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She's standing in the rain again. The thick humid drops slide down her tan neck and make her thin cotton dress cling to her body. She leans forward, balanced on the balls of her feet, ready to dive off the edge of her lawn, wanting to dance barefoot through the puddles. Her face looks puzzled, turned up to the clouds, pink lips open slightly, she wants to say something, I know she does, but she can't find the words.
I watch, breathless from my bedroom window like I have since she came home from boarding school at the beginning of the summer. I always watched I never spoke to her. I remember the first time I watched her; it was one o'clock in the morning, the first night the heavy Florida air released its downfall of raindrops. The image of her standing in just a white camisole and underwear, arms raised, head thrown back worshipping some unseen deity will be burned into my mind for forever.
I have to talk to her. School starts soon and I can't let her leave again without telling her what I think. How beautiful she is. I leave my perch at my bedroom window and move down the hall. The slam of the front door swinging closed doesn't startle her. She never turns to see who's crunching toward her through the grass as I cross the boundary between my yard and hers. Rain soaked soil seeps into my socks and between my toes. I stop right behind her, close enough to smell the mixture of shampoo and hairspray melting off her limp curls.
"Angelina." My voice cracks but she doesn't laugh, she doesn't even turn around. Even as I reach out one shaky finger to tap her shoulder I want to turn around and go back inside. As soon as my hand touches her skin she spins around, startled like she hadn't realized I was there. I freeze for a moment, caught off guard by her wary blue eyes. Focusing on the silver polish on her toenails I begin to mumble what I've wanted to say to her all summer.
"Angelina, I know we never really talk, but I just think that we should, because, you know, my mom said that you're thirteen like me and we're the only people in the whole neighborhood younger than thirty so maybe we should, you know, hang out." I look up to punctuate my awkward sentence and she's watching my mouth intently. "We don't have to if you don't want to, I don't care either way," I add, in a desperate attempt to not sound desperate.
Her head is tilted to the right, a soft, considering smile graces her lips and lights up her eyes. She takes one cautious step forward, her hands flutter in front of her but she doesn't say anything.
"What?" I ask, taking a step back.
Then both hands start moving in a torrent of abstract pictures accompanied by guttural hums. I watch transfixed by the blur her fingers make in the air. Like a dance choreographed to keep her hands dry, they weave between the raindrops.
I grab her racing fingers. "Is that some sort of code or something?"
Angelina leans forward, forehead wrinkled in concentration. She points to her ear, shakes her head, and smiles apologetically.
"You can't hear me?" Her focused eyes process the words that my lips form and then nods. Her face brightens with a soft smile. I take a step back. "I'm sorry."
Her eyes dim and her shoulders droop. I get that sinking feeling in my stomach that I usually only get from failing a test.
"I'm sorry," I say again, this time for letting her down.
Slender white hands jump into action again. She brushes two fingers in an upside down "V" against her palm and then pauses, her hands frozen in the air waiting for a response. I copy the motion clumsily. My blunt, rough fingers lack the grace in her hands.
She grabs my wrist and pulls me out into the middle of the street. Our feet are covered by an inch of murky rainwater. She takes my hand and places it on her waist. My fingers tingle where they press gently into the thin fabric dividing my skin from hers. Holding my other hand she puts her left hand on my shoulder and watches my face expectantly, waiting for me to lead.
I sway one way then take a step, then another. I work into the rhythm of the sporadic drumming rain slapping wet pavement. I spin her once and she throws her head back and laughs loud and free, completely oblivious to how the sound carries up and down the empty street. I've learned my fist sign; Dance.
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