patting Sally's hand. "I'm afraid I'm just not much help these days."
"Why do you keep on, then? Why can't—"
"—someone else do it? There is no one else, at least in this part of the country. Only me. And now you, dear."
"But it's not fair. Making the rain is hard work. Melanie Higgins doesn't have to do it. Vince and Selena don't have to worry about crying when the sky needs them. And Jason—"
"But you're not like them."
"Why not?"
Mom shrugged. "The world needs rain. We bring it. Who are we to know the reason for such things?"
"Could be worse." Dad had opened the paper again and spoke from behind the rumpled pages. "Them in the Sahara, the Mojave, the Painted Desert, the Gobi , places where the rain people died out, them folks are suffering. We ain't so bad off here. We got shade trees and a roof over our heads."
"But—"
"No more buts, ifs, or druthers, young lady," Dad said, dipping the newspaper to send his stormy glare at Sally. "You'll do as your mother says."
"But I want to be like everybody else." Sally stood and stamped her foot. "I won't be a rain girl for the rest of my life. I won't, I won't, I WON'T."
Sally ran to her room and threw herself on the bed. She put her head under the pillow and sobbed. The rain started again, mad on the windowsill. It poured until Mom came in an hour later to soothe her.
"What do you want to do?"
"I don't know. What do you want to do?"
What Sally really wanted to do was exactly what they were doing now. Nothing.
Jason skipped a rock across the creek, a four-hopper. He looked coolly at the sky, at the fat orange gob of sun sinking toward September. Sally watched him. She liked to watch him.
He had blue eyes and a flame of hair, and his shoulders were starting to broaden. His voice was deeper than those of the other boys on the block. He was different, better than the others.
They sat on the smooth black rocks and watched a crawdad make a milky mud-trail on the bottom of the creek. The shade was pleasant. The high trees fanned them. Or maybe one of the wind people was breathing hard.
"School starts in a few weeks."
"Yeah," Sally said. "Where has summer gone?"
"Where did it even come from?"
Sally looked at him closely. Did he know? Or was he just guessing? She decided he was just making strange talk. He couldn't know about the season people, about the tug-of-war between the spring folks and the summer hotheads, the nerveless winterers and the brown brittle autumn makers. Ordinary people didn't know the true workings of nature.
Sally hugged her knees to her chest. Jason, eyes of ice, she thought. You should be a winter boy. Because your eyes are cold and blue and you see the end of things.
But she said nothing, only listened to the music that some creek minder was playing, a tinkle here, a glug and gurgle there, a soft swallowing splash and a fishy laugh.
Jason was tossing a mudball in the air, spinning it in his quick hands.
"Seventh grade next year. That means we'll have Miss Fenwick. It's going to be a long year." Jason's head bobbed as he followed the path of the mudball.
"She's not so bad," Sally said. They sat in the long shadow of evening for a while without speaking.
Then, "Jason?"
"Hmm?"
"Is Melanie going to be your girl next year?"
The mudball stopped, held in one hand. "Melanie?"
"I saw you kissing her on the playground last spring."
The mudball started again, more slowly. "That was just kissing. I don't want Melanie to be my girl."
"But Melanie says—"
"Melanie says a lot of things."
Another silence, shorter this time, and the gap was filled with the first night noises as the man who tucked in the sun started his daily labors. The insect conductor lifted her arms somewhere, counting out the beats with a dandelion wand. Crickets and late birds played their notes, and a beagle across the meadow flubbed its lines.
Sally's heart was beating fast, like Dad's during a thunderstorm. "Are you going to you...you know-- have a girl?"
"Been
"Why do you keep on, then? Why can't—"
"—someone else do it? There is no one else, at least in this part of the country. Only me. And now you, dear."
"But it's not fair. Making the rain is hard work. Melanie Higgins doesn't have to do it. Vince and Selena don't have to worry about crying when the sky needs them. And Jason—"
"But you're not like them."
"Why not?"
Mom shrugged. "The world needs rain. We bring it. Who are we to know the reason for such things?"
"Could be worse." Dad had opened the paper again and spoke from behind the rumpled pages. "Them in the Sahara, the Mojave, the Painted Desert, the Gobi , places where the rain people died out, them folks are suffering. We ain't so bad off here. We got shade trees and a roof over our heads."
"But—"
"No more buts, ifs, or druthers, young lady," Dad said, dipping the newspaper to send his stormy glare at Sally. "You'll do as your mother says."
"But I want to be like everybody else." Sally stood and stamped her foot. "I won't be a rain girl for the rest of my life. I won't, I won't, I WON'T."
Sally ran to her room and threw herself on the bed. She put her head under the pillow and sobbed. The rain started again, mad on the windowsill. It poured until Mom came in an hour later to soothe her.
"What do you want to do?"
"I don't know. What do you want to do?"
What Sally really wanted to do was exactly what they were doing now. Nothing.
Jason skipped a rock across the creek, a four-hopper. He looked coolly at the sky, at the fat orange gob of sun sinking toward September. Sally watched him. She liked to watch him.
He had blue eyes and a flame of hair, and his shoulders were starting to broaden. His voice was deeper than those of the other boys on the block. He was different, better than the others.
They sat on the smooth black rocks and watched a crawdad make a milky mud-trail on the bottom of the creek. The shade was pleasant. The high trees fanned them. Or maybe one of the wind people was breathing hard.
"School starts in a few weeks."
"Yeah," Sally said. "Where has summer gone?"
"Where did it even come from?"
Sally looked at him closely. Did he know? Or was he just guessing? She decided he was just making strange talk. He couldn't know about the season people, about the tug-of-war between the spring folks and the summer hotheads, the nerveless winterers and the brown brittle autumn makers. Ordinary people didn't know the true workings of nature.
Sally hugged her knees to her chest. Jason, eyes of ice, she thought. You should be a winter boy. Because your eyes are cold and blue and you see the end of things.
But she said nothing, only listened to the music that some creek minder was playing, a tinkle here, a glug and gurgle there, a soft swallowing splash and a fishy laugh.
Jason was tossing a mudball in the air, spinning it in his quick hands.
"Seventh grade next year. That means we'll have Miss Fenwick. It's going to be a long year." Jason's head bobbed as he followed the path of the mudball.
"She's not so bad," Sally said. They sat in the long shadow of evening for a while without speaking.
Then, "Jason?"
"Hmm?"
"Is Melanie going to be your girl next year?"
The mudball stopped, held in one hand. "Melanie?"
"I saw you kissing her on the playground last spring."
The mudball started again, more slowly. "That was just kissing. I don't want Melanie to be my girl."
"But Melanie says—"
"Melanie says a lot of things."
Another silence, shorter this time, and the gap was filled with the first night noises as the man who tucked in the sun started his daily labors. The insect conductor lifted her arms somewhere, counting out the beats with a dandelion wand. Crickets and late birds played their notes, and a beagle across the meadow flubbed its lines.
Sally's heart was beating fast, like Dad's during a thunderstorm. "Are you going to you...you know-- have a girl?"
"Been
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