Shouting at the Rain: Chapters 1–12

“I want to be au-then-tic.”
“So? I don’t understand how I can help. Wouldn’t Michael be better?”

“The weather doesn’t suck your blood,” I say, expecting her to have a comeback, but she just shakes her head.

Not the kind of cry that you can squelch and swallow but the kind where your whole body knows how you feel.

“Grammy,” I say, the shrillness of my voice startling me.

“Wh-wh-what?” Olive stammers. “That won’t solve a thing. What about...the spoons?”

I turn to Brandy, pushing my glasses up my nose. “So what should we do? You want to build a sandcastle with a moat? See how long the castle can last? Deepest moat in Cape history.”

“Dels! C’mon!” Brandy yells, bolting up the stairs in a frenzy.

“Jeepers crow!" Grammy says, coming up behind me at Seaside Heaven. “I need your help with one of the rooms. The people turned the furniture upside down and asked to have the undersides of things cleaned. I don’t think it’s a joke because they left a hefty tip...”

Grammy scoffs. “Delsie McHill, why, your name is like a song, honey bunch. Gusty Gale...is...” She glances his way. “Well, very nice, too.”

The boy finally speaks. “You do know what a gale is, right? And what Gusty Gale would mean?”

The boy finally speaks. “You do know what a gale is, right? And what Gusty Gale would mean?”

He turns, lifts the cup into the air, and lobs it into the garbage can.

He looks up at me. “Has anyone ever told you and your friends that you remind them of great hammerhead sharks?” This is obviously not a compliment.

Tressa shoots him a look. He obviously doesn’t care, and I envy him.

The boat is filled with blue benches. There are safety ring buoys hanging on the walls.

Brandy and Tressa arrive to see the enormous fluke of a whale as it dives.

Like most people on the boat, I run from port to starboard and back again to see the ones that breach the surface and wave their flippers.

Like most people on the boat, I run from port to starboard and back again to see the ones that breach the surface and wave their flippers.

Like most people on the boat, I run from port to starboard and back again to see the ones that breach the surface and wave their flippers.

I think that clowns are freaky, but Brandy loves them and always tells me about her collection back home. When I found an old ceramic one at a tag sale, I knew it was the perfect present.

“Pfft,” Tressa says. “Nice wrapping paper.”
Clearly she’s being sarcastic, but I try to focus on Brandy and watching her open the present.

“Thanks a lot,” I say as I trudge away.

Walking across the lawn, I think to look for Grammy, but she’ll know something is wrong by looking at me. I’m way too humiliated to explain.

All of this weighs on my heart until I am jolted by a yell.

She whips around, squinting as she peers into the audience. Then she bellows, “Bring up the house lights!”

My mind scrambles for a joke, but I can only think of a riddle.

She points. “We are all jerks inside. And kind. And smart. We are all thoughtful and inconsiderate. We are all polite and rude. We are all everything. And I need to see the jerk in you to believe you are Rooster.”

It’s a frame that says CAPE COD and has a seal on it. Another weird coincidence.

“O-o-okay. So she gave you a hard time forty-seven times. But it’s the Cape Playhouse. It’s renowned.”
“I just want to act,” he says. “I don’t care if it’s renowned.”

I can’t believe how lucky I am, but I’m careful not to react. So I drop my voice to show some disappointment. Big part of negotiating. “Well, will you take thirteen dollars?”

“I’m fine, Mrs. McHill. How are you?”
“I’m dandy, honey. Just dandy.” Then she looks at Tressa. “Who’s your new friend?”

I lead them to my room. Tressa draws her finger along the wall, leaving an off-white line. Her fingertip is the color of charcoal. She stares at it.
“That’s just the soot from the winter,” I tell her.

She pats my cheek a few times before plunging her hand into her bag of cheese curls.

“Well, you just push those two out of your head. They don’t deserve one more iota of your attention.”

She looks so proud that I add, “And it wasn’t just a storm—it was a category four hurricane with sustained winds of one hundred and forty-five miles per hour.”