Rain

by V. C. Andrews

  "Really? Their parents sent them here?"

  "A huh. They're part of our exchange program. They live with families here and the girls from those families live with their families in France and Brazil."

  Mama would surely be as impressed as I am, I thought, but definitely satisfied she had done the right thing. If I wasn't safe here, where would I be safe? I thought there must be a gigantic protective glass bubble over all this. Everyone looked like she was untouched by unhappiness, poverty, crime and even illness. There were no Jerads walking these pathways, no graffiti on the walls, no one selling drugs on every corner.

  "Right this way," Susan said opening the door for me. We entered the classroom building. The first thing I noticed was there wasn't even a shred of paper on the floors. Outside the classrooms there were bulletin boards with neatly placed announcements. It was well lit, glistening, airy and warm. The bell that had rung to announce the end of one period was followed by the one to announce the beginning of the next. Susan led me past clean classrooms with desks that looked like they had just arrived from the factories. When I passed a doorway, the girls who could see me looked out with interest. What shocked me was how few students were in each room.

  "Where is everyone?" I asked Susan. "Pardon?"

  "There's only like ten girls in there and not more than eight or so in the last room."

  "That's how big our classes are, honey. Mrs. Whitney doesn't like them to be much bigger than twelve."

  "Twelve?" I shook my head. "That's how many were in my row at my old school. One of my classes had nearly fifty students in the room."

  "Fifty? How can anyone teach that many at once?"

  "They didn't," I said dryly.

  "Here we are," she said. She knocked on the doorjamb. "Excuse me, Mr. Bufurd, Rain Arnold is here."

  "Oh, fine, fine," I heard him say and walked around Susan to enter the classroom.

  There were only eight students in this one and they all turned with one face toward me, a face full of curiosity. Mr. Bufurd looked like a man not much older than his mid twenties. He had long black hair, but trimmed and brushed neatly at the nape of his neck. What struck me was how green his eyes were. Even from the back of the room, I could see the vibrancy in them. They almost glowed because of the contrast to his dark complexion. He was just under six feet tall and I saw that his body was trim with a narrow waist and hips. He had a gentle smile on his soft, perfect lips.

  Susan handed him my folder. He glanced at it while I waited and then looked up quickly.

  "Welcome. Class," he said, "meet Rain Arnold. You can sit here for now, Rain," he said touching a vacant front row desk. I sat quickly. "I was just preparing the class for our study of Hamlet. You haven't read it yet, have you?" he inquired.

  "Yes, I have read it," I told him, "but not as a class assignment. It was something I did on my own."

  "On your own?" He looked at the others. "Did any of you ever hear of anything like that? Reading on your own? Raise your hand if you have," he added with a coy smile.

  The girls giggled, but no one raised her hand. He turned to me.

  "I've been trying to instill that idea in these bubbles all year," he told me, "but they just pop and pop and pop every time."

  The girls giggled again.

  Susan Hines lingered in the doorway for a moment, a look of longing on her face. She resembled someone who wished with all her heart that she could turn back time and be our age and in this classroom. After another moment, she retreated.

  "What can you tell us about Hamlet, Ms. Arnold?" he continued.

  The other girls took on looks of glee, hoping I would make a fool of myself, I was sure.

  "What would you like to know?" I asked. "It takes place in Denmark and it's about a prince whose father is murdered and whose mother marries the murderer."

  "Is that what it's about?" a thin girl with long blond hair who sat two desks across from me asked, "That doesn't sound so boring," she added.

  "Oh," Mr. Bufurd said, "you're interested now, Maureen, now that you know it's about murder?"

  The girls giggled again.

  "It's about a great deal more than that though, isn't it, Ms. Arnold?" he challenged.

  "I thought so," I said. "There are a great many questions about life and love in it."

  "Love?" another girl piped up. She had short, dark brown hair with brown eyes as big as quarters in her pudgy face.

  "And sex," Mr. Bufurd added nodding. "Don't forget the sex, Tamatha. Isn't that right, Ms. Arnold?"

  "I don't think it's exactly what you would call R-rated," I replied and he really laughed.

  All the girls looked perplexed. It was as if he and I had instantly embarked on a private

  conversation.

  "Okay," he said. "Can you remember any line that impressed you, aside from the obvious 'To be or not to be?' "

  I looked at the other girls and then at him. He waited with one hand still pressing the chalk to the board and the other on his hip.

  "To thine Own self be true," I said.

  His smile widened in tiny increments like the ripples in a pool of water and then he bowed his head and said, "Welcome to Dogwood, Rain."

  As soon as English class ended, most of the other girls gathered around me to ask questions. They wanted to know where I was from and why I had entered Dogwood so late in the school year. Neither Grandmother Hudson nor my mother had really prepared me with the details of our fabrication, so I had to make it up as I went along, telling them I was part of a unique exchange program involving young people from the inner cities, a program sponsored by a private charity. They were so accustomed to their parents being involved in charities, no one challenged it. Rather, they were fascinated with my background and fired question after question at me about life in a so-called ghetto community. They were intrigued with crime and gangs, but I knew that to them the details of my former life seemed like something from a television program. No matter what I said, they didn't seem to think of it as real.

  One girl, Audrey Stempelton, dark-haired and a little dumpy because of her wide hips and short legs, remained in the background listening attentively, but not speaking whenever conversations with me erupted. I saw from the look in her eyes that she wanted to join in our conversations, but was shy. After lunch, she worked up enough courage to approach me in the hallway as I walked to class with the others.

  "I live near you," she said. "We have the house just south of the Hudsons."

  She said it all quickly and walked faster as if she was terrified I might continue the conversation.

  "What's wrong with her?" I muttered.

  "Audrey's a neurotic introvert," Maureen Knowland explained with the tone of an expert. "She's almost like an idiot savant because she's so good on the stage:'

  "On the stage? As what? A singer?"

  "No, a thespian," Pauline Bogart said with a laugh. "She's in every one of Mr. Bufurd's

  productions?'

  "She has a mad crush on him," Maureen said gleefully.

  "So do you," Tamatha Stevens accused. Before Maureen could deny it, Tamatha added, "So do I. So does everyone. You're so lucky to have him as your adviser, Rain," she told me. "If I had him, I'd have hundreds of problems to solve every day."

  She laughed and the others joined her. They giggled almost all the way to the next class.

  No wonder Mr. Bufurd referred to them as bubbles, I thought and laughed myself.

  Was I too relaxed? Was this all too easy? Without girls like Nicole waiting to pounce on me in the bathroom, this school did seem safe.

  Or was that all just an illusion? It's better to be cautious, I thought. Nothing has ever come to me easy in this life. There's no reason to believe it will now.

  At the end of the day, I was scheduled to report to Mr. Bufurd to ask any questions and get some more information about the school, but he informed me after I entered the classroom that he had begun casting for his production of Our Town.

  "I can't sp
end as much time with you today, but I can tomorrow ding your study period. I have a free period that hour, too," he explained. "Are there any blatant problems we can solve quickly?"

  "No," I said. "Everything is fine so far. I have a little more to catch up on in math, but I think I'll be all right."

  "I like that," he said nodding and fixing those beautiful green orbs on me, "confidence without an air of arrogance. It's refreshing." He thought for a moment and then asked, "You haven't had an easy time of it, have you?"

  "No, not an easy time," I said.

  "I'll tell you a big secret," he said, "I come from a hard-working family. I'm still paying off education loans." He gathered his books into his briefcase and then paused to look at me. "Were you ever in any school plays?"

  "No," I said.

  "Why don't you hang around for tryouts?"

  I started to shake my head.

  "You've got nothing to lose. We don't penalize you if you're not cast. It's the best way to fit right into a new school, get involved in something," he advised. "You should listen to me. I'm your official adviser?'

  "My driver is supposed to pick me up in a half hour," I said looking at the clock.

  "I'll put you up first," he said. "Walk with me to the theater and we'll continue our talk. Come on," he urged. "It's painless."

  I laughed.

  "Okay," I said.

  I liked him because he didn't just ask questions. He continued to volunteer information about himself, how he came from a family with three sisters, grew up outside of Baltimore, vacillated between a career in the theater and education, and finally decided to be a teacher.

  "You'd probably be a good actor," I told him.

  "Maybe, but in the arts it takes more than just being good; it takes what I call bloodthirsty

  determination. You turn your head and neck into a battering ram and just keep going at the door until it opens a little and then you compete, learn how to sell yourself, trample over others until you get your name on that marquee. I guess I didn't have the stomach for the crusade, although getting my bubbles to care about Shakespeare is probably just as difficult a battle.

  "It's nice to meet someone who has a little selfmotivation," he added, and gestured toward the entrance to the theater. "Here we are:'

  I took a deep breath and walked in with him. The lobby was as clean and beautiful as the lobby of the administrative building. It had a ticket office, a coat room, a place for refreshments and display cases on the walls for play posters. The ones from the last production, Anything Goes, were still up.

  He opened the doors to the theater.

  "It's so big," I said.

  "It seats 800. Nice size. Great stage, state of the art lighting and sound with a ceiling high enough to fly sets?'

  "Fly?"

  He laughed.

  "You know, draw them up and lower them to change settings in a show," he explained.

  I saw a crowd of girls and boys had gathered at the front of the theater. Their laughter resounded through the auditorium. As soon as they saw Mr. Bufurd approaching, they all grew still and took seats, the boys moving as quicky as the girls.

  "Good afternoon, everyone," he announced. "Thanks for coming?'

  A tall, strawberry blonde with eyes just a little lighter green than Mr. Bufurd's approached us. She wore a long skirt and a light-blue cashmere sweater that clung tightly to her firm bosom. She carried a clipboard and copies of scripts.

  "Good afternoon, Colleen," Mr. Bufurd said. "This is Rain Arnold, a new student."

  "Hi," she said, not wasting her eyes on me for long. "I have everyone's name in alphabetical order," she told him.

  "That's great. Colleen is my P.A., production assistant," he told me. "She intends to pursue a career in the theater."

  Colleen's face brightened with pride.

  "Rain Arnold?" she asked me. I nodded.

  "That puts her pretty much up front, doesn't it?" he asked her.

  "There's an Atwell," she said looking at her list. "Martin."

  "Looks like you're lead-off batter," Mr. Bufurd told me. "Just as I predicted. Colleen will show you the section I want read."

  He moved to a seat in the center of the third row behind all the students. Colleen handed me a script and turned the pages, pointing to a section.

  "He likes to hear candidates read cold," she said.

  I gazed at the dialogue. It happened to be one of my favorite parts in the play, when Emily Webb says goodbye to life, to all the small but important things. I remember I cried when I read it.

  "Where do I--"

  "On the stage," Colleen said. "Where else? Just go on up there."

  I looked at Mr. Bufurd. He had set himself up with his pad and pencil and suddenly looked very official and impersonal.

  "Let's begin," he called.

  How did I get myself into this? I wondered as I headed for the stage. All eyes were on me, some of the girls looking downright furious at the audacity of my bursting in on their turf my first day at their school.

  When I stood on the stage, I looked into the audience, but the lights were on so I was blinded and couldn't quite see Mr. Bufurd.

  "Start any time," he called when I stared. There was some laughter.

  Here goes nothing, I thought and began. As I read the passage, I thought about Mama and our goodbyes. It put tears into my words and nearly choked me before I finished. When I did, there was no applause, no sound, just some rustling.

  "Thank you, Rain," I heard Mr. Bufurd say. "Next, please, Colleen?'

  "Atwell, Martin," she called.

  I hurried down the steps and up the aisle, picking up my books. Mr. Bufurd smiled at me and then turned back to the stage as I continued up the aisle, fleeing into the courtyard and hurrying down the walkway to meet Jake. He was standing by the limousine talking to a groundskeeper.

  "Hey there," he cried as I approached. "Where you coming from?"

  "Theater building," I said. "I tried out for the school play?'

  "Wow." He opened the rear door and I practically dived into the seat. I simply wasn't comfortable with all this special treatment. It made me feel like a phony.

  Jake was just as talkative on the way home. He asked dozens of questions, but sometimes, before I answered one, he told me about his own school experiences.

  I really expected Grandmother Hudson would be waiting to cross-examine me on my first day at Dogwood, but Merilyn told me she was taking her afternoon nap and would probably not be down until dinner. I went right to work on my homework and my efforts to play catch-up. I hadn't been totally honest with Mr. Bufurd. The classes at Dogwood all seemed to be quite a bit ahead of where I had been in public school. I was too ashamed to admit how inferior my education had been.

  When the telephone in my room rang, I just stared at it for a moment. I had forgotten it was there.

  "Hello?"

  "Rain, honey?"

  "Mama!" I screamed. "Mama, I tried to call you, but they said the phone was disconnected?'

  "That happened the day you left, honey. Ken never sent in the last two payments and I forgot all about it. It didn't matter because I was packing up to go. I'm in North Carolina with my Aunt Sylvia. How you doing, baby?"

  "Oh Mama. It's a big house and they're rich and everything and the school's beautiful, but I miss you something terrible and Roy, too. How is he? Where is he?" I rushed out my questions, starving for news.

  "I haven't heard from him yet," she said. "You know Roy's not much for writing letters either, so if he doesn't get to a phone, it'll be a while. They making you feel at home there, Rain?"

  I paused. If I told her anything terribly negative, she would only feel worse, I thought.

  "It's all right, Mama. They're rich, but they're not as happy as you'd think."

  "It's just for a little while, Rain, and then you'll be off to something wonderful, I'm sure."

  She gave me her phone number and address and I promised to write regularly.

  A
fter we finished talking, I sat on the bed, sucking back my tears. I had such a deep ache in my heart. Life seemed so unfair. I threw myself back into my work to keep from thinking and then I got dressed for dinner.

  This time Grandmother Hudson was already in the dining room. For a moment I thought I was late. She was just as elegantly dressed as the night before, but she did look somewhat more tired.

  I greeted her and took my seat. Just as Merilyn was beginning to serve, the phone rang.

  "Should I get it, ma'am?" Merilyn asked.

  "Yes, yes," Grandmother Hudson said petulantly. "Maybe it's your mother," she told me when Merilyn left the room. "She has yet to call me to see if you're alive or dead."

  "She phoned me," I said. Her eyebrows went up.

  "You'd think she'd have the courtesy to call me as well. Why do my children think everything is coming to them, that I owe them so much?"

  I was about to offer an answer when Merilyn stepped back into the room to announce the phone call was for me.

  "It's starting already?" my grandmother snapped. "Your girlfriends or boyfriends or--"

  "Excuse me, Mrs. Hudson," Merilyn said with a tiny bow.

  "Well?"

  "It's not a girlfriend or boyfriend. It's her teacher, Mr. Buford."

  "I told him she was at dinner and he said to give her this message?'

  "What message?" Grandmother Hudson demanded angrily.

  "That she has the part of Emily Webb. Rehearsals start tomorrow."

  13

  How the Mighty Fall

  .

  "What does that mean?" Grandmother Hudson

  asked. As I explained who Emily Webb was in the play, her eyes widened and the way she looked at me changed from an expression of slight interest to a look of deeper appreciation.

  "That's quite an achievement for someone on their first day at a new school," she remarked. It was the closest I had come to getting a sincere compliment from her.

  "I don't know if I should do it," I made the mistake of saying.

  "You don't know if you should do it?" She pulled her shoulders back and her face reddened. "Why? Because it entails some work, some effort? Was your family on welfare? Were you used to having everything simply given to you?"