The sun peek-a-booed from behind fluffs of clouds as we headed toward the church to close out another long, humid day. Half-way across the parking lot, a surprise droplet of water splashed down, steaming back up as vapor. The forecaster did predict our several weeks long drought would end today, but having endured the scorching heat for so long, I don’t think anyone really believed him.

“Miss Weaver, it’s raining!” April announced, wiping the droplet from her forehead.

I looked up at the blue sky. Gray-tinged clouds moved decidedly in front of the sun so that it could no longer be found. “It’s just a few sprinkles,” I assured her, distracted. Kent, Jimmy, and their remaining four boys walked ahead of Danielle, India, and my classes, roughhousing along the way. His question scrawled before me; a plane drawing a banner for my eyes only across the sky: How long are you planning on waiting?

“Girl, it’s about to pour down and I just got my hair done!” Danielle turned to her girls, lagging behind. “Ya’ll hurry up!”

The rumble of thunder punctuated her observation right before the promised downpour. Danielle squealed, throwing her arms over her head as she raced toward the building, her little divas close behind. India zoomed ahead as well, except instead of heading for the church, she clutched Kent’s arm feigning fear at the booming skies. As she flung dark, Medusa braids over one shoulder, I felt something new constrict in that little spot between your heart and your throat.

“Miss Weaver, I’m scared.” Alisha and April gripped my hands on either side while Ronnie’s viney arms tined around my thigh. I hustled them forward. Kent’s pace did not change as he strolled with India in the rain, the drenched tee he wore hugging his shoulders. His boys stopped wrestling each other long enough to extend their arms and spin around grateful for the cloudburst soothing their sunbaked skin. None of them noticed as we passed by, making our way inside just ahead of a second clap of thunder.

After the children were seated on the carpet, a movie started, and baggies of popcorn passed out, Danielle and I sat a desk on one side of the room while Kent, India, and Jimmy sat on the other. I rubbed my goose fleshed arms prickly with wetness in the air conditioned basement.

“Girl, my mama would have a fit if she saw us up in here watchin TV in the middle of this storm!” Danielle dragged a file over a splitting, acrylic nail.

“Why?” I asked more automatic response than curiosity. India posed, long legs crossed, on top of a desk, Kent and Jimmy seated at her feet, eyes blinking like paparazzi flashbulbs.

“You know how old folks say that when it’s a thunderstorm, that means God’s talking,” she explained.

“Hmmm….”

Danielle frowned. “Are you even listening to me?”

I nodded without looking. India laughed at something Kent said, tossing her head back so that her braids swished over the desk. A blue flash lit up the sky out the window behind her, sheets of rain rushing to the ground. Alisha crawled up onto my lap and I held her against my chest, stroking her hair.

Danielle followed my gaze across the room. “India’s a hot mess, ain’t she?” In the middle of her question, India leaned forward on her makeshift throne to give the guys an eyeful beneath her too-low-cut-for-work tank top. They kowtowed with goofy smiles. “You better go get your man, girl.”

What if I did just get up and go over there; stand in that spotlight beaming over India instead of chickening out like all the times Dante never answered his phone and I wanted so bad to take my father’s car and show up at his mother’s house? I sighed, answering: “He’s not my man. Besides, I think they might make a good couple.”

Danielle shook her head. “He don’t have nothing in common with her and you know it. He likes you, but oops–you got a man.”

(Secret of a Butterfly, pp. 31-33)

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