I go over to Megan’s place on the weekend. Her Mum is great. I call her Auntie Susan, even though she’s not my Auntie.
I dawdle, splashing in muddy puddles. I hope she’s home. Auntie Susan’s always home, gardening, this time of a Saturday. She’s out the front today, pouring water over her pink flowers. She told me the name last weekend. Petunia. She said it like a song: Pe-tu-nee-ah.
“Hi Andy,” says Auntie. Megan’s near the tap, planting a new tree in her patch of the front garden. She has a patch out the front and two around the back. She comes out to say hello when she’s finished patting down the soil, softly, like Susan taught me.
“Guess what? We’re getting chickens soon,” Megan says. She’s not like this at school. She’s in the fourth grade and her friends giggle at boys.
“We might be,” Susan says firmly, but her eyes sparkle and give her away. She’d never tell Megan they might be getting chickens and then not get them.
“Can I help with the garden?” I ask. Susan feels sorry for me because I live in a flat. She gave me some flowers to grow on the windowsill once, but they died from too much sun.
“Of course,” says Susan. She gives me a watering can. “Fill it up from the bucket; I’ve been collecting the rainwater.”
“Why?”
“It’s better for the garden. Fresh from the clouds,” Auntie Susan says. I never thought of rain that way. I look up. The clouds are gathering again, ready for another downpour. Soon they’ll be down here, puddling on the street.
“I used to think rain was the angels crying,” Megan says. “Or peeing.” She giggles. Susan gives a sort of sigh, but her eyes laugh. I put my hands into the bucket. Yesterday it was a cloud. It feels cold and silky.
“Is it different to tap water?” I ask.
Auntie Susan nods. “No chemicals.”
Alison pokes her head out the window. “Water is a chemical,” she says.
“Is not,” Megan argues. “The teacher said you should drink water because it doesn’t have chemicals in it.”
“It doesn’t have any chemicals added,” says Alison. “You learn about it in high school.”
I look at Auntie Susan. “Does water have chemicals in it?” I ask. Auntie Susan knows everything about science. She used to be a teacher until Alison was born.
“Water is a chemical, but this doesn’t have any added,” Auntie Susan says. “Alison is right-” Megan gives a sulky look “-this is pure H20.”
“What?”
“Scientist language for water,” Auntie Susan explains. She knows scientist language. I don’t. The words sound like spells to me. Alison says I’ll learn in high school.
“Haych two oh,” I repeat. It feels magical to say it. I pick up the watering can and carefully empty the bucket of H20 into it. Megan tries to help, and we end up spilling half of it. She dunks her hands in and flicks some at me. I flick her back. She scoops up a handful of water and empties it in my face. I flick more water at her. Megan’s grabs a bucket of her own and starts backing away, flinging water in my direction. I flick back from my bucket.
Megan runs around the back, still carrying her bucket. I splash her from behind, and the tip of her ponytail gets wet. She springs onto the trampoline, and I follow. It’s still damp from yesterday. H20. Cloud.
I flick her with water, and we bounce as we have a water fight, slipping on the wet trampoline but never falling, surrounded by moving droplets catching the sun, pieces of cloud flying through the sky again.
When the water runs out, Auntie Susan gives us morning tea outside so we don’t make the carpet wet. It starts to rain again as I go home, covered in water and dirt from the trampoline.
Mum's on the couch, watching TV. The flat is hazy with cigarette smoke. Some people would call that a cloud. It’s not. Water doesn’t have any chemicals in it.
“Where’ve you been?”
“Megan’s house.”
She grunts. “What’ve you got all over you?”
Fresh rain. H20. Cloud.
“Nothing,” I say. “It’s just water.”
Or something along those lines.
