We had “the talk” when I was in third grade.
Mom was driving; we had packed up and left Albuquerque after four weeks, once again not long enough for me to make a real friend, but long enough to know what kids were like.
“You probably know you’re different,” was how Mom began things.
“Mhm.”
“I’ve told you many stories. You’re very clever.”
This was the kind of thing Mom was always telling me. That I was smart and that her stories were important. I didn’t doubt it. I loved her stories, and like any eight-year-old, I didn’t have many reasons to doubt my intelligence, at least not yet.
“But this story is especially important. Because it’s about you. I mean us.”
“Mhm.” I feigned coolness, but I was rapt with attention. I scrunched up my already long legs in the shotgun seat and leaned to the left to hear Mom a little better. As always, when she was telling me something important, her voice became slightly quieter.
“You’re a dragon.”
I knew this already, as well as I knew it was a secret. Mom had told me I was a dragon, not a human, so long ago that I could no longer remember. And she hadn’t just told me once, she’d told me again, and again, and again. So I knew more was coming.
“Mhm.”
“There will be changes in your body. Big changes.”
“Hmmm?”
“You’re going to grow wings, and claws, and you’re not going to become more boy or more girl. You’ll still be dragon, fully.”
I liked that; I liked that wherever I went, I could decide to be a boy or a girl, and then it was so. I didn’t know how Mom had become a woman, or if it was just that she’d decided to always be one. But I knew I was a dragon and that sex did not apply to me—that was a thing humans dealt with. Gender never needed to be a concern of mine.
The part that struck me was the wings part, and the claws part. It would be harder to fit in—even harder than it was already—if I had those. I didn’t know any human kids with wings or claws.
“Do I have to?” I asked.
“You don’t get to choose,” Mom said.
“Why?”
“Because.”
“Will my wings be small like yours? Or big like the ones in the stories?”
Mom frowned. “They’ll be bigger than mine.”
“Why do you have little wings?”
“Because.”
“Hmph.” I didn’t like because.
“And your claws will be bigger than mine too.”
“How will I keep them a secret?”
“You can cut them, like fingernails.”
“Okay.”
“And there’s hoodies you can get. That hide wings. You can fold them up. Just like me.”
“But yours are small.”
Again, Mom frowned. “I know. Let me get to the story.”
I had forgotten that a story had been promised. “Yes.”
Mom put on the indicator. We were getting off the highway. I didn’t know where we were. I didn’t know where we were going. I’d been desensitized to travel: it didn’t matter to me where we went, how long we stayed, or where or what the weather was or any of it.
All I did was listen to Mom’s story, and I always listened hard.
In a city without a name, there was a dragon without a face. He wasn’t liked by the other dragons, but only because he didn’t have a face. It was like his nose and his mouth were one. He didn’t have eyes. He navigated via smell—he had a really good sense of smell. But for a dragon, he was still clumsy. Dragons are graceful. This dragon was not.
But for what he lacked in grace, he made up for in kindness. He was the kind of dragon who did things for other dragons. He found flying easier than walking, like most dragons, but for him walking was such a struggle that flying seemed glorious. He would fly around and find things for other dragons, like things they had lost, or things which had been stolen from them. He would return these things to their rightful owners.
For this he was well-liked—no, he was essential to the dragon community. He was willing to go places other dragons would not dare. He had a sense of justice. Other dragons thought smilingly of him. They relied on him. They called upon him when they needed him, whether it was his grace in the sky or the grace in his heart.
But this dragon was not loved. And it was because he was hard to look at. It is hard to love someone whom it is hard to look at. Dragons would see him and want to look away. His voice was also hard to listen to, because it sounded strange to the dragons, closer to a human voice than a dragon voice. There was nothing the dragon could do about his voice.
The strange dragon released me, and we faced each other in the parking lot. I realized all of a sudden that the dragon facing me wasn’t old—in fact, we could be the same age. But the moment I had processed this information, I crossed into terror. Mom was gone. What could this dragon do to me—where was Mom—and were there others? Other dragons?
“It’s okay,” the dragon said. “I won’t hurt you.”
“But my mom!” I cried.
“It’s not up to me.”
“Then what are you here for?” I stepped back. The dragon just stared at me. “Why are we here?”
“I can’t tell you.” The look in their eyes seemed legitimately apologetic, but I didn’t know what to think. I wanted to hit something—break something—but we were just in this empty parking lot on this empty-feeling evening. And I knew that if it came to a fight, I wouldn’t win.
Instead I asked, “Do you have a name?”
The dragon smiled. Their expression was like a human smile, but somehow off. “Yes.”
I noticed a thin line of scales on their wrist, which were colored blue, black, and green—but from another angle, colored white like a long scar.
“Well?”
They glanced around as though we were being watched. “We should go inside.”
Inside Ruby, seated on the bench at our glued-in-place table, I asked the dragon to tell me more.
“I can’t.”
“Your name?”
“My name is Morv. And I know your name, Aeon.”
“I guess so.”
I wanted to ask why, and how, but I couldn’t look away from the dragon’s eyes. I just wanted to hear them say more—to tell me what was going on, and where my mother was.
“You must know something,” I tried, my tone as polite as I could make it.
“I’m only—only seventeen. I’m not supposed to tell you anything. I’ve only grown a few scales. I’m just doing what I’ve been told.”
“How? I mean, how did you grow scales?”
The dragon looked pitying but did not answer the question.
“Who’s listening to us?”
“No one.”
“Okay. So then why can’t you tell me what you know?”
“And.” The dragon crossed their arms. “I don’t like everything that’s been going on. That is. That brought me here.”
“But you can’t tell me what brought you here.”
“No.”
“Even though no one’s listening to us. Apparently.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because then I’d have to kill you,” Morv said apologetically.
“You’re only seventeen.”
“And you’re only thirteen.”
“How long are you going to be here? Because—” I hesitated. Would it be a lie to say I couldn’t live without Mom? “Because I can’t drive,”
I lied. “And this is, well, this is an RV.”
Morv bit their lip. “It’s nice.”
“It’s an RV.”
“I meant what I said. I’m staying—a while.”
“Why?”
“To watch you.”
“You’re seventeen.”
“You’re thirteen.”
“Yes, but why you?”
“Because I’m who they could spare.”
“And who are they?”
Morv crossed their arms again before immediately uncrossing them. “I—well. I guess I can tell you this much. But not yet.”
“Why not?”
They glanced out the window. I didn’t believe that we weren’t being listened to, or watched; a hunted look colored their eyes and yet there was only me, a silly little thirteen-year-old—well, a silly tall thirteen-year-old, but still a good four inches shorter than Morv.
“Let’s go,” they said.
I stood when Morv stood and we looked at each other.
“Am I short for a dragon?” I asked.
“You’re average.” Morv looked away.
“Where are we going?”
“To get dinner.”
“There’s a Taco Bell across the highway.”
Morv did not respond, and I stumbled after them out of the door, locking Ruby behind myself.
“Can you fly?” Morv asked me.
“No. Should—should I be able to?”
“It doesn’t matter. How do you go places? Other than driving. That wouldn’t be appropriate.”
“I bike,” I said.
“Hm.” Morv sounded skeptical.
“Do you know how to ride a bike?”
“No.”
“You should be able to. Come on. You’re seventeen.”
Under the streetlamps illuminating the parking lot, their face seemed somehow gaunt and young at the same time. They shrugged. “Okay.”
“Where are we going? We don’t need to bike to Taco Bell.”
“No. We’re going to have real dinner.”
“Panera Bread?”
“Dragon dinner.”
Morv looked far too serious. “Okay. And that is?” I asked.
“You’ve never had it before?”
“No.” I didn’t know whether to wear that fact like a badge of honor or a dunce cap. I tried to look a little taller and bigger than I was, but it was hard; not only was Morv taller than me, but they were wider, like they had a lot of muscles under their cloak. “So?”
“That explains why you’re—” Morv cut off.
“What?”
“Never mind.”
“Not able to fly?” I suggested, cheeks burning. That morning I hadn’t even known dragons could fly, apart from in stories. But stories were not always quite real.
“That kind of thing.”
“Then what do we do?”
“I’m not supposed to let you out of my sight,” Morv said.
“Says who?”
“Can we ride your bike at the same time?”
“I guess? If you can balance?”
Morv looked at me like there was no way I could be stupider. “I’m a dragon.”
Me too, though, and I can’t even do a balance beam for five seconds, I almost said, but I didn’t. I didn’t want to seem stupider. Even though I wasn’t the one who didn’t know how to ride a bike.
“Then come on.”