Awakened

by K. G. Duncan

  In the end, the authorities and the grown-ups who deal with these kinds of matters just went back home and returned to the normality of their every-day mundane lives. Oh, people around town still talked about it, for sure. It was the kind of thing that followed you. And those folks on the tour boat had themselves a story that they could tell that would entertain their friends and families for generations to come. Stupid gator tourists.

  Now, Momma Bea, maybe she knew more than she let on, because when they got back home, she just put Abby back to bed without saying even a word. For the next few days, though, Abby would catch Momma staring at her when she thought Abby wasn’t looking. A few nights after that, Momma Bea asked her about the incident in the most direct way possible. She looked Abby right in the eye when she was tucking her in for the night, and then she said, “I know what you were doing, A.B., the other night? You were flying with the dragon, and you didn’t want no one to know, not even me. Isn’t that right, Peaches?”

  Now, Abby, being an honest sort of little girl, and quite frankly somewhat caught off guard, could only respond in one way.

  “Yes, momma,” she said truthfully, and she smiled.

  Then Momma Bea just smiled right back at her, a sweet and true smile, and she quietly said, “I know you like to wander off all by your lonesome. You take to them woods just about every day, I reckon. And I understand. It’s okay to tell me or leave some sort of sign when you’re gonna go off like that. But just so you know, when you get done with all that wandering, after you go flying, you always come back here to me, you hear?”

  “Yes momma,” little Abby replied.

  “And lan’ sakes, Peaches, don’t go wanderin’ around stark naked! It’s not like folks around here got a lot to talk about!” Then Momma Bea and Abby both burst out laughing. Momma Bea kissed her on the forehead, still chuckling and said good night. As she slipped out the door, Abby turned on her side and went straight to sleep, still grinning such a sweet grin.

  Before Olivia, that was the closest Abby ever came to telling another soul about her dragon. The problem was that the dragon had other ways of letting the world find her. Like the fact that any time other people spent any sort of time around Abby, they would invariably start to notice things. It was one thing to find solitude in the bayou—around the town of Houma, the bayou was much thicker and other people were much more scarce, which is exactly the way the dragon liked it—but it was another thing entirely to spend all day every day at school surrounded by other people.

  School. A confined and heavily supervised space crammed full of children. Not an ideal place for a dragon to be hiding in plain sight. And to add to her woes, Abby had a reputation that preceded her. It was her grave misfortune that Balt’s uncle was the one giving that gator tour, and he made sure that Balt knew everything about Abby’s little naked incident from a few years back. It was the kind of story that followed you around like an unwanted, starving mongrel dog. And it was a story that a bully like Balt relished. That type of information gave Balt leverage, an advantage over Abby that he never missed an opportunity to exploit.

  In school, Balt had immediately dubbed her “the Swamp Thing.” Of course, because she was found that morning in the bayou without a stitch of clothing, his list of pet names for her quickly grew, both in absurdity and in their salacious aspects. At various times she had been hailed as “Jay Bird” (as in “Naked as…”), “Ruby-No-clothes-Rubideaux,” “Nature Girl” (which seemed to Abby relatively benign, compared to some of the others), “Rosy Butt Cheeks,” “the Mighty Butt Cracker,” and “A. B. R.,” which was an abbreviation for “All Beaver Revue.” Balt seemed particularly fond of that last one, and predictably, the other kids, particularly Princess Julia and her entourage, picked up on these names, and of course they stuck. Like it’s been said, kids are cruel. All Abby could do was wear her names proudly. And even though most kids would say them to hurt Abby, truth be told, they didn’t really bother her. But that was something she kept to herself as well as a few other things.

  But not everything could be kept in the shadows, away from the light. Mean-spirited nicknames are one thing, but needless to say, Abby soon got a reputation as a weirdo who didn’t like to be touched. This was a feature of her life that soon became a regular source of conflict and cruelty, for in the hierarchy of school children, there is no mercy for the freaks and the feckless few, better known as the outsiders. For most of her elementary school life, Abby would find herself the victim of the various and sundry school yard predators. But most of the time, she was left alone, and that meant that she had most of her time to herself—most of her time to watch and learn what made others do what they do.

  Now it was the voice of a particularly accomplished predator, miss Julia DeChamplain, who brought Abby out of her reverie. She had been clutching the bench seat of her lunch table with white-knuckled intensity as she tried to block out a slightly older and particularly dreamy image of Balt Luster kneeling down with her on the sand of some beach, laughing, and showing her how to make drip castles with wet sand—it was just one of many chapters of her hopeless love affair with him through all time.

  She was back in the present moment now, and in the center table of the lunch court, well-shaded by one of the few serviceable light blue awnings, Miss Julia DeChamplain was holding court surrounded by her minions. And “court” is absolutely the correct word to use, for Julia was by all accounts a “Little Miss Princess.” Sitting there in her fine expensive dress with silk ribbons in her perfectly curled hair, which had been styled and set in such a way usually associated with a much older girl—not an eleven-year old sixth grader. Julia was in the middle of an elaborate recounting of last weekend’s party in which her Bichon Frise doggie, a most vile beast by the name of “Bon-Bon” grabbed uncle William’s sausage from his plate and proceeded to race around the garden, sausage in mouth, and unmistakably grinning from ear to ear as only a Bichon Frise can. The other family members and guests were simply “appalled,” but of course “Bon-Bon was simply too cute for anyone to remain upset or cross with for any length of time.” The other girls at her table—and there were only girls, for boys were and are a completely separate matter all together—laughed and giggled obligingly at the proper cues, and Miss Julia DeChamplain reveled in their attention.

  Abby watched her from her corner table, and luckily today was one of those days when Julia’s attention would not be turned towards her, so Abby could watch her uninterrupted. A classic princess, or sometimes referred to as “Daddy’s Girl,” Julia is the one who always gets what she wants through false charm and an unparalleled skill in artful manipulation. The princess is often the teacher’s pet, and this was something that Abby stopped trying to figure out because it absolutely made no sense that grown up teachers couldn’t see right through a little eleven-year old princess’s charade, but Julia was no exception, for she was no novice when it came to jockeying for power among the class hierarchy and outwardly pleasing those who hold authority or power. A princess is usually smart, which is its own form of irony, but she almost always lacks emotional intelligence and self-awareness. Sometimes she grows up to be a decent person, but almost never if she comes from money, nor if she marries one who will worship her and continue to enable her. She is quick to betray others when it comes to her self-interest. She is spoiled, of course, and this is often not her fault but the permissive parents who allow her to hold court every day with her demanding demeanor and unchallenged sense of superiority. For the princess, other people are servants, and woe be the individuals who dare to challenge their proper station in the life of the imperious princess. She is often accompanied by minions—other girls who suffer from inferiority complexes, are aspiring princesses themselves, and like to bully. Super-secret fact: beware of the princess when adults are not around—she is ruthless and capable of extreme cruelty when she feels that you are a rival, or, in many other cases, when you are perceived to be weak and disenfra
nchised with no allies. Sabotage or direct assault are both possibilities. She will destroy you to get what she wants or when there is a real or imagined slight to her reputation.

  The lunch table bench suddenly sagged with the weight of another individual who had plopped down, jarring Abby out of her thoughts. She turned to see the freckled face of Olivia Fist smiling next to her, her chin resting across folded finger tops. Abby grinned back at her as a loud burst of laughter and girlish giggles caused Olivia to shift her gaze over to Julia’s table. She and Abby watched together as the girls squeaked and giggled over some private joke. Julia, at the center of the table, sitting erect and by all appearances gracefully in her element, glanced over at the two of them. She stared right back at Abby, a knowing, slightly triumphant glint in her eye, and suddenly Abby knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that the royal princess and her court were indeed talking about her. Julia squinted ever so slightly, a brief cold and cruel acknowledgement that didn’t match the smile that remained on her lips.

  “Oh, look out,” Olivia murmured under her breath. “Queen Julia and her killer bees are gonna be gunning for you later, sunshine.” Olivia turned and smiled wickedly back at Abby. “Don’t you worry about a thing. I’ll make them soil their panties if they start in on you.”

  Abby chuckled and tore her gaze away from Julia. She glanced appreciatively at Olivia, who had crossed her eyes and scrunched her face into a painful grimace. Abby laughed uninhibitedly now and slid her lunch over for Olivia to peruse.

  To the other children in her class, Olivia was known as the “Class Clown.” This is usually a manic individual who vacillates between extreme introversion and extreme extroversion. Sometimes they are “off,” and sometimes they are “on.” In other words, they are usually a jumbled up, neurotic mess, but they can be so much fun to be around when you catch them when they are “on.” Overtly fearless and affable, the class clown usually holds very close to the chest some deeper issues involving low self-esteem and hyper-sensitivity. They want to be liked and fear rejection more than anything else. Sometimes the Class Clown may contain the deeper archetype of the classic “Fool,” who is a very wise but tragically sad soul. Classic fools are quick to wit and the first to easy laughter, but the Fool is also an expert observer and judge of human character. The secret of the “Fool” is that nobody really takes them seriously or perceives them as a threat, and thus are they free to speak to truth and to point out things that no one else would dare for fear of repercussions. The Fool gets a free pass and is not held to the same standard of justice as most others; unfortunately, they are doomed to be ignored when it matters most. “Class Clowns” and “Fools” usually grow up to be psychiatrists or twinkly-eyed grandparents, and they are often the owners of several cats.

  For Abby, though, it wasn’t fair to put Olivia—or “Oblivia,” which was the nickname everyone called her—into a single category. She defied all labels, and quite simply, she was the most genuine person that Abby had ever met. Oh sure, Olivia had her issues and hidden weaknesses, but Abby knew that the clown act was just a way for Olivia to work out a few things that would otherwise remain repressed and, if left unattended to, would probably end up doing some real damage as she grew older.

  Olivia was also Abby’s personal champion and protector, as alluded to before. She fit into the archetype of the “Hero,” who is a person, male or female, who has a divine calling to protect the weak, the defenseless, and the powerless. Not that Abby was any of those things, but Olivia had come to her aid on more than a few occasions and bloodied a lip or two. Olivia would come to her rescue because it was something deep within the nature of a hero. They are unselfish, righteous warriors, who come to the aid of others when no one else will, overcoming all stigmas and often, placing their own reputation and certainly their own physical well-being at risk. They do it because they are driven by a moral compulsion—there is something inside of them, the very essence of their karmic DNA, that they cannot ignore, and this thing always drives them to defend what is right, to defy the dishonest, the deceitful, the unprincipled, and the corrupt. And they are always the one who stands up to a bully. Olivia Fist. That was who she was. A person, who at this moment, just happened to be busy fishing through Abby’s lunch box and muttering about an equal exchange of her peanut butter sandwich for Abby’s cheese and apple slices.

  “Dork!” A boy’s hand slammed down Abby’s lunch box lid, and Olivia’s fingers barely missed being crushed. The hulking figure of Balt Luster was striding away from their table, shoulders shaking with laughter.

  Abby watched him walk away, and it was all she could do to keep the flood of his pathways from overwhelming her once again—she didn’t even have to touch him to be susceptible to an incursion—all she had to do was think of him. She gripped the bench tightly once again and took a few deep breaths to settle herself.

  Olivia’s voice brought her back to the one-sided conversation at the lunch table. “Ain’t that right?”

  “Huh?” Abby turned to look at her friend who was now busy spreading peanut butter on to Abby’s apple slices with her index finger. Olivia looked up at her and feigned exasperation.

  “I said,” and Olivia blew off a thick stray curl that was hanging down in front of her face, “I said that you once told me you didn’t think old Balthazar was as mean as everyone made him out to be. That deep inside he was a good and beautiful person.” She paused as she artfully spread the last bit of peanut butter onto the edge of the last apple slice. She licked her finger and quickly popped a slice into her mouth, crunching with joyous abandon. “Well, you could’ve fooled me!” She exclaimed in a garbled peanut butter and apple filled mouth.

  Olivia proceeded to pop slice after slice into her mouth, carefully licking her fingers between each slice, and somehow managing to speak between bites as if it were not an impossible thing to do. “That boy is meaner than a hissing goose. And what I really want to know, by the way, is why you look at him the way you do. After all the horrible things he’s done to you, why do you love him so, Miss Aurora Borealis Rubideaux?” Olivia proceeded to smack the last bit of apple and peanut butter down, then loudly lick her fingertips and raise her eyebrows inquiringly at Abby.

  Abby just stared back at Olivia, trying not to smile, and trying her best to sound indignant. “Well Miss Fist, I do declare. My personal affections for vile creatures and horrible, reptilian monstrosities otherwise known as human boys, is none of your business.” She watched as Olivia began to lick what remained of the peanut butter off the bread that used to be her sandwich. “And if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you had a bit of dragon inside of you too. So perceptive. Don’t let it swell your head.”

  At the mention of the word “dragon,” Olivia squealed and pounded the tabletop ecstatically. “Ooh, you promised. You promised now. When you gonna take me out into the bayou and show me your dragon? When, oh when, oh whensy, when, when?” Olivia clutched her hands together in mock prayer and fluttered her eyes at Abby.

  Abby just laughed and said, “Tomorrow is Friday, right? Let’s do it after school.”

  Olivia sprung up to her feet and danced around in circles like a banshee. Abby just laughed, stood up herself, and then said, “Oh, and miss Fist? Need I remind you?”

  They both turned to each other, leaned in towards each other, heads almost touching, and pantomimed with their right hands over their lips like they were quickly zipping them shut.

  “Damn straight,” Olivia declared.

  “You better believe it,” Abby responded.

  The school bell rang and they both smiled. “Gotta go,” Olivia exclaimed breathily. “Why do we have P.E. right after lunch? It’s downright inconsiderate. I think I’m gonna barf all over Miss Trudy’s gym shoes today.”

  Abby laughed and said she had to put her books away. “I’ll catch up with you later.”

  As they parted ways, Abby’s mind returned to her earlier thought
s. Of course, for every bully, there is usually a hero or warrior to balance things out, for such is the nature of the natural world; it might even be a cosmic law that applies to all of the universe. No light without dark. No attraction without repulsion. No Ying without the Yang. No Bully without a Hero—you get the picture? Only now she was wondering if a bully like Balt could also, some day, be a hero.

  “Most assuredly yes,” she muttered and smiled to herself as she ran up the steps and into the classroom building.

  As she made her way through the hallway, like a lone salmon against the stream of kids rushing out the other way, she let the flow of all the others wash over and through her. All of the students in school were, of course, individuals, and each had a unique signature. Even so, there were patterns and habits of mental and emotional energy that shaped them and informed who they were. These patterns also shaped how others saw them and how those perceptions and beliefs in turn further shaped how the individual perceived him or herself. It was a wild dance of back and forth, but it was consistent and true for every one of them. It was all about those universals.

  Abby played a familiar game with herself as she passed the surging streams of other children in the hall. She called it her universals game, and it also helped to occupy her mind and screen out the unwanted intrusions of others.

  A boy in thick-framed glasses, a hand-me-down plaid shirt and blue jeans whose waistline rode halfway up his belly awkwardly scurried past Abby, his hands full of notebooks and papers. That was Bobbie Penske.