Rules of Rain

by Leah Scheier

  Where I answer all your burning food-related questions!

  Dear Wacky Mac: I haven’t heard from you in a while. What did your crush say when you gave her the cake in a mug?

  Dear Rain: It exploded. Three times. I decided to take it as a sign. Or a metaphor for my love life.

  ETHAN’S JOURNAL:

  A glance over her shoulder emphasizes a woman’s figure and contours of her face. This signals a release of pheromones and the desire to attract a mate. Women instinctively do this when trying to flirt.

  My Observation:

  Hope performed this movement when I showed her the anatomy slides. But then she left the room immediately. Is she sending “mixed signals?” Mom told Rain that nice girls don’t send mixed signals and don’t play games. Is Hope not a nice girl?

  Chapter 7

  The good news is that Liam says hello to me the next morning and we make plans to meet at my house after school for a study date.

  The bad news is that my friends seem to be united in some sort of massive conspiracy which is apparently hilarious and top secret. Marcus purses his lips and shakes his head when I ask him point-blank what he said to Liam. Kathy just giggles and simpers. Hope intentionally avoids me all day.

  The worse news—I really would have preferred Liam’s house to mine, for obvious reasons, but when I suggest it, he brushes me off with a simple “no, sorry.” Not a brooding, mysterious, I’ve-got-sexy-secrets “no,” either. And not a bitchy one. Just no, sorry, could we go to your house? And then a shy smile which almost knocks me over.

  Why not his, though? This town has all of 1,500 people in it. I could find his house in no time if I wanted to. So why not? Is he trying to hide something?

  I swear I’m not overthinking this.

  I’ve formed ten theories before I leave the school though. To prevent more theories from entering my brain, I plug my earbuds in and concentrate on Katy Perry as I walk home. Her roaring distracts me from my obsessive thoughts. I’m a clean slate before I reach my neighborhood—relaxed, confident, and singing (mostly silently) to the rhythm in my head. Hope would be so proud of me.

  As I approach my house, I glance up and see Liam standing on my front porch. And he’s talking to Ethan.

  My earbuds are out, my confidence is gone, and I’m suddenly walking a lot faster.

  “Hi, guys!” I call out a bit too brightly. How long have they been standing there? How did Liam get here before me? What are they talking about?

  “I’ll ask him tonight,” I hear Liam say. “And I’ll let you know.”

  “Thank you.” Ethan turns to me as I walk up to the porch. “Hello, Rain. Don’t forget our run today.”

  “You don’t have to remind me every time. I never forget. But can we push it off by an hour, maybe? Liam and I are studying chemistry.”

  He’s never going to say yes. I know that. There’s going to be some resistance, at least. We always run at four, Rain. Every day. Always at four.

  “Okay.”

  Wait, what?

  “We can run at five,” he states. He looks uncomfortable—really uncomfortable—but he says it. Just like that. Then he glances at Liam.

  What’s going on here? How much could I have missed?

  “Great. Thanks.” I look to Liam for a clue, but his face is blank too. “Should we go inside then?”

  We settle at the kitchen counter, and Ethan immediately heads off to his room. Part of me is a little relieved that he goes so quickly, but part of me is frustratingly curious. And although I had texted him earlier to let him know that Liam was coming by, I’d hardly expected that he’d leave his room and try to start a conversation. Ethan doesn’t do small talk with strangers, or with anyone for that matter. Still, I can’t ask Liam what they were talking about without seeming totally nosy and inappropriate. So I swallow my questions and pleasantly offer him a snack.

  “Sure, thanks. What’ve you got?” Liam looks up from unpacking his books and peers into the open fridge.

  “I made a batch of Tums muffins.”

  He blinks at me. “What’s a Tums muffin?”

  “It’s one of my gluten-free experiments for Ethan. If you crush an antacid in the dough, it makes it fluffier and less rocklike. Ethan calls them Tums muffins. Except for him, I haven’t been able to get anyone to try them.”

  “Yeah, you might want to rethink that name. You got some cold cuts or something? That’s what I usually have after school.”

  I laugh and shake my head. “You mean like salami? God, no. My mom is terrified of processed meats.”

  “Really?”

  I nod. “I think hot dogs may have caused my parents’ divorce.”

  “That would make a great title for a talk show or something.” He grins at me. “How did that happen?”

  I pull some organic cheddar and portobello mushrooms from the crisper and close the fridge. “My last memory of them together has to do with hot dogs. My mom was holding a pack of frozen Oscar Mayers in her hands, and my dad was scowling at her in the corner. And she was yelling, ‘This is what did it! This is why he’s like that. Because you keep feeding them this poison!’ And then she threw the package at him, and it hit him on the head.”

  “Oh, wow.”

  “Yup.”

  “Sorry I asked.”

  “No worries. If you want, I can make you some algae flour pizza.”

  “Algae what?”

  Hope’s warning pops into my head, and I shake it away. Isn’t the best advice to “be yourself?” Well, this is the way I flirt (I think), with the coolest, top-secret food tips I’ve gathered from years of research. “I have a small packet of algae flour I got at a trade show a while back. It’s pretty new—and kind of scandalous.”

  My offer is the foodie equivalent of front row tickets to the Super Bowl. Seriously. No one has this stuff yet, and those who do certainly aren’t sharing. Probably because the company that was using it had to recall some of its products last year. But I’ve tested it in my own recipes with no problems at all. Still, I’m not surprised he doesn’t seem impressed.

  “I’m sorry… Algae?”

  “Yeah, I know it sounds weird, but you wouldn’t even know it’s there. And the dough comes out amazing! Algae is basically a substitute for everything—eggs, wheat, dairy…”

  His lips twitch, and his brows come down. “You want me to try your pond scum pizza.”

  I shut the refrigerator. “Oh, no, please don’t call it that. Just forget I mentioned it.”

  “But I don’t want to forget.” He seems to be choking on suppressed laughter. “No one has ever offered me algae before. This is a special moment.”

  “Never mind. Offer withdrawn.”

  “I’m not making fun! I swear. I’ll eat the entire pizza. And no matter what it looks like, I promise I won’t post it on Instagram.”

  I sink down on the kitchen stool and toss the package of mushrooms on the counter. “You saw the sperm pudding pic.”

  “Everyone saw the sperm pudding pic.”

  “That thing has ruined my reputation,” I mutter. “I was trying to find a way to make it look less…gross. Marcus just caught it in the sperm stage. I’ve made improvements to the recipe since then. Like anyone cares.”

  He smiles and clears his throat. “Well, I basically live on pasta and bologna sandwiches. So I’ll be happy to try your sperm pudding.” He chuckles quietly. “Hah. There’s a phrase I never thought I’d say.”

  I get up from the stool and fetch a covered bowl from the counter. “You’re the first person to taste this since I’ve fixed it. It looks kind of like tapioca now.”

  He lifts the spoon and sniffs, his eyes wary. “Holy crap,” he says after the first swallow. “Rain, this is actually…good.”

  “Just good? Could you be more specific? Since that photo went viral I don’t get
very many volunteers to taste my recipes.”

  His shocked expression is the best compliment I’ve ever gotten. “It’s fantastic. Like a cross between butterscotch and—”

  “Cashew cream. Yeah. And that’s raspberry syrup in the topping.”

  “You should put this picture up,” he insists, scooping a giant spoonful into his mouth. “Like a ‘before and after’ piece. Show how far you’ve come.”

  I feel my face getting warm. “I can post it to my blog. With the title ‘How You Like Me Now, Haters?’”

  And there goes Hope’s last piece of advice. I’m discussing my blog with my crush. And he hasn’t run away. (Take that, traditional flirters.) I can’t tell if his smile is in response to my blog comment or the sugar rush from the raspberry syrup drizzle, but I’m clearly doing something right.

  “Well, algae or not, I think you’ve got a career here,” he remarks as he scrapes the bottom of the glass. “For what it’s worth. Like I said, I live on sandwiches and pasta so I’m not the most discerning critic.”

  “That doesn’t sound like living to me. Your dad doesn’t cook?”

  “My dad is almost never home,” he replies. His smile fades. He studies his empty glass and runs his finger over the last traces of pudding.

  “So it’s just you? No brothers or sisters?”

  “Just me.”

  “Oh. That’s…”

  That just seems wrong, I want to say to him. He comes home to nobody, goes to bed in an empty house, wakes up to…silence. I can’t imagine it. For all my brother’s quirks and my mother’s nuttiness, I wouldn’t be able to live without their warmth and energy around me. “That must be…quiet,” I finish lamely.

  “It is what it is,” he replies. “Hopefully I won’t be there much longer.”

  “You won’t? Where are you going?”

  He sets his spoon down and glances up at me. His quiet statement upset me a little, and I’m doing my best to hide my confusion and disappointment. It doesn’t sound like he’s talking about postgraduation. His tone clearly implied that he’s got one foot out the door already.

  “I’m sorry,” he says sincerely. “I just thought that you should know.”

  Know what? And why does he think I have a right to know, anyway? It’s not like we’re dating. He doesn’t owe me anything. “What do you mean?”

  He sighs and rubs his hands over his forehead. “I’m trying to graduate early. I’m applying to the Global Gap program with Projects Abroad.”

  “Projects Abroad?”

  “Yeah, they have six-month training courses in Ghana, Peru, South Africa, and a couple of other places. Before college. Mostly volunteering in day cares, medical internships, irrigation and clean water projects—”

  “Wow. That sounds amazing.”

  “Yeah, but it’s not cheap. So that’s why I’ve got the after-school tutoring jobs and the lifeguarding. My grandmother says she can help with some of the cost, but I feel guilty asking her for that much. So I’m trying to raise most of it myself.”

  “No wonder you’re never around. Doesn’t leave a whole lot of time for hanging out with friends.”

  “No, I guess not.” He doesn’t sound regretful or bitter when he says it. Just quiet. And a little tired.

  “I’m sorry.” I really am too. Not only because I realize we can never truly become close if he’s so focused on leaving. I’m also sorry for him—for the picture he’s just painted. His life seems so lonely as he’s described it. I wonder if he’ll look back one day and wonder where his teenage years went.

  “Anyway, I figured you should know,” he murmurs almost guiltily.

  There it is again. What does he mean by that?

  “Why?”

  He glances up again, and I see a flicker of indecision pass over his face. He opens his mouth to answer, hesitates for minute, clears his throat, and then seems to reconsider. “Never mind. I just meant… You know, if you were looking for a long-term study partner or whatever.”

  I’m not sure what he’s hinting at. What had he meant by “long-term study partner?” He had asked me for a study date, not the other way around. Where had he gotten the idea that I was interested in more? Hope’s strange behavior had already roused my suspicions. I’d guessed that my friends had been conspiring to set us up somehow. But had they flat-out told Liam how I felt about him? They wouldn’t do that… Would they?

  “Speaking of studying,” I say, flipping open my book. “Should we start with the section on acids and bases? We can take turns answering the chapter questions.”

  “Sure.” He pulls his textbook out of his bag.

  I begin reading out loud, but my mind is nowhere near pH balances. Is it so bad if he knows that I like him? Girls ask guys out all the time. Whatever happened to taking chances?

  But he’d just said that he wasn’t interested in a long-term study partner. Was that code for something? Was it a preemptive brush off? I definitely need to think about this more. Later after he goes home, I’ll go over every word and expression and then plan for our next conversation. I’m way too confused to sort through this while he’s sitting next to me. Enough, I tell myself. I’m going to concentrate on the book in front of me like it was the only important thing in the room.

  For the next half hour, I’m the most dedicated student in Montana. I don’t even sneak a peek at my study partner, who seems to be getting quieter and more hesitant as the minutes tick by. When I finally do look up, I see that he’s staring at me, his finger still poised over the page, his brows pulled low over his dark eyes. He starts when I glance at him and quickly drops his gaze, but I’ve clearly flustered him, and he has to go back over the last paragraph from the beginning.

  I watch him as he reads, and a familiar ache forms somewhere in my throat. I need to stop caring about this guy. He’s almost gone, he’s leaving, he was never a part of my life, and he never will be. I know that. So why can’t I stop wondering how those brown curls would feel against my fingers? Why can’t I stop picturing my hands running over his shoulders and down his back? I want to know everything about him, want to talk to him until our mouths are dry and our eyes heavy, want to be the person that bursts into his solitary, quiet life and makes him happy. I don’t even know why I want it so badly. I just know that the last half hour of fake indifference is all that I can handle.

  Marcus and Kathy had teased me for being too careful, never taking chances. If my mother had to evaluate me in three words I bet that one of them would be “guarded.” And for once, that’s not who I want to be. My friends are all waiting for me to call them, to break the news that the guy I’d had a crush on had finally asked me out. But that wasn’t going to happen, that much was obvious. He wasn’t looking for “long-term” anything.

  Well, that’s okay, I think. Neither am I. I’m looking for now, this moment. And I’m tired of waiting.

  “Liam…”

  I have no idea what I’m going to say before I say his name, but I know whatever comes out of my mouth will be a fantastic, rule-breaking revelation. Hey, I’d talked about my blog and pond scum pizza, and he was still there, wasn’t he? I’d even made the chia seed sperm fiasco work for me. I could do anything. And right now, I was going to bring down walls.

  “Liam…” He stops reading, his eyes are focused on me—waiting, expectant. My trembling voice promises a great confession.

  “I just wanted to tell you—”

  “Yeah?”

  Oh God, where did all the words go?

  “Liam. I like your…”Crap, I can’t remember English! How do I finish that sentence? How do guys do this? How does anyone do this? Can I say eyes? No, too cliché. Body? Ew, no. Personality? No, don’t know him well enough. “Liam,” I gasp out in breathless desperation. “I really like your face.”

  Oh, God. Did I just interrupt our chemistry lesson to tell him that I li
ked his face?

  He doesn’t laugh. Thank all the stars in heaven, he doesn’t laugh, not even with his eyes. All he says is, “My face?” as if looking for clarification on something he’d misunderstood. I feel like I’ve swallowed a mountain of rocks.

  “No. Not face—not—no.”

  I am not a leader of women, after all. I am just an embarrassing weirdo.

  “Not your face,” I splutter helplessly. “I mean, your face is fine. What I meant was—”

  Oh, God, I hate everything.

  “I like you,” I finish miserably. “I was just trying to ask you out.”

  Is that better? Is that closer to normal? I can’t tell anymore. All language and sense has abandoned me.

  His expression doesn’t change. He eyes me skeptically and slowly closes his chemistry book. “Rain, if this is a joke, I’m not going to give you any more material. Our exploding lab experiment should get you enough views on YouTube without the fake date proposal.” He starts to rise, but the pained look on my face makes him pause, and he sinks slowly back into his chair.

  “What are you talking about?” My voice comes out strangled, somewhere between a wheeze and a squeak. “How could have I posted it to YouTube?”

  “Hope told me to call you because you needed help with chemistry,” he replies. “I didn’t believe her.” He sighs. “And yet I’m here anyway. For some reason.”

  Well, that explains Hope’s behavior. Still, as annoyed as I am with her, I’m going to have to deal with that later. Right now though, I’m totally pissed at Liam. He’s not following any kind of reasonable script. But then, neither am I.

  “You didn’t believe her?” I retort. I’m breathing more normally, and I even manage to add a touch of vinegar to the question. “Or you didn’t want to believe her?”

  “I thought she was making fun of me,” he replies quickly. “And after what happened in lab, I was sure you two were in on some kind of a joke and that one of your friends had filmed the whole thing.”

  I shake my head. “Hold on. You thought I was asking you out as a joke?”