Honeybee

Rain in the Desert

It was raining in the desert.

This was, of course, an unusual occurrence, even in the valley where the creek often swelled with rainwater from the mountains upstream. But in the valley, where everything was burnt orange and logged with a dust that never seemed to sift away, the rain was hypnotic. It caused everyone to stop what they were doing, sink into a nearby chair, and watch in a absent-minded stupor. Everyone but Honeybee, that is.

She stood, soaking in the rain as if she were a plant waiting to burst forth from the ground and bloom. She was the only one who did not take shelter under a wooden porch or inside my home, and this was simply because she preferred to feel the rain dribble down her skin, like the juice of a ripe peach, but much less sticky. The red dirt beneath her was turning to mud, and she felt it squish beneath her bare toes while a wind chime danced in the breeze somewhere nearby, reminding her that she was home. The low rumble of thunder crackled in the distance, and it made her want to stay out all the more. She loved storms. They were powerful. Unstoppable. Alive.

"Catriona."

She froze, my chin still lifted towards the sky as she resisted grumbling under her breath.

Respect your elders.

When her mother called her by her real name rather than Honeybee —which had been her nickname as long as she could recall— that meant she was in trouble. She wracked her brain to figure out what she'd done this time, but these days it seemed she was always in trouble for something. Using too much water in the tub, speaking when she was not spoken too, forgetting to pray, going to the pond without permission.

Cold guilt suddenly seeped into her gut like ice. She'd forgotten. The Prophet would be returning today.

"Get in here. Please."

But Mother didn't need to ask twice, because Honeybee was already bolting for the front steps of their small mobile home, the one they shared with her big sister Rory, Aunt Belle, and Uncle Titus. Inside the fans were blowing full speed in defense against the summer heat, powered by the solar panel on the roof, but they made Honeybee shiver.

"Get straight into some dry clothes," whispered Honeybee's mother quickly, hand on her daughters back. She glanced down at Honeybee's muddy feet with disdain but sent her on her way. Their house was always full of dirt. It was inevitable out here.

Honeybee raced to the small, square room she shared with Rory, and found her sister curled up on the bed with the Holy Bible in her hands, reading dazedly like the rain had caused her brain to slow.

"Hi, Rors." Honeybee opened the closet, not looking at her sister, and not expecting a response either. Rory didn't talk. She never had. The Prophet told Honeybee that she was born mute, but Honeybee thought she was just quiet, because she'd heard Rory mumble in her sleep. Either way, it made Rory seem very devout, because she could never say anything wrong. That's where Honeybee struggled.

As Honeybee dressed into a dry blue dress she looked out the window. The window was scarcely wider than her head, but through it she could see the narrow alley between their home and the similarly rusty one beside it, which belonged to Alex and his parents. Mother secretly didn't like living near them, because she'd once said they were undecided followers of the Prophet, and that they weren't completely faithful in him. And then she made Honeybee swear not to tell anyone what she'd said.