Jojo closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against the window pane. He could feel the soft drops of rain as they pattered against the other side of the glass - their rhythmic beat soothing the throbbing headache that pounded its own rhythm against his skull. He opened his eyes and glared irritably at his reflection. Why would it rain tonight? Tonight, the last night of summer, the last calm before the hellish storm that descended every September tenth. He already knew how it would happen. He'd be wrenched from his sleep by the excited shrieks and twitters of his 96 sisters as they scampered about, desperately searching for that matching sock or misplaced notebook that always seemed to go missing, no matter how much preparation went into preventing it the night before. He'd struggle through the chaos like he always did and hopefully manage to get a turn in the one bathroom that they all shared before being carried out the door by a sea of pigtails and braids. The very thought of it amplified the throbbing in his head.
With a sigh he pushed away from the window, the wheels of his chair squeaking as it sailed across the room to his desk. He tried to push the foreboding thoughts of the day to come from his head by searching through the papers that littered his desk for a pencil. He had planned to spend his last night in the old observatory, but seeing as his umbrella was currently serving a vital role in his latest creation, he had no way of reaching it without being completely soaked by the rain. He had attempted to borrow one of his sisters', but his effort had been foiled by what his father liked to call "Preemptive Organization." Just thinking about it sent his eyes into an exasperated roll. Sometimes his dad was just so odd.
Though the relationship between him and his dad had improved after the events of last summer, recent happenings had again brought it under strain. His father had come to accept his choice of not taking his place as mayor, but the town council had not been as taken with the plan. Apparently Jojo had disrupted years of Who tradition in even suggesting such an atrocity, and as the excitement of Jojo's valiant role in the saving of Whoville slowly settled into the dust, the news of his rejection of who-ways was beginning to rise. He had begun avoiding his father out of pure shame. What kind of Who was he anyways? Any other Who his age would probably love to be mayor. Not that he would know, seeing as he didn't talk to any Whos his age, or any age for that matter, unless you counted his sisters. He didn't.
His long fingers finally wrapped around a pencil that lay hidden behind a leg of his desk. Straightening up and taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes and tried to settle the thoughts bouncing around in his head. They got so loud sometimes he couldn't hear anything around him, and right now, that was exactly thing that he wanted to do.
The chorus of raindrops that still fell against his window floated into his ears, their soft whispers setting the backdrop for the methodic ticking of his bedside clock. His foot began to tap to the beat, seemingly of its own accord, and with a small sigh, he opened his eyes and began to scribble rapidly on a sheaf of paper that lay in front of him, loosing touch with everything but the music.