thinking about it."
The mudball landed in the black water of the creek. Jason moved from his rock to sit beside Sally. The stone cooled beneath them.
"Been thinking, maybe you. If you want to, that is." Jason's breath was close, an odd whispering wind, warm but fresh on her cheek, followed by lips on hers, all as mysterious as night.
Sally skipped into the living room, whistling.
"You've been chipper lately," Mom said.
"It's autumn. I don't have to do those stupid afternoon rains anymore."
Mom put her hands on her hips. "Now, I can tell it's more than that. I was a girl once, too."
Sally found that hard to imagine, looking at Mom now. A thousand years of sorrow were etched on her forehead. "Well, anyway, thunderstorm season is over."
"It's been weeks since a rain, though. I think we'll need one later this evening. Getting a little dusty outside."
That evening, Dad pitched his usual fit. Sally tried to squeeze some tears out of the corners of her eye, but it was no use. Her heart was too light, a helium balloon, a seagull, pink cotton candy.
Mom sliced two onions. No good. Thunder shook the windowpanes, but the sky kept its bottom and hoarded its liquid jewels.
Weeks passed. School had started, the fields withered, dwarf corn shriveled, peas rattled in their pods, oldtimers leaned on fences and recollected the great droughts of their youth.
Sally tried every night, tried to be sad, tried to weep. She sniffed onions and thought of sick puppies and broken toys and funerals and other sorrowful things. Once she even poked herself in the eye. Still the fields lay dry and aching.
She saw Jason every day at school, and they walked holding hands every afternoon, kissing by the creek when the other children weren't around. The creek was thinner now, weak between the smooth stones, quieter and less merry. The sky was cloudless.
The autumn makers rolled out golden rugs, applied their red and orange brushstrokes, underpinned the landscape with brown. The trees thirsted and gave up their leaves too soon. The ground cracked and sighed. Still no rain.
October came, on dried batwings.
The Halloween dance was coming up at school. Sally sat at her desk, excited by the chaff in the air and that sweet melancholy aroma the grass gave off just before the winter women put it to sleep. Sally cut her paper pumpkins and bundled her corn by its bleached husks. She wanted a drink of water, but the school principal had shut off the fountain because of the water shortage.
Sally didn't feel guilty. So what if the pumpkins were shrunken and scarecrows withered at their posts? She had tried to rain. It wasn't her fault that all those stupid people shook their fists at the sky and sent up airplanes with silver iodide and cast their hopeful doomed eyes at each occasional cloud. She hadn't asked to be a rain girl, anyway.
Classes were dismissed early for the holiday, but Sally stayed to finish the decorations that would hang in the gym on twisted orange and black streamers. She stood to stretch her legs. Her fingers were sore from scissoring. But she didn't mind. Tonight she would be dancing with Jason.
She walked down the hall on the pillows of daydreams. She had a new dress to wear, one her mother had made as Sally sat at the table each evening and tried to drum some rain. Mom had worked the needle and kept looking up at Sally, her eyes red and dry and hollow. Dad had cursed, but only managed to summon some heat lightning.
Sally opened the school door. Even the sunshine didn't bother her. She thought of the dress that was waiting at home. It was blue, the color of a mean sky, and she couldn't wait to wear it. Even Melanie never had a dress like it.
Four steps across crisp grass.
Shapes over by the swing set.
Somewhere, the wind people gasped.
Jason was kissing Melanie.
Sally stared, disbelieving.
The shapes blurred, shimmered in her damp eyes.
"Sally, wait," Jason called. Melanie laughed.
Sally ran toward home without looking
The mudball landed in the black water of the creek. Jason moved from his rock to sit beside Sally. The stone cooled beneath them.
"Been thinking, maybe you. If you want to, that is." Jason's breath was close, an odd whispering wind, warm but fresh on her cheek, followed by lips on hers, all as mysterious as night.
Sally skipped into the living room, whistling.
"You've been chipper lately," Mom said.
"It's autumn. I don't have to do those stupid afternoon rains anymore."
Mom put her hands on her hips. "Now, I can tell it's more than that. I was a girl once, too."
Sally found that hard to imagine, looking at Mom now. A thousand years of sorrow were etched on her forehead. "Well, anyway, thunderstorm season is over."
"It's been weeks since a rain, though. I think we'll need one later this evening. Getting a little dusty outside."
That evening, Dad pitched his usual fit. Sally tried to squeeze some tears out of the corners of her eye, but it was no use. Her heart was too light, a helium balloon, a seagull, pink cotton candy.
Mom sliced two onions. No good. Thunder shook the windowpanes, but the sky kept its bottom and hoarded its liquid jewels.
Weeks passed. School had started, the fields withered, dwarf corn shriveled, peas rattled in their pods, oldtimers leaned on fences and recollected the great droughts of their youth.
Sally tried every night, tried to be sad, tried to weep. She sniffed onions and thought of sick puppies and broken toys and funerals and other sorrowful things. Once she even poked herself in the eye. Still the fields lay dry and aching.
She saw Jason every day at school, and they walked holding hands every afternoon, kissing by the creek when the other children weren't around. The creek was thinner now, weak between the smooth stones, quieter and less merry. The sky was cloudless.
The autumn makers rolled out golden rugs, applied their red and orange brushstrokes, underpinned the landscape with brown. The trees thirsted and gave up their leaves too soon. The ground cracked and sighed. Still no rain.
October came, on dried batwings.
The Halloween dance was coming up at school. Sally sat at her desk, excited by the chaff in the air and that sweet melancholy aroma the grass gave off just before the winter women put it to sleep. Sally cut her paper pumpkins and bundled her corn by its bleached husks. She wanted a drink of water, but the school principal had shut off the fountain because of the water shortage.
Sally didn't feel guilty. So what if the pumpkins were shrunken and scarecrows withered at their posts? She had tried to rain. It wasn't her fault that all those stupid people shook their fists at the sky and sent up airplanes with silver iodide and cast their hopeful doomed eyes at each occasional cloud. She hadn't asked to be a rain girl, anyway.
Classes were dismissed early for the holiday, but Sally stayed to finish the decorations that would hang in the gym on twisted orange and black streamers. She stood to stretch her legs. Her fingers were sore from scissoring. But she didn't mind. Tonight she would be dancing with Jason.
She walked down the hall on the pillows of daydreams. She had a new dress to wear, one her mother had made as Sally sat at the table each evening and tried to drum some rain. Mom had worked the needle and kept looking up at Sally, her eyes red and dry and hollow. Dad had cursed, but only managed to summon some heat lightning.
Sally opened the school door. Even the sunshine didn't bother her. She thought of the dress that was waiting at home. It was blue, the color of a mean sky, and she couldn't wait to wear it. Even Melanie never had a dress like it.
Four steps across crisp grass.
Shapes over by the swing set.
Somewhere, the wind people gasped.
Jason was kissing Melanie.
Sally stared, disbelieving.
The shapes blurred, shimmered in her damp eyes.
"Sally, wait," Jason called. Melanie laughed.
Sally ran toward home without looking
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