?”
A newspaper is on his lap.
“Dad?” I say again. He shifts in his seat, and is probably about to talk to me when I read the headline.
FOR SALE?Rupert’s Rhubarb Farm SOLD
for One Hundred Million DollarsExclusive by Debbie Jong.
Today. Jongy had her Mom publish it
today
. The day of the class trip.
today
. The day of the class trip.
“Hi, pumpkin,” Dad says mechanically.
This is worse than all of the night thoughts; this is reality, and it’s awful. Dad’s face droops; it’s like he has disappointment etched right into his skin.
“I should have told you,” I tell Dad as guilt floods through me. “I said something to Jongy even though you told me not to,” I admit. “I’m so sorry.”
“It was bound to happen.” But Dad hasn’t even flinched; I may as well be a robot.
Mom walks into the room carrying two cups of coffee. She gives me the saddest look I’ve ever seen, as if I were some kind of murderer. (I remind myself:
You
are
some kind of murderer. Or at least, a chocolate rhubarb plant almost-murderer.)
You
are
some kind of murderer. Or at least, a chocolate rhubarb plant almost-murderer.)
Mom reaches over Dad’s shoulder and takes the newspaper from his lap. She hands it to me.
Anonymous sources have confirmed that Rupert’s Rhubarb Farm, home of the world-famous chocolate rhubarb and Umbrella ride has been sold to a private buyer for an exorbitant amount of money in these tough economic times. Attempts to reach a member of the Peabody family, including Edith Peabody Stillwater, were unsuccessful, but a close friend of the youngest Peabody child alleged that a sale for this outrageous amount of money was definitely in the works . . .
Mom and Dad will never forgive me.They shouldn’t. I won’t forgive me.
“I’m sorry,” I say again, my voice cracking.
“Polly?” Mom’s veins are popping out of her neck. “I need you to go to your room and stay there.”
“But—”
“I will come and get you. I just need some more time to discuss this with your father.”
I wish I had an excuse, but I don’t. So I just turn and go to my room.
Mom walks into my room two hours later. “You should have told us you said something to Jennifer.” She stomps over to the window by my desk, grabbing the drapes and yanking them open.
“Do you have any idea how many phone calls we’ve received? E-mails, texts? Do you have any idea? That story was carried by every major news outlet. We got a call from
Iceland
this morning, Polly.
Iceland
.” Mom slams her hand down on my desktop, shattering any attempt at seeming calm. “Your school is coming today. Today! I have to
pretend
that this article doesn’t matter. It makes me feel dishonest.”
Iceland
this morning, Polly.
Iceland
.” Mom slams her hand down on my desktop, shattering any attempt at seeming calm. “Your school is coming today. Today! I have to
pretend
that this article doesn’t matter. It makes me feel dishonest.”
She takes a deep breath and walks over to where I sit on my bed.
“I’m sorry,” I say as genuinely as I can. “If I could take it back, I would. I really, really would.”
After a long moment, Mom speaks. “Basford told me what she does to you.”
“She wouldn’t have known anything if I hadn’t opened my big mouth.” I look at my mom. “Mom, I’m really sorry.”
She nods, short and fast. “I know. Now get dressed. Your class will be here in a half hour.”
After she leaves, it’s my turn to slam my hand down on the table. I’ve never done that before, and my hand stings. I take a deep breath, trying to control my anger at Jongy—my anger at myself. I pick up the first book I see.
Self-Reliance.
I open it up and read from a random page.
Self-Reliance.
I open it up and read from a random page.
Your genuine action will explain itself, and will explain your other genuine actions.
Genuine action. Genuine action is me figuring out how to help the farm. Genuine action is
not
focusing on Jennifer Jong.
not
focusing on Jennifer Jong.
I hear the buses pulling into the castle’s driveway and take a deep breath. I look in the mirror before I leave.
Pretend
. I can do that too.
Pretend
. I can do that too.
I’m not out of the door, though, before Beatrice appears, swatting me on the arm with the newspaper. Her dark eyes leap out at me, angry, as she commences one of her full-blown tirades.
“What is the matter with you?”
“I know.”
“I raised you better than that! Telling that girl!”
“I know.”
“And this article. Don’t they care if the facts are right? Any facts? One hundred million dollars? Who would print that? Does anyone care about the truth?” She swats me again, although I can tell she’s reaching the end of her rant.
“I wish I could take it back.”
Beatrice just looks at me sorrowfully, like I was a plant that deliberately didn’t grow even after all her hard work.
“I promise you, as God is my witness, if that girl so much as looks at me in the wrong way, I’m—”
“Going to poison her with rhubarb?”
“What? No.” Beatrice swats me again. “Foolish. You better be the most polite ambassador to this farm the world has ever seen. Do you understand me?”
“Yes,” I say.
“Now go outside.”
“Okay.” I walk toward the steps.
“Wait a second!” Beatrice yells. She comes at me with a brush. “Could you just try to look a little less like a banshee?”
She pulls the brush through my hair, knots and all. It kills.
“There!” she snaps as she finishes. “At least you look like a human being. Now you can go.”
Outside, my class climbs out of a yellow school bus. I see Christopher and Charlie to one side, looking up at the castle. Even if some of these kids have been to the farm before, they would have never been allowed to be so close to my home.
Margaret, the girl with the blond hair, spots me. “Hey! Polly!”
“Hey,” I answer, a little tense. I wonder if my classmates read the newspaper. But Margaret’s face breaks into an honest, pretty smile. “This is really great.”
Dawn, wearing pink terrycloth shorts and a matching pink terrycloth hoodie, scurries over to me. “I’ve done some reports on ancient castles, like Neuschwanstein and the other castles of the German King Ludwig.” She steps forward, examining the stone wall. “But I’d say that this is more like the Italian castle of King Maximilian. Am I right?”
“Maybe,” I say. “The original owner was an Italian prince.”
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