I
sat in my closet facing a cement corner.
The paint was cracked and peeling in a number of spots, a putrid green beneath
a coat of off-white. The door at my back stood open just enough to allow in
light to read by.
Wood planks, warped and stripped, lined the floor of my hiding place. They
were the source of unpleasant slivers. I curled up on a heap of frayed wool for
protection, having learned the hard way not to scoot my bare feet across the
splintered surface. The natural fibers in the woolen blanket made my bare legs
itch, but it kept them warm.
In the deepest corner of my closet, piled in a short stack, sat my
fondest treasures. Six books—half a dozen children’s stories that inspired many
of my nighttime fantasies. I’d acquired each one from school. The first was two
years old, Goldilocks, an early reward for excellent progress in
reading. The second was a gift from one year back, The Tale of Peter Rabbit.
It had been handed out to every student in class by a guest speaker. The third
Charlie Thompson had given to me recently as a cruel joke, The Ugly Duckling.
(Little did he know I secretly adored the tale.) The remaining three were
hardbacks retrieved from the trash where they’d been discarded over broken
bindings —Hansel and Gretel, Jack and the Beanstalk, and my
absolute favorite, The Hobbit.
I kept my little library hidden in the dark, below an old, threadbare
dress and a pair of strapless sandals, all buried beneath the wool blanket. My
greatest fear was to have this treasure discovered. If my father were to find
it, he would punish me for stealing. Or worse, accuse me of wasting his money
on pointless scrap. If my mother were to stumble upon my books, she’d worry
herself sick over what my father would do and force me to return them to
school. I’d be left with nothing—no adventures, no friends, no treasure.
Presently I was engrossed in my newest storybook, Alice in
Wonderland. It was easy to imagine trailing in Alice’s footsteps, remaining
far enough behind her to keep out of the way. Once I met the grinning cat from
Cheshire, however, my strategy changed, and I pictured myself sitting right
there amid the festivities, invisible to everyone in attendance. I even helped
myself to a crumb of cake and a sip of tea.
I was laughing in my head right along with Alice, the March Hare, and
the Hatter, when the sound of my name put an abrupt stop to our mad tea party. All
laughter ceased and my heart stalled. It started beating again when I realized
it was just my mother calling.
“Anna? Anna, where are you?”
I scurried out of the closet, making sure to bury my precious library
book beneath the blanket.
“Coming, Mama!” I called.
I followed my nose into the kitchen, recognizing the familiar scent of
boiled potatoes. Dinner. I hoped that Mrs. Hopkins had left a bottle of cow’s
milk at the back door today.
Mr. and Mrs. Hopkins were our closest neighbors. They were private,
gray-haired people living on a small farm about a mile away. The quickest route
to their land was a straight line through the woods, but the easiest way was to
travel down a snaky dirt road walled on either side by endless cottonwood and
white oak trees. The old couple farmed a few acres, keeping cows, sheep, hogs,
and chickens fenced up around a huge red barn. I wasn’t allowed to bother them,
but my walks took me near their place now and then. Theirs was an inviting
ranch home set back from the road, spacious and pretty. Nothing like our house.
My mother and I spent most of our days alone inside a rundown,
two-bedroom box of cinder block and wood. Mother always told me to be grateful
for the roof over our heads, especially now that the leaks weren’t as bad. I
recalled the week my father had stayed home to patch up the holes on the
rooftop.
It was raining.
Every few minutes thunder vibrated the air, and a wild streak of lightning
glared through thin curtains draping our windows. Mother and I were minding two
dozen pots and buckets spread throughout the house catching drips and trickles
that seeped through the ceiling. I was in charge of the containers in the hall
and bedrooms, emptying them as they filled with rainwater. Mother watched over
the kitchen and living room, keeping an anxious eye on my father’s form planted
in front of a black-and-white television. The fireplace hissed beside him every
now and then, tossing up a billowed mix of steam and smoke whenever wandering
raindrops fell on the flames.
He grumbled and complained about the “rotting dump” my mother kept us
living in, swigging back a liberal dose of alcohol in the process.
“What the hell is it you do when I’m gone anyway? I’d think with all
the time you got to waste you could patch up a hole or two around here… worthless
woman.”
Mother didn’t talk back. A wise move.
It wasn’t until a sudden stream of rainwater broke through the ceiling
right above him that he threw a real tantrum. We stayed out of his way. He took
out his anger on the house, pitching his empty beer bottles overhead, smashing
them against the sopped, torn plaster while cursing both the weather and my
mother in the process. Eventually, he stormed outside and managed an
intoxicated drive to the hardware store to purchase shingles, nails, and a few
sheets of plywood.
The next morning I was awakened by loud hammering. The caustic swearing
that accompanied the noise was nothing new.
Mother attended to a drunken roofer for the next five days, wincing
every time he called her name.
“Lin! You tryin’ to starve me to death? Where the hell’s my food? And
bring me another beer!”
She never hesitated in promptly responding, crawling up and down the
ladder to hand him demanded items. I knew it was a difficult thing for her to
do, being terrified of heights. But I guess we were both far more afraid of him
than anything.
I watched from the trees every day—a forest of white oak, birch,
cottonwood, and the occasional conifer that surrounded our house. I hid in the
shade of the woods, keeping within earshot in case I was called. My job was to
remain invisible for as long as my father ignored me. Luckily, he never did
growl any foul version of my name that week. It seemed on this particular visit
he’d overlooked my existence.
I could tell my mother was emotionally drained by the time his truck
rolled off, headed on another long haul across the states. As soon as he left, I
came out from my hiding place and walked up to stand beside her. Her weary
eyes, sunken from exhaustion, stared down the dirt road as if she were waiting
for the cloud of dust to settle. I waited too. After sighing an audible sound
of immense relief, she uttered only one thing.
“We should be grateful for the roof over our heads.”
I appeared in the kitchen from out of a dark hallway and hugged the
wall, waiting for Mother to notice me. We were dressed similarly in faded
cotton dresses, no belts or shoes or accessories. Mother’s hair hung loose just
past her shoulders, so thin it behaved like fine threads, lifting and floating
with each move. It took only a moment for her darting eyes to find me.
“Anna, there you are. Come get the glasses. Have a seat at the table.”
I headed for the cupboard, spotting a bottle of fresh cow’s milk on the
ledge. Mrs. Hopkins had left some after all. I couldn’t help but smile.
“Would you like cream on your potatoes?”
I nodded absolutely.
Mother skimmed the cream from off the top of the jar, ladling it
generously over our bowls of steaming boiled potatoes. She then poured milk
into the two cups I’d set on the table. We ate in silence, savoring every rich
bite of food. It was a tasty treat—fresh, sweet cream and milk.
I always wished we could thank the Hopkins for their generosity, but
Mother forbade me to see or speak to them. I think she was afraid if we ever
said anything, the neighbors might find the courage to talk to us. And if that
were to happen, my father might get wind of the shared spoils. He’d put a firm
end to it, for sure. Charity to him was the worst form of insult. As it was,
Mrs. Hopkins only brought around the milk and potatoes every couple of weeks,
and only when my father’s truck was gone. It seemed the old couple was wary of
him also, so things were always left at the back door early in the morning.
“Mama?”
My mother’s eyes glanced up from her bowl. They stayed on me, waiting
for the question I obviously wished to ask.
“Have you ever had a garden?”
She nodded the tiniest bit. “Once,” she said.
“Did you grow potatoes?”
Her eyes fell as she shook her head. “No, Anna. Flowers. I once had a
flower garden. It was pretty. Johnny didn’t care for the colors, though.” She
always called my father by his name, even around me.
I could tell whatever memory my question had dredged up wasn’t a
pleasant one. Kindly, I stifled my curiosity. It was easy enough to imagine a
younger version of my father tearing up a beautiful flower garden in some
drunken rage, shouting out absurd excuses for his cruel actions. I went on,
working up to what I wanted.
“Mama, did you know that a buried potato will grow into a potato bush?”
I watched her slurp up a spoonful of cream and shake her head.
“It’s true. Lenny said so at school and his father’s a farmer. Mrs.
Cosgrove told the whole class he was right about that.”
I watched Mother’s eyebrows pull together, her normally troubled face
appearing even more so. I continued.
“If we were to plant some of the Hopkins’ potatoes, they would grow
into bushes full of new potatoes. We could grow our own!” My eyes widened,
hopeful.
Mother laughed nervously. “Is this an experiment your teacher
suggested?”
“Well, no,” I admitted.
“Then why would you want to do something so silly when the Hopkins
provide us with more than enough. They have a farm, Anna. We don’t.”
“But it might be nice to grow a few plants of our own, just two or
three.”
Mother was shaking her head as I spoke, but I continued to make my
case.
“It would only take a small patch of dirt.”
Her head appeared to tremble, shaking with an adamant no.
“But, Mama!”
“No, Anna. No vegetable gardens. You’re a little girl, not a boy.”
My face twisted up, confused. “What does that matter?”
She straightened up in her chair and wiped both hands on her lap,
attempting to convey some parental confidence. “Boys grow up to be farmers,
Anna, it’s their place. They plow and plant and harvest to provide for their
families. Girls don’t.”
“Then what do girls do?” I asked, discouraged by her announcement.
She forced a momentary smile. “Well, they grow up to be mothers, of
course. Like me.”
“Oh.” I felt my eyebrows skew. I wasn’t sure I wanted to grow up to be
like her.
It was quiet as I helped clear the table. Mother washed the few dishes
we’d dirtied at dinner. I wiped them dry and put them away. Once finished, I
slinked out the back door, eager to take a short walk through the woods. My
feet slipped into a pair of sandals abandoned next to the screen door and then
hustled across a stretch of tall grass that made up our backyard. A healthy mix
of dandelions and chickweed choked off large sections of the yard.
The sun had already slid below the treetops, painting the horizon a
fire red. I walked toward the sunset into the woods, certain of where I was
going. The path I took was as straight a line as you could manage having to
skirt around countless trees. A low, constant croaking from distant frogs mixed
with chirping crickets, the two sounds nearly identical. Occasionally a warbler
sang from high above, his voice a tickled chime in the wind. About a hundred
yards from the house I stopped and fell on my knees. I’d reached my
destination—a tiny opening in the woods with a ceiling of open sky. The patch
was mostly wild grass and clover.
My hands slipped into each dress pocket, the right fishing out a large
kitchen spoon, the left recovering a snatched raw potato. I went to work on the
ground, digging at the grass with my makeshift shovel. It was difficult cutting
through the sod until I realized that worming my fingers beneath the roots to
rip out an entire section at once proved more effective. When I reached the
soil below, it was a simple task to spoon out a hole. I worked quickly and
determinedly to dig five holes about three inches deep. It seemed a good depth
to bury a chunk of potato.
When the digging was done, I used the spoon to carve into the flesh of
the potato, cutting it into five semi-equal pieces. I ended up with four
rounded balls and a fifth chunk that sort of resembled a square with sloped
sides. The job was nearly done.
The first piece of potato made a dull thud as it hit the bottom of the
hole. The second made a similar sound. The third fell from my hand, nearly
silent in its landing.
I gasped, looking at the evidence in my mother’s open palm. She’d
caught it in midair. Her brown eyes weren’t nearly as big as mine when our
gazes met.
“Annabelle,” she sighed, kneeling the rest of the way down beside me.
“Mama,” I whispered, terrified that I’d been caught red-handed.
Her neck twisted to scan the little clearing that was growing more
shadowed by the minute. My heart pattered in my chest, waiting for her to
speak.
“Johnny doesn’t know about this place?”
My head shook in small, rapid movements.
Her head tilted as she frowned at me. “I told you not to do this.”
My shoulders crept up, nearly touching my ears. I didn’t know what to
say.
She released a long, audible sigh and let the chunk of potato roll off
her fingers into the center hole. Silently she took the two remaining pieces of
potato flesh and plopped them into the final holes. Her hands scooped the
mounds of dirt I’d dug up to bury our experimental seeds. She patted the dirt
flat, then turned to a bucket I hadn’t noticed behind her. I watched in
surprise as she rose to her knees and poured a good amount of water on the plot
of dirt. I jumped up to avoid getting wet.
Our focus rested on the mud puddle, regarding what we’d just done. I
felt as if we’d buried a litter of dead kittens.
“It would be best if this were to remain our secret, Anna.”
I nodded. My eyes lifted to find hers. She seemed to want to smile, but
instead her mouth pulled to one side, twisting into a discontented look.
“If Johnny were to find out that you defied me, well… it wouldn’t be a
good thing.”
I nodded again. I knew that wasn’t the reason my father would get
upset, but it was as good an excuse as she could come up with. Either way, I
understood that this was another thing we were to keep quiet about.
Mother carried the empty bucket back to the house. I walked beside her,
my eyes flickering up every few seconds to gauge the worry engraved in her
features. It was easy to see she was troubled, fretting over another secret
she’d need to keep from Father. He was our sole provider, a fact he often
ranted and raved about. Once a month he would drive my mother to town to
purchase the things we needed for survival, though a large portion of her
grocery allowance was spent on his coveted alcohol. It filled up half the
cooler. Being a proud man, if he were to discover that our food supply was
supplemented in other ways—if he ever learned of the Hopkins’ charity or
stumbled upon our experimental potato bushes—well…
I swallowed hard. Mother shuddered as if she could read my mind. An
eerie coincidence. Perhaps we’d shared the same thought. I felt a pang of
guilt, knowing that once again my existence had caused her strife. A wave of
regret made me want to go back and dig up the wasted potato, preventing it from
sprouting and announcing to any passer-by that we had a secret garden. But I
didn’t turn around.
The evening sky reddened to black as my mother saw to her busy chores. She
swept the wood floors; wiped down the table, chairs, and counter; pulled the
windows and curtains closed; and turned out all but one light. Then she put me
to bed with a cool kiss on the forehead.
I laid on a single mattress in the dark, wondering if it was a moonless
night outside. No light filtered through my curtains. Though I longed to, I
knew it would be impossible to read anything more of Alice in such blackness. The
muffled sound of the television cut through the silence, carrying down the hall
to comfort me until I fell fast asleep.
A curiously far-reaching table, covered by an unusually long, lace
tablecloth, reached all the way from one birch tree to another. It was a wide
stretch across the hollow in the woods. The table was surrounded by many
chairs, fancily shaped and cushioned. Several ceramic place settings ran the
length of both sides while the center was stacked with trays of mouth-watering
desserts. On either end sat a large ceramic teakettle, each snout steaming
sweet-smelling vapors. Every setting had a saucer and teacup, though not dainty
by any means but as big as beer mugs.
Compared to the available seating, few souls were in attendance at this
tea party. I recognized most from my reading—the snooty Duchess and her baby
pig, the well-dressed rabbit, the blue caterpillar, the March hare and a
still-sleeping dormouse. I noticed a white smile hovering off to my left, and
realized the Cheshire cat must also be there. His grinning lips and teeth were
the only part of him visible.
I took a seat on one side of the table—right in the very middle—and was
greeted by the host, the Hatter.
“Welcome to our party, dear Annabelle,” he started.
“Alice,” I corrected. For that’s who I wished to be in this dream, even
though my hair wasn’t blonde but black as crows.
“Alice?” he questioned.
I looked to the head of the table, such a far distance from my seat. How
odd. It was difficult to make out the Hatter’s features, being shadowed by the
oversized brim on his towering hat.
“Yes, sir,” I affirmed politely. “Please do call me Alice.”
“Alice!” he announced with a sudden cry, startling me and every other
guest.
“Yes sir?” I questioned.
“What?”
“Did you not call my name?”
“No, I did not.”
“But… you said ‘Alice’ quite loudly, sir. I heard you. I’m sure
everyone here heard you.” I gestured to the surrounding party. They all nodded,
excepting the sleeping dormouse.
The hatter argued, leaning forward in his chair, “I did not call your
name. If I’d wanted to call your name, I’d have cried ‘Annabelle!’” He did so
in a loud voice.
Once again I jumped. “Mr. Hatter,” I breathed, with some annoyance.
“Yes?”
I wasn’t used to characters in my dreams being so disagreeable, but it
did seem to keep in line with his personality from the book.
“Sir, I’m going by the name, Alice, right now because that is the name
of the girl in this story.”
He groaned and slid back in his chair. “Another boring story. Did you
at least find out how this one ends?”
My eyebrows pinched. I was confused and concerned. “I’ll have you know
that Alice in Wonderland is
most certainly not a boring story! There are a lot of mad and crazy things that
happen in it.”
“Mad and crazy does not mean interesting,” the Hatter said. “Crazy
without any excitement or fun or danger is just plain BORING!”
Things were not proceeding as I thought they should. “You’re not the
Hatter at all!” I accused.
“And you’re not Alice.” He rose from his chair, jostling the table and
every dish on it with his haste. The Duchess spilled a drop of tea from her cup
while the dormouse fidgeted in his sleep.
With him standing now, I could see beneath the brim of his hat—the
rounded face, the brown curls, and a pointed chin that stuck out stubbornly at
me.
I recognized him. Gavin.
He was the boy I’d met once in a previous dream. We’d both worn riding
hoods, his black, mine red. I stood up from my chair, careful not to disturb
the table as he had.
“Why are you here?” I asked. “You don’t belong in my dream. You’re not
a part of this story.”
He tapped the brim of his oversized hat. “I am as much a part of this
story as you are,” he declared. “I’m the Hatter.”
I frowned. “No, you’re not.”
“And you’re not really Alice.”
I watched his eyes grow big and challenging. The look was intimidating.
I breathed in and out. This was silly. Why was I arguing with my own dream?
We stood there for a long time, silent. No one around us spoke either,
which made sense because it was my dream and I’d willed them to wait patiently
at the table. The dormouse yawned and turned in his sleep—a simple test to be
sure I still controlled the activities in my own dreams. I broke the silence
first.
“This is my
dream,” I insisted, fairly sure of the fact.
“It is,” Gavin agreed, “although it’s awfully boring,” he added in a
mumble.
“Quit saying that.”
“Well, it is,” he mumbled lowlier.
I mustered enough courage to tell him, “I want you to leave.”
Silence followed.
“Please,” I added with a nervous swallow.
His dark eyes looked me up and down. Then he fell back in his chair,
picking up the oversized teacup in front of him at the same time.
“I don’t want to go,” he told me matter-of-factly. He sipped on his cup
and then placed it on the saucer. He watched me stand there uncomfortably for a
moment. Then his eyes scrunched and stared as if he were displeased with me. His
nose wrinkled when I failed to do anything. But why should I do anything I
didn’t care to? This was my dream, not his!
Gavin flitted his fingers at me. “Go on, Anna… I mean, Alice. Have your
little boring tea party.”
Every character seated around the table suddenly disappeared except for
Gavin and me. I’d willed them all away, but no matter how hard I wished for it
I couldn’t seem to make him
go.
“Great!” he exclaimed, rising from his seat. “Now we can have some real fun!”
He was all smiles, looking like a copy of the vanishing Cheshire cat. My
eyes burned with threatening tears, but I managed to hold them back. Gavin
jumped up on his chair, using it as a step to reach the table. He danced down
the middle of my imagined buffet, kicking up his heels and hopping about,
stomping and squishing plates filled with sweet cakes and tarts. His big hat
remained high on his head, one hand holding fast to the brim.
“Come on, Annabelle!” he called, waving me up with his free hand. “This
is fun!”
All I could do was watch. My beautifully dreamed tea party had turned
into a nightmare. Gavin twirled about in a swift, tight circle and lost his
balance. He tumbled backwards, landing with his hind end in a platter of cream
puffs. I couldn’t stand it anymore.
“You’ve ruined everything!” I sobbed. I willed my dream to an end and
all our surroundings disappeared. Everything but Gavin and his big hat.
I heard a sigh, or maybe it was a huff, before Gavin picked himself up
off the ground. He came over to stand in front of me, frowning. I could only
flicker a glance up at him occasionally, noting that his expression wasn’t
sorrowful, nor angry, but disappointed.
“You don’t belong in my dreams,” I sniveled. “I was dreaming of
Wonderland. You are not
part of Wonderland.”
A quick glance caught his frown moving to one side of his face. He
appeared to be contemplating my words.
“I belong in any dream I wish to be in,” he eventually told me. “I’m
the keykeeper. And this isn’t Wonderland anyway, it’s Dreamland.”
I scrunched my eyes and tilted my head, looking up to regard him
strongly. This didn’t make any sense at all. I pinched myself. Nothing. So this
was definitely a dream. I was surely sound asleep and dreaming, which meant
that he was a part of my fantasies—a figment of my imagination. But why was my
mind doing this to me? Why could I not envision that intriguing mad tea party
as I wished to? Or perhaps that’s exactly what I was doing… going mad at a tea party like
all the mad and crazy characters in the book. Maybe my imagination had taken it
a little too far.
“I’m sorry I ruined your tea party.”
I focused on Gavin again. His lips were puckered, pulling down at the
sides. He looked sincere… and funny.
“I just wanted to dream of Alice and Wonderland, that’s all,” I said. “I
happen to like the story.”
Gavin turned his head to look at my mental void. He waved his hand, and
the forest reappeared all around us. We stood facing each other in the middle
of a sunken, open area of grass.
“So, what else happens in Alice’s story?” he asked.
“Um…” My shoulder involuntarily lifted. “I haven’t read past the tea
party yet. That’s as far into the book as I’ve gotten.” I stuck a finger in his
face before Gavin could comment, making his eyebrows perk behind a curtain of
curly bangs.
“I did read about how Alice was trying to find her way into a garden,
but she wasn’t able to get there right away because she was too big to fit
through the doorway, and then she was too small to get the huge key to open the
door, and then she was too big again when she’d finally recovered the key, and
then a bunch of animals came and other things happened that I suppose were
distractions, but she did meet this wise, blue caterpillar who told her to eat
from both sides of a mushroom so she could grow bigger or smaller until she
finally got to the right size.”
I stopped to breathe.
“So can she fit through the doorway to the garden now?”
I shrugged. “Yes, I think so.”
“Did she step through it?”
“Well, no, not yet. They were right in the middle of a mad tea party.”
“Oh.”
“It’s not boring,” I insisted, reading the look on his face. I was
grateful when he didn’t challenge me.
I felt his fingers slip in between mine as he took my hand before
announcing, “Well, come on and we’ll go see this garden ourselves. Who needs
Alice or that goofy Hatter?” He shed his big hat and tossed it to the wind.
I kept with his determined pace as he pulled me along, headed for the
surrounding tree line. A mess of thick, brown curls bounced around his face
with each eager step. He looked sideways at me and smiled.
I smiled back.
We slowed near the edge of birch trees. My mouth gaped when Gavin
guided me around a bush, stopping before the most beautiful garden I’d ever
laid eyes on.
Flowers of all varieties spread endlessly in every direction, the
colors more vibrant than any rainbow. I let go of Gavin’s hand and reached for
a soft pink rose. My palms cupped around the open bud. It was huge! The petals
draped over my fingers like sheets of dusted silk. My nose naturally moved in
to take a whiff. It smelled like fresh-baked strawberry cupcakes.
“Wow,” I breathed.
“Do you like it?” Gavin asked.
“Oh yes,” I answered truthfully.
“Good!” he chirped. “Now we can get to the fun part!”
My hands fell away from the pink rose and I felt my eyebrows slant. I
was seriously concerned that he would start trampling through this beautiful
garden, stomping the flowers into the ground, once again spoiling everything.
“I don’t think I like your fun,” I said.
His smile wilted faster than a poisoned weed. “What do you mean?” he
asked. “I thought we had a great time the other day when we hiked to
Grandmother’s house. Remember how I let that big bad wolf eat me? That was
amazing fun!”
I recalled how he’d allowed himself to be eaten by a storybook wolf who
was dressed in a nightgown, waiting in Grandmother’s bed for Red Riding Hood. Gavin
had laughed the entire time as he was swallowed whole, head first. His
amusement had echoed up from inside the wolf’s stomach. I’d turned my eyes away
in horror.
“I don’t want to spoil the garden,” I told him.
“Spoil it?” he repeated, screwing up his face. “You’re so strange. We’re
not going to spoil it, we’re going to make it better!” His smile instantly
returned. “Come on, Annabelle, you’ll see.”
Once again my hand was snatched up, and he dragged me behind him
through a congestion of flowers that stood up to my waist. We stopped dead
center amidst a circle of pink roses.
“Imagine them any way you want them to be,” Gavin instructed. “Then
wave your hand.”
“Wave my hand?”
“Yes,” he nodded, “like a magician. You can even use magic words if you
want to.” He immediately demonstrated, turning to a mass of yellow daffodils
beside the pink roses. He waved his hand and shouted, “Butterkin Flybertix!”
I watched the droopy, yellow petals rise like the sunset and fold up in
the center. Then they slowly fell open again before rising and flittering
closed. A smile spread across my face as I realized the flowers were flapping
their wings. Soon the stems began to stretch and pull as if they wanted to fly
away but couldn’t, rooted to the ground as they were.
“Oh my!” I gasped.
Gavin nodded proudly. “Now it’s your turn.”
I glanced uncertainly at him. “How?”
“Make up a magic word and wave your hand.”
“Okay.” I thought for a second, then waved my hand over the pink roses.
“Spotterdottipus!” I giggled at my own silly word.
“Not bad,” Gavin said, observing how an infestation of colorful polka
dots was popping up on every petal of pink. I’d never seen anything like it,
not in any storybook.
Gavin took my hand and pulled me through the polka-dotted roses, past
the fluttering daffodils, and into a stretch of bright-orange, freckled lilies.
Five long petals came to a curved point on each stem.
Lifting both arms over his head, he cried, “Grimdraggon Slobberchomp!” His
hands fell down abruptly and washed to either side.
At once, the lily petals transformed into orange dragon muzzles, more
scaly than freckled. Their jaws snapped at the sky, many of the heads leaning
in our direction. I squealed and cringed away from them, but my moves weren’t
fast enough. Lily petals fell against my cheek, my hair, and the tips of my
fingers. I was certain to be bitten by such fierce-looking flowers, until it
registered that the sensation on my cheek wasn’t painful at all, but more like
the wet, rough texture of a kitten’s tongue. I looked at my fingers to find
dragon lilies licking at the padded flesh. Gavin’s laughter hit the air before
my own as we were playfully attacked by the slobbery licks of dozens of lily
tongues.
My dream continued like this—Gavin and I taking turns making up
ridiculous, meaningless magic words while transforming the sea of flowers into
a truly mad Wonderland. When we’d finished gardening, a table for two
materialized in the middle of it all, set up for tea and cake. Gavin’s big hat
appeared at his feet. He never did put it on throughout our entire private tea
party.
