by Tom Nicoll
For Kaye and Eilidh – T.N.
In memory of my wonderful mum,
Diana Horne, the funniest person
I ever knew – S.H.
CONTENTS
TITLE PAGE
DEDICATION
CHAPTER 1
A CHANGE OF FORTUNE
CHAPTER 2
BOY MEETS DRAGON
CHAPTER 3
GAMES NIGHT
CHAPTER 4
WEEKEND WEEDING
CHAPTER 5
AN OFFER HE CAN REFUSE
CHAPTER 6
RETURNING THE DRAGON
CHAPTER 7
MINI-DRAGONS: THE FACTS
CHAPTER 8
UP IN FLAMES
CHAPTER 9
BOY LOSES DRAGON
CHAPTER 10
THE ULTIMATE SACRIFICE
THE MINI-DRAGON COOKBOOK
EXTRACT FROM ‘THERE’S A DRAGON IN MY BACKPACK’
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ABOUT THE AUTHOR ILLUSTRATOR
COPYRIGHT
“Hey, Eric,” said the tiny short-haired girl standing outside my front door. Min Song and I were in the same class at school, but right now she was here on official business, which was why she was carrying a dozen Chinese takeaway boxes under her chin. “Sorry we’re so late.”
“Er … we ordered five minutes ago,” I said, checking my watch.
“I know, I know, but traffic was a nightmare,” she said, nodding towards her dad who was sitting on a moped with the words “Panda Cottage” emblazoned on the side, impatiently tapping his watch.
“No, what I meant was—” But before I could finish Min had shoved the huge pile of boxes into my arms.
Then she picked up a box that had fallen to the ground. “Oh, and don’t forget your beansprouts.”
“Beansprouts?” I said, looking puzzled. “I don’t think we ordered—”
“No, they’re free,” interrupted Min. “We have way too many of them. Please, just take it.”
“Oh, OK,” I said. “You know, I’ve never actually tried them.”
“You’ll love them. Probably. Anyway, I have to go.”
I put down the boxes and handed her the money, before she hopped on the moped and it disappeared down the road.
“Min took her time!”
That’s my dad, Monty Crisp. He’s the reason we were having a Friday-night Chinese. My dad manages the local football team, the Kippers, and we were celebrating their latest success – a 10 –1 scoreline.
“I still can’t believe it,” he said as I handed him the boxes. “We got an actual goal. First time in five years. All right, so technically it was the other team that scored it for us, but an own goal still counts!”
Sorry, I should have been more clear: They lost 10 –1.
The Kippers are the worst football team of all time. In their fifty-year history they’ve only ever won a single game, and even then it was because the other team had to forfeit after getting stuck in traffic.
“You should be very proud, dear,” said my mum, Maya. In case you’re wondering, her legs are currently over her head because she’s a yoga instructor, not because she’s weird.
Though she is weird.
Mum unfolded herself and joined me, Dad, my two-and-a-half-year-old sister Posy and our horrible, definitely evil, cat Pusskin at the kitchen table.
Half an hour later, the Crisp family was officially stuffed, as you can see from my helpful diagram:
The number of boxes for Posy is misleading. Those are the number of actual boxes she attempted to eat. She doesn’t bother about the food, she just loves chewing plastic.
After dinner, Dad was back talking sport.
“All I’m saying, Eric,” he said, reaching for the fortune cookies, “is that it wouldn’t kill you to take an interest in athletic pursuits. Like football or rugby or…”
“Yoga?” suggested Mum.
“Be serious, Maya,” said Dad. “Er… I mean…”
Mum glared at him. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.”
Dad mimed wiping sweat off his brow. “Phew. But really, Eric, it was only last week you told me you thought offside was when only one side of the bread had gone mouldy…”
“He was teasing, Monty,” said Mum. “You were teasing him, weren’t you, Eric?”
Before I could reply Dad cut in: “Hey, would you look at that?”
He held up a small piece of paper.
“You beauty!” cried Dad. “It’s destiny.”
I rolled my eyes. “Everyone knows fortune cookies are rubbish, Dad. The last one I got said ‘Your shoes will make you happy’.”
“And did they?” Dad asked.
“Not that I noticed…”
“What did you get this time, Eric?” asked Mum.
I cracked open the shell and unfurled the piece of paper inside.
“Hmm. Well, you do turn nine soon,” Mum said.
“A week tomorrow,” I reminded her. She probably knew that already, but my birthday was WAY too important to take any chances with.
“Ooh, look at mine,” said Mum. “‘Your son will handle the washing-up’.”
“It doesn’t say that,” I said.
“Well, all right,” she admitted. “It’s actually the same as Dad’s.”
“But you cleaning up will be a nice victory for me,” she said.
I let out a groan, but I knew from experience that I had about as much chance of getting out of it as the Kippers did of winning, well … anything.
I rinsed out all the boxes and took them outside. I’d almost finished putting them in the recycling bin when I realized that the box of beansprouts was still unopened.
Even though I was stuffed, I was curious to find out what they tasted like. I opened the lid and jumped back in fright. Not because of the beansprouts, though they didn’t look that appetizing, but because nestled inside the box was a small green scaly object. It had:
A long dragon-like snout.
A long dragon-like tail.
Big dragon-like wings.
Sharp dragon-like teeth.
Short dragon-like arms and legs.
Dragon-like claws.
There was no doubt about it. Whatever it was looked a lot like a dragon. Its tiny marble-like black eyes seemed to stare back at me and, for the briefest of moments, I almost convinced myself it was real.
Ha. A real dragon. Can you imagine?
Were Panda Cottage giving out free toys with their food now?
“Snappy Meals,” I said out loud, before remembering there was no one around to laugh at my joke.
I took the toy out of the box and was surprised by how it felt. Whatever it was made of, it wasn’t plastic. I once touched a lizard at the zoo and it felt quite similar – rough and cool to the touch – but this was much, much harder. It really was the most lifelike toy I had ever seen. It must have taken forever to paint. Not that it even looked or felt painted, mind you. It was too realistic. Every scale was a different shade of green, with small, freckle-like flecks of yellow across the snout. Gently, I moved its arms and legs back and forth, feeling a little resistance as I did so, almost as if it didn’t appreciate me doing it.
Whoever had made it must have gone to some trouble – way more than a free Chinese takeaway toy was worth, that’s for sure.
After trying a handful of beansprouts and deciding I wasn’t a fan, I shoved the dragon into my pocket, went back inside and headed upstairs. After all, it was Friday and I had a lot to do. My comics weren’t going to read themselves.
I put the tiny dragon on a shelf before diving on to my bed and settling into issue #437 of my favourite comic: Slug Man.
A short while later,
Slug Man was just about to take a call from the Police Commissioner on the Slug Phone when I felt something tugging at my trouser leg.
“Yeah?” I said, too absorbed in the story to bother looking down.
“What you reading?” said a childish voice.
“Oh, it’s the latest issue of Slug Man,” I replied.
“Any good?” asked the voice, which sounded like it had a Chinese accent.
“It’s amazing,” I said. “He’s about to fight his arch-enemy, The Salt Shaker.”
“Cool. I love comics. I mean, I haven’t actually read any, but they look awesome.”
“Help yourself,” I said, still not taking my eyes off the page but pointing towards the pile at the side of my bed.
“Don’t mind if I do. Thanks!”
“No worries,” I said.
I continued to read for a few seconds more, before it finally dawned on me. Slowly, I lowered the comic and looked towards the end of my bed.
Sitting there, reading a Captain Bin-Man comic with his dragon-like claws, was the dragon toy from the beansprout box.
Two things were clear to me:
The toy dragon was not a toy.
Whoever makes Panda Cottage’s fortune cookies had really raised their game this time.
Quiz:
There’s a dragon sitting on your bed, reading your comics. Do you:
“Ouch! What did you do that for?”
I went with option D.
“Sorry,” I said. “Are you … real?”
“Of course I’m real,” said the creature, with a look of mild irritation. “So stop poking me.”
“But you … you’re a…” I couldn’t believe what I was about to say. “You’re a dragon.” Even as the words left my mouth I couldn’t grasp what was happening. I was definitely never eating beansprouts again.
“No, I’m not,” he replied, which caught me off guard. I mean, sure, I had got it wrong about him being a toy, but I was pretty sure I was spot on about this.
“What do you mean, you’re not?” I said. “You obviously are. I mean … look at you!”
“Dragons are about twelve metres long,” he said. “Some of them can be twice that, in fact. Do I look that big to you?”
He definitely didn’t. He was no longer than a ruler. The kind of ruler that fits in your pencil case.
“So, what are you, then?” I asked.
“I’m a Mini-Dragon,” he said, puffing out his chest and looking very pleased with himself.
“But … you are a dragon?” I said. “Just a really small one.”
“Oh no,” he said, shaking his little head. “Small dragons are much bigger. I’m a Mini-Dragon. Basically it goes: Large Dragon, Regular Dragon, Small Dragon, Komodo Dragon, Little Dragon, Tiny Dragon, Snap Dragon, Mini-Dragon.
“Mini-Dragons might be the littlest of the dragons,” he continued. “But we’re also the best.”
“In what way?” I asked.
“Well, we can do everything that the others can do, apart from Snap Dragons, and most dragons are starting to think they aren’t real dragons anyway. Plus we can talk. Don’t know if you noticed?”
“Now that you mention it…”
“And unlike other dragons, there’s hardly any chance of us accidentally squashing you.”
“Hardly?” I asked.
“Well, there was this one time with an uncle of mine who was very overweight,” said the Mini-Dragon. “But my family doesn’t like to talk about that…”
“So you can fly?” I asked.
“Piece of cake,” he said. “Watch, I’ll show you.”
I looked around my room. “In here? I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Don’t worry, I know what I’m doing,” he said, before sprinting towards the end of my bed, jumping off and… Well, it all got a bit complicated after that.
It wasn’t exactly flying. But it wasn’t exactly not-flying, either. It reminded me of skimming stones at the beach – though a lot less graceful. The Mini-Dragon crashed into the wall
and then my wardrobe and then my desk
and then my window and then my bed again and then a shelf
and then the ceiling and then my chest of drawers and then another wall and then two more shelves and then me and then finally the floor…
It was certainly flying-esque but really it was more a kind of delayed falling.
“Guess I’m a bit rusty…” he said, dusting himself off and looking flustered.
I stared around the remains of my room. Clothes and comics were scattered everywhere. Books and toys that had been neatly arranged on shelves now lay all over the floor.
“Have you ever actually flown before?” I asked suspiciously.
The Mini-Dragon stroked his chin. “That depends on what you mean by ‘before’…”
“Like … ever?”
“Oh. No. But I think I’m close to getting the hang of it… Hey, what’s that banging noise?”
That banging noise was the sound of Mum stomping her way up the stairs.
“Quick, hide,” I said, opening my sock drawer and chucking him in.
Suddenly the door swung open and there was Mum. Her head turned slowly, scanning the room. I watched her eyes bulge and her face redden. If she were a normal mum, this would be the point where she exploded.
But instead she closed her eyes, put her palms together and raised her left leg so that she was balancing on her right. She took a couple of deep, long breaths as the red in her face drained away.
“Kindly explain yourself,” she said, in an eerily calm voice.
“Um … I don’t suppose you’d believe a dragon did it?” I asked, giving her my best “sorry” smile.
“Mini-Dragon,” said a muffled voice from the sock drawer. Luckily, Mum didn’t seem to hear.
Unsurprisingly, she didn’t buy the dragon story.
“We talked about this, Eric,” said Mum. “You’re now officially on STRIKE ONE.”
“But Mum—”
“No buts,” said Mum firmly, still balancing on one leg. “I think an early night is in order, too.”
I looked at my watch. “It’s only half seven!”
“You should have thought of that before you decided to demolish your room. Good night, Eric.” Mum came out of her yoga pose and left the room.
“Sorry about that,” said the Mini-Dragon, popping his head out as I opened the drawer.
I could tell from his awkward smile and the embarrassed look on his face that he meant it, but it didn’t change the fact that I’d got a strike.
“What’s ‘Strike One’?” asked the Mini-Dragon.
Even thinking about it made me anxious, but I told him anyway. “It’s my birthday soon and I’ve asked for the fastest electric scooter on the market – a Thunderbolt. I’ve wanted one for ages. My best friend Jayden has one and he swears that going downhill with the wind behind you, you can break the sound barrier.
Not sure if that’s one hundred per cent true, but I really want to find out. Mum and Dad said that I can get one as long as I don’t get three strikes between now and my birthday. Well, that’s me on one.”
The Mini-Dragon nodded sympathetically. “Even though I’m pretty sure I’m close to mastering it, I’ll try to avoid flying indoors again.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“So, your birthday, huh?” he said. “How old will you be?”
“Nine,” I said.
The Mini-Dragon nodded. “Ah, nine. A good age. I should know, I’m nine right now. In dragon years, anyway.”
“What’s that in human years?” I asked.
“Nine,” he said. “Yeah, years are the same length for dragons. Except we follow the Dragonian Calendar where every four years, instead of giving February the extra day, we stick it in between 25th and 26th December and make Christmas twice as long.”
I thought about this for a few moments. “Wow,” I said. “That’s a much better idea.”
“I know, right?”
“ERIC, THAT BETTER NOT BE YOU ON THE PHONE TO JAYDEN! GET TO BED!” shouted Mum.
“I’m not,” I shouted back. “On the phone, I mean. I’m just getting into bed.”
“I suppose I should go to sleep before I get another strike,” I said, lowering my voice.
“I could do with some sleep myself,” said the Mini-Dragon. “It’s been quite an eventful day.”
“I’m not exactly set up for Mini-Dragons,” I said, looking around for a suitable bed. The chair at my desk was comfy to sit on, but probably not to sleep on… Or maybe I could make some kind of nest from all the scattered comics on my floor… Or…
“I’m fine here,” he said, nestling down in the sock drawer. “Much comfier than a box of beansprouts, that’s for sure.”
“All right, then,” I said. “Well, goodnight… Wait – what’s your name?”
“Pan,” he replied. “Pan Long.”
I might have made a joke about his surname and him being so short, but I decided against it for two reasons:
1. I’m sure he had heard them all.
2. If you have the surname Crisp, you don’t joke about other people’s surnames.
“Nice to meet you Pan. I’m Eric.” I held out my hand and shook one of his little claws.
“Nice to meet you, too, Eric.”
As I lay on my bed, I couldn’t stop thinking about that night’s events. I mean, there couldn’t really be a Mini-Dragon sleeping in my sock drawer at that very moment, right? One that could talk? And fly slightly better than a rock? Was I coming down with something? Was it all just a weird dream? Was he some kind of scaly hallucination?
I placed my hands over my ears.
Hallucinations didn’t usually snore as loudly as this one though, did they?
The next morning confirmed Pan was definitely real. It took all day to clean my room, mainly because Pan insisted on reading every comic he came across before putting it back. At least it gave me plenty of time to ask him questions.