December 1950
Frankie’s mom was in a hurry. She wore her Sunday clothes — black lace mantilla, shiny high heels, the whole works — even though anyone could see she couldn’t run for a bus in those shoes. Maybe it was because today was the day his dad had died. Frankie wasn’t sure, but it felt like a church day.
He shoved the last of his eggs into his mouth just as Mom kissed his cheek and clopped out the screen door, waving at the bus.
“Love you!”
“Love you too,” he said, already reaching for the plates. Mum cooked; he cleaned. That was the deal.
While rinsing the dishes, Frankie got an idea. He’d go see Dad. Dad would know what to do about Lizzy Cooley.
Frankie pushed his bicycle uphill beside the hedge, listening to the creek gossiping toward the lagoon. He tried to catch the meaning in the water’s chatter. If you listened long enough, he thought, the babble might line up into real words.
A thrush added its two cents from a fencepost. Sunshine warmed his face. At the top of the hill stood the old stone church and graveyard, quiet as a held breath.
He leaned his bike against the wall and took the hand trimmers from his handlebar bag. The grass was wet but shining in the sun. Two small American flags fluttered at his father’s military headstone.
“I’m here by myself today, Dad,” he said. “I’m ditching school. Mum would kill me, but this is important.”
He trimmed carefully, making neat little piles of grass.
“Inky brought a dead rat to school yesterday. Dry as chalk, even the tail. Sister grabbed it right out of his lunchbox and marched us to detention. He wanted to trade it for my jack-knife. No way.”
Frankie glanced around to be sure nobody was listening.
“There’s this girl — Lizzy Cooley. Long red braids. Braces. She smiled at me when I was going to detention. Made my stomach feel like a soda bottle you shook too hard.”
A breeze stirred the flags and brushed his cheek.
“I don’t get girls, Dad. What do they even want? Should I show her the rat? Maybe she’d think it’s funny.”
He laughed, half hopeful, half terrified.
“Wish me luck, okay? I’ll tell you everything next time.”
Frankie crossed himself and headed for the gate, looking back once. The breeze followed him, soft and steady.
In the shade of the colonnade, Marie watched unseen, a small bouquet of wildflowers hanging at her side. The boy looked so much like Francis it hurt. She smiled anyway and crossed herself as he rode away.
The lane sloped downhill, and Frankie stood tall on the pedals. Wind flapped his jacket. In his mind the bicycle became a jet, then a dragon. He and his dragon would flame the school — but only at lunchtime when nobody was there, because dragons had rules.
For one strange moment the world went silent. The creek’s voice returned, almost clear, almost saying Lizzy Cooley’s name.
Then it dissolved into giggles and splashing nonsense. Fairies, Frankie decided, were practical jokers.
After school, Mum set two warm oatmeal cookies and a glass of milk in front of him. She kept her back turned at the counter.
“You didn’t go straight to school this morning, did you, Francis?”
Frankie froze. He never lied to Mum. “No. I went to talk to Dad.”
She nodded slowly. “I need to know where you are. I’ll have to write a note to school.”
“I know. I’m sorry. It was important.”
“About what?”
“Guy stuff,” he muttered. “Thinking stuff.”
“Maybe you should talk with Father Dugan.”
Frankie made a face. “Priests don’t know about girls.”
Marie hid a smile. Life had taught her otherwise.
“You talk with him anyway,” she said. “And next time you want to visit your dad, you tell me first.”
“Okay.”
He scratched his head, chewing the edge of a cookie.
“Mom… did the little bird who told you about school say anything about Lizzy Cooley?”
Marie turned then, finally facing him. For a second she looked as though she might answer — really answer — but instead she just raised an eyebrow.
“The bird,” she said, “thinks Lizzy Cooley is trouble.”
Frankie grinned despite himself.
“Well,” he said, reaching for the second cookie, “so are dragons.”
