Free Drizzle by Kathleen Van Cleve Page A

it’s a gust of wind he can’t stop, his mouth opens and he roars with laughter. “I’m sorry. But even you have to know that the plants didn’t—couldn’t—do any such thing. They’re plants . I know them, I study them, you might even say I was intimately involved with them.”
    There’s nothing worse than when parents think they’re being funny. “Yuck.”
    Dad takes an apple out of the refrigerator. “No. Just science.”
    “I think it’s magic.”
    “I know you do. And that’s fine. But if you ask me, all of the questions we have now will be answered someday scientifically. Not today, not tomorrow, maybe not in a hundred years. But in a thousand years? I think so. When I was younger I thought I’d try to figure out the rainfall. Eventually, I gave up. Not because it wasn’t interesting. Because it became more interesting to study the properties of the plant itself, and that’s how I developed my area of expertise. Hopefully I’ll find some— some , not all—answers as I continue to work. Your area of expertise could be something different. You could figure out why the diamonds sprout—”
    “Or why the rhubarb tastes like chocolate—”
    “—or why no one drowns in our lake. There are a million things you could study, if you choose. Or you could do something else altogether.You can write plays or sing songs or play sports.” He bites into his apple. “I just hope that you find something to do that you love. Otherwise, it’s just treading water till you’re gone.
    “Anyway,” Dad says as he tilts my head back, smiling brightly. “Chin up, sweet pumpkin,” he says. “Good things are coming.” He points to the stack of papers he holds under one of his arms.
    “Like what?” I try not to sound too excited.
    “You’ll see. For once my dear sister might be impressed with her little brother,” he says, putting his cap back on his head. “Wait till the Sunday dinner. It’ll be a doozy.” Dad leans down and kisses me on the cheek. “Take your vitamin!” he repeats, and strolls out of the castle.
    My eyes brighten. I feel like Dad just threw me a life preserver.
    Good things are coming? Really?
    I jump up and push open the door. At first, I just peek to make sure that reporters like Mrs. Jong aren’t on the other side, waiting to pounce. But no one’s there. The farm seems normal: I see pickup trucks and workers carrying shovels and plants waving their leaves at the sun.
    I hesitate for only one more second. Then I spring out of the castle and race to the cherry blossom tree. If Dad’s right and good things are coming, then the mist will be gone.
    It only makes sense. In a minute, I’m on my way.

SAME DAY, WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 27
     
    Heartbreak
     
    “Dad said good things were going to happen,” I murmur to Beatrice, who stands next to me under the weeping cherry blossom tree.
    The mist is above us, crowding the limbs of the weeping tree. It’s gotten a lot bigger. I can see the dragonflies zipping through it. I automatically lift my arm up, scraping my fingers at the bottom of it. It doesn’t feel at all like I think it will. I assume it would feel like fog—that touching it would be like touching steam. But it doesn’t. It feels like a cotton ball that’s been drenched in water and squeezed so tightly that it’s heavy and thick.
    And wet. When I look at my fingertips, they’re dotted with drops of green water.
    “Weird,” I mutter.
    Beatrice flinches, as if I’ve just woken her up.
    “The dragonflies know what they’re doing,” she announces. “Stop trying to figure them out.” She puts her hand on my shoulder and twists me around. “Aren’t you supposed to be at the Learning Garden?”
    I cross my hands around my chest. “I’m scared,” I admit, glancing back up at the mist.
    Beatrice’s eyes scan the mist too. “Yeah,” she murmurs. “I get that.” She turns so we’re side by side, her arm still around my shoulder. “People always get scared when they