The Anatomy of a Raindrop

superboy

Brinley quietly knocked her dainty fist against the splintery wood of Wrennyn's front door. Ophelia Portman opened the door swiftly and greeted Brinley with a welcoming smile.

"Brinley! It's good to see you, sweetie," she exclaimed. "Uh, Wrennyn's in his room, you know where that is."

"Thanks Ms. Portman," she smiled.

Brinley bounced down the grey carpeted floors toward her friend's room. After knocking, she walked into the room. It was more of a walk in closet than a room, yet never once did the boy complain. Compared to some, he had it all; this he learned from an early age.

"Sup Curly?"

"Don't call me that," he snapped harshly. Brinley stopped walking and frowned. Wrennyn hardly ever raised his voice, especially to her.

"Wrenny, are you okay?"

Wrennyn flopped down on his bed and covered his face with his hands. He sighed before looking up at Brinley. His mop of obsidian hair covered the majority of his pale forehead and now it casually draped into his ebony eyes. The boy sported a tan hoodie and black pants, insufficient attire for a house with no heat in late November. He shivered, but remained sprawled on his bed.

Brinley, sensing that her friend was perturbed, sprawled herself out next to Wrennyn. Her hair drenched from the storm outside, started to bleed into the hood of her coat.

"What's going on in that cute little mind of yours?"

Wrennyn sighed, a puff of white steam flowing from his mouth. The boy's home was very home-ish in the sense that it was garlanded with family photos, soft blankets, and always emitted the pleasant smell of warm cookies; but it had no heat, and the gas and electricity cut out most of the time. Brinley shivered, but didn't move from her spot on the bed.

"It's nothing really," he whispered. Brinley rolled onto her stomach to face the boy.

"You'll feel better if you talk about it. Maybe I can help with whatever is bothering you," she condoled.

"Hugh. He's having a bad day," Wrennyn whispered. The boy held back his tears, for he promised himself that he would never cry in front of anybody.

"Where is he?"

"In the living room," he responded sullenly.

"C'mon Curly, get your coat on, you're coming to my house," she spoke softly. "You'll catch a cold here."

Brinley strolled out to the boy's room and made her way into the withering living room. She spotted a small boy, hitting his head against the carpeted floor. His hair was straight and short, unlike Wrennyn's; it was lighter too, closer to the chocolate brown that Ophelia carried. His skin was a snowy white and his eyes a comforting hazel.

Ophelia trudged into the room and gasped. "Hugh! Stop it," she begged. She squatted down next to the boy and attempted to stop his repetitive head banging. "C'mon baby please."

The boy screamed out, red faced and worried. He beat his arms and legs against the tan carpet making impossible for his mother to restrain him.

Brinley calmly walked over to an old piano that was there when the Portmans moved in. It was weathered down and it's keys were yellowed, but it made noise nonetheless. She pressed the keys gracefully and with ease. It was no Bechstein, and she was no Chopin, but the notes that emitted from the black lacquered piano calmed the child till he wiped his last tear away. He slowly got up from the floor and sat down on the bench next to Brinley. She was a familiar and trustworthy face.

"It's okay, superboy," she whispered. "You can play now."

The boy nodded and placed his dainty fingers on the stained keys. Brinley stood and walked away from Hugh. Ophelia sat crying on her forest green Lazy Boy, her head in between a pair of bony fingers. Brin placed her hand on her shoulder and Ophelia wrapped her in a tight hug.

"How do you do that Sweetheart?"

"His hearing is all hyped up, you know? So yelling is just going to frighten him more. And he likes repetitive behaviors- like the piano. It has the same eighty-eight keys and they never change." 

Ophelia let out a small sob and whimpered, "you know my own son better than I do. Both of them."

"Now that's just a flat out lie," she said sternly. "There is no one in this world who knows Hugh and Wrennyn better than you. I love both of them so much, but never as much as you do. You've done such an amazing job with them, Ms. Portman. Look at Wrenny, he's on honor roll. And look at little Hugh- he's playing Nocturne in E-minor at seven years old. Your boys are amazing, Ophelia."

The thin woman looked up at Brinley with grateful, hazel eyes and nodded. "They are pretty great aren't they?"

"The best," Brinley agreed. "Mind if I steal Wrenny away for a while?"

"Of course," she nodded.

Brinley stood and glanced ahead where she saw her curly haired friend standing, red faced, and teary eyed.

"C'mon Curly," she said with a smile. "I wanna get back to my house before the rain picks up again."

She walked out the front door and Wrennyn followed. "Thanks Brin," he stuttered. Brinley only nodded in return. She didn't want a thank you, she didn't do anything that deserved a thank you. She just did the right thing.

"Wanna help me make cookies for Thanksgiving dinner tomorrow?"

"Always," he smiled.