The Weight of Rain Read Online Free PDF Page A

blink heavily a few times as she spins on her heel and heads down the hallway.
    “Are you coming?” Her tone isn’t welcoming, nor is the scowl on her lips.
    I’m considering zip tying every item of Kenzie’s in place like my older brother, Josh, did to me several years ago on April Fool’s, as I follow her, blandly paying attention to the clutter that seems to be drowning this house.
    When we reach a large room, it takes me several seconds of looking around to realize we’re in a living room. At least … I think we’re in a living room. There’s a TV hanging on the far wall, but no seating is near it. The only couch is against the opposite wall and piled high with clothes. A chandelier hangs from the ceiling ahead of us, but there’s no table below it. Instead, my eyes search over wheels that look like they belong on bicycles, and boxes that are precariously balanced with bubble wrap flowing from each of their tops. Bags that appear both empty and full are haphazardly mixed in with endless amounts of laundry, toys, a few pillows, food wrappers, packing materials, magazines, and even shoes.
    “So what do you want to do?”
    I turn my head to Mercedes. She’s unaffected by the mess and doesn’t seem to care at all that I can’t stop staring at it, feeling slightly horrified that anyone could live in such chaos. I can’t tell if it’s because she’s too young to understand this would commonly be considered a social faux pas, or if she simply doesn’t care. “What do you normally do?”
    She rolls her eyes again in an exaggerated fashion, her fists slamming back to her non-existent hips. “What do you normally do?”
    I tilt my chin, wondering if she’s seeking sarcasm, but I attempt honesty. “I go to school and work. When I’m not doing that, I’m usually with my friends, Charleigh and Allie.”
    “What do you do when you hang out with them?” There’s still an edge to her tone, but her eyes are filled with curiosity as she watches me.
    “They go to school for fashion design, so sometimes we talk about art stuff, sometimes we watch movies and make Charleigh try American food, other times we just hang out.” I shrug once again.
    “American food? Is Charleigh not from here?”
    “No, she’s British. A tea drinker,” I add, noting an empty Starbucks cup littering the ground.
    “How very Mary Poppins of her.” I feel the edges of my lips lift into a smile and note the way her lips mirror mine for a second before they stop and turn into a forcible frown.
    “What do you know how to cook? I’m hungry.”
    “Want a sandwich?”
    “Try again.”
    Raising my eyebrows, my tone becomes indifferent. “Cereal?”
    “No way! It’s afternoon.”
    “Mac and cheese?”
    “Seriously?”
    “What’s wrong with any of those?” I ask, following her into a kitchen that is shockingly clean. The surfaces are empty and wiped down. Even the floors look as though they’ve recently been washed.
    “We have basil. Can you make pesto sauce?”
    I narrow my eyes, drawing my eyebrows together. “Not unless it’s in a jar that I can open.”
    “What about scallops?”
    “I thought you were ten.”
    “I am.”
    “What ten-year-old eats scallops and pesto sauce?”
    “Ones with refined taste buds that didn’t grow up on Cream of Wheat,” Mercedes quips.
    “How about scrambled eggs?”
    “Do you know how to cook anything that requires more than one ingredient?”
    “Not many, no.” My frankness is not well received. Her eyes become tapered once more and her jaw clenches.
    “Let’s pray there are leftovers,” she says, doing a quick spin on her heels and moving toward the fridge.
     
    T HE AFTERNOON passes at an alarmingly painful crawl. I can’t express my relief when I hear the front door close and a male’s voice call, “Mercedes, I’m home!”
    The first genuine smile I’ve seen from her passes her lips, and she drops the small gadget she has been playing with for the past hour, on the floor