Ladybug In the Grass

The boy sat cross-legged in the thick grass, green juice staining his white sneakers. In his lap lay a heavy book bound in leather of unknown animal origin, the pages thick with texture, the handwritten text a bit shaky, written long ago with quill and ink by ancient hand. The summer breeze lifted the paper edges and the boy’s fine, dark hair. He squinted in the afternoon sun.

A slender girl walked up, barefoot.

“Hey, Kyle. What’re you doing?”

“None of your beeswax, Stinkface,” Kyle said, scowling. He leaned over, shielding his book with his arms.

“Dang. You’re mean.” Melody’s smile faded, and she fiddled with the hem of her play skirt. She edged closer. “Is that a book?”

“What’s it look like?” Kyle shook his head. “You sure are dumb.”

“What’s it say? Read me a story?”

Kyle snorted, rolling his eyes. “No way.”

Melody crouched, her skirt riding to her thighs as she peered at the sprawling text. She knew some words, like tree, and kitten. Maybe, if she could get close enough . . .

“Look, this is a secret. Buzz off, would you?” Kyle pulled the book closed, keeping his finger tucked to the page he’d been examining. He waved his hand at her, as if brushing away a fly.

She squatted for a moment, quiet, picking at the scab on her knee. When Kyle ignored her, she slid to sitting next to him and plucked at the grass. She saw a ladybug beetling its way up a thick blade, and gasped.

“Look, a ladybug!” She pointed, careful not to touch it.

Kyle sat reading, mouthing the words, a frown of concentration across his brow. I conjure thee, thou Spirit Bebal, by these Unholy Names . . . by all other awesome and terrifying, unholy and unspeakable . . . that you attend unto the words of my mouth, and send unto . . . who may show me such things as I shall demand of him in the Name of the Fallen, and . . .

He skipped ahead to the list of ingredients, and mused, glancing at the girl beside him.

“Hey, Mel,” Kyle said. “You’re about the size of a virgin goat, aren’t you?”