Towering

though I’d only known her a day, I thought I was falling in love with her.

Rachel
    In the night, it began to rain. I could count on three fingers the number of times I’d seen rain in January. The rain would make the way here impassable. He could not climb the tower in the wet. I would not see him. Having been alone all these years, I yearned, now, to see him.
    What was it Shakespeare said—The course of true love never did run smooth.
    I turned on the light and surveyed the room. I noticed the scissors Mama had gotten me, lying on my nightstand. I picked them up and tested the blades. Dull. Still, I could try.
    I drew it quickly across my wrist.
    A small amount of blood showed, seeping out.
    The cut didn’t hurt enough to make me cry, but the thought of not seeing Wyatt did. I imagined that it would rain forever, that I would never see him, that I would always be alone.
    Soon, a tear leaked from each eye.
    I dabbed at them with my forefinger, then dabbed at the wound. It stung from the salt.
    Then, it disappeared.

Wyatt
    I woke to the rain on the roof. Some might call it a patter, but it was more like a deluge. My mother once said that, when it rained up here, you might as well cancel your plans. I knew what she meant, but today, my plans were with Rachel.
    I knew I could never climb that tower in the rain.
    I decided it might be a good idea to start the online courses I was supposed to be taking. That way, I could skip a day when the sun came out. So, after breakfast (Mrs. G. made waffles, which was the only good thing about the day), I logged on to start virtual economics.
    No connection.
    After unplugging and replugging the computer and an hour on the phone with the service provider, then another hour talking to someone in another country who clearly knew nothing about how bad it could rain here, I faced the fact that they were going to have to come service it. Tomorrow.
    I went downstairs to see if Mrs. G. was watching Star Trek . Because this was what my life had come to.
    “It’s not on now,” she said.
    “I thought it was always on.”
    “I wish. Do you want to play Rummikub?”
    “What’s that?”
    She reached down under the end table and pulled out a small leather suitcase. “It’s a game, sort of like gin rummy, only with tiles. You have to build groups of three or four of a kind, or straights. Your mother and Danielle used to play all the time. I haven’t played since . . .”
    I couldn’t imagine my mother doing anything so nerdy, but maybe it was just that dull up here. “Okay?”
    That was all it took for her to start putting together racks and piling on tiles. The piles were numbered and came in four different colors. She explained that you had to make either a group, meaning several of the same number, or a run, which meant all the tiles were the same color, but consecutive numbers, like 2, 3, 4, and 5. There had to be at least three tiles in each run or group. “But the fun part,” she said, “is you can steal from other groups that are already down. For example, if there are three 4s down, and you need one to make a run, you can take it—just not on your opening turn.”
    I didn’t make my opening turn for about fifteen minutes because she said your tiles had to add up to fifty before you could start. Meanwhile, Mrs. Greenwood was building runs and groups, then stealing from them to make more. “It just all comes back to you,” she said.
    “I wish it would come to me in the first place.” But, actually, I was just as glad to have her beating me. She seemed to enjoy it.
    Still, she said, “You must have something.”
    “You’re just better at this than I am.”
    “Nonsense. You’re a smart boy. That’s what I like about this—it exercises the brain, helps with problem solving.”
    I thought about the problem of how I was going to see Rachel. What if it rained for a week?
    The joker Mrs. Greenwood had just put down laughed at me.
    After she’d beaten me for the third time straight (and I suspected she was holding back), I asked her if there was anything else she needed repaired.
    Maybe she saw the look of quiet desperation on my face. Or maybe she was just as bored of playing Rummikub as I was. In any case, she said, “You know, I think the library might have that internet service. Is there a way to bring your computer there and work?”
    My head shot up quicker than a cartoon character’s. “What? Yes. Yes, there is a way. Where’s the library?”
    “Well