Real Dragons

by Rebecca Shelley

  weldon drew the final facet on the little diamond dragon and let out a deep breath. "I think you'll live, for now," he whispered. He folded the paper and shoved it in his back pocket along with his pencil. "But I might not if Phillis and Alice get talking to Mama before I come home."

  He edged from behind the dumpster, shoved his hands in his pockets, and slouched down the sidewalk toward home. He hunched his shoulders as he walked past the shoe store, but saw no sign of Alice. Rounding the corner, he found Phillis and her friends playing just as he'd left them.

  "One, two, three-four-five," Phillis shouted as she jumped. "Wel-don be gonna die. Six, seven, eight-nine-ten when he fails his test again!"

  Weldon balled his hands into fists as a wave of hot anger rolled from his feet to his face. He imagined taking the jump rope and tying his sister up so she could never move again. "Shut up!" he yelled. "Just shut up. You ain't so smart neither."

  She stuck her tongue out at him, and all three girls giggled.

  "Tell you what, I'll PAY a kidnapper to come get you!"

  "Weldon." His father's firm hand clapped down hard on his shoulder. "Don't you be talking like that. Never. Never. Hear me?"

  Weldon's knees buckled, and his father let go of him. His father worked at the grocery store on 7th and Lincoln. He wore his green collar shirt with the store logo on it. Streaks of gray dotted his frizzy hair. He looked as old as Santa Claus, maybe older, except he kept his beard just a single layer of fuzz on his chin.

  "Ain't you supposed to work until six today?" Weldon said, straightening.

  "And ain't you supposed to be watching out for your sister stead of thinking of getting rid of her?" His father's eyes flashed with anger, but the corners of his lips twitched as if he were trying not to smile.

  "She a brat," Weldon said.

  His father's face tightened in real anger for a second and then relaxed. "Well . . . girls be like that." He shrugged and headed for the door into their apartment building.

  "Come on, Phillis," Weldon called, starting after his father. "It time to start dinner before Mama gets home." He waited for her at the door, but she seemed dead-set on jumping for the rest of eternity. Lucky for him, her friends' mother popped open a window on the third floor and called down.

  "Jessie, Angelina, get on up here now. You got work to do."

  That ended the tap-tap of the jump rope. Phillis marched past Weldon, braids bouncing. He followed her up the stairs, all five flights, to their own apartment, 5D.

  It wasn't a bad apartment. Weldon knew some of his friends had worse. His parents both made good money, his father as a manager at the grocery store and his mother as a pharmacist for a big drug company. It was a two bedroom apartment—one bedroom for his parents and one for Phillis "'cause she a girl," according to his father.

  Weldon slept on a pull-out couch bed in the living room, a spot he enjoyed because it meant he could reach the refrigerator in ten steps at night without waking anyone.

  Phillis pattered across the hardwood floor and drew herself up on a stool by the kitchen counter. Weldon's father had already stretched himself out on the couch with his feet up on one armrest and his head on the other. He held the TV remote in his hand and clicked through the channels without looking. He fixed his eyes on Weldon instead. "The store ran a special on pork chops yesterday. I put some in the fridge."

  "Right." Weldon measured rice into the cooker, added water and plugged it in. He retrieved a can of black beans from the narrow cupboard opened it and drained the juice. "Want the chops fried or grilled?"

  "Don't care. Bring me a soda."

  Weldon got out the meat and then took a can of soda to his father. Water condensed on the cool can, making it slippery as he handed it off. It went right through his father's fingers and thumped onto the floor. Weldon snatched it back up and inspected the now-dented bottom. "Too bad. I guess I'll have to drink it," he said.

  "Gimme that," his father grabbed the can out of his hands and popped open the top. The shaken can sent a spray of soda across the couch and floor. Weldon dodged the sticky mess and turned back to the kitchen in time to see Phillis standing on tiptoe on the counter and reaching to the top of the open cupboard. She snagged a box of Twinkies and scrambled back to the stool.

  "Phillis, no," Weldon grabbed the box away. "I'm making dinner."

  "But I'm hungry now!" Phillis grabbed the box and tried to free it from Weldon's grasp. "Papa!" she screeched.

  "Oh, leave her have one." His father wiped the soda off the couch with his hand, shook the drops from his fingers onto the floor, and settled back with his drink.

  "She should have an apple," Weldon said. "Mama wants us to eat healthy."

  "Apples cost more than Twinkies. Give her one." His father went back to clicking through the channels.

  Weldon ignored him and turned the oven on one-handed while clinging to the Twinkie box with the other. The apartment door opened just as the cardboard tore and Twinkies cascaded onto the kitchen counter.

  "What is going on?" Mama stepped in, unbuttoning her white pharmacist coat.

  "Weldon be stealing a Twinkie, and I tried to stop him," Phillis said, sitting up primly on the stool and folding her hands in her lap.

  "Weldon, you know better." Mama laid her coat and purse on the table by the front door and advanced into the living room where she slipped on the soda.

  "Weldon dropped the can," his father said before his mother could ask.

  Weldon let out a sharp breath, unwrapped the pork chops, slapped them on the griller pan, and shoved them into the oven.

  "Weldon." His mother locked her sharp eyes on him.

  "Sorry, Mama," he said.

  She frowned and went to her room to kick off her shoes. As soon as she turned her back, Phillis tore open a Twinkie and shoved it in her mouth.

  Weldon grabbed the rest of the Twinkies and put them back in the cupboard. Then he wet a washcloth and mopped up the mess of soda on the floor.

  "You a good boy," his father whispered as Weldon wiped his father's sticky fingers.

  "Mama don't think so." Weldon returned to the kitchen and threw the cloth into the sink.

  "Mama doesn't think what?" She'd returned from the bedroom and now marched into the kitchen to take over dinner preparation.

  "I can't do nothing right for you," Weldon said.

  "You can't do anything right for me," his mother corrected his grammar.

  "He don't even try," Phillis chimed in. "Ask him how hard he worked on his take-home English test."

  "Still struggling with predicate nominatives?" his mother asked. "Why don't you go get your test, and we'll work over it together?" His Mama knew everything about every subject and had all kinds of college degrees.

  "Can't," Phillis said.

  "I lost it," Weldon jumped in before Phillis could finish.

  "No he didn't. It's right here." Phillis grabbed the paper out of his back pocket and shook it open for his mother to see his most recent art work.

  Mama's strong fingers lifted the paper out of Phillis's hand. She looked it over back and front. The longer she looked the thinner her lips got. Her eyes flashed in anger.

  "I," his Mama pressed the paper down on the counter, "gave up everything to get an education. Nothing is more important than school, Weldon. Nothing." Her voice was deep and clipped. "You have to get good grades so you can get a good job. Do you want to end up some drunken bum on the street somewhere? Do you suppose your foolish dragon pictures will buy food for your family? No they won't. This simply must stop."

  "Oh, leave him be. The boy got talent," his father muttered.

  "What?" Mama's hands balled into fists and she squared her shoulders to face his father.

  "Nothin." His father turned to the TV and took a long swig of his soda.

  She turned back on Weldon. "I forbid you to draw anymore. Not one picture, young man, or I'll arrange the strongest possible consequences for you. Summer school probably, and extra homework weekends an
d evenings. No television. No console games. No time with your friends. I better never see another one of your drawings in this house. Do you understand me?"

  "Yes, Mama." Weldon's face burned. Blood throbbed in his hands, making them ache to hold a pencil. Her new rule took his breath away, and he grew dizzy before he remembered to breathe again.

  Mama held out her hand. "Give me your pencil. You'll do your homework with me every night from now on."

  Weldon fished the pencil out of his pocket and handed it over. When his mama took it, he felt like he'd been holding tight to a cliff face, and when he let go of it he fell down, down to his death.

  "I'll have words with Mrs. Harper tomorrow about this test." Mama carried his defaced test paper across the living room and shoved it in her purse. "I'll make sure she lets you retake it."

  Weldon leaned against the counter feeling sick to his stomach as his artwork vanished. The pork chops sizzled in the oven, filling the apartment with their smell. His stomach churned.

  He took a step toward the bathroom.

  "Take out the garbage before you go sulking off somewhere," Mama told him.

  Weldon gritted his teeth and relieved the trash bin of its load. He trudged down the stairs. With each step his mind filled with images: the fairies of the realm below gathering, their wings buzzing with anger. The silver grass of their home thrashed back and forth in a torturous wind.

  He got to the bottom of the stairs and thrust his way outside. He carried the bag to the big plastic garbage can, opened the lid and tried to stuff it down inside, but the can was already full. A cold-cereal box tumbled out at his feet. He picked it up and smashed it so it would fit in the trash can, but hesitated before putting it in. Tearing down one side of the box, he opened it out flat. The inside of the box was an empty gray slate.

  He reached for the pencil in his back pocket, but remembered half way there it was gone. He sunk to the cement, still clutching the cardboard, and leaned his head back against the building. His fingers twitched. He noticed a stack of cigarette butts on the ground beside him. Gingerly he picked one up and rubbed the burned end on the cardboard. It made a black and gray streak. Perhaps he'd be able to draw after all.

  Barthelme stood still as a statue as the other fairies gathered in a circle around him, their wings filling the air with an angry buzz. The noise frightened diamond, and she twined herself around Barthelme's wrist and refused to let go. Ruby and Sapphire stood on his shoulders, wings out-stretched, hissing.

  A ripple of silver light washed over the fairies, and Her Majesty, the Queen of the Fairies, descended from her castle atop a pile of glittering granite chunks.

  Barthelme stared up into her terribly-beautiful face. Gold dust glimmered in her long flowing hair. Her sparkly wings spread out behind her, twice as big as any other fairies'. She landed in front of Barthelme and addressed the assembled fairies.

  "What is going on here?"

  "Barthelme has made friends with these dragons," Hawthorne shouted. Hawthorne was Barthelme's nearest neighbor, the one who liked to play his harp too loud at all hours of the day and night. "These dragons swarm outside his house. They've torn up my garden three times and even attacked me when I tried to shoo them away."

  Barthelme winced as angry voices rose up to join Hawthorne's.

  "They're a nuisance."

  "Make him get rid of them."

  "They've bit me twice and torn up my curtains."

  The Queen waved her hand for silence, and the crowd quieted. Barthelme stroked diamond and bit his lip. His dragons didn't really cause any more trouble than the wild ones did. "They're just babies," he said. "They'll behave better when they're grown."

  "Barthelme." The Queen's silver eyes cut into him like the bite of frost. "How did you tame these dragons?"

  "They're not tame," Hawthorne shouted. "They're monsters. They should be killed."

  The Queen ignored Hawthorne and waited for Barthelme's answer.

  "I-I just fed them when they hatched." Barthelme's throat tightened, and he whispered to Ruby and Sapphire, trying to calm them.

  "Fed them with his own flesh and blood." Hawthorne's pronouncement fell on the fairies and rippled outward in shock. "That's why they're so savage. They've got a taste for fairy now, and won't stop until they dine on all of us."

  The Queen whirled on Hawthorne. "How do you know this?"

  Hawthorn crossed his arms over his chest and flapped his wings. "Haley told me. He was there when Barthelme did it."

  Barthelme's heart sank. His best friend had betrayed him.

  "No." Haley stepped forward. "I didn't mean that. I mean, it wasn't like that." He gave Barthelme an apologetic look and fell silent, his black wings fluttering in agitation.

  The Queen frowned at Barthelme. "Did you, or did you not feed your blood to these dragons?"

  Barthelme swallowed. His finger throbbed where he'd pricked it with his brooch. "Yes."

  "A very unwise thing to do," the Queen said. She looked at the dragons on Barthelme's shoulders for a moment longer and then made her pronouncement. "They will have to be killed. I'm sorry, Barthelme."

  Barthelme stumbled backwards. His wings beat in dismay. "You can't. They're babies."

  "Hand them over," the Queen said. Already magic crackled from her fingers.

  "No." Barthelme took to the air. He flew as fast as he could, straight up toward the crack of light that had already started to dim for the night. He'd always meant to go, but not like this. Not without a traveling cloak and provisions. No turning back now though. The other fairies buzzed behind him, anxious to catch him and bring him back to the Queen's judgment.

  All three babies clung to him as he rose higher than he'd ever flown before.

  Hawthorn caught hold of his foot and tried to drag him back, but Barthelme kicked him off. The crack loomed overhead, wider up close than it had looked from the ground.

  With a shout of triumph, Barthelme zipped through the crack into the Realm Above.

  A garbage truck lumbered to a clanking halt in front of Weldon's apartment. Weldon jumped to his feet as the garbage man reached for the garbage can. In a rush of guilt, Weldon shoved the cardboard into the can and headed upstairs.

  The garbage man carried the can to the truck and dumped it in, ignoring the flattened piece of cardboard that tumbled to the ground and blew away down the street.

  weldon stayed after school to take his English test. Mrs. Harper kept a close watch on him, and every time his pencil twitched away from the questions to the edge of the sheet, she slapped a ruler down on his desk, making him jump.

  "Stay focused. No drawing," she said.

  No drawing at home, and Weldon's Mama had talked with Mrs. Harper that morning about his test and about not letting him draw at school. But the more he tried to stop thinking about the pictures in his head, the more they took over his mind. He saw shimmers of gold dust in the ray of sunlight that came through the window. He heard fairy wings buzzing around the room, though he could not see them. And ever in his mind the sleek dragons flew, glimmering jewels, delicate wings, undulating bodies.

  The words on the test paper blurred and became meaningless to him. He let his pencil clatter to the desktop and put his head in his hands.

  "Are you sick, Weldon?" Mrs. Harper asked.

  "Very," Weldon croaked. "I think I'm gonna die."

  Mrs. Harper tsked. "You don't look that sick. Finish your test, and I'll write a note to your mother suggesting she take you to a doctor."

  What good would that do? Weldon thought. He picked up his pencil and scribbled his answers on the test, making up whatever wild thing came into his mind.

  He handed the test in to his teacher and accepted the neat envelope she gave him with his mother's name on it. He figured it would be too much to hope that it would say, "For Weldon's health and sanity, please let him draw." No definitely not. He stuffed the envelope in the garbage on his way out.

  He walked to the front of the school to find Phill
is waiting for him beside the flagpole.

  "What took so long?" Phillis said.

  "Test, stupid." He headed for home, ignoring the dragon he imagined entwined around each light pole. Barthelme, I wish you were here, he thought to himself. He'd drawn the picture, calling his friend up from the seven-teenth crack in the sidewalk.

  He shook his head. Maybe his mama was right. Maybe he shouldn't draw anymore. The worlds of his pictures felt so much more real to him than this world. But this world was too drab and boring for him to stay in all the time. Dirty streets. Cracked sidewalks. Cars and more cars. Brownstone buildings that looked all the same and towered over him, making him feel very much like Barthelme staring up at a crack, wishing to see the sun, dreaming about touching the blue sky.

  If he could fly like a fairy or a dragon, Weldon would leave everything below and fly up there, free in the clean air and sunlight.

  Still dreaming of dragons and flight, he barely felt Phillis's tug on his arm.

  "Weldon." Her sharp voice cut through his foggy mind. He realized she'd stopped walking, her eyes wide with fear. She stared ahead at the ground in front of the shoe shop window and pointed.

  A skinny white boy lay on the ground, his shirt torn. Bruises ran along his sides and swelled his face. A mop of brown hair covered his head.

  Weldon swore and ran forward. "You come to the wrong street," Weldon said. "What'd you have, a hundred bucks in your pocket or something?

  The boy's eyes fluttered open and stared blearily at Weldon.

  "Where your parents?" Weldon asked. "You got a cell phone to call them?"

  "What? Cell phone?" The boy had a funny accent like he came from out west or something. Weldon noticed blood soaking the boy's right arm.

  "Phillis. Go upstairs and get Alice. Tell her some white boy done got hisself beat up. Maybe she should call an ambulance. Don't know what he's doing here."

  "Maybe he up and runned away from home," Phillis said without moving. "Could've gotten tired of lots of money and designer clothes and parties and eating sausage and eggs for breakfast every day."