Had only one single day had transpired? I wasn’t wholly convinced my mind wasn’t literally spinning – my brain doing actual flips inside my skull. I dropped my bag in the front hall, groaned, and swiftly picked it up again. At the sound of its thud I’d surely hear my mom’s voice. Maybe she hadn’t heard me yet –
“Eve, my love! How was your day? Make sure you put your things in your room!” her voice greeted me warmly from down the hall.
Drats, I thought. I’d have to interface. Don’t get me wrong; I love my mom. But something told me my, ahem, unique day might not sit well with her.
“Just putting my stuff away!” I called back and headed upstairs.
She was no doubt working on one of her many random projects – editing something or designing something or fixing something or teaching something, I couldn’t keep track. She had fancy licenses and awards and college diplomas stashed in drawers; she preferred instead that my and my sister’s artwork grace the walls, some of it really quite heinous. Some people shook their heads at my mom’s scattered professional milieu, others marveled that she was a modern-day Renaissance woman. In either case, my mom would humbly shrug and flash a coolly confident smile. Nothing more.
I liked her response though, even if I did have trouble explaining her primary career when asked what my mom does for a living. I had adopted her same ability to have witty canned responses rather than genuine answers that might lead to longer conversations. So, if I were asked, Hey Eve, what does your mom do? I’d shrug and say something like, You mean besides raising this prodigy? What could even be as important? Divert and distract was my modus operandi.
Philippa came bounding down the hall and stood in my doorway, a huge goofy grin on her face. She pressed her hands against the white door frame and hopped upward, trying to hold herself up inside of it.
“So, go ahead,” she said excitedly. “Ask me! Ask me what I got on my PSAT!”
“Wait, you took the PSAT?” I said good-naturedly, knowing I’d rile her up.
“Ugh!” she groaned. But, catching me smiling, she grabbed me from behind in a bear hug. Philippa was, as usual, wearing too much of that floral body spray she loved. She twirled back around and bowed in front of me theatrically.
“Your sister – yes, YOUR VERY OWN ONLY SISTER – is a confirmed genius! That’s what I got! Genius. I mean, my math scores were strangely lower than my reading and lit scores, but still. Genius territory.”
I patted her arm in front of me.
“Solid performance, human,” I said to her robotically. “You have attained satisfactory results.”
She pushed me away playfully.
“Psh. I’ve attained exemplary results,” she danced around in my room and straightened her argyle sweater self-importantly. “And now, we get smoothies. Juice bar in ten!”
She raced out of my room. I let out a little groan. I had eaten a lot of pie. After traveling through different dimensions and vomiting a few times, I had been pretty ravenous. And because I couldn’t really offer useful words to the conversation as Uncle Seb prattled on about interdimensional travel, I just kept eating pie. I gulped down bites of coconut cream and marionberry as I learned my uncle was basically a glorified space mailman, which I thought was a very funny comment. He did not, so I kept my mouth shut/continuously full of pie from then on.
My mom and my sister called to me from down the hall, ready to go. I can’t believe what I said next – nor could they.
“You know, this is Philippa’s special thing; why don’t just you guys celebrate. I really need to catch up on homework and, like, bathing and stuff,” I yelled out my door. I heard scoffs of disbelief and some hurried whispering. Finally, my mom called out that she loved me and shut the door. The garage door opened, closed. They were gone.
Quiet. Peace. Stillness.
What a gift. I stretched and walked around my house, noticing how utterly wonderful it was to slide along the wooden floors with gravity behaving appropriately. And the lamps were so fabulously predictable – lamps, not floating orbs, were lighting the space around me! I breathed in deeply again, feeling very sophisticated in my level of gratitude and sanguine perspective. I decided to give some yoga a go, figuring that’s what fancy, stressed people looking for inner peace in a quiet setting do.
“Yes, yes!” A sudden shout from outside disrupted my downward dog. I dropped to my knees and shuffled toward the back door, proverbial hackles raised. I reached up to feel for something near the counter’s ledge I could wield as a weapon. Sponge, towel, aha! I felt the slender metal of a long utility lighter and grasped it against my chest. Slowly, steadily, holding the lighter at the ready, I reached a trembling hand toward the heavy gray curtain in front of the sliding glass door.
“Please just be a raccoon, please just be a raccoon,” I murmured anxiously. “Raccoons don’t talk,” I immediately scolded myself. I shook my head and stood. The curtain swished open as I hopped back and struck an en-garde pose with my long lighter blinking a tiny birthday-candle-sized flame.
“Oh my god,” I burst out laughing, caution drained. There was no interloping animal, no insidious threat, but instead Baert and Dragon. Baert trying to coax Dragon to balance better on the old wooden swing that hung from the mammoth Dogwood tree beyond the back porch, to be exact. Dragon’s talons were wound forcefully about the ropes that held either side of the antique slab. The swing was just large enough to support his heft; his hind quarters were drawn tightly up into his chest, his wings shrugged anxiously up and against his neck.
“Ye’ve got ta pump yer beastly legs!” Baert ordered him.
“I am pumping my legs, you mean thing,” Dragon said through clenched teeth. “Whoa, whoa! Easy does it, sir!”
The elf, miniscule next to the fearfully curled up Dragon, was trying with all his might to push the usually noble European Arrowtail on the swing. The swing gyrated a bit side to side, barely moving forward. But the Highland valiant was relentless. Baert spit into his tiny palms, rubbed his hands together resolutely, and dug his toes firmly into the grass.
“Aon, dhà,” Baert counted in his native Gaelic, “Trì!”
He took a running start at Dragon’s backside and, with a monumental push, heaved Dragon forward. A deep, guttural scream came from Baert’s belly as he launched the swing into the air. Satisfied, Baert drew his hands to his hips and cheered. But then, oh, but then …
The swing came back.
Baert wasn’t quick enough to dodge the giant black dragon careening forcefully back toward him. Dragon, flailing a bit as his neck quickly twisted side to side straining to see behind him, called out hysterically.
“Baert! Oh, Baert! I must allay! Make it ceeeeeaaaase!”
And with one dramatic point for momentum, Dragon’s backside pummeled into poor Baert. The elf somersaulted backward three times and came to rest at the base of a giant rhododendron bush. The bush, knocked hard by the rolling elf, shivered its late-fall petals all over him. Baert snorted in the pile of pink blooms and sat up to watch the spectacle of Dragon trying to free himself from the swing.
The swing, still victim to Dragon’s bulk, rocked back and forth violently maybe two more times, then slowed considerably. Dragon, all the while clutching either rope, extended one leg daintily. The talons on his hind foot arched dramatically, each talon separated searching for balance. He tried to touch the ground, looking like someone who is afraid of water carefully dipping a toe against the pool’s surface.
“Oh my, oh dear, oh, I say!” Dragon sputtered. He rotated his hips this way and that, stretched his feet toward the grass without actually touching it. His grip remained every tight on the swing’s ropes.
“Dragon!” I finally opened the door all the way and called out to him, trying hard not to laugh. “Just put your foot on the ground and you’ll stop!”
“Pardon?” Dragon looked up, embarrassed.
He did as I instructed. Carefully, timidly, one set of splayed toes reached the ground. He slowly stood upright, keeping his eyes on the ground as if it might move from under him. Finally, he released his grip on the ropes and looked up, smiling. The swing, free now and with some momentum, swung back, swing forward, and smacked Dragon on the backside.
“Oh! So uncalled for!” he cried.
As Dragon walked forward, the tip of his right wing, which held a small, pointed barb similar to his talons, caught on the swing’s rope. It yanked him back. He yelped. His legs went out in front of him, his rear hit the ground with a hard thud.
“Ooooooh! Ouch! Oh, what malum is this!”
I couldn’t hold it in any longer. I laughed. Long and hard. Baert sniggered a bit at first but then was soon howling along with me. He clapped and danced as his belly shook with each guffaw.
“Alright, alright then,” the wounded beast said. “We’ve important work to do.” He tried clearing his throat and stretching again, but his attempts are looking regal were countered by his wincing in pain.
“You were just – flying through different dimensions,” I wheezed between chortles and snorts, “and my backyard kiddie swing,” I gasped for breath, tears in my eyes and my cheeks hurting from laughter, “that old wooden hunk of junk that even my nana swung on,” I couldn’t get the words out I was laughing so hard, “is what beats you!”
Dragon smirked, conceding defeat.
“Oh, alright. Have your fun then,” he mumbled.
And we did. Baert and I laughed until our tummies hurt and our faces were strained.
At last we settled, breathing heavily and letting out little giggles still.
“Oh man! I needed that!” I said, wiping my eyes.
“Happy to oblige,” Dragon said dryly. “Perhaps we might move our focus on to the day’s events preceding my little, erm, mishap, yes?”
“I ken well the radge lair, boot I want tah ken is, what’d ye think of it?” Baert asked as he sat down next to me and stroked his beard pensively. Unidentifiable crumbs tumbled out of the long red hairs as he did so.
“He’s asking what you think of the lair,” Dragon said, seeing my furrowed brow.
“Lair? It was more like some creepy mega lab in the middle of a kid’s art project gone horribly wrong,” I said.
“Aye, I think the sky’s there pure barry,” Baert said. He closed his eyes and smiled.
“The purple-pink glitter ooze? It looked like my nightmare! Hang on,” I stopped abruptly and looked at Baert. “How many times have you been there?”
“Nit how many times, lassie. How long.”