When Women Were Dragons(66)

“Or?” I offered. “I could . . . just go back to class?”

The woman nodded gratefully. “Yes, I do think that would be best. Whatever it is that you did, don’t do it again!”

“I promise,” I said.

With each day that passed, I regretted my behavior at the library more and more bitterly. I had a midterm exam coming up, and I had to take it in the audiovisual room, with Mrs. Gyzinska proctoring. She had to sign it when I was done, and stamp it with her university seal. I would eventually have to go back.

Each day my questions increased. How did she know? About my aunt. About my situation. About all of it. How did she know? And what did she mean about precedents?

I tried to force the thought away. There were no answers to my questions.

Each day, I studied and worked. I fed Beatrice and bathed Beatrice and helped her with her homework and read her a story and insisted on her consistent bedtime. I had papers to write and novels to analyze and a textbook to read and a problem set to finish and scientific theories to commit to memory. Each day we woke up and started over. No one was coming to help us. We were entirely on our own.

The following Saturday evening, I made rice and canned beans and sliced in hot dogs. I heated up some frozen spinach and mixed it with cream of mushroom soup. Beatrice would hate all of this, but food was food. And then I went out to find her.

In the alley, there was a large dumpster that the three apartment buildings shared. It was always full, and stinking. I called for Beatrice.

“Coming!” she yelled from far away.

There was a flyer taped to the dumpster.

YOU HAVE QUESTIONS, it said. WE HAVE ANSWERS. THE WYVERN RESEARCH COLLECTIVE. No pictures. No symbols. No phone number. It was getting annoying, actually. I pulled it off the dumpster and shoved it in my pocket.

Beatrice hollered her goodbyes to her friends and came striding around the corner, flushed and filthy. We looked at each other for a long moment, neither speaking. I hated this. I hated the strangeness between us.

“Dinner’s on the stove,” I said. I turned and walked toward the apartment. Beatrice followed. I wanted to say something. I didn’t know what to say. We climbed the stairs in silence. I stood at our apartment door for longer than was entirely necessary. I couldn’t quite force myself to go in. I didn’t know why. Beatrice slid her hand into my own.

“Alex?” she said. Her voice was small. I hadn’t told her about my worries, of course. She was just a little girl. And she deserved to be a little girl. I forced my face into a smile. I gave her hand a little squeeze.

“Are you angry at me?” Beatrice asked.

I walked into the apartment, shut the door, sat on the floor, and invited Beatrice onto my lap. She needed no other prompting. I curled my arms around her and held on tight. She was such a tiny thing—a cricket, practically. I imagined carrying her around in my pocket, and all at once the thought became too much to bear.

“I’m not angry,” I said to her. “I’m never angry. I overreacted and made a fool of myself, that’s all.”

“Why?” she asked.

What could I say? I wanted to tell Beatrice the truth, but I didn’t know where to begin. Maybe start with the fact my mother forced me to lie and lie and lie, and how we built our family on that lie, and eventually mostly believed in that lie. Beatrice was my sister. I had no aunt. We do not speak of dragons. My mother was gone, but her rules were still here. And, frankly, it felt comfortable to keep living with her rules. And safe.

“I don’t know,” I said, which was mostly accurate. “I love you,” I added, which was entirely true.

Beatrice rested her head on my shoulder. We only had each other. There was no other family than this.

How hard can it be? my father had said.

Really hard was the answer. He had no idea.



Later that night, I allowed myself the freedom to lose myself in my work. It was a profoundly pleasant feeling—outside of time, outside of place, outside even of myself. Beatrice breathed in the other room and the faucet dripped and down the hall, two men shouted at each other, their voices muffled through the walls. None of that mattered. Each problem, each proof, was a universe unto itself—balanced, intricate, and whole. I finished each one with a rush of deep satisfaction. I could have worked all night and would have never gotten tired.

A knock on the door sent me sprawling back into the world, startling me like a slap on my face. I nearly yelped. I looked at the clock. Twelve-thirty. Was it that late so soon? And who on earth was knocking at my door at this hour?

My heart rattled and my skin pricked. My father had warned me about strange men, but he was also quick to point out that I wasn’t as pretty as my mother, which meant, he explained, that I wouldn’t have to worry quite so much. Still, he supplied me with a baseball bat and told me to keep it by the door, just in case. I didn’t—Beatrice would have used it to break a window during a temper tantrum, I was pretty sure—but I did keep it on top of the refrigerator, and grabbed it now. I stood at the door, not unlocking it.

“Who is it?” I asked, gripping the bat, trying to feel tougher than I was.

“Mrs. Gyzinska,” said the voice on the other side.

The room swam for a moment.

“I’m sorry?” I said.

“It’s Mrs. Gyzinska,” she said again. “Now open up and let me in. Your neighbor is staring at me through a crack in his door, and I’m sorry to say that I don’t like the look of him. Perhaps someone should tell him no one likes a peeper.” There was a silence, and then the sound of the closing and locking of a door somewhere in the hall. She wasn’t wrong about Mr. Hanson. He was an odd one.