chapter 16

Olive

Twig plodded slowly up the pathway. He could hear the sound of hammer on chisel and knew his mother was busy with her sculpture. It was a bit of a relief; maybe she’d be less inclined to ask about his day.

Not this day.

“Twig? That you?” she called out from her workroom.

“Hi, Mom,” Twig said with a bright chirp, trying to sound at ease.

“What happened at school today?” she asked, chipping delicately at a piece of marble.

Twig watched her work for a moment. “Oh, nothing,” he answered.

“How’s Lily?”

“She’s good.”

“How were classes?”

Twig hesitated. “Okay, I guess.”

Olive cocked her soft ears. “Just okay?”

“Pretty good.”

His mother was unrelenting. “Twig . . . is there something you want to tell me?”

“Uh . . . no. In fact, there’s something I’m trying pretty hard not to tell you.”

Olive stopped her work and turned toward him. “What is it?”

Twig sighed, thinking he might as well get it over with. “Professor Burdock kicked me out of school today.”

Olive put down her chisel. “He did what?”

“He suspended me. For today and tomorrow.”

“For what? What did you do?”

“Mom,” Twig moaned.

“Tell me what you did before I go to see Professor Burdock myself and ask him face-to-face!”

“I . . . I guess you’d say I back-talked.” Twig rolled his eyes, body slumped, waiting for her reaction. It came quickly.

Olive stared at Twig in disbelief, her tail quivering. “Please tell me you are joking,” she said.

Twig related the whole classroom incident. Olive looked at her son for a minute, then picked up her chisel and begin chipping again at the marble. “Well, I’m angry with you for being suspended, Twig,” she said. “But I admire your ability to stand up for Lily.”

“I didn’t mind getting yelled at myself nearly as much as I minded him yelling at Lily.”

Olive’s brown eyes softened. “I know. Sometimes it’s easier to feel pain yourself than to imagine others having to feel it.”

Twig looked at her gratefully. “Well, anyway,” he continued, “I told Burdock that he shouldn’t talk to Lily that way and, well, he ordered me out. He was plenty mad.”

“But I bet Lily was tickled that you defended her,” Olive added with a smile. “Please tell me . . . she was there, wasn’t she?”

“Yeah.” Twig grinned. “She heard everything.”

“Well, that’s good, at least,” Olive sighed. “We’ll talk more about this some other time, if you want. Wash your paws for dinner. And I made mashed cricket pudding.”

LATER, TWIG CREPT QUIETLY OUT OF THE HOUSE. IT WAS dark as pitch, but he couldn’t sleep. Too much had happened during the day for him to shut his mind off and get some rest. He wanted to see Char.

All was quiet at the wooden tower, Twig was relieved to see. But as soon as he approached, he heard clawing at the door.

Twig slipped inside. Char vibrated his wings, and the pink-and-yellow tongue slithered this way and that in greeting. Even though Char wasn’t his usual rambunctious self, his eagerness at seeing Twig made the chipmunk smile.

“Hey, Char!” Twig cooed.

He sat with the dragon for a long while, scratching his chin, stroking his velvety wings. But even in the dark of the tower room Twig could see his bright colors had faded. Char looked tired. His scales seemed irregular, and his skin sagged.

Soon Char dozed off. Twig grinned as the dragon jerked in his sleep, kicking and wiggling his feet, possibly because of a dream, then tucked his head under his wing. The familiar snoring began, and Twig quietly tiptoed out, carefully latching the door, and scampered down the path.

Not a breath of breeze was stirring, and the air was sweet and dewy, full of the scent of locust blossoms. The moon was like a thin slice of crabapple, and Twig could see stars far above him between clumps of the Woods canopy. He silently made his way home under the umbrella-like mayapples—owls were a constant danger—and then tiptoed into the house and up to his room. Olive was still busy with her sculpture. She did not say a word, and Twig wondered if she had known he was gone the whole time.