scratches her on accident. If Abby or I are scratched by Jasper, it is decidedly on purpose. We think it is because when Abby was four (a baby, really) she used to pull his tail. Laurie is bringing us a snack on Abby’s back deck when she first sees something. She asks, “Meg, have you ever seen anything by that tree in the back of your yard?” I don’t know what I say, but I am probably thinking about how, finally! Fairies live in our tree and magic is revealed as real. Laurie disappears inside, and Abby and I whisper excitedly about the possibilities. Any desired outcome is a secret—it’s a fact well known to this day that adults are assholes about magic. I don’t know the word asshole yet, though Abby sometimes teaches me curse words that she picks up from her dad. I just know that when you tell adults about fairies, their mouths look like they’re laughing at you even when their words seem like they’re being serious. If we could tell Laurie our belief in the fairies, we would ask her everything. I in particular want to know what pastel color their hair is. Later that week, Laurie goes out to the hollow tree when it is dusk out and Abby and I have been sent inside for our baths. A feral and orange cat is living in it, and as she tries to reach out her arms, to save it, it lashes out at her. I’m not supposed to know about how scary it was, but I overhear her talking. In my next bath, I think about it: I was sinking my seaweed hair underwater while she confronted the danger that lived in my own backyard. In my dreams later, I see it jump at her face. Sometimes I selfishly wish her brush of danger had been mine. I think, like I think often: I would’ve done that differently. I would’ve been better. Maybe if it had been me, I could’ve protected the fairies. Or maybe if I had been me, the cat would’ve loved me. And then, look! A new pet! Laurie next appears in my life with a large bandage on her cheek, a small line on her eyelid swollen and pink. Abby and I are banned from the back of my yard, and the hollow tree and the dump beyond, in case the cat ate our fairies and now plans on giving us rabies for wanting to protect them. I don’t know if Animal Control is called, but I know that one day I stop worrying about the cat, so I now assume it was taken away. I hope it lived past that time—that Laurie loved cats enough to protect its life even if it didn’t grant her the same courtesy. With the house-tree taken away from us, Abby and I turn to other pastimes. We sling our stomachs over the chin-up bar and do flips backwards and forwards. Our feet hitting the ground clear a patch of dirt that flies up in a patch of dust every time we fall. We act out violent Bible stories, me as David and Abby as Goliath and then vice versa, taking turns being stunned by a slingshot-rock and having our head chopped off. David’s five smooth stones become wish-stones in my mind, and praying is like that—like wishing I was a fish. 11:11 counts as a prayer. An eyelash blown off my finger does, too. Abby shows me computer games like Webkinz and ToonTown and a fairy
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