Don't Trust The Weatherman

Why Do People Like Thunderstorms?

There was nothing that Joey Rippley hated more than thunderstorms. They were obnoxiously loud, unpredictable, and utterly inconvenient —especially when she was trying to study for the pop quiz she just knew would be arriving soon considering there hadn't been one for the past two weeks and unless Mrs. Grandle suddenly felt an abrupt spurt of compassion, it was safe for Joey to assume the quiz will be distributed before Friday.

She hasn't always hated thunderstorms; in fact, up until she was around 5 or 6, no older, she couldn't care less for the weather phenomenon. Joey was spending the night at her grandparents the Saturday before Easter in preparation for the annual egg hunt when the first crackle of thunder sauntered through the window. Her grandfather, a war veteran, panicked at the sound and forced her to hide while he searched the house for "survivors." It was an unsettling night for a child her age, to say the least, but the part Joey detested the most was the lack of predictability. She didn't know what her grandfather would say or do next, just that it would come with the next boom from the sky —the problem was, she couldn't predict when the next one would hit.

Also, the unforeseeable sounds were pretty rude.

The second thing she hated was the beach, but that was less of a concern at this time being that it was 9 pm, October, and Joey was sitting in her bedroom with plenty of pillows to protect her from the sandy shoreline haunting her from miles away unlike the storm that battered just outside of her window.

Another crash of thunder rippled through the room, startling no one other than the perfectly groomed snow-white cat resting at the end of the bed. Joey, who had been anticipating the god-awful sound, simply groans frustratedly, ripping the pen from her mouth as she slams her hands against her comforter. Paul seems to glare at her dramatic outburst and she returns his harsh stare in some sort of contest until she blinks and breaks, offering her fingers for the cat to amuse itself with instead.

"Sorry, Paul." The girl apologizes to her demure companion, knowing he hates loud eruptions just as much as she does, only she understands the concept of thunder and she isn't quite sure he does.

The cat just purrs and Joey unhappily returns to her notes.

She remains adamant about her studies for a while, convincing herself that she actually understands the mess of letters, numbers, and Greek symbols spread between her open composition notebook and comically thick math textbook until she simply can't anymore. With a low huff, she finally gives up and forces herself out of the comfort of her bed, leaving Paul behind to romp around with her discarded pen.

The thunder sounds quieter from the hallway and for a slim moment Joey imagines how her studies may have gone if the house had been designed with her comfort in mind —inversing the placement of her room and the hall despite how impractical. Her feet pad against the cold hardwood floor as she creeps towards the stairs, waiting for the thunder to cry out before daring to step down.

The stairs led into the living room and ran along the wall separating the comforting room from the kitchen. The living room was dark —everyone called it an early night— with only light from the kitchen casting into it, causing the cold-footed girl to frown as she got closer to it. Joey swung into the illuminated room, her head tilting curiously when she saw the small curly-haired boy in car-printed pajamas climbing the counter.

"And just what might you be up to?" Joey asks, leaning against the framing of the archway leading into the room, her arms crossed as she watches the child jolt up in shock and unceremoniously scramble down.

The boy presses his glasses further up his nose with his right hand —his left being cast— and Joey can't help but crack a small smile at how much they magnify his eyes.

"I was getting some milk!"

Unlike his older sister, Levi Rippley loved thunderstorms. He loved the way the large booms could be used instead of his banal mouth noises when he played with his green army men toys, and he especially loved that whenever a storm kept him up past his bedtime he could creep downstairs, pretending to be a spy and get himself a glass of milk. Unfortunately for the little adventurer, though he quite enjoyed his escapades they usually ended in injury which is why his arm was cast in blue plaster and why his sister was eyeing him as if deciding whether or not she should mention his record.

"And are you supposed to be climbing the cabinets for a glass of milk?" Joey decides she should mention it. Her tone is sarcastic; not in a mean jerk kind of way but in a more playful way, one her brother could pick up on.

"So you won't tell Mom?" Levi checks. He knows his sister's tone wasn't serious but he's been lied to before —sure, the last time she told on him it was because right after he slipped, fell, and broke his arm, but he just had to be sure.

Joey smiles genuinely, a rarity outside of her household, and nods as she fully enters the kitchen for the first time since dinner. She ruffles Levi's hair as she passes him, going straight to the fridge and crinkling her nose in disgust as she grabs the milk.

Milk was another thing on Joey's hate list but it was far lower than the other things.

Joey grabs a glass from the cabinet her younger brother was previously attempting to reach and pours enough of the sour white beverage in it to satisfy him before putting it away, pouring herself a glass of water, and kissing Levi's head as she passes him.

"Don't stay up too late, Boog."

Composed once more after her thundering tantrum, Joey calmly walks upstairs, sipping her water only when she reaches the top and it is then and only then that she collides with a body taller and bulkier than her own. Using her sleeve she wipes her face, refraining from cursing under her breath out of fear that the body that just caused her to spill her water all over herself may have been her father's.

"Woah! You spilled that all over me."

Or not.

The third thing Joey Rippley hated was Eli Hewitt, a 5'11, broad-shouldered, football player with dimples that could make anyone swoon and an attitude that made Joey sick to her stomach. In the simplest of terms, he was a jackass and, to make matters even worse, he was her brother Joel's best friend.

Joey removes her sleeve from her face and opens her eyes, her expression immediately hardening at the sight of him. She scoffs and squeezes past him, no longer in such a happy mood, and storms off to her room quickly but not quick enough to stop the sound of his voice from entering her ears again.

"Nice bunny pants, Joe." Eli teases and Joey slams her door shut in a failed attempt to prevent the sound waves originating from his throat to enter her room. She huffs, pressing her back against the door of her room, and had she not had a dripping cup of water in her hand she would have cupped her face with them.

A giant rumble of thunder blasts through the windows and Joey jumps, water spilling on her once more, and with a groan she places the empty glass down, letting out a strained sound of frustration as her brain tries to process which she actually hates more: Thunderstorms or Eli?

She glances down at her soaking wet shirt and nods to herself, "Eli."

Hehehe hi
-Slurpee :)