said. "In fact, I know Precious wouldn't want to be part of a downpour."
We had eight gray-and-white puffballs that were our cats, one for each sister. Their names were Anthrax, Dandruff, Greatorex, Jaguar, Minx, Precious, Rambunctious, and Zither. Precious was Petal's cat.
Well, we sighed, at least Petal was worrying about someone other than herself for a change, even if that someone was a cat.
"March is coming in like a lion," Durinda began.
"But are you completely sure it will go out like a lamb?" Zinnia asked.
"If this were April," Marcia observed, "we could have showers that would bring May flowers."
"Would you all just stop? " Georgia shouted.
"Did we say something wrong?" Jackie asked.
Georgia continued to stare out into the dark and stormy night as the rain machine-gunned our windows.
"Why does my month have to be riddled with clichés?" Georgia finally whined.
"What's a cliché?" Petal wanted to know.
Not only did Petal worry more than any person who ever lived, she also didn't pay attention during vocabulary lessons at the Whistle Stop, the school where we were all third-graders. We tried to tell her that vocabulary was important, but she always told us that to her it was all just so many words, words, words.
"A cliché," Annie said, as though she were reciting from a dictionary, "is a trite phrase or expression. Also, a hackneyed theme, characterization, or situation."
"Great." Rebecca sneered. "And what do trite and hackneyed mean? Don't even bother defining characterization. I'm sure it doesn't concern us."
" Trite, " Annie said, "is when something becomes hackneyed or boring from too much use. It means not fresh, not original. Hackneyed means lacking in freshness or originality. Also, it means trite."
"Trite is hackneyed, hackneyed is trite." Rebecca rolled her eyes. "Well, that clears it all up. Why can't the people who write dictionaries just agree on one word for it?"
"Exactly," Georgia said. "And that one word should be cliché. " She sulked some more, pressing her nose against the glass. "I don't know why my month has to be riddled with—"
C-RASH!
S-LAM!
THUMP!
Yes, that was when the carrier pigeon struck the other side of the windowpane that Georgia's nose was pressed against. The carrier pigeon's little body struck the glass with more force than ... well, than any carrier pigeon's body had ever thumped against glass before.
We were used to carrier pigeons visiting the house and bringing notes. They were Daddy's friends. And even now that he was gone, wherever he'd gone to, they still came. But they'd never before come in the midst of a dark and stormy night.
"Well, let it in. Let it in!" Durinda cried, pushing Georgia out of the way and opening the window for the pigeon.
The pigeon, looking about as grateful as we'd ever seen a pigeon look, hopped onto Durinda's outstretched finger.
"Poor little pigeon," Durinda cooed. "All your feathers are soaked."
Just as Annie performed a lot of the daddy functions around the household in the absence of our real daddy, Durinda had turned out to be the most motherly. And we had grown used to things being that way. Really, Daddy Sparky and Mommy Sally might have been sharp dressers, but there was nothing like having real human beings to tuck you in at night, to show you love when you needed it.
"There, there." Durinda continued to soothe the pigeon, using her other hand to stroke its sopping feathers. Then a puzzled look came over Durinda's face. "Hey," she said, "what's this strapped under your wing?"
"It's probably just another one of those stupid notes," Georgia grumped.
"No, I don't think so," Marcia said. "The notes always come rolled up inside the little metal tube attached to the pigeon's leg. And this pigeon has one of those tubes on his leg, so that can't be it."
After much fumbling, Durinda's searching fingers produced a waterproof sack that was cinched with a drawstring. The drawstring was not waterproof, so it was
We had eight gray-and-white puffballs that were our cats, one for each sister. Their names were Anthrax, Dandruff, Greatorex, Jaguar, Minx, Precious, Rambunctious, and Zither. Precious was Petal's cat.
Well, we sighed, at least Petal was worrying about someone other than herself for a change, even if that someone was a cat.
"March is coming in like a lion," Durinda began.
"But are you completely sure it will go out like a lamb?" Zinnia asked.
"If this were April," Marcia observed, "we could have showers that would bring May flowers."
"Would you all just stop? " Georgia shouted.
"Did we say something wrong?" Jackie asked.
Georgia continued to stare out into the dark and stormy night as the rain machine-gunned our windows.
"Why does my month have to be riddled with clichés?" Georgia finally whined.
"What's a cliché?" Petal wanted to know.
Not only did Petal worry more than any person who ever lived, she also didn't pay attention during vocabulary lessons at the Whistle Stop, the school where we were all third-graders. We tried to tell her that vocabulary was important, but she always told us that to her it was all just so many words, words, words.
"A cliché," Annie said, as though she were reciting from a dictionary, "is a trite phrase or expression. Also, a hackneyed theme, characterization, or situation."
"Great." Rebecca sneered. "And what do trite and hackneyed mean? Don't even bother defining characterization. I'm sure it doesn't concern us."
" Trite, " Annie said, "is when something becomes hackneyed or boring from too much use. It means not fresh, not original. Hackneyed means lacking in freshness or originality. Also, it means trite."
"Trite is hackneyed, hackneyed is trite." Rebecca rolled her eyes. "Well, that clears it all up. Why can't the people who write dictionaries just agree on one word for it?"
"Exactly," Georgia said. "And that one word should be cliché. " She sulked some more, pressing her nose against the glass. "I don't know why my month has to be riddled with—"
C-RASH!
S-LAM!
THUMP!
Yes, that was when the carrier pigeon struck the other side of the windowpane that Georgia's nose was pressed against. The carrier pigeon's little body struck the glass with more force than ... well, than any carrier pigeon's body had ever thumped against glass before.
We were used to carrier pigeons visiting the house and bringing notes. They were Daddy's friends. And even now that he was gone, wherever he'd gone to, they still came. But they'd never before come in the midst of a dark and stormy night.
"Well, let it in. Let it in!" Durinda cried, pushing Georgia out of the way and opening the window for the pigeon.
The pigeon, looking about as grateful as we'd ever seen a pigeon look, hopped onto Durinda's outstretched finger.
"Poor little pigeon," Durinda cooed. "All your feathers are soaked."
Just as Annie performed a lot of the daddy functions around the household in the absence of our real daddy, Durinda had turned out to be the most motherly. And we had grown used to things being that way. Really, Daddy Sparky and Mommy Sally might have been sharp dressers, but there was nothing like having real human beings to tuck you in at night, to show you love when you needed it.
"There, there." Durinda continued to soothe the pigeon, using her other hand to stroke its sopping feathers. Then a puzzled look came over Durinda's face. "Hey," she said, "what's this strapped under your wing?"
"It's probably just another one of those stupid notes," Georgia grumped.
"No, I don't think so," Marcia said. "The notes always come rolled up inside the little metal tube attached to the pigeon's leg. And this pigeon has one of those tubes on his leg, so that can't be it."
After much fumbling, Durinda's searching fingers produced a waterproof sack that was cinched with a drawstring. The drawstring was not waterproof, so it was
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