Mudville by Kurtis Scaletta Page B

a dead walrus, there's kids eating cotton candy and an Uncle Sam making balloon animals.
    “Hey, Roy!”
    I turn around and see Steve.
    “Nice day!” he says, grinning from ear to ear.
    “I've seen nicer,” I joke, but I'm grinning, too.
    “I'm going to get bunnies for my baby sisters,” he says. I wait while he puts in the request with Uncle Sam. “Two rabbits. One blue and one red.”
    “So where's your foster brother or whatever?” Steve wants to know while we're waiting.
    “Sturgis? He's reading.”
    “Man. That's messed up.”
    “Well, he's only lived here like a week,” I remind him. “This is no big deal for him.”
    Uncle Sam hands Steve the two balloon rabbits, and Steve hands one to me.
    “For me?”
    “Shut up. Come on.”
    We're walking through the crowd when we see the girlsfrom the gym. The one I noticed before turns around and smiles really adorably at both of us. I smile back, then remember I'm carrying a balloon bunny. I try to carry it casually, but it's just about impossible to carry a balloon bunny and be cool about it. The girls are whispering to each other, pointing and laughing.
    “Remind me to beat you up later,” I tell Steve.
    “What for?”
    “Just remind me.”
    We find Steve's family eating hot dogs and watching the band play.
    “We saw a guy making balloon animals,” Steve announces. We give the rabbits to Sheila and Shauna. I glance around, hoping those two girls can see us, but they're gone.
    The twins are excited, of course, and want to tell me all about how the sun came out and the rain went away, and how all the kids at day camp went out and played tag, and how the teacher didn't care that they were all covered with mud from head to toe by the end of the day.
    Steve's dad hands me a hot dog loaded with mustard and onions, but no ketchup.
    “Thanks. Just the way I like it.”
    “I know. I don't forget a man who knows how to eat a hot dog.”
    There are more hot dogs after that, and pop and caramel corn and ice cream. It's kind of a blur. Steve and I join some guys kicking a soccer ball around in the street, then supervisea three-legged race by kids eight and under, which is won by his sisters.
    The main thing everyone talks about is rain—why it stopped and whether it will start up again. Since he's pretty much the smartest guy I know, I ask Mr. Robinson.
    “I'm a history teacher, not a weatherman,” he says with a shrug. “All I know is, it's a darned good day for a picnic.”
    Just when it starts to get dark, the mayor gets up in the old grandstand.
    “I better get a few words in here before it starts to rain,” says the mayor, looking up at the perfectly cloudless sky. The crowd titters a bit. The mayor holds out his hand, palm up. “I think I felt a drop!” The crowd hoots and hollers.
    “Well, it's been a long wait,” he says. “It's been a long wait, and I'm amazed and proud at how many people stayed here in town, waiting it out together. They must know what I always knew, which is that this is a special town. A town worth waiting out a little rain.”
    Scattered applause. Whistles. Hoorahs.
    I search the crowd for those two girls, but I don't see them.
    “The pessimists out there say it's going to start again any second, but I think we're in for better times. Moundville will be … Well, I almost said this town would be great again, but it never stopped being great!”
    Now the applause is more thunderous. People like being told they're great.
    “Either way, the forecast now is sunshine. So enjoy your Fourth of July, and enjoy the fireworks. And we'll meet back here next year for more fun in the sun. Maybe we'll even have baseball!” There's an especially loud swell of applause, with cheering and foot stomping and hollering. The mayor waves goodbye and walks off the grandstand.
    “Yeah!” I trade a high five with Steve. If there is baseball, we're pretty sure we'll be in it.
    “I can't wait for that,” says Steve's dad. “Just like the good