Page 24 of Mated to the Monster Under my Bed
Child me only stuck out her tongue at Marcy.
“They’re my crayons—don’t touch them again!”
The scene shifted like a page turning. I was a year older and gaptoothed. The tooth fairy had visited me the night before and I had a missing front tooth and a dollar in my piggy bank to prove it. I was back at school, but outside this time.
The playground smelled of asphalt baking in the sun and the peanutbutter and jelly sandwich I’d had for lunch and spilled on my shirt. Tommy McCree was teasing me, singing about how I looked like a jackolantern with my missing tooth. His laugh was mean and high, and he was pointing at me.
“Jack-o-lantern girl! Pumpkin head!”
The other kids joined in. I never seemed to fit in with them. I was different from the others somehow, though I didn’t understand why or how.
“Pumpkin head! Jack-o-lantern!” the taunting shouts rose in my ears, but Tommy McCree was shouting the loudest. He still had all his teeth—his buck-toothed grin was mocking me. Suddenly, I couldn’t stand it anymore!
“I wish you’d shut up!” child me shouted fiercely, pointing a finger at him. My cheeks burned with embarrassment and hatred. “I wish you knew how it felt to lose your teeth! Then you wouldn’t be so mean!”
Adult me whispered, Oh no, I remember this now…
The dream flickered, skipping a day. Suddenly, it was the next morning, and I was passing by the nurse’s office. Tommy’s mother was crying while the nurse examined him. Every single one of his baby teeth had come loose overnight and fallen out at once. He spoke with a wet lisp, gums pink and bare. They would grow back, the nurse said. He would just have to eat oatmeal and soup until they did.
His teeth did grow back, eventually, but still—he didn’t tease me again. In fact, he gave me a wide margin in the hallways and never came near me on the playground again. The other kids started avoiding me too. I was weird…strange. They didn’t know what was wrong with me any more than I did—they only knew they wanted to keep away.
Child me felt a thrill of satisfaction at the sight of Tommy’s empty gums…then a rush of guilt.
Adult me floated above, chilled.
I did that. Somehow, I made it happen.
But how?
Another shift in the dream, and the air smelled of autumn leaves and bus exhaust. I was walking to school with my crookedneck crow hopping at my side. His feathers were iridescent, oilslick black with hints of purple and green. He cocked his head at me and cawed softly. In his beak he held a shiny button—today’s gift.
I reached into my lunch sack and broke off a piece of pancake I’d saved from breakfast, warm and buttery, feeding it to him. We had an understanding, my crow and I. He had a crooked neck—his head permanently bent to one side—which made him look like he was always listening. I really felt like he could understand me.
I didn’t know why he liked me—one day he just flew down from the trees and started following me. When he didn’t try to peck me and I saw he just wanted to be friends, I started feeding him. Then he started bringing me presents…a shiny button…a ragged piece of Christmas tinsel…someone’s spare door key. Once he even brought me a ring. It was fake—cheap plastic, the kind you got out of a gumball machine—but I loved it anyway. I kept all my “crow treasures” in a box under my bed.
My crow and I walked along as usual—he always came with me to school and then walked me home again—until suddenly I heard a shout. Before I could even register what was happening, one of the older boys—Russ Baker, a sixth grader—swooped down and caught him.
“Look!” he shouted. “I got it! I got the witch girl’s crow!”
My crooked-neck crow flapped wildly, feathers flying, voicing his rusty “Caw! Caw-caw!”
“Let him go!” I screamed, my voice cracking. “He’s not hurting anyone—you let him go!”
I could feel my whole body tingling with anger. Something was building up inside me—something powerful that I couldn’t contain.
But before I could let it loose, I heard a horrible sound—a crack like twigs breaking. The crow went limp, his shiny feathers still and suddenly dull. I could almost see him leaving—a dark shadow winging its way skyward from the empty body.
I fell to my knees on the playground gravel, sobbing. The sting of my scraped knee…the bitter tang of dust in my mouth…the tears hot on my cheeks. I remembered it all so well.
I gathered the limp body, feathers already cooling, and ran to Grandma’s house.
“Please,” I begged her, “fix him. Please fix my crooked-neck crow, Grandma!”
A look of sorrow came into her faded blue eyes.
“Oh, sweetheart,” she murmured, stroking my hair. “I’m so sorry, but even magic can’t fix death.”
Later, we buried my crow in her garden, and I sobbed in her lap.
