Ad fontes
using this period to actually study. I stretched my arms and arched my back. It made a few satisfying cracks, loud enough that Logan, the way-too-tan kid who sits in front of me and usually has dried chunks of hair gel on the back of his head, spun around to stare at me with disgust.
How does one study For Whom the Bell Tolls after one has met a dragon and had what I can only conceive as a near-death experience with a floating yellow death rock? Dragon had just dropped me back at Beecher, outside the empty cafeteria, with a bow and a we’ll-meet-again withering wave. And then he disappeared, as if that were a completely rational thing to experience prior to sixth period. So, if mental overwhelm weren’t enough, any motivation left to actually do English work was quashed by the fact that we had a substitute teacher that day.
Usually subs were small, timid women with unfortunately sized midsections. This sub was a lean, militant, older gentlemen who instructed us to call him Darls (as in Mr. Darls? Or like Darls Smith? What kind of name is Darls?). He had rolled up the sleeves of his neatly pressed button-up shirt, taking great pains to uncuff and recuff it as he did so. He sat with perfect posture, his bald head and thick, combed white eyebrows peeking menacingly from beyond the book he was reading. I stifled a laugh when I saw the book’s title: Darls was apparently engrossed in Jane Austen’s Emma.
I was ahead in every possible way in this class; I really didn’t need the study hour. But there was something I could be working on now – I felt a Grinch-like smile coming on. I think I knew just the lovely little distraction to keep my mind from spinning away on dragons and rocks. My mom often advised that, in moments of stress, one should occupy one’s mind with a new task to step away and process said stress. Well, my wise mother, look who was listening after all.
A plan hatched, and I sauntered up to Darls to request a library pass. I knew the perfect way to shake all this dragon-gemstone weirdness off for a while. If I could take a step back, I’m certain I could better make sense all of this. And I had just the terrifying distraction for the job. A grateful salute to Darls and a smug walk out later, I was en route to my third most favorite place.
Thoughts of Dragon were gone by the time I entered my sanctuary. But new stress had populated my pores and tiny beads of sweat trickled down my forehead as I walked. I checked out a laptop from the library desk easily enough. Part of me was hoping there wouldn’t be any available and then I’d have a convenient excuse to not go through with my intended search. How could I want to find out something so badly and simultaneously be terrified of the awaiting truth? I wanted the question to be gone, but I didn’t want to know the answer.
I shifted my weight under the heft of my pained backpack and trudged to my favorite corner. Beyond the art section, two aisles neatly categorized from history to technique, there was a fantastic architecture display atop a little round table. Ms. Neally, the librarian, had artfully set up a 3-D puzzle of the Eiffel Tower, a tiny metal sculpture of the Leaning Tower of Pisa, a plaster replica of the Sydney Opera House she expertly painted herself, and a winding snake of small clay bricks meant to be a section of the Great Wall of China. I could stare at these miniature feats of design for hours, daydreaming about adventures that would take me to such remarkable places. The best part of this corner, though, was that this busy exhibit hid from view the gem of the library: two beanbag chairs. They were smaller than you might expect, so nestling into one and using the other as a footrest was optimal lounging form.
I dropped into the green beanbag, shimmying side to side a bit to let its beany goodness carve out an Eve-shaped hole for my backside. With my feet happily positioned on the blue beanbag, I opened up the laptop and set to work.
Search: Protldn Speem Bnaks
Whoops. My spelling was never my strong suit. And search engines just let you flounder about in your own misspelled words. Not helpful.
Query result: Did you mean ‘Portal Speed Snakes’?
No. No I did not.
Search: Porltadn Sperm Donor Bansk
I saw my errors as I hit return. Close enough, I figured. The word “donor” ought to filter out weird guesses. I watched the little wheel circling on the screen as I awaited results. It was as if this dumb laptop knew the desperation of this search and was purposefully keeping me in suspense. Will the universe never stop conspiring against me?!
“You guys, look who’s lurking back here! The Lizard Queen!” Libby’s shrill voice cut through my excitement.
My whole body tensed up. I looked up to see Libby and her lemmings – only about four of them in tow this time – peering down at me. It was just a sea of judgmental nostrils and pink scrunchies.
“Um, can you, like, sanitize that so we’re not sitting in lizard sweat?” Libby said, one hand on her hip, the other gesturing toward the beanbag.
“Whatever. Figures you’d only come to the library to sit. Vapid and illiterate,” I said under my breath as I awkwardly hurled my body upright, wishing there was a more graceful way to exit a beanbag chair.
“Did you just call me vampire?” Libby’s eyes narrowed darkly.
“O.M.G., this lighting is so good for selfies!” one of her lemmings squealed from the back of the small flock, holding her phone up at an angle, clearly lost in her own priorities.
“Zip it, Gemma!” Libby snapped. (“I’m Kylie!” the voice whimpered back.)
“I’m going,” I muttered.
As I pushed past them, one of the lemmings swiped at the laptop tucked under my arm. It slipped from under my sleeve, dropped to the floor, and fell open, its sleeping screen turning on and its space bar popping off.
The weight of my broken backpack was cumbersome; Libby was much swifter than I in fetching the fallen computer. I retrieved the black space bar pathetically.
“Ooooooh, what do we have here?” Libby said, holding up the laptop for her flock to admire, “What the heck, Reptile Queen? You’re Googling porn!”
My face reddened to a new shade of red that I was certain hadn’t previously existed. I started to stammer an objection.
“You guys! She’s looking at sperm!” Libby squealed delightedly.
“What is all of this foul language I’m hearing?” a gentle voice rippled through their torrid giggles, quieting everyone.
It was Ms. Neally. Libby and her lemmings immediately all pointed accusingly at me. The lovely librarian, in her fitted grey houndstooth skirt and jacket, turned to me with a surprised frown.
“No! I’m not! Er, I wasn’t! It’s nothing like that. It’s … it’s … sperm donor banks,” I tried to explain, my voice going from convicted and indignant to feeble and ashamed.
From everyone’s menacing stares, including Ms. Neally’s own perplexed look, I could see I had to offer a better explanation.
“I’m just trying to find out who my dad is,” I whispered, my face turning scarlet again, heavy under the tears quivering at the base of my eyes.
Ms. Neally’s puzzled look softened; her cocoa complexion turned rosy and encouraging. She reached for the laptop and motioned for me to follow her away from Libby and her snickering posse. I dejectedly handed her the space bar key.
“I broke it, I’m sorry,” the words fell out of my mouth as suddenly and heavily as the tears gushing out of my eyes.
“Oh, Ms. Archer! It’s not so bad. Tears are unneeded,” she knelt elegantly in front of me, her brown eyes full of compassion. “Compose yourself and get back to class. This period is nearly over.”
I left the scandalous search engine and its stray space bar, along with my dignity and best-kept secret, in the hands of the kindest teacher I’d ever known and did as I was told.
By the time I was done calming myself in the bathrooms, there was a note waiting for me on my desk back in 6th period English. Scribbled on a piece of notebook paper were the words TEST TUBE BABY with a drawing of a crying baby inside a tube being held by a Frankenstein-esque person. There was an arrow pointing to the monster with the word “Eve’s mom” written next to it.
The artwork was disappointingly good. I studied the drawing, so intricate. And was that cross-hatching? How long had I been in the bathroom? If someone is going to bully me with art, at least make it really poor drawing. Respecting a bully for their craft is a super conflicting feeling.
I sighed and sat down, crumpling up the antagonizing note. I didn’t come from a tube. But I didn’t really want to have a conversation about biology with Libby and her troglodyte followers. Even the good artists.
My search for my biological father was no further along than before. Except that I knew more than one listing populated for that search. I wish my mom had never told me about the sperm donor. I wish she had lied and said my dad was Batman or the Canadian Prime Minister or something ridiculous and fanciful and that’s why I couldn’t know him.
I pulled out For Whom the Bell Tolls and pretended to follow along to Darls’ dull, dull reading.
I felt empty. Alone. Weird.
More than usual.
I opened my notebook and drew the rectangular outline of a newspaper. Then I scribbled in seriffed print, “Test Tube Baby Befriends Dragon, Saves World.”
I lay in bed that night staring at my ceiling. I didn’t know what else to do. So I just stared. And laid there. And stared some more. Dragon had asked me if I would join him on his quest. Me. Eve. The girl who was hungry most of last week because lunch trays are hard to balance on your lap while you’re crouched in a bathroom stall and sometimes you spill your entire plate of tater tots and there’s no way you trust the floors of a junior high bathroom.
I am the heroine requested for a dragon’s quest?! I had just gaped at him, when I met him outside my school again, my stupid mouth hanging open, dumbfounded at his entreaty. Then I had stuttered that my mom was going to be worried and/or angry if I didn’t get home soon. So Dragon put an understanding talon gently on my head, said in his very noble accented voice, “Until next time then,” and then vanished. AND THAT WAS IT! Now I’m here. Staring. Lying. (Laying? I never understood lying versus laying.)
“Uuuuggghhh!” I thrashed around in my bed, freeing my legs from their top-sheet prison and pulling my comforter snugly up to my chin. I was irritated with myself, for I loathed anything that seemed cliché. And here I was, hours after undergoing an insanely outrageously fantastically bizarrely weird very non-cliché experience, reflecting on it in bed while staring up at my ceiling. That’s only been the preferred rumination stance of, like, a million characters in books, movies, TV episodes. Couldn’t I be more original? My thoughts on who my dad was, on Dragon, and on magical floating evil orbs were swept back with ideas on how to better ponder and reflect more originally.
“Uuuuggghhh!” I groaned again, throwing a pillow at my wall. Ironically, it hit a framed diagram of Dragons of the World, which fell with a crash to the floor. “Great, now I have broken glass to clean up, too,” I muttered as I crawled to the end of my bed to inspect my calamity.
“What are you even doing in here?” my sister’s voice came from my room’s doorway and sent me shooting straight up like a startled cat.
“Philippa! Geez, you scared me,” I breathed, holding my hand to my heart.
“Oh no! You love that stupid poster!” Philippa said with a concerned frown, walking toward the fallen picture.
She knelt down beside it while I looked over her shoulder from my perch atop the foot of my bed. Her musician touch deftly moved the shards of broken glass aside and piled them carefully on a nearby book. Holding the frame together, she held up the large picture encouragingly. The diagram of dragons had an Olde English style and design, so it looked aged like an ancient scroll, which I loved; I saw thankfully that it was unscathed
“You just need to glue the frame. But your weird little friends here are ok,” Philippa said good-naturedly, delicately running her forefinger over each of the dragons on the poster.
Then, holding the print in front of her, she leaned suddenly toward and growled ferociously. I jumped. She laughed. I pouted. She laughed more.
“Just keep it down! I have like, a million more hours of studying to do. Anyhow, back to my stoichiometry … I’m so close to perfecting my mole to mole equations.”
“Philippa?” I asked.
“Yeah?” she spun around.
“Nothing. Never mind. Thanks for fixing my picture,” I added.
She gave me a thumbs up and continued out of my room. I felt foolish. Why would Philippa know who my dad was?
I watched my sister’s ungraceful saunter and smiled. The light from the hallway illuminated her funny gait, which was not the walk you’d expect from someone talking about solving advanced chemistry.
“Goodnight, seeester!” I called after her in the silly voice she and I always used for some reason.
She blew me a kiss, then made a fart noise with her hand on her mouth as she pulled my door shut.
I smiled. Now, where was I? I crawled back into my original spot in bed and refocused my thoughts on how to best process the singularly strange series of events. I mentally reviewed other locations I could be alone. First option: The laundry room? I do enjoy the hum of the dryer, and there would likely be warm towels for me to curl up in … but that meant going down two sets of stairs, and that second set and I don’t have the greatest working relationship. I have many oddly placed bruises to attest to this. Second option: The car? I had tried that once, actually. I don’t know how I managed it, but the car’s alarm sounded when I opened the door to get back out. My pajama-clad, frazzled mom had appeared in the doorway of the garage holding a meat tenderizer and a broom, apparently ready to take on whatever interloper was breaking into her car. I giggled and passed on that option.
Third option: The bathroom? I’ve spent a lot of time on that toilet. Not super comfortable, and my sister seems to be in there a lot for way too long. Can’t trust that space. Let’s see, other options… I rued not having access to an attic. Or a basement. Or a cellar. Oh man, a cellar would be so great right now. It would be dark and cool with curiously shaped windows chiseled into its stone walls. I bet it would be full of canned pears and applesauce from that one summer my mom decided she was meant to be a domestic do-it-yourselfer. Mmmmmmm, pears. I could really go for a snack right now, maybe something peanut buttery… That’s it! The PANTRY.
I happily slid out of bed, wrapped in a blanket, holding the small clip-on book light I kept a secret from my mom in one hand, my stuffed dragon in the other. I tiptoed across my darkened room and peeked outside my door. Seeing only the familiar lamp light from the living room casting its dim glow up the stairs, I glided in my mismatched socks past my sister’s room, past the bathroom, past the closet, down the stairs, and into the kitchen. I slowly turned the knob on the pantry door so it wouldn’t squeak, so pleased with myself for coming up with a new, original, non-cliché reflection spot. Armed with a tiny beam of light from my itty-bitty book lamp, I opened the door.
“Huad yer wheesht!” a tiny face hissed at me in a thick Scottish accent.
My hand shot to my mouth to muffle a scream that wouldn’t come out. My eyes wide, I raised my itty-bitty book lamp menacingly toward him, mimicking my favorite wizards as they draw their wands at an opponent.
“Aye, lassie, it’s best to be calm.”
Calm? CALM? A tiny person with a Scottish accent inside my pantry at 10:32 p.m. on a Tuesday was telling me to be calm. I waved my booklight/wand/weapon closer toward the source of the voice. It was indeed a tiny person, huddled against the shelves of cereal boxes and weird flours my mom loved to buy. (I have yet to ever see her use arrowroot or amaranth flour. Or successfully explain to me what arrowroot or amaranth flour are good for.)
I studied this small character who sat inside my pantry. He had a man’s face, weathered but not so old. His long red hair was smoothed neatly behind slightly pointed ears. He wore a purple brocade poncho-esque top, brown pants, and at his bare and weirdly large feet were … all of my Nutter Butter cookies. Broken into a million heartbreaking pieces. He saw me studying the mess of ruined treats and scooped up a piled of crumbs with his small hand, offering it to me.
“I din’ mean to be shan; have a go, then.”
I continued to just stare at this small, rectangular rogue stow-away in my pantry. Who was now licking up Nutter Butter crumbs from his palm.
“These is well tidy scan!” he murmured contentedly between sloppy licks and snorts.
“You’re a troll!” I suddenly exclaimed.
The tiny man stopped his Nutter Butter foraging and glared at me, the irises of his eyes literally turning red as his shoulders clenched upward and his tiny fists tightened at his sides. Little peanut-buttery threads squeezed through his clenched fingers.
“Yer heid’s a full o’mince, I’ll not be insulted by a balloon,” he hissed fiercely.
I understood maybe every other word this wee fellow sputtered, but I was certain he was not a fan of mine. I scanned the pantry shelves for another peanut butter snack to appease him, as I really had no idea how to continue this conversation, let alone where to go to ponder my even more peculiar day now.
“I,” the little man said indignantly, standing upright and smoothing his frock, “am Loehmend Cuithbaert MacFaldrhaephgt. A brunaidh of the Right Great Scottish Lowlands, a graugach of my Gaelic ancestry whose tartan flies ever yar fer sheen so tidy and ne’er braw, First Left Tennent of Shinney O’Gagnnion.”
He pursed his lips and closed his eyes, sticking his nose up pompously and striking a sort of pose with one arm folded across his chest and the other on his tiny hip. He stayed in this regal stance, looking up at me briefly as he cleared his throat. He closed his eyes again and stuck out his whiskered chin self-importantly. I didn’t know what to do with this grandiose attitude. Was I to get out a set of oils and paint a stately portrait of him? Offer him tea service? Do I own tea service?
I stood there in front of him, my stuffed dragon in one hand, my book light still in the other. My blanket around my shoulders. I slid side to side slightly in my socks, shifting my weight nervously. I guess I just introduce myself back?
“Um … I’m Egg. Er, Eve. From here.”
He peered at me from under half-closed eyelids, then kind of snorted in disgust, seeing that I was not recognizing anything about him.
“I’m a braunie. You can call me Baert then,” he mumbled dejectedly.
“Oh, an elf!” I said relieved, remembering from my books that braunies – or brownies – are Scottish house elves. Really, there are so many people I wished were witnessing this, all those silly dummies who mock my endless reading. WhyareyoureadingthatWhenwillyoueverneedthatGetsomerealfriends…The onslaught of weak insults blurred together. THIS. THIS IS WHY I READ.
“’Oh, an eeeelf!’” Baert mimicked me rudely in a high Scottish tone, flapping his tiny arms about.
He was so belligerent; you couldn’t blame me for mistaking him as a troll. I sighed and got out the broom and dustpan, sweeping up the remains of my precious cookies. I noticed some bandages peeking out of the bottom of Baert’s left pant leg. He nonchalantly moved his left foot behind the other. I pretended not to notice and casually disposed of the dustpan’s crumbs in the waste bin.
“Um, welcome,” I mumbled, uncertain how to converse with this ill-tempered little fellow who had appeared unexpectedly. “Do you … live around here? I mean, why are you in my kitchen?”
Baert the braunie/elf just stared at me.
“Ya mean tah say … ye weren’t expecting ol’ Baert?”
I liked how he pulled “weren’t” into two syllables. His thick Scotland brogue was deep and musical. But enjoying his voice didn’t mean I was enjoying his presence.
“Expecting you? I didn’t even know you existed.”
He frowned and shrugged.
“Boot I do exist. And ye, lassie, be Eve, right?
“Yes, I be Eve, er, I am her, yes,” I really was flabbergasted by this wee man.
“Then I’m in the very place I right well was sent to be in. So,” he said, his eyes suddenly big and full of wild curiosity, taking both my hands in his. “Tell me of the orb!”