Rayna Larson and The Kingdom of Petunia

By Sharon Vernon-Crawford

Introducing Rayna Larson and The Kingdom of Petunia Book 1. A contemporary middle-grade fantasy fairytale book for children aged 8 and above. Packed with colorful imagery and a sprinkling of whimsy it explores modern themes in a dual reality. Secrets, adventure, myths and enchantments intertwine in this spellbinding tale of a young girl,

• Language: English
• Publisher: Redpetuniallp
• Release date: Aug 19, 2022
• ISBN: 9798218047306

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Copyright © 2022 by Sharon Elizabeth Vernon-Crawford

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems without permission in writing from the author, except by reviewers, who may quote

brief passages in a review.

Edited by Pam Elise Harris and Carrie Jones

Cover design by Candice Broersma

Page layout design by Steve Mead Graphic Design

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ISBN 979-8-218-00132-2 (paperback)

In memory of my parents Noel and Enid Vernon

The greatest mind and the sweetest heart

I see the cardinals every day, you are here.

To my husband Paul who always believed my fairytales would come true

Chapter 1

 Rayna Larson

The metallic whine of a lawnmower exploded as I sat up with a jolt. What day was it? Monday? No. Saturday. I got out of bed and checked my phone. A message from Amaliza. My stomach grumbled, and my back was sore. It happened more frequently now, the weird sensation, there in the center. The house was empty. I made cereal with extra honey and took my bowl up to my room. My back tingled. I sat on the edge of the bed and glanced out the window. Should I tell Amaliza the truth? It all started last summer. That last day of school marked the end of my old life. I remember that last ordinary day.

* * *

Two moist fingers roughly pried my left eyelid apart. Opn I! Opn ur I, came the squeaky, nagging voice of my baby sister. Her face mere inches from mine, crinkled in a toothy grin.

I pushed her hand away. I’m up! I’m up! Stop! You’re gonna take my eye out! Literally! Gosh, I need my own room! I am afraid to ask why your fingers are wet. Yuck! Aargh!

Tina hopped from my bed and quickly ran downstairs, giggling excitedly. Ray op! Ray op!

I quickly got dressed, wearing my usual jeans and T-shirt, preferring comfort over fashion. I had no interest in makeup tutorials on YouTube nor did I follow fashion bloggers. At twelve going on thirteen, some girls my age had regular eye brow waxing and nail extensions. I was perfectly comfortable with my hair pulled back in a ponytail, my wire-framed glasses (a necessary accessory, not a fashion statement), my requisite jeans, T-shirts, and sneakers. My only adornment and nod to the fashionistas was a pair of tiny stud earrings. I had no hand in that decision as my mother had my ears pierced when I was a baby, younger than my two-year-old sister Tina is now.

It was oppressively hot on the school bus that morning. Warm humid air wafted sluggishly through the open windows. I took my regular seat next to my best friend, Amaliza. We have been friends since kindergarten. Two peas in a pod, sisters from another mother, kindred spirits, we loved and hated the same things, laughed at the same corny jokes, and at times finished each other’s sentences. As true besties, we supported each other in every situation. Amaliza stuttered badly when she was younger. There was one boy in particular, Luca Dalmont, that teased her incessantly. He mimicked her speech emphasizing every repeated syllable. Some of the kids laughed, but I always defended her against his taunts. Her speech has improved. Now, she only stutters if she’s angry, and that’s almost never. It was good to have her at school. She was my buffer from the hurtful words of others. It was us against the world, the rebel nonconformists. We were both brimming with excitement anticipating the long summer days ahead.

Amaliza pulled her buds from her ears. Hey, Rayna, what’s up? Did you see what Kyra wrote? That was obviously aimed at us. It was so stupid. I am so glad we won’t see her for eight long weeks.

I saw it and choose to ignore it. You’re right. The entire thing was stupid. If we respond, it’ll only make it worse. Let’s focus on our long summer vacation. I don’t want to talk about them anymore because all that does is give them power. Listen, I’m getting an upgraded bow for archery this summer. My last bow broke during practice. I’m so excited about the competition at camp. This is a new group of competitors. There is even someone from Japan! International challenge, I said, deftly changing the subject.

I’m sure you will win this time after all the practice you’ve done. Wish I could be there to see you, Amaliza replied, passing me a stick of gum.

Those online comments and word of mouth bullying had been going on for some time. Amaliza and I were considered different because we genuinely loved academics and the arts. We were members of the chess club and archery team. We were labeled ugly because we did not wear makeup or trendy clothes. We were the original geeks, nerds, and dorks of our time. I had been friends with many of these kids since kindergarten. Some of our parents were friends as well. We went to each other’s birthday parties and played together. Last semester Kyra asked for help with a paper that I eventually wrote. I felt terrible after and vowed never to do it again. Shortly after that, we had a test coming up and Kyra asked for help with the answers. That time I refused. Kyra stopped talking to me, and later came the harsh comments on social media. Kids that I considered friends followed Kyra’s lead. Pretty soon, my circle of friends shrunk. The kids picked on Amaliza now because we are friends. Guilty by association, I guess. We continued our bus ride, talking about our summer plans. Amaliza had several trips to visit her parent’s extended family. I was going to camp in a few weeks. We chose this particular sleepaway camp because it offered chess and archery. Hickory Farms was my first trip away from home. I had been to day camps in the past; however, this was different. I was nervous and excited simultaneously.

We arrived at school to an immensely reduced student population. Many of the kids had begun their summer vacations early. My homeroom class was down to a third in attendance. Our teacher, Ms. Marshall, brought in homemade fruit pops for the faithful. We had no structured lesson procedure to follow. Our teacher encouraged us to talk about our plans for the summer. Ms. Marshall was a free spirit. A humanitarian, she planned to volunteer in Africa over the summer break. She challenged us to find something that we were passionate about that made us exceedingly happy. We were to journal about it over the summer vacation then write a report. The object was to demonstrate how we made a difference in our lives or the lives of others. The report would be assessed to determine the winner. The first-prize recipient would have their report published in the local newspaper and featured at the local library and literary club. A few of the kids were annoyed with the assignment, responding to it with a collective groan, but as for me, I was thrilled. I loved writing to explore my inner world. I admired Ms. Marshall, and I wished to emulate her. She was never condescending even when our answers were wrong. She changed a negative into a positive by challenging us to dig deeper.

The first time I met Ms. Marshall, she entered the classroom and placed her laptop on the desk then stood silently as the class continued to talk at the top of their lungs. After a while the roar grew quiet, broken only by the occasional muffled voice floating in from the corridor. All eyes gazed upon the slight woman dressed in gray with her hair pulled back, and her wire-framed glasses magnified deep round eyes. The silence went on and on. The clock ticked on the wall. Someone’s phone beeped, a pen dropped, paper rustled, a sigh, a cough, and an uneasy giggle. Still, she said nothing, not even an introduction. I scrutinized my classmates, and blank eyes met my own. We were puzzled by her behavior.

Finally, moments before the end of class she spoke, I want you to write a five-hundred-word essay about your experience this morning, your thoughts good or bad. By the way, I am Ms. Marshall.

We soon learned that she was different from the other teachers in the best way. Ms. Marshall encouraged us to speak out, have a voice, an opinion, and to be creative individuals. She made school a little more interesting.

The remainder of the day dragged on uneventfully until the last bell rang. It was finally time to go home, an eight-week respite far from the maddening crowd. We were giddy. It was that feeling you get on Christmas morning waiting to open your gifts. No school for eight magnificent weeks, no teasing, no snide remarks, and in two weeks I had summer camp.

We scrambled on the bus, screaming, laughing, and being boisterous. I walked toward my usual seat next to Amaliza. Kyra glanced up from her phone nudging Trisha Clarke with her elbow. I held my head high when suddenly I tripped on something. As I tumbled to the floor, the sound of raucous laughter erupted. I sprang up, embarrassed but defiant. That was no accident. I said nothing and took my seat next to Amaliza.

How can you be blind with four eyes? snickered Kyra loudly. Laughter exploded once more.

Mr. D., the bus driver walked to where we sat. He pushed his glasses up his nose and rocked back and forth on his heels, What’s going on back here? Rayna, are you awright? Mr. D., spoke with a thick Caribbean accent.

The D stood for Dungworth. I heard from someone that he complained to the transportation office about the constant dung jokes the kids made about his name. They gave him permission to be officially called Mr. D. Imagine having to deal with the name Dungworth as a kid. I think it made him more sensitive and kinder. In my head, Mr. D was my guardian angel.

Everything is okay, Mr. D. I just tripped, I answered quickly.

He scanned the faces of the kids and stopped on Kyra. Without saying another word, he walked back to his seat and started the bus.

When we got to my stop I paused momentarily at the door. Mr. D., Thank you.

He adjusted his glasses. Ms. Rayna, have a good summer. And good luck with your archery, he chuckled as the door closed.

That was weird, I never talked to him about archery. I wanted to ask him how he knew, but the bus had started to drive away.

We lived in a two-story house on a quiet tree-lined cul-de-sac in the suburbs. My father, Gary Larson, always said we had the best lot in our subdivision. It was either sheer luck or his great negotiating skills that sealed the deal. The house was originally out of their price range, but the real estate agent insisted that they see it. They loved the house, but couldn’t afford it. Unexpectedly the seller dropped the price, and my parents bought the house. The agent told my dad, The house was meant for you. Our house was at the tail end of the cul-de-sac far enough from the neighbors to provide privacy. The backyard led into untouched protected land owned by the township. A curtain of large oak trees towered behind us. My mother, Larissa Larson, enjoyed the outdoors. She was an avid gardener and created an enviable outdoor oasis. It was a sanctuary for birds, butterflies, squirrels, and bees, filled with native plants, flowering bushes and shrubs.

There was a vegetable patch visible from the kitchen window. It was filled with tomatoes, squash, herbs, beans, and strawberries. Colorful wind spinners, plastic birds on stakes, and wind chimes scared off the rabbits, deer, gophers, and birds. The flower beds were an explosion of color. Bees dutifully visited each blossom and inadvertently transported pollen from one flower to another. There was a dedicated play area for Tina and me. A green and yellow swing set with an attached slide and playhouse sat at the right of the stone pathway. Thick rubber mats padded the ground beneath the swing set. Along the paved pathway toward the back of the yard was a medium-sized gazebo. The smell of lavender perfumed the air as a large cluster of the fragrant bush grew along the path.

Toward the boundary of our property were the rose bushes. The thick web of tangled branches created an endless labyrinth. These were no ordinary rose bushes. The imposing wall of intense greenery reached almost seven feet high. Velvety crimson red roses and sharp, hooked thorns covered the dense briar. When I was much younger, the rose bushes served as a marker for the end of the yard, a place of no return, the forbidden zone. Although the flowers were brilliantly beautiful, there was something ominous about the bushes. I rarely went back there. I would only be brave enough to if my ball accidentally rolled into that area. When that happened, I never went searching alone. I enlisted the assistance of my mother or father. Once my sister Tina wandered there while Mom was working in her vegetable garden. Amaliza and I were hanging out at the swing when we heard giggling and cooing as if Tina were talking to someone. We were startled by the sound and ran over. We found Tina standing near the thicket while giggling and pointing to the rose bushes.

What is it, Tina? I asked.

I knew it was a rhetorical question. At two years old, she couldn’t give us any detailed information. She continued to giggle and point. Amaliza and I searched the bushes. The only thing we saw was the thick, shiny, green leaves and crimson flowers. We never saw what held her attention, but I had a peculiar sensation. It was comparable to being observed by unseen eyes. Later, I mentioned it to Mom who quickly dismissed it as childish imagination. Still, imagination or not, I always kept my distance.

That evening after school, I was exhausted from the heat of the day. After taking a long shower, I stayed in my room writing. My hair glistened in dark brown, tight curly ringlets as the water dripped on the towel draped on my shoulders. I squinted at the mirror, unable to see my reflection. Instinctively, I reached for my glasses.

I was in denial at first until I undoubtedly saw a telltale sign of puberty erupting on my face, a pimple! It was happening along with the other subtle changes that I couldn’t control. I was growing up whether I wanted to or not. I was conflicted. I was afraid of changing into someone else, into the type of person who was shallow or self-absorbed. I wanted to remain who I was. I had seen some of my friends change. We were friends since kindergarten, and lately, it seemed that we’d become mortal enemies.

I sat in bed nestled in my comfy robe and began to record my thoughts. I loved to write, especially about the events of the day and the challenges I faced.

Ray! Ray!

Bang! Bang! Crash! Crash! Boom!

Tina. She could be so annoying at times, most notably when I needed to be alone. I loved my sister, but she didn’t have an off switch. If we started a game, she hounded me continuously. It could last from morning to bedtime.

Mom, it’s Tina again. Can you get your baby, please? I’m writing. She always gets into my stuff. This is why I need my own room. Sharing a room with a baby is not working for me, I said in frustration.

I had no idea why I couldn’t have my own room. We had three bedrooms. One was a dedicated guest room, then my parent’s room. There was an office on the first floor, which left Tina and me sharing a room. Imagine a twelve-year-old sharing a room with a baby. It had disaster written all over it. My father had plans to renovate the basement and attic. Somewhere in