stands up fast. He starts to throw the remote control at me, but then I think he remembers that the TV wonât work without it, so he puts it down. âGo to your room,â he says.
I back away from him. Rain follows me to my bed. I get out the list of homonyms. I study it and study it and then from the living room I hear the Weather Channelâs Rex Caprisi say, âCheck out the links posted at the bottom of the screen.â
I jump off my bed. âRain! âLinksâ and âlynxâ! A new homonym!â
I run my finger down to the L section of the list and see that there isnât space for my new homonym pair. Iâll have to rewrite the list, starting with the L section.
I havenât gotten any further than lane/lain when I make an m instead of an n . I throw down my pen.
âTwo, three, five!â I shout and scrunch up the paper.
My father is standing in the doorway in an instant. He looks at me and then at the paper. âIâve had just about enough,â he says quietly.
Rain edges herself between my father and me.
âIf you canât control yourself here, at least control yourself at school. Iâm sick of this. Iâm sick of the notes. Iâm sick of the meetings.â
âBut my homonyms listââ
My father stoops down and picks up the crumpled paper. âNot another word about homonyms. Put all this stuff away and go to bed. Right now.â
My father doesnât leave the doorway, so Rain and I have to change our schedule for the second time that day. I slide under the covers with my clothes on. Rain lies warily next to me.
We both have to pee.
18
Storm Sounds
My father closes the door to my room, so Rain and I lie in the darkness. I can see a strip of light under my door and hear the sounds of the Weather Channel.
I canât fall asleep, even with my hand resting on Rainâs sleek back.
The wind grows louder and louder. Itâs as loud as a train. Rain whimpers.
The television sounds disappear and then the strip of light dims, which is how I know my father has gone to bed.
The rain falls harder until itâs thundering on our roof. Beside me, Rain begins to shake.
In (inn) the yard the trees creak (creek) and crack. Branches snap off.
Something heavy blows against my window. It makes a bang and I grab Rain, but the window doesnât break (brake).
I get out of bed and tiptoe to the door. I open it and listen. Nothing but (butt) storm sounds. I peer (pier) around the corner at my fatherâs door. Itâs closed. No light shines underneath.
I go back to bed, leaving my door open.
My clock says 11.34 p.m. when I hear (here) a tree crash down in our front yard.
It says 1.53 a.m. when a violent gust of wind hurls something against our (hour) front door, and I wonder what we left outside. Rain shakes until the bed vibrates.
The clock says 3.10 a.m. when I hear a ferocious crack from somewhere, maybe the street, and then my clock blinks off and all the humming sounds in the house come to a stop.
Our power has gone out.
I hug Rain as tightly as possible and finally I fall asleep.
When I awaken thereâs dim light seeping around my window shades. The house is quiet. The storm must be nearly over.
Rain is not in my room.
19
Rain Doesnât Come When I Call
On our kitchen counter is a clock that is not electric. Itâs round and blue, and on the face is a drawing of an ocean wave. Above the wave are the words Atlantic City . The morning after the storm, I tiptoe out of my bedroom and into the very quiet kitchen. The first thing I look at is the clock. The hands are pointing to 8.05. Next I turn around to see if my fatherâs door is open. It is not. I pick up our phone and listen for a dialling tone. Nothing. I press a few buttons. Still nothing. We have no electricity and no telephone.
I walk to the window in the living room and look outside. The day is very dark and wet. Rain is still falling, but
I back away from him. Rain follows me to my bed. I get out the list of homonyms. I study it and study it and then from the living room I hear the Weather Channelâs Rex Caprisi say, âCheck out the links posted at the bottom of the screen.â
I jump off my bed. âRain! âLinksâ and âlynxâ! A new homonym!â
I run my finger down to the L section of the list and see that there isnât space for my new homonym pair. Iâll have to rewrite the list, starting with the L section.
I havenât gotten any further than lane/lain when I make an m instead of an n . I throw down my pen.
âTwo, three, five!â I shout and scrunch up the paper.
My father is standing in the doorway in an instant. He looks at me and then at the paper. âIâve had just about enough,â he says quietly.
Rain edges herself between my father and me.
âIf you canât control yourself here, at least control yourself at school. Iâm sick of this. Iâm sick of the notes. Iâm sick of the meetings.â
âBut my homonyms listââ
My father stoops down and picks up the crumpled paper. âNot another word about homonyms. Put all this stuff away and go to bed. Right now.â
My father doesnât leave the doorway, so Rain and I have to change our schedule for the second time that day. I slide under the covers with my clothes on. Rain lies warily next to me.
We both have to pee.
18
Storm Sounds
My father closes the door to my room, so Rain and I lie in the darkness. I can see a strip of light under my door and hear the sounds of the Weather Channel.
I canât fall asleep, even with my hand resting on Rainâs sleek back.
The wind grows louder and louder. Itâs as loud as a train. Rain whimpers.
The television sounds disappear and then the strip of light dims, which is how I know my father has gone to bed.
The rain falls harder until itâs thundering on our roof. Beside me, Rain begins to shake.
In (inn) the yard the trees creak (creek) and crack. Branches snap off.
Something heavy blows against my window. It makes a bang and I grab Rain, but the window doesnât break (brake).
I get out of bed and tiptoe to the door. I open it and listen. Nothing but (butt) storm sounds. I peer (pier) around the corner at my fatherâs door. Itâs closed. No light shines underneath.
I go back to bed, leaving my door open.
My clock says 11.34 p.m. when I hear (here) a tree crash down in our front yard.
It says 1.53 a.m. when a violent gust of wind hurls something against our (hour) front door, and I wonder what we left outside. Rain shakes until the bed vibrates.
The clock says 3.10 a.m. when I hear a ferocious crack from somewhere, maybe the street, and then my clock blinks off and all the humming sounds in the house come to a stop.
Our power has gone out.
I hug Rain as tightly as possible and finally I fall asleep.
When I awaken thereâs dim light seeping around my window shades. The house is quiet. The storm must be nearly over.
Rain is not in my room.
19
Rain Doesnât Come When I Call
On our kitchen counter is a clock that is not electric. Itâs round and blue, and on the face is a drawing of an ocean wave. Above the wave are the words Atlantic City . The morning after the storm, I tiptoe out of my bedroom and into the very quiet kitchen. The first thing I look at is the clock. The hands are pointing to 8.05. Next I turn around to see if my fatherâs door is open. It is not. I pick up our phone and listen for a dialling tone. Nothing. I press a few buttons. Still nothing. We have no electricity and no telephone.
I walk to the window in the living room and look outside. The day is very dark and wet. Rain is still falling, but
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