Drizzle

“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.”

“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.

“Exactly! The point is the process! You have a problem. In trying to solve it, you come up with a hypothesis, a theory. And then you test it out, to see if you are right. That’s all it is, scientific inquiry in a nutshell. Understand?

“Now, Miss Jong.” Owen spins around, catching Jongy and Joe whispering to each other. “Hello, Joe Josephs of the unfortunate name.” He moves over to Jongy.

“Miss Jong. I have a hypothesis for you. May I have that stick of makeup you thought was appropriate to apply as you spoke to your esteemed science teacher?”

Jongy looks around, unsure what she should do. Owen just stands there with a big smile on his face. She gives him the lip gloss. He takes it back to his desk, puts on a pair of reading glasses, and studies the small print.

“Hmmm.” He takes off his glasses and returns the lip gloss to Jongy.

“What?” Jongy’s worried.

“My hypothesis,”—Owen gives Jongy a reassuring smile—“is that your lip gloss may be dangerous to your health. Why do I say that? Because I suspect it flattens the natural protective layer of your lips, allowing rays of sunlight to penetrate directly through the skin, causing skin cancer and other non-cancerous disfigurations.”

“Disfigurations?” Jongy mutters.

Owen seems not to have heard her. “How do I test for this?” He continues,“I read the label. And sadly . . .” He looks over to Jongy. “I’m right.”

“English, please,” Jongy says, annoyed.

“Lip glosses without sun protection act like a magnifying glass to the sun.”

“What does that mean?”

“I think you should invest in some new lip gloss.With sun protection.You’ll thank me for it later, trust me.”

Jongy smirks, but then quickly uses the back of her hand to wipe off her lip gloss.

“So again,” says Owen. “Someone tell me. Scientific inquiry is . . . ?”

“Problem, hypothesis, testing, analysis,” says the blond kid in the back.

“Excellent, Charlie,” Owen says.

“My name’s Christopher.”

“Right. Of course it is.” He walks over to his desk. “Scientific inquiry is just a fancy way of describing what you already do instinctively, and putting names to all the steps. Now listen. We have a lot to get through this year. Some of it may actually be helpful to you.

“And some of it may not. Throw some spaghetti against the wall”—he lifts his right arm and pretends to pitch something against the back wall—“and see what sticks. Now. Let’s talk about our first assignment!”

As he continues, Margaret, the pretty girl who answered the first question, turns to me.

“Don’t worry about Jongy,” she says. “We went to camp together. I know how she is.”

“Thanks.”

I’m so nervous, I can’t really look at her. But I think she’s still staring at me.

“I’m sorry about your farm,” she says. “It sounds scary. Was it?”

I grip the edge of the desk. Nothing’s changed. “Uh, yeah.” I turn away from her and look out the window.

“Are you okay?” she says.

Exhibit A. Polly Peabody. Hypothesis: She’s a freak. Testing: Express concern at her farm’s condition. Conclusion: Freak.

It’s never going to go away.

I don’t speak the rest of class, staring so hard at my desk that I think I’ll burn a hole in it. When it’s over, I run away as fast as I can—so fast that I don’t even notice that I’m colliding into some classmates: Will, Joe, and Jongy.

“Hey!” Will says. “You’re Freddy Peabody’s sister.”

“Yes.” I try not to look at any of them. But Joe suddenly leaps toward me. Before I can move, he grabs my head and locks it in the middle of his elbow.

“Ow!”

“What’s that about?” Will asks Joe. “Leave her alone.”

But I know what Joe’s thinking, what he’s doing. I know what everybody’s been thinking since they’ve seen me on campus.

“I DON’T KNOW WHY IT ISN’T RAINING!” I yell, flailing my arms. “LEAVE ME ALONE!”

Joe releases me and they all take baby steps away from me, like there’s a lion loose in the hallway.

“Uh,” mumbles Joe. “I was just getting back at Freddy for hazing me last year. I didn’t mean to . . . uh, hurt you.”

Jongy smiles like the fake person she is.

“She’s stressed,” she says to the guys.“Leave her alone. Her farm’s going kaput.” She puts her arm around me like we’re best friends.

I try to duck out from under her, but her hand grips my shoulder tightly. A crowd has gathered around us, including all the people I don’t know yet.

“You know, I can’t wait for our class trip.” Jongy grins.

I groan. Every year, Mom insists that our classes take a trip to our farm so that they can learn about “responsible farming.”

Jongy keeps going. “Maybe we can take that great Umbrella ride.You know, the one that tosses its passengers all around?” She’s pinching my shoulder. I wrench myself free of her just as she’s snarling through her smile. “If it ever rains again, that is.”

“It will rain again,” I say weakly.

“What does your aunt say? Mom says she saw her leave on a private plane today. Pretended she didn’t know her, like she always does.” Jongy smacks her lips, smearing her lip gloss. She must not be too afraid of disfigurations after all, since she’s obliviously reapplied it. “I guess she’s getting out before it gets any worse?”

I’m confused and she can tell.

“Okay, show’s over.” Owen steps out of the stairwell and crosses over to where I’m standing. “Give her a break.”

“But she’s the Rhubarb Princess!” yells Joe. “Let me just ask one—”

Owen flicks his eyes over both of them. His face is harder: He’s no longer the goofy guy from the classroom. Now he’s a grown-up—with long hair and a Hawaiian shirt—who seems pretty mad.

“I expect more from you guys,” he says quietly. “Don’t behave like this again.”

“I didn’t do anything,” Joe says. “She’s crazy.”

Owen glares at him. “Go!”

“Okay, okay,” says Joseph. Before she goes, Jongy winks at me, which causes me to feel even more sick.

“Polly?” Owen asks. “Everything all right?”

I nod.

“Because the ambassador and I can lay down the law, right, Ambassador?”

He winks at Basford. Basford smiles faintly.

“Now listen, Gregor Mendel,” he says to me.

“Who?”

“Don’t you listen? Father Mendel, the pea plant guy. You want to be literal? Okay. I can do literal. Now listen, Polly Peabody.” Owen leans against the wall, his head turned so he can look me in the eye. “From what I know, your farm is a really cool place that gets a lot of attention and does good things. So maybe people just bring it up because they’re genuinely interested in it.” He cracks a crooked smile. “And maybe, maybe possibly, they’re genuinely interested in you too. Right, Ambassador?”

Basford nods. But he has to be interested in me. He’s living at our farm.

Anyway, I know what Owen’s trying to say. But adults must get some mist of their own in their brain, making them forget what middle school is like. I come from the weird farm with the weird rain. Plus I’m weird, I’ll always be weird. If I could kill this part of me, if I could strangle it, I would. Genuine interest in me from people my age means only digging into my weirdness. I wish it weren’t true, but it is.

“Thanks,” I tell Owen, and then I run away from him and Basford as fast as I can. St. Xavier’s is a big place. There’s got to be some places to hide.