Page 2 of As the Rain Falls (Sainte Madeleine #1)

WE LOVE INVESTIGATIVE JOURNALISM!

Cassandra

I purse my lips into a pout to blow over my freshly done nails, hoping the nail polish will dry sometime soon. Well, actually, the best-case scenario would be for it to dry right about now, but—

“It’s been nearly three months since Lucia Evans died, and what has been done since the accident? What have the authorities done? What measures were taken? How many more young kids need to die before we realize that there is a problem out there in our streets and our homes, killing our families?”

I glance at Coco with nothing but serious eyes and the edge of my nose stained with dried pink nail polish.

“Don’t look at me like that.”

The human-sized teddy bear stares back at me silently.

“What do you think, Coco? In my humble opinion, Tamara is right.” I nod, pretending to think about it long and hard. “There is a real problem out there.” A pause. “I’m totally out of glitter!”

Coco falls off the bed headfirst. I try to catch him, but my naked foot knocks against the Hello Kitty-themed radio that’s sitting on the floor, which is totally distracting.

The sound cuts off only to start again a beat later, Tamara’s voice distorted into a robotic growl.

“Lucia—Grr—Is it fair—Err!”

Mom gifted this radio to me back when I was eight, and now it barely works anymore.

I keep it anyway. I mean, it still works a little.

Deep down, I wish I could get another, but buying expensive things will cost us a lot of money.

And saving up my allowance never works for me; I like to buy pretty cheap things at the flea market too much.

High and Dry by Radiohead plays at a high volume, and I sing the lyrics off-key while putting on mascara.Between one lyric and another, I pull my long hair out of my face, drag it back with my fingers, and look for any flip-flops lying around.

“The best thing that you’ve ever, ever had! It’s the best thing that you’ve ever had!”

My phone starts ringing right as I am about to get the outer corner of my eye, the alarm cutting through my performance abruptly.

I rush to the opposite side of the bed, grabbing the phone on the nightstand before jumping over the mattress.

Pressing my fingers over the phone screen is a bit harder to do with sweaty hands, but I still manage to disable the alarm at the very last second.

Oh, I’m definitely going to be late to school today.

Kayla: Where are you?

Me: late.

Kayla is typing…

I drop my phone on my pillow, giving up on waiting for Kayla to text me back. She’ll say something later, I’m sure.

“A young girl was under the influence while driving. People should care about this; our authorities should care about this.” Tamara has been going at it for at least ten minutes now.

“We are overlooking the things crossing our borders, but our youth is paying the price. Le Port’s youth is paying for our inactions! ”

Tamara Lucas is what old, bitter people like to call “a bright young lady.”

I can’t say I disagree.

Truly, I find her exceptionally passionate.

She possesses the kind of genius that makes you want to listen; it’s her thing.

As a prominent personality in her field—according to my father, a total vulgarization of investigative journalism—the hostess is the kind of woman who cares about everything deeply.

I admire her strength and even her tenacity, but maybe more so from afar, as someone who only relatively cares about everything. We can’t all afford to be Tamara Lucas, after all.

My fingers brush against the silk headband hidden underneath the pillow, and the baby blue bedsheets get stained with pink nail polish. Lucia Evans liked to wear it at school, but if I remember correctly, the yellow color didn’t match with the indigo blue of Sainte Madeleine’s uniforms.

I thought I’d give it back. I mean, at least I did at first. Her brother certainly deserves to keep it more than I do. But a month turned into two, now three. Sometimes I forget the headband is in my possession.

And I’m not even trying to be insensitive about it either, like Kayla likes to point out. It just so happens that my memory is not to be trusted. If I stop forcing myself to think about it, the accident never even happened, but yesterday was October 16th. Lucia Evans would’ve been eighteen by now.

I blow out the vanilla-scented candle, watching the sun start to rise on the horizon. The light breaks through the cracks of the half-opened window, and a soft breeze comes in. My white curtains are swinging softly now, almost blocking my view.

“Happy birthday, Lucia.”

I smile softly, sending my prayers to the sky. The loud ringtone reverberates for a second time.It takes me out of a state of reverie, and I blink away the image of a blonde girl with blue eyes covered up in dark blood.

Her dead body is not something I like to remember or even think about in passing. Nobody likes to think about dead bodies; it reminds us too much of our own.

“Stupid fucking phone won’t stop fucking ringing all the time.” I press my thumb against the home button repeatedly, looking to shut it off.

A tapping sound begins, coming from outside.

I pull the curtains and fully open the window, all to angrily stare at the sky high above me. The clouds are charged, gathering over my parents’ house like they know someone like me must be around.

“Shut up!” I gasp with disbelief, finally noticing the water puddles scattered all over our garden. “Shut up!”

Living here? It’s the kind of commitment not a lot of people are ready to make even though they’d like to think otherwise.

Traditionally, Le Port only knows two types of weather: sunny, humid, and hot from September to November, and dark, rainy, and gloomy from December until the following year, around August.

No in-between, take it or leave it.

It seems as if the rainy season, my least favorite season of them all, is coming earlier than expected this year. I get more depressed with the bad weather. It’s like my body becomes prone to melancholy, or something.

That’s not to say I like summer more. It’s just… never what I idealize it to be in my head. Sure, the sunlight is rather tolerable early in the mornings, but by the time the clock hits twelve, the heat gets so bad to the point of making my rosacea flare up.

As a toddler, my mother liked to rush me inside with worried, careful glances just to lock me in our stuffy living room. She forced strawberry popsicles down my throat until I stopped complaining about the feeling of tightness around my cheeks, a burning sensation that throbbed and pulsed.

Our grandmother sent Nathaniel to Le Port around that time.

I don’t remember much of it anymore, but I remember what came after.

He grew out of being a wimpy kid to become a teenager who was taller, stronger, and faster than me.

He’d watch me with some kind of anger, pinch the highest spot of my cheeks with his nails, and carve half-moon shapes onto me like he wanted to cut me to pieces and see what was underneath my skin.

And if I asked to use the fan, he would turn it on but keep it far out of reach above me.

I was smaller than most kids and underdeveloped looking, and he did that a lot, mocking my size and my weakness, like it was some kind of a joke. But even then I knew I was his favorite person in the world, and he couldn’t get enough of me.Mom made sure I knew that and never forgot it.

He loves you, Cassandra.

Your brother loves you the most.

Those were good days for our family, I guess.

Right before I made a mess out of things.

“No, no, no, no!”

Rain starts pouring down, the sky lighting up with thunder.

I get on my knees over the bed and close the windows shut to keep the water away from my bedroom. It falls over the beige-colored houses and the fancy luxury cars parked near the sidewalks, and the wind becomes so violent that it even makes the coconut trees shake from one side to the other.

I bite my lower lip, unsure of what to do next.

I mean, how am I going to get to school today if it won’t stop raining? Soon, my parents’ backyard will become a blurry sight!