Wonder Made

Eighteen, Part Two

All seventeen years of her life, no gaps, no blanks or long stretches of nothingness. She witnessed the birth of her aversion to microwaves as it happened; on a spring afternoon, when the machine had whispered to her how fun it would be to give a spoon a ride inside itself. Sparks whizzed from the spoon within seconds of the microwave plate spinning and she could have sworn, she heard the metallic abomination cackle as her younger self huddled under the kitchen table and sobbed.

Forgotten days spent at the park, swinging, sliding, scraping knees, and having a father to run toward, whose arms could be counted on to be wide and ready to receive her tired, sore body, flashed before her in perfectly rendered hi-def. She smelled the cut grass, her father's aftershave.

Dandelion seeds tickled her nose as they rose upward into the sky, wood chips pressing into her knees. She heard herself giggle, her father's 'I love yous' lavished upon her with reckless abandon. The slick of metal ran down her legs as she rode the slippy slide, breeze whipping her face flush.

The scene changed to those of the night, when she and her father sought retreat from the long hard days and harsh Oak sun. Where they'd laid out on the back lawn, grass tickling their skin, prodding them through their clothes, humidity causing them to glisten with sweat, as they stared up at the stars. Peneloper had never felt more loved than at those times, beside her father, the world so shiny and safe and wondrous.

She played beside a younger Crispen next, whose waxen complexion had been sun-kissed, sweat freely running down his nose and chin, all smiles and ease. He did magic, and she did magic, levitating toys, even levitating herself when Mr. McNickel's cat, Thornbush, got stuck in their oak tree. She watched as herself got stuck alongside Thornbush, her magic unstable at the time, the cat abandoning her moments later after realizing the height was nothing to a creature who always landed on its feet. Peneloper's father had to rescue her. Afterwards, he stoppered her sobs with a cone of mint chocolate chip.

Night scenes alone and in her bed, carried whispers to her ears. Of a boy's voice, small and trembling, alone. The urge to help, coupled with a curiosity that couldn't be compelled into submission, ballooned inside her. The connection between them, forged not long after. Countless encounters in a landscape of frigid night danced before her on the backs of smoke. Of her and the boy huddled together, her telling him stories and him listening with clear eyes and a saddened expression. He resembled Crispen; she'd forgotten that, how unusually similar they'd been, though Gideon lacked Crispen's lightness and levity. The boy a yang at war with Crispen's ying.

Together, Peneloper and Gideon caught the stars and he canned them in mason jars to preserve them for her longer. So much of what he'd done had been for her, to repay her for her kindness. She'd asked what kindness, because she hadn't seen any at the time and he'd replied, "You're here with me. And that's enough."

She told him to call her Nep and he did so sheepishly and unsure, a tremor running through his voice. She felt her heart experience its first flutter, a first blush staining her cheeks. Friendship found in the dark, made to weather whatever came next.

She'd written about him in a notebook, the same one she'd receive from her dad years later. Several pages filled with her lopsided chicken scratch told of her and Gideon's encounters.

Gideon and I gave chase to the stars.

Gideon leaned on me, being alone gets to him.

He's got the prettiest eyes - clear. Gideon says they're ugly and empty. I told him they could be anything.

I told Gideon about the microwave. Gideon avows - his word, not mine - to hex them. Awful doodads - my word, not his - he says. I promised not to listen to one ever again.