Rain-soaked

"But I'm not—!"

The rain batters my shoulders as I remove the phone from my ear.

It's too late. She hung up.

I keep walking briskly, but my converse are doing a poor job of keeping out water as I step in puddle after puddle.

I know what she would say: Why are you wearing those trash shoes? There's more hole than shoe!

So what if she's right.

I hunch into myself, as if that will make me less wet, and poke at my phone screen. My finger hovers.

Should I call her back?

Why? So she can tell you what a crap daughter you are?

I grit my teeth and turn my phone screen off, all the while conscious of how wet my socks are.

Don't you be late again, Misty. Thomas will be here, and you know how he gets.

Thomas. I narrow my eyes at the wet sidewalk. My mother's latest boyfriend, and previously our electrician. I liked him better as just electrician guy.

A car drives by, and grey water sloshes onto my legs. Thanks for that.

I don't think there's a single part of me that isn't soaked.

And by God, please wear something decent. Those half-sweaters you have look ridiculous.

Rain drips into my eye, and I wipe at it as I turn my phone screen back on. 6:54. I'm not late yet, but there's no way I can get home in time.

I pick up my pace, every step sending a shock of water up my legs, into my shoes, between my toes.

I'm about two blocks away.

Oh and bring some food; Thomas says we don't have any more bread. Or cheese.

I'm careening around a corner when my shoe gives out and decides it's an iceskate. My foot flies forward, and my backside collides with wet concrete.

If any part of my was dry, it sure as hell isn't anymore.

Seven o'clock, Misty. Seven. Get your ass home.

I groan and lean forward. Crap. My backpack. The bread I'd bought—most definitely wet—has surely now become flattened as well.

What time is it? I go to check, but my phone—where's my phone?

Panic races like lightning down my limbs. My pain has evaporated. If I lose or break my phone, I am officially dead.

"Hey, uh, you ok?" He smells of weed but he looks harmless, all oversized hoodie and beanie-covered head.

I stand up and look around, either for a more suitable human or for my phone, I can't tell at this point. I find my voice. "Fine."

He chuckles, and it makes me notice his eyebrow piercing. "Whatever. Here's your phone, if you're looking for it," he says, holding it out.

He just stands still like it's not pouring rain, like his hair isn't getting wet under that beanie.

I snatch it a little too forcefully, and instinctually turn it on. Thank god. It still works, and no cracks. 7:02.

Late.

"Ok, sure. You're welcome," he says. He's walking away. I'm late.

I pat my backpack, as if that will confirm that the food is smooshed beyond repair.

Not bringing food, not on time, not wearing the right clothes. It can't get any worse.

"Hey, wait! I'm sorry—I mean, thank you!" I call after him.

Now it's me, standing still, rain soaking my hair, my shoulders, my backpack.

He turns and gives me a half smile and a salute, but doesn't stop walking.

He leaves. I'm late. The rain rings on the sidewalk. And all I can do is stand there and stare at my phone, cause it lit up: Incoming Call: Mom.