Eve Archer: This is Not a Story about Murder

By A.P. Coiteux

You've been accused of murder.

 

Your only alibi ... is a dragon?

 

Falling asleep in math class (definitely not aware of you whatsoever) is Eve, a plucky introvert plotting to gain school notoriety and get over her inconvenient crush on the mean girl.

 

Lurking in clandestine dimensions (probab

• Language: English
• Publisher: TalonInk Inc.
• Release date: Sep 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9798218030018

Book preview

Eve Archer

This is Not a Story about Murder

A.P. Coiteux

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TalonInk, inc.

Copyright © 2022 by A.P. Coiteux

All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America by IngramSpark, published by Talonink, Inc.

No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, address Talonink, Inc.: www.taloninkinc.com

Library of Congress Control Number pending

ISBN 9798218029944 (hardcover) — ISBN 9798218036291 (trade)

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First Edition

Contents

Dedication

Preface

1. Memento mori

2. Sapere aude

3. Draco

4. Bono malum superate

5. Ad fontes

6. Per accidens

7. Persona non grata

8. Carpe diem

9. Ars gratia artis

10. Mea culpa

11. Lupus in fabula

12. Iter facere

13. Familia secreta

14. Iter ultra

15. Spherae

16. Crustum

17. Accidentia

18. Memento vivere

19. Castigat ridendo mores

20. Ad librum

21. Facere album

22. Alea iacta est

23. Noctuam

24. Legatum

25. Sine qua non

26. Invenir pater

27. Abiit

28. Inconsolabilis

29. Semper anticus

30. Novis saxa

31. Disciplina

32. Novis amicis

33. Imperfecta liberandum

34. Introspectio

35. Suspensus

36. Cui bono

37. Malum in se

38. Me dolet

39. Varia Lectio

40. Nitimur in vetitum

41. Movens subsisto

42. Incommoditas

43. Audentes fortuna iuvat

44. Sanguis

45. Satis mortem

46. Coma

47. Accusatus

Eve's Math Test

Nana's Journal, Eve's Doodles

Suspension Letter

Playlist

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Dedicated to Camille and Isabelle, my brilliant wee humans who inspired me since birth and laugh at all my jokes. And to David, who likes my brain and does things that mean love.

….and to all who feel small in this universe: you are stronger than you think, and there is more out there to appreciate and need you than you could ever know.

Preface

Dragonologist: [dra-guhn-AW-LOH-jihst], n. one who is studied in the knowledge of dragons; one whose dragonology acumen makes her an expert on all things dragon, be they practical, academic, and or training related; one who is practiced in the history, etymology, and idiosyncracies of regionally specific dragons. i.e. Eve is a remarkable dragonologist. Look at that dragon respond so happily to Eve the dragonologist. Behold all dragons heralding Eve, the dragonologist, as their queen/bff.

1

Memento mori

Y eah, she killed him.

"Like, actually killed him?"

Well, she was there when it happened.

That girl, over there? She’s so pretty though!

No, the one next to her, with the choppy blonde hair. Like, yikes.

"Oh. Her."

Their damning whispers carried across the sullen aisle, across the rows of worn wooden pews, across the huddled shoulders, across the bowed heads, to my scarlet red ears. They burned on either side of my scarlet red face. I blinked back tears. Not sad tears. Tears of humiliation, frustration.

A voice from a pulpit at the front of the chapel was monotone and grating.

Let us join hands across the aisles in prayer.

No one grabbed my hand.

Let us pray.

I had never prayed.

Let us join in remembrance over the loss of our own child, so young to be called back home.

He wasn’t a child. He was evil. And a clone.

Let us lift our hearts in song.

I had never lifted my heart in anything, I don’t think, but I did as the good preacher requested. Or demanded. I raised my head as the mourners stuttered through a hymn. I caught a flash of something sparkly out of the corner of my eye. I turned my head toward where the voices came from. Of course it was them. Of course they were decked out in shimmery, black sequined dresses. What else would they wear to a funeral?

I made the mistake of making eye contact with one of them.

Her beautifully crimsoned lips mouthed one word as her darkly lined eyes stared hard into mine:

"Murderer."

I didn’t think. I just left. My heartbeat pounded loudly in my ears, drowning out the strained hymnal lyrics and my muttered apologies as I lamely shuffled past tightly packed mourners – stepping on feet and purses – from my accidentally central spot on an impossibly long pew.

"…lead, kindly light, lead thou me on …" the hymn droned loudly as mismatched voices echoed high into the coffers.

"…keep thou my feet, I do not ask to see…"

My vision blurred, but I think I only had three more sets of feet to navigate until I reached the end of the pew.

Sorry, I shuffled, Sorry, I was almost free! Sor—

Eve? a familiar female voice stopped me in my tracks.

Sorry, I – just, sorry.

My voice caught in my throat. I didn’t expect to see Ms. Neally there. But it made sense a teacher would be at a funeral for a student. Her hand gently caught my shoulder, but over the chorus of forced singing, over my deafening heartbeat, my gasping breath, all I could focus on was that lipsticked word: Murderer.

I shrugged away from Ms. Neally’s kind warmth and pressed on. My knee hit the end of the old wooden pew hard. I don’t know how they heard that, but they must have, for their mocking giggles seemed to rise over the cacophony – the singing in the room and the buzzing in my brain and the pounding of my heart joining in horrid chorus.

That word banged repeatedly in my head.

Murderer.

Tears rolled down my cheeks. I sniffed; my nose was running.

Murderer.

My knee throbbed. My head hurt.

Murderer.

I half-limped, half-galloped down a foreign hall. I hadn’t ever been in a church. And I didn’t understand why I was there now. Not on a moral level, but on a practical one – the family wasn’t Christian. This wasn’t their church. This wasn’t their culture. They had already held their own private memorial, and this whole dumb show, complete with the principal and half the student body and even the mayor and even – my stomach flipped – even Ms. Neally, showed up as some sort of PR stunt.

Murderer.

I found a bathroom just in time. It smelled of talcum powder and peonies and old people. I flung a stall door open and vomited.

Murderer.

My body heaved and my knee screamed as I kneeled and expelled embarrassment and anger and frustration and corn flakes into that holy toilet.

Murderer.

Flush it away.

I pulled myself and stared into the mirror, comforted by the sound of that toilet. Finally, a familiar sound.

Murderer.

No. I am not.

Murderer.

I smoothed my hair. My hand caught in something at the nape of my neck. Gum. Someone had put gum in my hair. At a funeral.

I sighed.

Murderer.

No.

I splashed water on my face and straightened my shoulders.

Murderer.

I am not a murderer.

I am not a murderer.

I AM NOT A MURDERER.

Murderer.

I spit into the sink.

I stared into the mirror. I didn’t particularly care for my reflection just then – short blonde hair unevenly cut that framed my pale face and hid my too-large ears well enough – but it was something all my favorite characters did in books when in crisis. So, I stared.

I am not a murderer.

I AM NOT A MURDERER.

I am a dragonologist.

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The room wasn’t dim and gray, like you see in movies. A fluorescent tube hung unevenly against the ceiling and filled the small space with yellow light that made everyone’s skin the same sickening sallow tone. I wanted desperately to look through that two-way mirror, but it was to my left and I had no reason to face that way at the moment. The questions started easy enough. The skinny, pale one with JASPER on his smudged golden nametag led the conversation while the other one (I couldn’t see her nametag clearly) leaned back, arms folded, and loudly chewed pink gum.

Where do you live?

You already know the answer to that.

Eve, maybe you should cooperate, my mom whispered behind me.

No helping the accused! Jasper shot back.

"Um, that’s the alleged accused, sir, please," a sweaty attorney I didn’t know coughed next to me.

Where do you go to school?

You already know that, too.

Why were you at Joy Valley Bible Church today?

For a funeral. You know what.

So you knew the deceased pretty well, eh?

No. Not really.

Then why show up? To evade suspicion?

Objection! the sweaty attorney coughed again.

This isn’t a court of law, friend. So, Evelyn, if you didn’t really know the kid, why be at the funeral?

That’s not my name.

Is it because you murdered him, and you found some sick fascination in seeing the kid laid out like that?

"Dios mío, take it easy, Jasper, the woman next to him finally spoke. She popped her gum loudly and settled back into her chair. She’s only a kid. A wimpy, little nobody from the looks of it, but still only a kid."

Thanks, I said dryly.

Eve! my mom hissed, Be cooperative!

You, Evelyn, are accused of murder. You have no alibi, and all the evidence points to you.

You don’t even know my name, why would I believe anything you’re saying? my voice was strong but my hands were shaking. Hell, my entire body was shaking. Why would I believe you have ‘evidence’? I drew air quotes with my fingers.

Because of this, Jasper said smugly, sliding a stack of papers across the table.

This … this is my math homework, I said, confused.

"Flip it over, vato."

I frowned. The last time I was referred to as vato was when my fourth-grade nemesis Martin chose me last for kickball and yelled "apúrate, vato!" at me. Context clues told me it wasn’t chummy, then or now.

Read it and weep! Jasper said, clapping his hands. That’s a to-do list for a funeral! Guilty!

Oh dear, the sweaty attorney coughed. "This [cough] is really [cough, cough] not good. But she is allegedly guilty, let the record show."

Can I offer you a lozenge? I have peppermint and eucalyptus in my bag, my mom spoke warmly.

Hate ‘em, he coughed.

I stared at the paper. It was, indeed, a to-do list for a funeral. A funeral for my dead frog, Hogwart. Complete with my sister singing Amazing Grace and my mom offering a eulogy before I laid him to rest in an Adidas shoebox I had painted to look like ferns, which had been his favorite plastic plant to sleep under. The beginning of an obituary was written at the bottom.

Hogwart came into this world like most frogs, I read aloud, small, alone, wondering what his future beyond tadpoleship held.

"Dios mío, the other cop sighed dramatically and got up from her chair. I’m outta here. Jasper, she’s not a murderer. She paused in front of me and put her hands in her pockets, still loudly smacking her gum. She knows something, mmmhmmm, she knows something alright. But she ain’t gonna talk right now."

Dammit, Serrano, she is the murderer! Jasper yelled and pounded his fist on the table.

Please don’t refer to my child as a murderer, my mom spoke up.

"That’ll be alleged child and alleged murderer," the attorney coughed.

"She’s not allegedly my child, she’s only allegedly a murderer," my mom countered.

She won’t be alleged when I’m done proving she’s the murderer, Jasper growled.

That doesn’t even make sense, my mom replied. And honestly, she’s not a murderer!

Oh, she’s a murderer alright, Jasper pounded his fist on the table again.

She’s not your murderer, Pete, Serrano piped in.

"Ahem, alleged murderer," the attorney coughed again.

I AM NOT A MURDERER! I screamed.

Everyone stopped. Jasper leaned on his forearms on the table. Serrano blew a bubble and leaned her hip against the wall. My mom folded her arms and crossed her legs. The attorney coughed.

I’m not a murderer, I said again. I’m a dragonologist. I swallowed hard, uncertain what was going to come bubbling out of my mouth. I’m an eighth grader. An old eighth grader. I – I’m nothing. I’m a dragonologist, ok? I like dragons. I draw them. I write dumb stories about them. That’s it. That’s all you need to know. I haven’t actually been to a funeral before today. And I cried when I forgot my English lit homework, and I blamed the tears on my dead frog. And he’s dead, by the way, because I accidentally stepped on him after I let him out. So yes, I did kill Hogwart.

I finally broke down and sobbed.

Oh, Eve, I’m so sorry, my mom’s arm fell around me and she hugged me against her. I didn’t know that’s how he died. What a thing to carry!

The small room was quiet. The fluorescent light hummed. Angry voices sounded outside and carried down the hall. No one spoke. I felt like they were all listening to my sobs. My face burned red.

What’s a … a, uh, dragon-all-oh-gist? Jasper asked, holding a pen poised over a pristine notepad he had just taken out.

Who’s Malcolm Derringer? Serrano’s voice was cool and even. I looked up, blinking away tears.

Malcolm? My … my therapist?

You know who needs therapy? Jasper asked. MURDERERS.

My mom, faster than I’d ever seen her move before, lunged across the table and slapped Jasper across the cheek. He stared at her, eyes wide with shock. She stared back, eyes equally wide with shock. She slowly stepped backward and stumbled against her chair. It creaked loudly.

You cannot strike an officer of the law! he gasped.

"Allegedly strike," coughed the attorney.

You’ll regret that later, Serrano spoke coolly again. But I think he needed that. She turned to the attorney, sweaty and coughing even more. And I don’t think you know what that word means.

Jasper scowled and rubbed his cheek as he rocked his jaw side to side.

Tell her she can’t do that, that I’m adding it to the list of allegations, he whispered loudly. Serrano waved him off. Holding his cheek with one hand, Jasper carefully wrote something down on his notepad and made a point to underline it several times.

Now, Serrano walked back over to her chair and sat down. Tell us what you talk about with Malcolm.

Um, I don’t think, that is, I fidgeted, uncomfortable, until I saw my mom’s earnest gaze. She nodded encouragingly at me. Well, Malcolm is my therapist because I have really bad anxiety. And what we talk about isn’t relevant here. My mom gave me a smile and thumbs up. And it’s not any of your business, anyway. You don’t need to know that he’s awesome, or that we usually just talk about music, and specifically about how the Beatles circa-1965 are the superior Beatles.

I like the ’67 Beatles, coughed the attorney, this time taking out an embroidered yellowed handkerchief and loudly blowing his nose.

Too psychedelic, I countered.

What’s this, Serrano cut me off, pointing out a series of illustrations on my schoolwork. You in a gang? You know something about the Draco Boys?

What? The who? I grabbed the papers from her and shuffled them. These, I said impatiently, are doodles.

Doodles? Serrano repeated.

Doodles, I said.

And they’re brilliant, Eve! my mom chimed in.

Enough of this. Where’s the father? Jasper asked as she stretched his arms overhead. His cheek was bright red.

"Alleged father, sir, if you [cough, cough] please."

"Dammit, Jasper, I know you did not just dismiss talking to women in favor of a man," Serrano glared at him.

I really wish you’d take this lozenge. They’re organic!

If my dad were here, I frowned and stopped talking. Scratch that. If I knew who my dad was, or is, I like to think I’d have him at my side, throwing zingers at Jasper and confounding Serrano. But that’s where it gets complicated. I overheard a conversation a few years back wherein my mom divulged that I am the product of a sperm donor. I had been romanticizing something quite different that left me heroically fatherless. Then I learn that my mom basically threw a dart that landed on Sample 04238 a little over 15 years ago. That’s how she described him. A sample. I cleared my throat. I came from a sperm donor. My mom felt bad when I found out and she gave me stuffed dragon. I named him Bartholomew and he has been my companion for the past six years. And Bartholomew, I threw the stack of carefully shuffled papers back at them, is who you’re scrutinizing.

Serrano and Jasper both crossed their arms and leaned into each other, whispering furiously.

What else do you need to know? You’ve cracked the case on my anxiety, my dead frog, my unknown father, my stuffed dragon, I continued despite my mom’s concerned glance and the coughing attorney’s raised palm. "Do you need to know that I sometimes eat lunch in the library, and by library, I mean bathroom because Ms. Neally doesn’t allow food in the library? And, like, why would I ever willingly go into that vapid petri dish called a cafeteria? Do you need to know that I’m currently wearing two different socks? Do you need to know that my mom thinks she can sing (she can’t, sorry Mom), or that my sister thinks she can’t sing (she can)? Or about Libby who makes fun of me every time – literally every time – my glasses start to slide down my nose during math class? You don’t need to know that because of that last fun fact, I rarely wear my glasses now and generally wander around just a teensy bit blind. Or that my backpack is down to one functioning zipper, or that I have too many freckles on one arm. Where do they all keep coming from, and why on just the one arm?!"

I was yelling now, hysterical, and at some point, I had stood up. I faced the two-way mirror. I don’t know if anyone was on the other side. But I could see the stunned looks of the four adults in the room behind me. My face reddened again. I cleared my throat and shifted nervously.

Uh, er, who is Libby? Jasper started.

No one. She’s no one. You don’t need to know about her. You only need to know that I, Eve Gwendolyn Genevieve Archer – that’s my actual name, which you really ought to know – am a dragonologist. I draw dragons. And I kinda know everything about them. Big whoop. Who cares? I shouldn’t have been in that church – you got me. And … and I sure as hell shouldn’t be here. But I know where this started.

Just then, the door slammed open. A smartly dressed man with a smart haircut and smart sunglasses strode in and dropped a business card on the table.

We’re done here, yep, he said evenly. He turned to me, stomped his foot and did a short bow. Shall we go, then, yep?

The attorney coughed and started to stand; the man put a palm on the attorney’s shoulder and pressed the sweaty, coughing body back down onto the heavy chair with a nope. Jasper started to reach for the card but Serrano swiped it up first.

Kip? she said. What the hell is Kip? Hold up, how did it start then?

It started, I called over my shoulder as I followed Kip out of the room with my mom, with a freaking math test.

2

Sapere aude

Iknew it was coming. I had dreamt about it, good dreams and bad. Trained for it. Drew pictures of it. Hydrated. Stretched.

The Math Test.

After the world’s longest 23 minutes of my or anyone else’s life, I grabbed the p.o.s. three papers and marched them, crumpled now – and doodled on, possibly drool-stained because sometimes my mouth hangs open when I’m concentrating – up to Mr. Simmons.

His head was down, his light brown hair parted to reveal a perfectly circular bald spot on the top of his head. He was staring intently at a book, or I should say, a book tucked within a book. He wasn’t nearly as sneaky as he thought: Everyone in that classroom knew he was reading comics and not Anthropological Complexities of the Macedonian Empire, as the larger, outer hardcover title might suggest.

I’m done with this p.o.s. I said, dangling in front of him the culprit that robbed me of my joy and freedom for almost 26 minutes now.

I stood squared up against his desk. Even though the rest of the school was relatively new, this desk was one of those outdated brown metal beasts. Its top was the fake wood grain that peeled and bubbled, adorned further down its strained metal body by metallic feet that seemed slouched to one side like an old tired woman who shifts her weight to one hip all the time. I wondered how old it was, what stories those scratches creeping down the front of it could tell, how long that rust had been accumulating on the front legs.

Mr. Simmons put his book(s) down carefully. He stared at me, sighed, and then shook his head as he smoothed his skinny fingers over the same brown-striped tie he donned daily. There was so much brown happening in front of me. And not the lovely soft brown of fresh dirt. The sad, icky brown that needs flushing. I giggled.

Mr. Simmons’ look of casual annoyance went to full irritation.

Back to the principal’s office, Eve, he clipped in his tenor voice, his weak little wrist waving me away.

I should offer here that I don’t know what p.o.s. stands for. I’ve heard my mom say it. A lot. Upon recounting the brief conversation with the school secretary when she inquired why she was seeing me again, Ms. Secretary speculated that this acronym is what landed me there. She looked at me, one eyebrow raised in anticipation as though a confession were imminent. My only confession here would be guilt over never committing her name to memory given the number of times I’m loitering in front of her desk, awaiting whatever asinine accusation has made its way to the principal’s ears. I caught her gaze briefly and shrugged.

Why was I in the principal’s office again? I figured that my incredible albeit a bit bloody and graphic rendering of dragon v dragon combat that decorated the bottom of my math test was too much for delicate Mr. Simmons to handle. Or perhaps my mind-blowing theorem on black holes and tertiary portal travel that I frequently doodled on desks is what landed me there. Like, clearly humanity, let alone Beecher Junior High, was not yet ready for my genius. Turns out though that no, that wasn’t it. The first thing. The thing about what I now know to be an expletive-charged phrase is what landed me there.

Thanks, Mom.

I reached into the stretched-out left-hand pocket of my hoodie and pulled out a Nutter Butter wrapper, a broken hair-tie, a purple paperclip, and a pad of Post-It notes I must have swiped from somewhere. I frowned and reached into the other pocket, wondering if I had stashed my phone on my right side rather than my left. Before I made it back to Mr. Simmons’ awful room, I wanted to text my mom how her acronym-swearing had turned into a cautionary tale.

I sighed, realizing my phone was exactly where I always left it: on my bed under my pillow (likely with the alarm still going) at home. I really could have used my mom’s quick wit and encouraging words at that moment. She was the only person I really ever texted, a fact that my sister teased me mercilessly over. Another sigh escaped me, this one long and capitulating. I’d recount the day’s events for them both anyway that night over dinner.

I was in no hurry to return to Mr. Simmons’ den of broken dreams. I let my hand skim the wall as I walked, wondering if the bottoms of dragon talons have the same tactile sensitivity my fingertips have. As I reentered my class, I expected applause. Their hero had returned!

My classmates had their heads down, some still finishing that p.o. – wait, no, sorry – that non-swear-word-y math test, some reading books that were depressingly juvenile. Sure, I didn’t do anything that was maybe overtly heroic. I hadn’t saved anyone, or invented something, or risked life for the greater good. But I bravely and nobly challenged ideas. Quietly. Ok, silently maybe. But they should just know the radical expanse of new thought and thrilling breakthroughs happening in my brain at any given time is nothing short of heroic. Plus, I show up to this science experiment of stunted potential every day. Eve Archer: Dragonologist/Child Hero.

I just stood there in front of the class, awkwardly awaiting some sort of acknowledgment. No one stirred. I coughed loudly (that got a few people’s attention; several looked up) and trudged over to the ancient desk again.

I apologized to Mr. Simmons for my linguistic oversight and couldn’t help but notice that his mustache and beard were remarkably ungroomed, swarming around his nose and mouth. As he spoke, a few rogue hairs kept creeping over the corners of his lips and touching his tongue. It was enough to make a child genius dry heave. If I had a dragon handy, I could singe that right off for him.

Do you understand, Eve?

I stared blankly at him, uncertain what he had been yammering on about.

Sure, I responded coolly, giving him a thumbs up just for good measure. I had no idea what I was understanding; I was just relying on the fact that I understand pretty much all things all the time. He opened his book(s) back up and waved me away. I turned to walk back to my desk when his voice stopped me in my tracks.

The white boards will be free in a minute. Then you can get to cleaning them.

I slumped forward. Apparently, I had understood that I was not to swear (even though technically I hadn’t) and that I was to clean all seventeen white boards in the north commons. Good thing I stretched and hydrated, I guess.

This is why math tests are the worst.

3

Draco

N essie isn’t even a monster so joke’s on you.

Not my finest zing, but I was at least quick in my retort. I tossed my short blonde hair back haughtily and started on my way to the library when Libby threw another one at me.

"Glad you know so much about your friends. Oh, I mean, dragons. Not monsters, my mistake! I get them mixed up – they’re both imaginary." Libby and her lemmings burst into obnoxious giggles. Their kind of giggling isn’t even real laughter – it’s like one Head Chicken laughing to announce to the others to laugh, and they all nervously sound their clucking obediently for fear of being ostracized themselves.

"I mean, dragons, right? I mean, right?" Libby said, flipping her head back and forth to her subjects. Was there actually a question in there, or did she not understand the purpose of voice inflection to reflect a question mark at the end of a sentence? She over-enunciated the word dragon, breaking it apart so idiotically.

Dra-guhnz! Libby squealed again.

You seem to know a lot about me, Libster. I finally shot back. Stalker much?

I hated using their colloquialisms, but it got me the social point. I walked quickly in the other direction to the fading roar of high-pitched omg!?’s and can you even?!’s. A dragon right now would be pretty handy, I thought dejectedly. But those distraught feelings quickly got swept away in my academic reverie of my favorite noble beasts.

The handiest dragon at the moment? Hmmm … my mind’s eye scanned the regions of the world … I enjoyed the occasional Gonggong, because who doesn’t love a destructive Chinese water god. I had dabbled in Leviathan concepts, again, a protector of the seas. I had been turned on to this fearsome fella while playing after school at a friend’s house – said friend (more like school acquaintance whom my mother forced me to interact with because socializing is good for you blah blah blah) has a father who is a professor of ancient Jewish studies or something and had a book on Canaanite mythology. Color me intrigued.

I loved that most Leviathan descriptions land it somewhere between a whale and a crocodile. Fearsome! However, I am not the strongest of swimmers. So having a water dragon at my beck and call was perhaps a bit lofty of an ambition. Honestly, how could I possibly conduct such a being with any dignity? The daunting Gonggong or Leviathan would be majestically diving and swooping through the restless expanse of oceans unknown while I’m giving it a thumbs up from a lifeguard tower safely land-mounted on a beach somewhere? Not the best look for me.

I like the Wyvern – more of your classical dragon with a ridged spine and regular appearances in Old English folklore. Plus, it’s typically land-dwelling, which is bit more in my comfort zone. I smiled, exhaling happily as I mentally flipped through a glorious rolodex of my formidable friends.

I always come back to my favorite: a European Arrowtail. Small enough to fit through these school halls, but still with a decent set of wings so I could just take off. They’re a little feisty though, those europeous sagitta caudus. They pummel their opponent with quick, tiny bursts of fire balls rather than one long continuous fire stream.

I lingered, lost now, in a lovely daydream of captaining an Arrowtail. I ordered the lithe beast valiantly through the halls from atop its scaly back. I directed my dragon’s fire balls at imaginary targets as I walked, eyeing with soldier precision the daily inconveniences of Beecher. Dumb wet paint sign that’s been hanging above the hallway to the locker rooms for way too long: whooooosh! Now dry paint. Charred, even. What do we have here? Terrible gym teacher who makes me climb a stupid rope for no actual reason: whooooosh! One big ball of leg-hair fire. Oh, look! Busted drinking fountain that’s forever leaking but never allowing that blessed liquid from its spout: whooooosh! Gone. Obnoxious elevator that seems to exist only to torture those of us with tired legs or service overweight principals: whooooosh! No more. Just a beautiful tube of swirling fiery glory.

I passed Ellie, my old friend from art camp, who limped by me on crutches. I made a mental and very sincere apology to Ellie for depriving her of the elevator. Those crutches were gonna be a real doozy on the stairs.

That is not a great use of my powers.

An old male voice with a very proper English accent startled me out of my musings.

I looked up to be face to face, eyeball to eyeball, nose to flaming-nostril-spout-thing, with. a. dragon.

I mean really, of all my skills, you choose the most embarrassingly brash one. I look like a fool, poofing out all those silly balls of flame, like a poor magician spitting out birthday candles.

What just spoke? Was I hallucinating? Having a stroke? Asleep? I was quiet for a long time. It seemed like a long time, anyway. One of those out-of-body experiences you hear about where it’s as though you’re looking down at your own self. In this case, my self was standing dumbfounded, unnoticed by a sea of seventh graders hurrying past me to their next classes, in my holey jeans and aqua blue hoody, clutching the straps of my zipperless backpack, while I stared at what I could only perceive to be an adolescent European Arrowtail Dragon.

An adolescent? Oh, go on! Oh that’s rich! the dragon laughed and thumped his small spiny tail about.

W-w-wait… I finally stuttered. Are you from London?

The dragon looked at me askance, a bit bemused.

"Really. Of all the things in this world or any other, that is your first question for me? he laughed. Come on, then. Let us go."

He turned and trotted away, gaining speed. He was lithe and moved like a cat. A giant, scaly cat. I ran to catch up, my gait awkward with my untied shoelaces. I didn’t know what I was doing – a dragon had just appeared in front of me and now I was following it? He hadn’t answered my question, and a million more were pouring into my brain.

Go? I cried, Go where? Are you talking to me?

Breathless now, I jogged through the halls after him as his pace deftly quickened. He must have seen my sorry athletic state and taken pity on me, for the mighty beast stopped abruptly. I thought he was giving me time to catch up to him so we might, you know, have a chat about, oh, I don’t know, who he is and what he is doing in the halls of my school and why and how he got there.

I felt a small, firm talon grasp my upper arm, and suddenly I was hoisted through the air and set upon a smooth, scaled back. His tail pressed against my backpack to better balance me. I couldn’t process what was happening, but I knew better than to question it at that moment.

As he positioned me, pulling my arms forward atop his massive neck and shimmying about until I tucked my legs up against my sides, the dragon never stopped moving. He turned left out of the math and science hall into the commons. Reaching this massive open space, his wings burst open and spread wide at his sides. Classes were still going; the school’s halls and commons were more or less empty, but Lester the janitor was up ahead of us, and I swear I saw Ms. Neally the librarian poke her head out as we sped past the double doors of the library.

We were really picking up quite a pace! How were we not being noticed, or yelled at, or stepping on Lester the janitor, or … or going through that window! I threw

Reviews for Eve Archer

[kay · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Def not what I was expecting. The common trope of angsty teen searching for purpose gets some insane twists that are hilarious, cringey, suspenseful, and even tear-jerkers. You’ll have to muddle through some physics, but it’s so worth it. PLUS characters who I’m still thinking about … love that. Excited for book 2. Side note: Anyone know if this author has other series? Cool voice that I’d read more of.

[Isabelle · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

This book is crazy!! It’s a roller coaster of laughs and tears!! Everyone should read it, at least once. I think it’s going to become this generation’s Harry Potter!!