Chapter 11

Dad insists on driving me home after Dr. Woolworth is done examining me. He wants me to rest. I beg him to allow Dalia and Haji to come over to study. They’re game—they know I’ll brew a pot of Grit City Roast to keep us well-caffeinated. If I’m by myself, I’m afraid I’ll obsess over Dr. Radcliffe’s spectral dragon. Dad relents. Being an academic makes him susceptible to arguments related to keeping up in school.

The four of us trek toward the parking lot. A cold wind stirs up the fallen snow and burns my cheeks. The white stuff is halfway up my boots and turns my toes into ice cubes. As we near the parking lot, Dad unlocks the hybrid. The car makes a loud beep and flashes its headlights. We clamber inside, Dad and I in the front, my friends in the back.

My dad looks out the front window and sighs. There’s not much to see other than a sheet of white. He is about to jump out of the car when the driver’s side backdoor opens.

“No worries, Mr. Lee,” Haji says. “I got it.”

Haji uses his arm to brush the snow off the windscreen then hops back inside the vehicle. Dad powers up the car and puts the heater on full blast to warm us up and defog the windows.

Dalia and Haji talk about how the arctic blast might interrupt school next week. I try to keep my teeth from chattering. When Dad backs out, the car slips and slides like it’s trying to gain traction on an ice rink. The car gets stuck when Dad stops to shift from reverse to drive. The wheels spin, making a god-awful sound, but the vehicle doesn’t move. Feeling the queasy dizziness of vertigo coming on, I shut my eyes and pray to God and Allah and Buddha and any other deity who might be listening for the sensation to pass.

“Do you want me to get out and push, Mr. Lee?” Haji asks.

“Not yet,” Dad says.

“You should’ve let me walk home,” I say and sigh.

“Just give me a second. I got this,” Dad says, and I hear him unbuckle his seatbelt and open the car door. “I went to graduate school in Wisconsin. I know how to handle a vehicle in the snow.”

“You went to graduate school in Wisconsin like twenty-five years ago. I’m sure you remember everything from back then.”

“Give me a chance,” Dad says.

I’m not sure what he does, probably digs out the snow from beneath the tires. When he gets back inside, the car gains enough traction to get going. I open my eyes and yawn.

“See,” Dad says and glances at me. “I told you I know to handle a vehicle in—”

“Mr. Lee, watch out!” Haji yells from the backseat.

Dalia lets out a shrill scream just as Dad slams his foot on the brake. I’m catapulted forward and backward in my seat like a frigging pinball. The car slides over the compact snow and ice, coming to a stop I swear less than a foot from a blue and red streak barreling down the main road. It’s a tow truck using the roadway like a dragstrip.

Dad’s grip on the steering wheel is white-knuckled. “Jesus Christ.”

“Concentrate on the road, Dad.”

Dad draws a deep breath and says, “Yeah. Yeah. Eyes on the road. You hear that, kids.” He looks in the rearview mirror. “Always pay attention to the road while driving.” His attempt at a teachable moment is met with stony silence.

After that, Dad pays attention to his driving and gets us home without incident. Just as good as making it back alive, I’ve fought off the latest bout of vertigo.

“I think I’ll walk back rather than try my luck on the roads,” Dad says. He pulls down the sun visor and uses the attached remote to open the garage door.

“I think that’s for the best,” I say.

“Don’t exhaust yourself,” Dad says.

“I won’t,” I say and throw open the car door.

I climb out and shut the door. Dalia already waits for me just inside the garage. Haji stops beside the driver’s side door as my dad hauls himself out of the car.

“That was one heck of an exciting ride, Mr. Lee. Thanks,” Haji says.

I turn to Dalia and whisper, “Why does he always brown-nose my dad? I don’t get it.”

Dalia shrugs. “Haji is always nice and respectful to everyone. He’s extra respectful to adults. Not just your dad.”

“I guess.”

“I’m serious. He treats my mom and dad exactly the same.”

“Hurry up, Haji, we’re freezing,” I call and wave. “Bye, Dad.”

Haji hurries into the garage, and Dad waves then trudges down to the sidewalk. I lead my squad to the door from the garage into the house proper. We pause at the entrance to strip off our coats and boots, and I hit the garage door button. We go inside, entering the kitchen.

I hand my backpack to Haji. “Go set up on the dining room table. I’ll start some coffee.”

I retrieve my personal supply of Grit City Roast and burr grinder from the cabinet. I set the grinder on the counter and open the bag of beans, breathing in the rich, smoky aroma.

Smoke.

Fire.

Dragon.

I shut my eyes and shake my head. Don’t think about Dr. Radcliffe and the shimmering dragon. Don’t.

Once the beans are ground, I start up the coffee maker and head to the dining room. Dalia and I battle multivariable quadratic equations while Haji powers up his laptop to work on something else. During my time in the hospital, Dalia learned several new techniques for unraveling the equations, which she tries to impart to me with the patience of a kindergarten teacher. I’m far from the ideal pupil since visions of an incorporeal dragon keep distracting me. It’s a relief when I hear strident beeping from the kitchen announcing the coffee is brewed.

I push back my chair that makes a loud scraping noise against the wooden floor and stand. “Everyone want coffee?”

“Do you even need to ask?” Dalia bats her eyes at me.

Haji looks up from his computer, considering. He drinks far less coffee than Dalia and me. “Yes, please. Warm me up.”

He rubs his hands together as if to warm them.

“I’ll help you.” Dalia follows me into the kitchen.

I snag three maroon mugs emblazoned with green Ts from the cabinet above the coffeemaker. I set the cups on the counter and pour the coffee. I take a sniff of the aroma rising with the steam from the black gold and smile.

Dalia grabs two mugs and heads back to the dining room table. I follow, pausing in the opening between the kitchen and dining room. Dalia sets a coffee down beside Haji, and he mutters his thanks. She continues back to her seat, and Haji remains engrossed in his work. He sits with his back to me so I can see what he is working on over his shoulder. It’s not homework. He is changing the layout of a post for the Cascadia Weekly. He is resizing photos from football games and sprinkling the images throughout a lengthy article. The credit for practically every photo goes to Leslie Chapman.

“What are you working on, Haji?” I stride to my seat and set my mug on the table with a loud thump.

He looks up at me. “I’m summarizing our horrible football season and offering my analysis of what we need to do to improve in the standings next season. That’s one thing you didn’t miss out on. Believe me. We weren’t taking home the bacon. It was painful to watch.”

“Looks like Leslie took some nice photos for you,” I say and take my seat.

Haji squirms. “The Weekly’s top photographer was sidelined.”

“I told you,” Dalia says and glances at me. “I warned him not to use her pictures. I told him he’d be better off using pics from his phone.”

“The Weekly’s readership expects top-notch photography. It’s what sets the Weekly apart from other school newspapers.”

“How can you keep working with her? After what she did,” I say.

Haji stares at the table. “I’m sorry, okay. From now on, I’ll only use your photos. Nothing from Leslie.”

“I’ll hold you to that promise,” I say. “But you know, I’m really disappointed in you, Haji. I thought you of all people would understand what Leslie said and did are completely unacceptable.”

“At least I’m not dating her.”

Dalia half laughs, half snorts into her coffee, then starts coughing. She slams her mug onto the table. Between coughs, she says, “As if she would ever date you. She only knows you exist because you’re the editor of the school newspaper.”

Haji holds up his hands. “That’s true. I don’t deny it.”

“Who is dating her?” I ask.

“Dating who?” Haji says.

“Don’t play the idiot.”

“Just let it go, Allison. Let’s enjoy the coffee and get back to algebra,” Dalia says.

“Jason is going out with Leslie,” Haji says.

“What? After he swore that he wouldn’t.” I feel betrayed, again. Maybe I shouldn’t. I mean he did go to the dance with her knowing full well her reputation as a mean girl.

“That’s just a rumor,” Dalia says.

I face her. “You know about it too?”

“It’s not a rumor,” Haji says. “Leslie told me. Straight up.”

“And why would she tell you that?” Dalia asks. “Are you besties now?”

“Forget about it,” Haji says, waving a hand dismissively. He turns his gaze back to the computer.

Forget about it. Easy for Haji to say. Jason hadn’t broken his heart. Leslie hadn’t spouted a racial slur in his face. I pick up my coffee and take a sip. The hot liquid scalds my tongue a wee bit, but it still tastes wonderful. Before my next sip, I blow gently across the dark liquid. The steam rises over my face, like a warm, moist cloth. To hell with Jason and Leslie.

“Basketball season is starting up soon.” I turn my gaze on Haji. “You promise to use my photos exclusively for all the games?”

Haji meets my gaze. “That’s what I said.”

The tension eases after that, although it never completely dissipates. We’re a squad, a family. We can have disagreements and set them aside. Dalia and I power through algebra fueled by two cups of coffee apiece. Then all three of us turn our attention to American history, sharing notes and regaling each other with stories about the horrible Mrs. Higgins.

Four hours and a pot of coffee later, we’re done for the day, our brains fried. We wander into the living room and look outside onto the swirling snow and the dark, ominous sky. In the front yard, the branches of the cherry tree sag under the weight of the snow.

We sit around talking, mostly about school and Devin. Dalia can’t seem to get him out of her head. She has a date with him tonight, pizza followed by a movie. After about an hour, there is a break in the weather, and my friends decide to head out before it gets dark.

Without my friends to distract me, my thoughts turn back to Dr. Radcliffe and his draconic projection. I need to veg out. I sprawl on a chair in the dining room and turn on the TV. After allowing it to warm up, I stream episodes of an old sitcom. Even that frill doesn’t completely distract me.

Dad comes home several episodes later. I turn off the TV and follow him into the kitchen, where he is preparing to cook pasta.

“Do we have meat?” I ask.

“We do,” he says as he puts the pot on the stove and starts the burner. “I bought some turkey meatballs from the store.”

“Thank goodness,” I say.

“Still craving meat,” Dad says and smiles. “Maybe you’re going to shoot up. Grab the meatballs out of the freezer for me.”

“I doubt I’ll be doing much growing.” I dig out the meatball package from the freezer and place it on the counter. “Say, Dad, do you know anything about Dr. Radcliffe?”

Dad looks at me. “Sure. I know Dr. Radcliffe. Everyone does. He’s been around forever. In fact, I think you met him last year. Remember, you came with me to a faculty potluck.”

“We saw him at the library.”

Dad walks across the kitchen to the pantry. “Really. Speaking of the library, how is your vision? Any issues?”

“No, my eyes are great.” I rap my knuckles against the countertop. “Knock on wood.”

Dad comes out of the pantry, smiling and holding a bottle of red sauce. He loves that old expression.

“No vertigo?”

“Nah. Tell me about Dr. Radcliffe.”

Dad narrows his eyes. “He teaches medieval history. He is world-renowned for his knowledge of dragon lore, as I recall.”

A tingle races down my spine. That has to be a coincidence, doesn’t it?

“He has worked at the university for years. He must be nearing retirement. He has a reputation of being eccentric. I don’t know much else about him, honestly. Why the sudden interest in Dr. Radcliffe? You’ve never mentioned him before.”

“He said hi. He knew who I was and introduced himself. I just couldn’t remember anything about him.”

After dinner, I go to bed early, claiming tiredness, which is true. I’m exhausted, physically at least. My mind, perhaps fueled by an excess of caffeine, keeps playing images of Dr. Radcliffe and the dragon moving through the library. It’s like an animated gif plastered in front of my eyes.

I don’t know how many hours have passed when I finally give up on sleep and roll out of bed. I walk through the dark to my desk and open my laptop. It’s easy with my prosthetics. The time in the corner of the screen is 1:18 a.m. God. I’m not getting any sleep.

I open up a web browser and type in Tahoma University’s URL into the address bar and punch enter. I navigate around the website until I find the faculty homepage for Dr. Frederick Radcliffe, a tenured professor of medieval history. There is an old picture of him as a younger man. Not much in terms of what classes he teaches or any kind of personal information. There is, however, an email address below his picture. Radcliffe@tahomau.edu. I copy the address.

I have an old email account that I rarely use. I set it up when I was maybe twelve or thirteen for no reason other than I could. As best as I can remember, it has no truthful personally identifiable information included as part of the account. I login to the email account after two tries to guess the password. I create a new email message and paste Dr. Radcliffe’s email address into the text box. In the subject line, I type: I know what you are.