Drizzle (12 page)

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Authors: Kathleen Van Cleve

BOOK: Drizzle
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“What is it?” I ask.
He wheezes. “You don’t know?”
I shake my head.
“What?” I ask again.
Patricia lunges through the plants. “Look up,” she gasps.
I tilt my head back, looking up at the sky. It’s blue. Brilliantly blue. A perfect, cloudless, bluer-than-blue sky.
Freddy flashes his watch at me.
It’s 1:07 p.m. On a Monday.
There is no rain.
part 2
 
TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 2
 
Scientific Inquiry
 
“Polly Peabody! Do you have any comment?”
The reporters are worse than slugs. Slugs can’t move any real distance; reporters travel, like the mosquitoes in Africa that cause malaria. It’s my first day at my new school
and they’re here.
We should have expected this. They’ve been swarming our farm, scrambling over the fields and popping up near the lake, one of them even taking samples of the water from the lake. Mom and Beatrice have been slamming the door in their face all night long, giving lots of great news footage for people who want to know the burning question of their day:
Why didn’t it rain on the Peabody farm?
This morning, when Freddy got in the driver’s seat of Dad’s old station wagon, Mom had kissed us each on the cheek, even Basford.
“Freddy was born on a Monday when it didn’t rain,” she said earnestly. “This could be a
good
sign.” Her voice sounded clipped and her eyes had a desperate look, which she was trying to hide by packing us in the car and sending us to school as if everything was normal. “And Polly’s welts are down, so that’s good too.” I slammed the door when she said that, because while Mom’s right, the welts have calmed down, it now looks like someone smashed a piece of pizza across my face. Perfect for the first day at school.
Not that it matters. The photographers would take pictures of me if I had a bag over my head. Meanwhile, the reporters are throwing so many questions at us that it’s making me dizzy.
“Patricia! Did you know this was going to happen?”
“Have you checked with any meteorologists?”
“You there, blond guy? How are you connected to the Peabodys?”
Basford freezes. “Come on!” I hiss as I grab his arm and pull him through the line of screaming reporters and flashing photographers’ lights.
“Are you prepared for this emergency? What’s your Plan B?” shouts another reporter as we pass. Luckily, the headmaster, Mr. Horvat, storms over and extends his long arm in front of the reporter’s face, like a barricade.
“This is private property,” he snaps. “And you should have better sense than to assault children at their school.” Soon, he’s ushered us into the school through large Gothic doors and brings us to his office. After telling us that he would guarantee that we would have a “normal” school life, he wished us luck and told us that we should come to him with any questions or problems.
“Maybe we should ask him how to make it rain,” Patricia jokes.
I don’t say anything because I’m now staring at something other than reporters and big black cameras. I didn’t think anything could take my mind off of the farm, but here I stand, gawking, at St. Xavier’s School.
It isn’t that I haven’t been here before. I have, with Patricia and Freddy. But I guess I never really paid attention. I’m now realizing it’s one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever seen.
I used to go to school in a place built of orange brick, in the shape of a rectangle. I think there may have been some straggly trees and some green lawns, but there was nothing noticeable about it, and certainly nothing even a little bit beautiful.
But here? This is a
school?
There’s a huge gray stone building with a clock tower and arched walkways and polished stone floors that shine. Thick, cropped green grass spreads from the edges of the walkways down to a small pond on one side and to a gully on the other. Flowers are pruned and bright, trees are as tall as giants, with outstretched branches, as if they too were welcoming the new students as much as the smiling teachers. There are tennis courts and soccer fields and an indoor swimming pool, and there’s the Common Room, which is essentially like a big living room in someone’s mansion.
Even the classrooms are perfect. When I get to my science classroom, it’s—well, I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s on the top floor for one, but while half of the classroom has a regular wooden floor, the other half has
grass
. That’s because the “ceiling” of our science classroom is really a retractable roof, so that on the sunny days, the teacher can roll it back and we can learn science while sitting on green grass under a bright blue sky.
When I sit down, in the second-to-last chair in the very last row of desks, I feel myself relax. No reporters. Basford sitting next to me. And call me a geek, but I feel kind of proud that I get to go to a school that looks like this: It seems like you’d have to be special to be allowed to even cross the doorstep of this magnificent-looking place.
But then
she
walks in and everything changes in a second. The girl walking onto the grass is my height, but bigger everywhere: her head, her body, her legs, probably even her toenails. She has thick dark hair and big blue eyes and big teeth and big lips and a big, big mouth that is always smiling, even if she says cruel things.
Yep. Jennifer Jong. St. Xavier’s plummets down my expectation ladder: If they let her in, they’d let in anyone. Luckily, she sits down in the front row. I’m not even sure she knows I’m here. I tuck my chin into my chest and stare at my desk. I’ll stare at it all day long if it means she leaves me alone.
Then a man rushes in and I automatically lift my head. He has crazy wild blond hair that’s really long, a crooked nose, and a slanted smile. He’s wearing a short-sleeved, bright orange Hawaiian shirt, like he just came from the beach.
“Hey!” he says. “Owen Dail, at your service.”
Basford and I look at each other. He’s grinning; I’m not. Maybe this is common in Bermuda, but I’ve never had a teacher like this.
“Some quick rules.” The teacher moves briskly around the classroom, picking up beakers and plastic bottles and strange, silver implements. “Call me Owen. You get a demerit if you call me Mr. Dail.”
“What’s a demerit?” asks a girl in the back row.
Owen wheels around, looking down at her. She’s wearing all pink. “A demerit is my catch-all phrase that means ‘bad thing.’” He starts to lope toward his desk.
“But would it affect our grade? If we get a demerit, I mean?” Owen stops again, mid-row. He turns to face the girl.
“Your name?”
She looks around nervously. “Dawn. Dawn Dobransky.”
“Well, Dawn Dobransky, for you, yes. Demerits will affect your grade.”
“Just me?”
Owen shrugs. “I don’t know.” He looks around. “Perhaps everyone? What do you think?”
Dawn Dobransky stares at him uncomprehendingly. “I don’t know.”
“Well then, I don’t know either. Let’s keep going, shall we?”
He runs to his desk, puts the palms of both of his hands on the top and propels himself up, so that he can sit on top of it and look back at all of us. He’s reminding me of Chico’s dog, back when he was a puppy.
“Roll call. My favorite part of the day. I’ll know all of your names by December. Scout’s promise.” He holds up his fingers in a peace sign. “I mean, Scout’s honor.”
I can’t help it, I smile. He’s so weird.
He starts reading off names, making funny comments along the way. For someone named Charles Lafayette, he salutes. For a kid named Joseph Josephs, he simply says “My condolences.” And then he gets to me.
“Polly Peabody!”
I raise my hand.
“Peas! Do you know what that makes me think of?”
Now everyone has turned to me, including Jongy. I keep my eyes trained on Owen and shake my head, scared of what he’s about to say.
“Gregor Mendel!” Owen says gleefully. “Do you know who he is?”
I shake my head again.
“Anyone?” Owen asks. “This is a science class, think science. Gregor Mendel. Not a scientist. A priest. An Augustinian priest—whatever that is—who is the founder of . . .”
He waits. A pretty girl with thick blond hair and blue eyes raises her hand.
“Yes, Marsha?”
“It’s Margaret.”
“Absolutely. Margaret. Continue. What does Miss Peabody have in common with Gregor Mendel?”
“He studied pea plants?”
“It isn’t a question.” Owen yells, “That’s the answer! Be confident! Yes! Gregor Mendel is the father of modern genetics!”
Margaret smiles nervously.
“Let me see.” Owen peers at his list. “Basford? Someone named Basford Von Trammel?”
Basford looks uncomfortable.
“Is he here? Mr. Basford Von Trammel? Or is he off running the State Department? Perhaps he’s an ambassador? Maybe a spy? Perhaps that’s why he’s so quiet?” Owen scans the room.
Jongy stands up, pointing. “That’s him. I saw him on the news last night. He lives with the Peabodys.”
Basford immediately casts his eyes down to the floor.
“Hello, Mr. Von Trammel,” Owen says. “May I ask where you got your first name?”
“It was the name of my father’s favorite teacher,” he says quietly.
Owen’s face splits into an incredibly big, lopsided smile. “I love this story! If any of you want to name your child Owen or Dail, talk to me after class. We may be able to figure out an arrangement.”
Owen turns back to Jongy. “And you, our public service student. Who are you?”
Jongy’s eyes narrow. “You called on me already.”
“I did?”
“Yes. Ten seconds ago.”
“Oh, yes. You’re Eve.”
“Nope.”
“Pia?”
“No.”
“Sylvie?”
“Jennifer. Jennifer Jong.”
“Right,” he says. “Do you know everyone in the class?”
She looks around. “I’m new here. But I know
some
people.”
“Like our ambassador, Mr. Von Trammel?”
“Like Polly Peabody.”
I close my eyes.
“Wonderful,” Owen says.
“I was actually hoping I could make an announcement to the class,” Jongy continues.
“Go right ahead.”
Jongy clears her throat. “I know I’m speaking for everyone when I tell Polly that we’re all so sorry for the Peabody family. It must be so hard to start a new school the day after you find out your farm is going to be ruined.”
Everyone’s quiet. I stare at my hands. This is not how I wanted to be introduced.
“You need to sit down,” I hear Owen say from across the room. “That was unkind.”
I sneak a glance over to them. Jongy sits down slowly. As she does, she removes her lip gloss and starts to apply it, looking Owen straight in the eye as she does.
“Excellent,” Owen says. “You are providing me with an excellent basis to begin our discussion, Miss Jong.”
“What?”
“Scientific inquiry. I’m sure you’ve heard of it. You seem like an uncannily aware young woman.”
He starts to walk around the front of the classroom. “Let’s say you’re puzzled by something. Something happens and you want to be able to explain it.” He steps toward Charles Lafayette. “Like, let’s say Billy—”
“Charlie.”
“Charlie,” Owen continues. “Let’s say Charlie wonders why his hair is brown. Do you ever wonder why your hair is brown?”
Charlie shakes his head. “Nope. My mother’s hair is brown. So is my dad’s. I’d wonder if my hair
wasn’t
brown.”
“Excellent!” Owen grins. “You not only set up the ‘inquiry’—why does Charlie have brown hair—but you’ve come up with a ‘hypothesis’—that is, I have brown hair because my parents have brown hair. Then you test it—not literally, but instinctively—because you correctly assume that hair color is genetic, and you consider the color of your parents’ hair.” He snaps his fingers. “You have a fine mind, my friend!”
He’s clearly someone Grandmom would call “excitable.” But it works; I think I’ll like him.
“Don’t look at me like I’m crazy,” he says to the class. “Although someone did tell me once that the crazies were the only people worth knowing.” He pauses, biting his lip. “Except that he was crazy himself. Well, anyway. You get my point.” He takes a couple steps, then stops, looking confused. “The point?”
He looks straight at a guy named Christopher. Christopher’s eyes widen.
“The point?” Christopher echoes.

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