The Essence of Rain

I stared at the boy in front of me, Jake. His blonde hair was sticking up in every direction imaginable made it almost impossible for me to take my eyes off him and focus on the paper I was supposed to be writing for English. Shaking my head, casting all thoughts of him out, I looked to the window for inspiration hoping that something outside might catch my attention. However there was really nothing outside to look at to begin with. The only thing out there was the empty, muddy soccer field. And it only succeeded in making me think about Jake playing soccer.

Some inspiration that was. We were supposed to be writing about something that happened to us recently, but turn it into a fictional story and using personification on some inanimate object to signify whatever we were feeling when we experienced that event. Basically, the teacher wanted us to write about something true but make it untrue in our writing. So far the only thing I had thought of was Jake playing soccer and how hot he was.

The worst part was, we had to dedicate it to someone. Who was I supposed to dedicate this too? Jake?

Furrowing my brows, sighing, and pulling my pencil out of my mouth, I turned my attention to the blank lined paper in front of me and began writing. My pencil was pressing hard into the paper creating dark letters that I knew I would regret writing about later.

Today was not a good day for me. It was storming outside, and I’m deathly afraid of storms, but somehow I had managed to not care enough to even recognize my irrational fear as I sat outside in the muddy grass, in the middle of the worst thunder storm we’ve had in a long time.

No, no. I shouldn’t be writing about this. I closed my eyes, letting my pencil glide heavily across the paper. Screw what my mind told me, I was writing really well, and I needed this grade.

To make matters even worse, the single event that could shatter my glass world, alter my life forever, had happened. Despite it all, I had managed to learn several things today.

My eyes wandered away from the paper again, fixating on the window that showed nothing but rain and an empty soccer field. Did I really want to write about this? Did I really want the entire class of twenty-something-odd students to know my inner most feelings? No. Shaking my head, I looked down at my paper.

First, that no matter how much you want the lightening to strike you down, it never will as long as there are objects taller than you around. For example, a tree, a soccer goal, and even the six foot three next door neighbor who you barely even know despite the fact that he moved in almost a year ago.

Okay, so maybe I did want people to know. It wasn’t like the teacher was going to read mine in front of the entire class anyways. I’m not the best writer around.

Second, that a storm will never do your bidding no matter how loud, how long, or how many times you yell at the sky to do what you ask of it.

I looked back up at the boy in front of me. Maybe I did want the teacher to read it. Just maybe, if he read it, it might make Jake see why I was better for him than the girl he was sitting next to. I shook my head again. No. He has a girlfriend, and I’m not the kind of girl who steals a guy away from another girl, even if she is the cheating kind. Besides, Jake doesn’t even know I exist outside this classroom.

Third, a storm is a ferocious, unpredictable combination of wind and water. It releases all its fury in one swift blow, signaling its roar cry in a series of steady beats of a drum made from condensed water. It displays its superiority with a jaw dropping array of flashes that illuminate the ominous gloom of its drums. And to show its pain, it lets down a torrent of tears creating a melody of unmatched beauty against the ground. Yet, as soon as the initial crash and fury is gone, a peaceful tranquility takes over. It’s then that you realize that despite the ferocious battle, it was a necessary part of life; while it might have destroyed one life, it gave millions of others the chance to live.

I frowned, setting down my pencil and running my hands through my hair. What exactly was I supposed to say next? The guy I was madly in love with decided to go out with the biggest slut in school? Or was I supposed to say that my mother ran off some jerk that lives in New York? I ran my hands down my face, looking up at the clock afterward. I still had twenty minutes left.

It was only after the storm had decreased to nothing but light rain did I notice that I was sitting outside, and I wasn’t alone. My next door neighbor was sitting next to me, picking at the grass. He didn’t need to say anything for me to know that he knew why I was out here, or that he knew I had wished death upon myself via lightening.
“I don’t understand you,” he finally said.
I just shrugged my shoulders at him. He already knew why I was out here, so what was left for him to understand? So the guy I was madly in love had asked out the girl I despised most in the world. What did it matter? It wasn’t like I even had a shot with him. He didn’t even know my name. That was it, plain and simple.
“I don’t get it,” he repeated, groaning in frustration, “You want to die because some guy — who doesn’t even know your name — decides to go out with a girl that’s not you?”
I shrugged my shoulders again. Was that the only reason I had become suicidal?
He groaned loudly, falling onto his back in the muddy grass with his arms spayed outward, “I will never understand the female species. I mean, this is just ridicules. You turn suicidal — your attempt was pathetic by the way — because your one sided love was exactly that; a one sided love?”
I stared at him for a while. Was he right? Was that the entire reason behind my behavior? I knew the answer to that question; it was no.
I took a deep breath, “My father left. I could’ve stopped him but I didn’t. I told him that I hated him instead, and that I wished he would just leave and never return.” I told him solemnly, finding something interesting on the ground to look at rather than his face.
“Oh,” he softly.
“Yeah. Oh,” I repeated.
“I still don’t understand the female species if it makes you feel any better.”

I smiled at the line I wrote. It had made me feel a little better, even if it was only a tiny bit. I bit my lip feeling my teeth sink into the chapped flesh. I was in too deep to stop writing now, even if half of what I wrote didn’t even happen.

He left a few minutes after he said those words, muttering about picking up his little sister from school and how much of a pain it was. It had stopped raining soon after, and I realized I could no longer find solace in the rain when it was no longer raining. It didn’t last for long, however, as a loud crack of thunder sounded off overhead. I screeched, jumping to my feet and taking off towards my house. My irrational fear of storms had finally caught up to me.

“You have five minutes left, class,” the teacher announced from his desk at the back of the room. I gulped, gripping my pencil harder as I racked my brain for a way to close the essay without getting marked down for my lack of closure.

I didn’t know then that what I was doing to myself would affect my future more than the events that took place would, but I eventually learned to let go.

That’s right, let go. I looked up at Jake, his shoulders hunched over his desk as he wrote rapidly. I looked at him one last time before closing my eyes, let go.

I learned to let go of my irrational fear of storms. I learned to let go of my dad and of things I could never achieve. It was hard; I’m not going to lie, but I did it. I let go and let the sound of the storm be my lullaby as I went to sleep at night. I was as free as the storm was.

Someone once told me that life isn’t about waiting for the storm to pass. It’s about learning to dance in the rain.

The shrill bell rang loudly causing me to jump up from my seat because it startled me. Some people laughed behind me grabbing their stuff and shoving past me. Grumbling to myself I shoved my stuff in my backpack quickly.

“Before you leave please hand in your essays. I will read them tonight and we will discuss some of them to tomorrow,” the teacher said opening the door.

Students filed out slowly, each handing the teacher a sheet of lined paper as they left. Hopefully, mine was good enough to get a decent grade, but bad enough to not get read in front of the class.
I quickly wrote “The Essence of Rain” at the top of my paper and then scooped up my binder, walking towards the door, essay in hand.

“So, Sophie,” Talon asked as we exited the classroom, “what did you write about? I mean you looked like you were concentrating pretty hard over there in that seat of yours.”

I rolled my eyes at my six foot three next door neighbor towering over me as we walked down the hallway. “Wouldn’t you like to know,” my response was sarcastic, but effective in getting Talon, the impossibly tall brunette, to leave me alone.