• My father and that woman are fighting again, their shouts and adult words filling our small house as it sits innocently on its lot, sided by two alleyways, a faceless grey building of unknown origin, and a street simply known as “A.” They are fighting, and I seek shelter from the negative energy that has started to infiltrate my soul. Eyes glued to a movie on the television, my brothers, especially Max, don’t seem to notice it, but I know they hear it just as clearly as I do. I rise from my place between them, span the three feet to my escape, and close the front door behind me with a definitive snap, stilling the harsh sounds of Star Wars as they mix sickly with the ugly bickering; killing it as surely as a trap does a mouse.

    It is Friday afternoon, right after school and sometime before dinner; the early September air is filled with the buzz of cicadas. After a day of hunting ghosts with my friends, and passing a rigorous spelling test, I don’t want to listen to my dad argue with some woman I don’t even like. Sometimes I wonder if he remembers why he married her in the first place. I sure don’t, and the ceremony was only a year ago.

    The ground is hard, and our lawn, which we never water, has grown brown and prickly and stabs my bare feet as I stalk to the drive way. Every step is like a mile, the harsh, rattling energy from inside dissipates with each foot fall. As I make it across our dirt drive way, passing before the silver-blue Honda with one running leap, the hedgehog quill grass kisses my feet again, the sensitive flesh between my toes, and my heart slows to normal, no longer jumping with each punctuated word or crashing pot. In my haste to escape, I have left my shoes behind and soon all the stabbing and scratching of the lawn make the soles of my feet feel numb. My hair, waist length and bleached from three months of playing in the sun, waggles along behind me as I move quickly, my purple, be-flowered dress slipping over my legs like a tear caressing a cheek.

    My destination, sitting around the driveway and across the yard, stretches towards the sky, a savior from the heavens, branches with wide leaves spanning out from the many trunks below like the tentacles of an over-turned octopus. She is my guardian, my pillar of strength in times when all I wish is to keep walking, to never return to this place of hostility. As I come upon her, I reach out and touch the sweet peas nestled within her trunks, still holding the pink of flowers this late in the season. Later in the fall, they will be replaced by pods that pop open when dry, sending seeds flying in every direction.

    The tree itself is a work of art, everything a child of my age could hope for. Aside from the small bird feeder my step-mother has put up, she is a wild thing, all gnarled and loose, like the trees that grow in the forest we had gone camping in not a month before. Her green leaves make an artist’s contrast with the blue sky of the late summer, so brilliant in its own right. In the spring, she blooms, creating puff-balls of little white flowers that fall apart and drift to the ground like snow if you hit them, something I have been told countless times not to do. However, no matter the season or the weather, or how often I take a swing at her flowers, she is always a nest of comfort, and a thing of magic.

    I hear footsteps behind me and turn, already reaching for the stick, no, the sword that I have hidden within the tree, ready to confront whatever foe, or ally, may await me there. The robed figures of a royal council face me, the bushes that line the alley behind them slowly fading into the marble hall that bedecks all good stories. The lead member holds out a hand and smiles above a cropped beard of white, his regal eyes the color of gem stones.

    “What age be ye, fair maiden?” he asks me, softly, as the others nod. Age is a very important thing where heroes are involved, and obviously I have to pass their test.

    “Twelve!” I announce proudly, drawing myself up and holding my sword with all the power and dignity of a knight in shining armor. Armed with all my eight years of knowledge and wisdom, I know that all good adventures happen to twelve-year-olds, and I would only be a fool not to proclaim such a feat of years. Only big kids go on adventures.

    Then the dragon is coming around the shed, all fire and brimstone that burns the back of my throat and singes the tips of my hair, even as I turn to face the beast. My armor is heavy and hot, every move labored, and each swing of my sword and block of my shield is sapping what strength I have left after climbing through the caves. The stone walls are pressing in and the bones of previous fools and victims crunch under heavy boots. However, I know that I must keep moving; I must make it through to save the princess.

    The dragon is fast, faster than I, and soon he has forced me halfway to the ground, pinned between a stalagmite and his scaly, stinking bulk, my death a prize in his eyes. I’m helpless before his teeth and claws, sword knocked from my hands moments before, leaving me with nothing but my will and a shield. I know now that I may never walk away, wounded but alive!

    From the darkness of my fear, through sound of my own heartbeat, I hear the faint calling of my name. It is a beacon, and slows time as I turn to look back along the path I have traversed. It comes again and the yard returns like a rush, the cave mouth coming to meet me even in my moment of demise. It’s my father, standing on our small porch, searching me out from the safety of the doorway.

    I wave to catch his attention, to show him I’m here and safe from the clutches of nightmares and he cracks a smile, walking steadily towards me. I stow the stick again in the tree, so my brothers don’t find and break it, then move to meet him halfway. He puts his arm around my shoulders, tells me that dinner is ready, and I cast a glance back towards the lurking dragon cave. Even as it starts to fade like a dream from my mind, I am smiling up at my father, nodding and running ahead to get a good spot at the table. That dragon can wait a few more hours.