Her world is gray, totally and utterly gray. Rain pools on the stone walkway that leads to and from the house. Water droplets run races across the windows. Sometimes rain can be heard through the roof, if she listens hard enough; mostly it's drizzle, but occasionally a larger drop will hit the slate roof with a resounding crack. The pale gray sky reflects her mood: tired yet awake, somewhat sad, slightly bored, and her usual irony.


Another crack from a large raindrop, and then the sky breaks. She can feel it as it reverberates through the house. The harsh deluge coats her temporary sky with rain. The rain is like tears, she thinks, and someone somewhere shares their sorrow through the rain.


Through the rain, she can see cars pass the house like a blurred caravan of lanterns glowing. Nothing is real in the rain. It is all a fantastical, visionary place for the mind to wander. It has a dreamlike quality that lets her be imaginative while she sits there through the storm.



The clothes practically pack themselves. She hurries, knowing that her mother will be home in half an hour. She takes her knapsack and slings it over her shoulder, and walks down the stairs. She has been planning this moment for so long, and now finally she is ready, though this moment’s cause is not for the reasons she had once dreamed. She opens the door and reaches back into the house; she sets the alarm: 8-5-12-16. She closes the door. She doesn't look back.



The driveway isn't all that long. She makes her way down it, running sometimes, and walking other times. Once she reaches the road, she takes care to go the opposite way of which her mother will drive to come home; her mother has no part of this decision.



She is soaking wet, and her bag is too. She walks down the road for a while. Once she reaches an intersection, she takes a left and runs for a few blocks. Maybe I should have taken a bicycle, she thinks. She continues to walk until she reaches a fork in the road. She takes the right and walks until she reaches a rain spattered white house. She walks up to the door and knocks quietly. Three times. Their secret code.



Why are you here? He asks when he answers the door. Why did you come? Haven't you humiliated me enough?


I'm pregnant, she says. The words ring in the empty hallway. Both are stunned at the echo in the absence of words. Only the rain can be heard.


Pregnant, he repeats. Pregnant. Wow. He notices that she is shivering. She is wet, and her dark brown hair hangs limply by her face. Maybe you should come inside, he suggests. She nods.



How could this happen? He asks once they are both sitting on upholstered chairs in the living room. The both blush. Well, I know how... But, I mean... He trails off. She looks down at the Persian carpeted floor and says nothing. He looks away from her. Nothing is one hundred percent, is it? Umm... what are we going to do about it? They both think. His frown increases. Her blush increases.


She blushes. I should have called you before I came over. I'm so sorry. You don't need this right now. You don't need me right now. I mean... With your father in the hospital and my parents' divorce... Well, you don't need this. I'll leave now...


She finishes awkwardly and stands up. She is graceful, and her long hair makes a straight dark curtain across her eyes. He notices this and it reminds him of the past. He can stand it no longer, and he reaches for her wrist.


Stop, he says. It isn't a request, or even a plea. It is a command. He wants her. He wants her to stay. He wants to help her. She smiles slightly. This is the boy she remembers.



What are we going to do? He asks, worried. It seems to echo throughout the darkened house. It rings. It rings and rings and rings. It seems to be getting louder rather than dying away. They are both confused. She winces. What? What is it? He asks her desperately.


Cramps. She replies. Are cramps even normal with pregnancy? She wonders aloud. He doesn't know. She frowns.


Does your mother know about it? He asks her. Does her mother know about the pregnancy? Your father? Does he know?


No, she says. No, they don't know.


Oh. He says. It surprises him. It always seemed as if she talked to her mother. But, now he understands why they hadn't talked to each other for some time. Your mother. She doesn't like me. He says matter-of-fact-ly. Apparently I'm a bad influence, he adds sarcastically.


She smiles at him. It is a bad joke, but she smiles all the same. It's been so long since she's smiled. It hurts her cheek muscles, but it is a good hurt.


She can see out of a window by the door, and through the heavy cloud cover, she can see the sun breaking through the gray cotton. The sun’s effort rewards it, she notices, and the sun’s rays break through the clouds to reveal a rainbow. She smiles again. Maybe, like the sun, she will be able to break through the clouds of her own life, to reveal something amazing. Maybe this is not an end, but the beginning of new travels. Maybe, like the sun, she will be able to come through her trials.