Lizards and Dragons

By Lynne Pleau

The seventh time I’m reborn, I have long purple hair and a dragon tattoo wrapped around my left hand. Or maybe it’s a lizard. Personally, I prefer dragons. They spit fire, but at least they’re straightforward about it. Unlike sneaky lizards with that tongue thing. I’m not a squeamish girl, but ech.

I look around to get my bearings. Empty school hallway. Classes are in session—I hear trumpets practicing a few doors down. This place feels familiar.

I shift the books I’m holding and lift the school ID hanging from my neck to see who I am.

Allison Fairchild. Mountain View High.

My head snaps up. Yup. My old school. I’m in the band wing. Principal’s office to the left—know it well. Cafeteria to the right.

But why Allison? Clean cut as newly shorn grass, what could she have gotten into—in what, three semesters—that I had to be sent in? Then I think about the tattoo. And the hair. Dread snakes over me as one name comes to mind.

Before I can think this through, the bell rings. Doors bang open. Students flood into the hallway, the noise deafening after the quiet.

The crowd jostles me until I decide to go with the flow toward the cafeteria. The flow, though, is bumpier than expected. I am elbowed from the left. “Nice going, psychopath.” Huh? Someone else slams into me from behind. The books fly out of my arms. “Won’t be needing those in jail, loser.” Laughter erupts around me. What is going on?

I bend down to pick up the books and am in mid-reach when a silver-studded black boot kicks the nearest book across the hall.

“Yo. Ali.”

I freeze. Spike Bouchette.

I clench my dragon-wrapped fist and silence the war of emotions within me. I’ve learned a thing or two in the past six lives. Like this time, I get to be in control. I draw in a deep breath and let it out like a sigh. Only after I’ve collected the books do I stand and face him, my best glare in place. I know Spike’s not expecting Allison to stare him down, because his smile falters.

“Come on Ali-cums,” he wheedles. “You’re mad at me still? I swear it was just one kiss.” Spike’s s’s slither over his tongue ring with a hiss.

“Why is everyone pushing me, Spike?”

I don’t miss the smile that slides across his lips. “You shouldn’t have left your purple hair behind when you axed the gym floor, Al.”

I narrow my eyes.

“Don’t worry,” says Spike. “First offense is a cakewalk.”

My mind races as I turn and follow the crowd toward the cafeteria knowing Spike will follow. There’s no way Allison Fairchild did that, I don’t care how much she’s changed. But I can guess who did. Now how do I prove it? And fast? Allison’s future depends upon it. I know.

By the time I reach the cafeteria’s doorway, I have a plan. I scan the tables for someone I can trust, someone strong who won’t be thrown off by the purple hair and the tattoo. Someone like… Henri. Smart and athletic, cool, but not in your face, Henri sits alone and reading by a window. My tension whooshes out at the sight of him, and I realize I’ve been thinking about him lately.

I glance back and see Spike loitering in the hall as I walk toward Henri.

“Mind if I sit?” I slap down my books and plop into the seat next to him. He looks up from his reading and studies me—like we’re playing a game of chess, and he’s waiting for me to make the next move.

I lean toward him and whisper, “Allison didn’t do it, you know.” He merely raises an eyebrow, not a hint of fear or judgment. Perfect.

I giggle. It sounds strange, coming from me.

“Ali!” Spike.

Henri tenses. I lay a hand on his arm. I’m counting on his chivalry, but not just yet.

“Come with me,” demands Spike. “Now!”

“Why?” I’m pulling out the tension like taffy. “Want some more of my hair, so you can frame me for something else, Bou-chette.” I say it like a swear. Spike’s eyes flash. He recovers, hiding the anger behind his usual cocky expression, but I can tell his short fuse is ready to blow. I tip my head onto Henri’s shoulder, counting off the seconds. I have to give Henri credit. He’s too smart not to know he’s being set-up. He must be curious to see where this is going.

“You’re not wanted here anymore, Spik-ee,” I say, with the sweetest smile I can dredge up.

Spike launches across the table at me like a missile, but Henri anticipates him, grabbing him in a headlock.

“You little ss-slut!” yells Spike.

I flinch, even though he’s not talking about me.

Spike mimics Allison as he struggles against Henri. “Sure, Spike, I’ll dye my hair purple if that’s what you want. You were such an easy setup.”

“Mr. Bouchette.”

Spike stops struggling. The principal stands behind him, flanked by two policemen. I breathe deep and let it go in a slow, controlled release.

As they cuff Spike and lead him away, I tell Henri, “I think we just saved Allison’s life.”

“Do you always talk about yourself in the third person?”

I reach up and hug him—hard. Like I never want to let go. I wish I’d done this the first time around. It’s a gift I can leave for Allison. I just hope she has enough sense to open it. I hold on while I wait to be rebirthed.

Then, over Henri’s shoulder, I see myself across the room. The me I used to be, before Spike. I look happy. Whoever took over my life cleaned me up well. I smile and close my eyes.

When I open them, I’m still here.

But I think Allison is gone.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Lynne Pleau has published more than a half-dozen flash fiction pieces in publications like Havok, Spark, Splickety, and War Cry Magazine. She is a three-time flash fiction award finalist.

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