First off, who she wasn’t. She wasn’t Valerie Allen, with her thick hazel eyes and her ten-terabyte brain. And she wasn’t Becky Bielski, with her musical Mississippi drawl and her twenty-four karat heart. Nor was she Amanda Kalikow, with her natural pout and save-the-world wit.
She was Alex Alexandra, square-jawed and soft-spoken, blocky glasses perched upon her nose, a splay of black hair twisted sharply up into a bun, grinning apologetically. Nice to finally meet you, Lizzie! I’ve read every syllable you and I will ever speak, over one hundred times now, and I know them all by heart.
The first read-through of Rainmaker felt solid, substantial. Despite my snot-laden, virus-filled head and my overacting, there were moments of honesty, even at this early date. No one sucked. The early prognosis for the patient is good.
