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Show Why We Cry Butch and Fenn Stories 115 5 The rain hits as I'm taking the corner on Indiana Avenue and I see all the kids doing crafts with the summer program scurry onto the park bandstand. Three years ago I learned how to play chess down there and I made a pair of moccasins. Butch won't go near the place. "what do you want to do all summer," he says, "play with boondoggle?" The rain falls full out in a steady rush, no warm up, and by the time I lean my bicycle on our patio, I'm soaked. From where I sit in the living room, I can see the whole park taking the rain. The trees have all turned black and they ride a little in the weather. It's dark enough inside to turn on a light, but I sit in the brown darkness, looking out. I loved my old school. I loved Mrs. Talbot and Miss Vincent and even Mrs. Tu, the principal. She taught our class how to draw apples when I was in the fourth grade. I even loved the old lavatory without doors on the stalls. You could stand against the end of the mirror and raise your foot and wave your hand and make it look like you were flying. The rain has really taken me. It seems like the last rain in the last summer. I think about the junior high down by the river and I'm sick. Outside, I can see Tim, Fenn's little brother and one of his pals walking through the puddles on the little league infield. |