Drizzle (19 page)

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Authors: Kathleen Van Cleve

BOOK: Drizzle
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I barely have enough time to ask Freddy what a defensive lineman is before Ophelia whirls around and fixes on Mom.
“Christina!” she commands.
Mom jerks her head up to look at Ophelia from her cross-legged stance in front of the crystal ball, her face taut.
Ophelia closes her eyes, splaying her hands on the ball. “The chocolate rhubarb in the western field asks that you discontinue
compsilura concinnata
.” Her face is stern. “I’ve told you that myself, I have to say. The ichneumon is much less harmful to the roots.”
She’s talking about parasitic bugs, another “natural” form of pesticide. I think even Spark is considered a parasitic bug, since he
loves
eating mosquitoes.
Patricia groans. “Could you please stick a needle in my eye?”
“Sssh!”
But Mom smiles, somewhat relieved. “Thanks,” she tells Ophelia. “But that’s not—”
“Quiet!” Ophelia dances her fingers on the ball again. “Freddy! Freddy!”
“Ophelia! Ophelia!” Freddy grins.
She opens her eyes, splays her fingers again. She does not grin. “Follow the light,” she says.
“What?”
She says solemnly, “The light! You’ll know it when you see it.”
“Uh, okay,” he says.
Ophelia proceeds to give everyone something to think about. Dad has to consider the needs of his chemical solution for his etiolated rhubarb. Patricia needs to drink more water for her soul. Basford has to add more complex carbohydrates to his diet. Chico should be nicer to the sugar maple trees because they’re not always happy with his pruning.
I wait for her to say something to me. But each time she closes her eyes, she reopens them and focuses on someone else. Finally I’m the only one left. Patricia knows it too—she elbows me in my stomach.
But Ophelia just opens her eyes and smiles. “Well! That was wonderful, wasn’t it?”
I can’t believe it. I stick my head out farther, right in front of her face. But Ophelia ignores me.
“Guess organic spirits don’t have your back,” Patricia whispers.
I am so disappointed, I feel like crying. I wanted more than anything to hear something from Harry. Maybe Jongy’s right. Maybe I am cursed.
Mom steps over to us and grins. “Okay, so maybe not the most productive session I’ve ever had, but it is good to know about the ichneumon.”
“Right. And I have to go drink some water,” says Patricia. “My soul is thirsty.”
They laugh, and Mom leaves us to talk to Ophelia. I can feel my anger building. Ophelia is a fake. I’m a dope for even believing for a second that this could have helped.
I run to my room and pull the door shut. I’m about to flop on top of my bed, but I stop just in time to avoid sitting on the cricket. The Monster cricket.
“What do you want?” I whisper. He stares at me as if I’m the one who’s supposed to tell him something. I sense a fluttering above my shoulder. Spark hovers in the air by my side.
“I’m guessing you know about the slugs?” Spark writes “SORRY” in the air, finishing just as we hear a knock on my door.
“Polly,” Ophelia says. “May I come in?”
I look back at the bed. The Monster cricket has left. Spark is nowhere to be seen.
Figures.You’d think magic bugs would be okay with an Organic Psychic, but clearly my magic bugs are cowards.
“Fine,” I mutter. Ophelia doesn’t look as strange now. She’s removed her helmet, so she just looks like a typical mother, one who has wrinkles where she smiles and wears clothes that are just a little off.
Ophelia sits on my bed, smiling when she looks up at the inside of the turret ceiling.
“You’ve picked the lucky room,” she says.
“Mom picked it,” I say.
“No.” She shakes her head. “You did.”
She gives me that look that says that she knows more than I do.
“I know you’re very anxious.You have so many currents swirling around in the mystical realm, it’s probably hard to see straight. What to do, what to think, how to act.”
“You saw all of this in your crystal ball?” I ask.
“No, I see all of this in you.” She squeezes my arm. “I do have a message for you.”
“You do?” I jump up from the bed.
She smiles widely. “You’re such a believer, aren’t you?”
“Believer?”
She smoothes the comforter cover as she talks. “Some people don’t want to hear what I have to say. They think it’s all nonsense.” She drums her fingers on the bed. “They don’t want to think that anything happens outside the realm of science.” She turns, places her hands on her knees. “But people like you, Polly, know instinctively that our world is bigger than that.”
Suddenly the Monster cricket is back, and resting on her shoulder like a black, huge parrot with bug legs.
“I presume you’ve met Lester?” Ophelia asks.
“I call him Monster. Monster cricket.” I pause, just a little embarrassed. “Not to his face.”
Monster cricket—er, Lester—rubs his feet together. Ophelia laughs.
“He doesn’t care. He likes you.”
“He does?”
She grins. Lester hops down and lands on her knee.
“He’s been trying to help. They all want to help.” Ophelia stops, curling her lips. “Spark can’t come all the time. He needs to stay by the lake. But the condition of the farm breaks his heart.” She closes her eyes. “Yes. There are legions of helpers, Polly. But one in particular.” She pauses, directing a hard look toward me.
“Your best friend.”
Ophelia says “best friend” in a way that makes me look up, wary. She stares back at me, waiting for my response.
A pounding
click click click
goes off in my brain, like the ratcheting of a roller coaster as it churns up a slope and you don’t know if you’re going to die or scream in delight.
“Basford?” I ask, too scared to say who I really want it to be.
“No.” Ophelia smiles and puts her hand out, lightly touching my elbow. “He says his name is Harry.”
I know it’s stupid, but I burst into tears when I hear his name.
“Harry? Is he okay?” I leap toward Ophelia. “What did he say? What should I do? Can you tell him I’m sorry?” I look at Ophelia’s dark blue eyes, remembering. “Can you please tell him I’m so sorry?”
“He knows,” she says. “He has a special task for you.”
“Will it bring him back?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’ll do anything.”
Ophelia looks down at her hands. “He says you have to find your ring. And then, afterward, your friends”—she gestures to Lester—“will help.”
She pauses, shutting her eyes. When she opens them, she smiles. “But please avoid the slugs this time, dear. They understood you were in distress, but you did interrupt a birthday party.”
I stare at my hands, my crooked finger. I lost that ring four years ago. I swam all over the lake looking for it, with no luck. It will be impossible to find it now, Spark or no Spark.
Ophelia stands. “I’m going to go help Beatrice with dinner. I need to make sure she doesn’t chop off the wrong end of the carrots. It really hurts them, as you might imagine.”
She smoothes down my hair. “I don’t know what to do,” I tell her quietly.
Ophelia nods, and gently leans down and kisses me on the forehead. “Trust yourself, sweet believer.”
WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 17
 
Fresh Air
 
Nature suffers nothing to remain in her kingdoms which cannot help itself.
I think Mr. Emerson is telling me that if I can’t find the ring, I don’t deserve to stay in my kingdom. (In my case, kingdom equals farm.) Right now, I’m undeserving.
I’ve looked
everywhere.
I’ve swum in the water under the cherry blossom tree, and I’ve looked in the fields, the castle, the cube, even Dad’s messy lab. But I haven’t found anything.
Looking in the lab ended up being a mistake. I was shuffling papers around on Dad’s desk when I saw a new letter from Aunt Edith’s lawyer. I found out that Alessandra di Falciana has added another
five million dollars
to her offer, which “was exceptionally generous considering the precarious condition of the property herein referred to as the Farm.”
Everyone is trying to stay optimistic—even Freddy, who has had a fever ever since Sunday night. Dad wants him to go to the hospital for more tests, but Freddy flat out refused. “
I do not have to go to the hospital for a hundred and one fever!”
I think he’s having soccer withdrawal. I know he’s tired of people—specifically me—worrying about the fact that he’s only gotten sick since it stopped raining.
I don’t know how many times I have to tell you, Polly, but there is no connection between me and rain, none, nada, zilch. Stop being crazy!
I probably don’t have to say this, but it didn’t rain on Monday.
And now we have a new problem. After twenty-four days with very little water and lots of sun, the regular rhubarb is dying by the acre. The Juice Company is not pleased. They keep calling and Dad keeps ignoring their phone calls. None of the other crops look very good either, despite our best effort. The only crop that looks kind of decent is the Giant Rhubarb. Maybe it’s because they’re bigger, or maybe it’s because the plants know that they’re going to be replanted soon to a place where they will get water. The shed of the Dark House has its own sprinkler system because of the Transplanting, although the water still comes from the lake. And the lake is not doing well either. Every day, the mist stretches out thinner and farther. Every day, the water level underneath the mist drops. Every day, we wonder whether the farm will survive.
Jongy stalked me yesterday just so she could tell me that she could not wait to come to our farm on Friday for our class trip. Mom absolutely refuses to cancel, no matter how ragged our farm looks, saying that this is a “teachable moment.” Teachable for what? For Jongy to be able to make fun of me in my
own home
? Trying to explain this to Mom is useless, however, because she just says that I’m letting Jongy get the better of me when it’s my farm and my house.
“But it’s
dying
,” I protest.
“Even if it is—which I personally refuse to believe—you’re the one in control, Polly. You just have to stop letting her get under your skin.”
Under my skin? She’s blanketed my entire
being
. It isn’t something to brag about, but at this point, I literally run away from her if I even sense her coming. I even know her schedule well enough to time my arrival to and from classes. Like today. I know she doesn’t like Owen, so she won’t come to science class one minute before she’s due. I have a free period before science so this means that I can go to science class at least ten minutes before it starts, simply to hide from her. I know this is cowardly. But I’ve also been able to avoid her.
“Hey Pol.” Owen strolls in the classroom, carrying an apple and a pile of papers.
“Hi,” I say quietly.
“Whatcha doing?”
“Thinking.”
“Excellente.” He walks over to his desk and takes out what looks like a key with a white plastic blob on its head. “Want to help?”
“Sure. I guess. Help with what?”
He gestures to the closed roof over our heads, then waves the key in the air.
“What’s that?”
“You haven’t seen this yet? It’s the key to the roof. Latest thing in all the roof-retracting buildings in the world. Or so I’m told. Want to try?”
He hands it to me. The shape on the top isn’t a blob; it’s a polygon with distinct sides. The key panel on the wall is actually an index-card-size plate that has a socket dug in the middle of it. The polygon fits inside, like a ball into a socket.
“Now twist it once to your right . . .”
There’s a whirring noise, and then the rumbling of the roof. I tilt my head and watch it pull back, opening up to the sky.
Owen closes his eyes and does a yoga stretch. “Fresh air,” he murmurs. “Can’t beat it. Right, Pol?”
“Right,” I say. I put the key back on his desk and walk over to the brick half wall, peering over the edge. Owen’s planted a blueberry bush in a container. It’s very small and there are no berries growing, just small little leaves that fall off as soon I touch them.
“Everything okay?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Everything’s great.”
“Did you want to talk about something?”
“No. I just like coming early.” I point to the sky. “You know. Fresh air.”
“Exactamundo.” He sits at his desk, puts on his reading glasses, and pages through a large textbook on his desk. “So, the farm’s okay?” He still doesn’t look at me.
“Oh yeah,” I answer. “Fine.”

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