Drizzle by Van Cleve Kathleen

Author:Van Cleve, Kathleen [Van Cleve, Kathleen]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Penguin Group
Published: 2010-02-25T22:00:00+00:00

Water. No rain on the farm. Self-Reliance. The two-headed spiders. I pick up the key, the gold necklace running through my fingers. It’s all here, in front of me. What am I missing?

WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 10

Slugsand

It all clicked last night when I was staring out my window seat, avoiding the Dark House.

Natura nihil fit in frustra.

Nature does nothing in vain.

Spark wouldn’t spell SILO unless it was important that I go there. I’m kicking myself for ignoring him before, but I guess I was just so scared of the idea that I pushed it far away in my thoughts. Not that I was thinking about anything better. In fact, yesterday was a complete loss. I overslept, wore mismatched socks, and forgot my homework. School was a nightmare. Jongy and Joe Josephs tag-teamed me with dumb jokes about the farm: Hey, Polly, want to give up any of your umbrellas? And also: What do you call a farm that doesn’t grow anything? The Peabody Money Well! Ha ha. I managed to keep my head down for most of it, finishing up Self-Reliance. So far, my favorite line is “A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds.” I’ve decided that’s what Jongy’s obsession with me is: a foolish consistency, which makes her (either) little-minded or a hobgoblin (whatever that is) or possibly both. The only time I laugh all day is when I imagine calling Jongy a “hobgoblin” to her face.

At least Freddy seems to be better. Dad said his blood tests were inconclusive, but they think he may have anemia. Apparently, that just means he has to eat more spinach. He’s sleeping with his soccer ball these days because he’s so upset about missing practice. Freddy’s convinced he’s 100 percent healthy. I’m not.

It’s not even seven o’clock in the morning, yet the sun is already beating down on our fields. It physically hurts me to see how the lack of rain is affecting our farm. It’s been seventeen days, and many of the plants seem to be swaying under the weight of their leaves. The rhubarb stalks are weak, unable to hold themselves up.

Mom mentioned the mist to me yesterday. Out of the blue, she asked me if I had seen the beautiful green fog that was spreading over our lake. I said yes and that it worried me. But Mom’s not bothered by it at all; she just thinks it’s pretty. Actually, I think the farm and Freddy take up all the worrying space in Mom’s mind. By comparison, the mist is nothing.

I wonder what Aunt Edith is doing. Does she think of me at all? Does she know that at this very second, I’m heading to the Silo? Would she care?

No. I want to think that she would, but I think—at night, when I can’t sleep, when I can’t even read because I’m too upset—that Aunt Edith didn’t care about me as much as I thought she did. Or maybe I’m just delusional, like Patricia thinks. Maybe the whole idea that I matter to Aunt Edith is wrongheaded.

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