When Women Were Dragons(75)

I set my face. “Of course, Mr. Reynolds,” I said smoothly, even though I wanted to light him on fire. “Don’t worry about a thing.” And I passed out the tests. The boys who liked their scores tried to smile at me. The boys whose scores were embarrassing tried to assuage themselves by embarrassing me with more side comments and crass remarks. Didn’t matter. Didn’t work. My face was set. After the last test landed on the last desk, I walked to the board and wrote out the three problems that literally every boy in class got wrong. They weren’t particularly hard. Just tricky. I knew Mr. Reynolds couldn’t do them without consulting the manual.

“Mr. Reynolds,” I said sweetly, “I’ll leave you to it, if you don’t mind, and I’d appreciate it if you would write me a hall pass. I believe I need to go to the nurse’s office.”

I didn’t, actually. I was perfectly fine. But his combined discomfort was worth the lie. He opened his mouth without speaking, and then closed it again, clearing his throat. He tried again.

“Are you sure?” he said.

“Quite sure,” I said. I lowered my voice. “Lady reasons,” I said. The color drained from his face. He looked as though he was about to pass out. My face remained stubbornly neutral, as though it was carved from the side of a mountain. Was I the immovable object, or was I the unstoppable force? Perhaps I was both. Perhaps this is what we learn from our mothers.

“Just one moment,” Mr. Reynolds said.

It didn’t take much to convince the nurse I was sick and had to go home. I didn’t even have to finish my sentence.

“Oh, of course you’re sick! Just look at you! So pale! So wan!” the nurse wailed. “And the dark circles under your eyes. You poor sweet thing!” I must admit this stung a bit. Still, I hadn’t gotten a decent night’s sleep in months. I nodded weakly, and pretended to call my dad on the phone, and told her I’d wait outside for him to pick me up. “A touch of sun on my complexion . . .” I began. That’s all I had to say. She shooed me out and told me that a bit of foundation and rouge would work wonders and that I didn’t have to worry about getting in trouble because it would be our little secret. I thanked her and hurried outside, where I grabbed my bike and started down the road, in the same direction that—

Well, I wasn’t entirely sure. But I knew that something had been on the roof and something had launched itself into the air and arced across the sky and something had those firefighters scratching their heads. I wasn’t going to think dragon. I wasn’t going to think anything. I was already thinking of myself as a scientist. There can be no assumptions in science: only questions, data, and more questions. I would have an open mind and an unbiased demeanor and would simply record observations and remain obedient to the facts. I pedaled my bike as fast as I could go, following the data.





30.

I caught sight of the object on Sycamore Street and followed it across the park and down Seventh Avenue until it landed first on the roof of a house, and then settling in the front yard. A house on Chestnut. My old street.

My old house. I had planned to never go back.

And yet, there I was.

And yet, there she was.

A dragon.

She sat in the front yard on her bottom, her tail curled around her body like a scarf, as she rummaged through her purse.

I slid off my bike and let it drop on the ground.

She, the dragon, well. She was . . . enormous. But the word enormous doesn’t even come close to clarifying the experience of being near that dragon, or the feeling of her enormity. She bent the air around her. The ground beneath my feet seemed to wobble. Waves of heat poured off her skin, making what was left of the snow piles dissolve into the waterlogged grass. She had sat on one of the Adirondack chairs, though it couldn’t sustain her weight. Shards of blue painted wood scattered under her wide rump and winding tail. Her scales were black and green and shot through with silver. It was not so much that she shone, but rather, that she seemed to own the light, allowing it to shimmer and vibrate on the scintillating scales skimming her bulk as she saw fit.

She lowered her head. Cocked her chin slightly to the left. Held my gaze.

And she was my aunt. I knew it before she even opened her mouth. I knew it even as I heard the air raid drill at school and the ridiculous announcement on the PA system. I knew it even as I saw her massive shadow streaking away as she soared unseen overhead. I knew that she was the one who haunted Beatrice’s dreams. Of course it was my aunt.

I cleared my throat. The dragon nodded. She let her purse fall to the ground. She pressed her forepaws to her heart.

“Alex,” my aunt began. Her voice caught. Her large eyes became bright with tears.

I didn’t know dragons could talk. I didn’t know they remembered who they were. I didn’t know they carried purses and recognized family members or could cry. I clenched my teeth, feeling my cheeks get hot. If all that was true, where the hell had she been all this time?

“Alex,” Auntie Marla said, wiping her cheeks. An attempt at a sharp-toothed smile. “Honey, it’s me.”

My head swam. “You’re too late,” I said, and gasped. I had not anticipated those words, nor was I even aware of myself thinking or feeling such a thing. I felt myself start to shake, and felt the pricking sensation of unshed tears of grief and loss and frustration erupting in my eyes. My vision blurred. My anger heated me down to my bones.