“Know what?”
Dad calls from the porch, his voice boisterous yet still muffled by the distance.
I turn, then spin back to James. “What’s going on?”
“That… I think your dad should say.”
His hesitation drives dread into me. Dad wouldn’t have said yes. He wouldn’t have given into Murphy’s demands and the excessive cash offer. Not with what we have here. Notnow. Dad’s life mission is to save as many dragons as possible. He wouldn’t concede to helping the races expand when they’re one of the reasons these wonderful creatures are being harmed, their lifespan cut in half.
I quickly tie Hort to a dragon post. We received one silver-plated pillar for Hort specifically and he nibbles on the metal like the youngling he still is.
Without another word to James, I stash my glasses in my back pocket and run. As I near the house, my vision focuses. One of the Murphys’ fancy metallic silver cars sits parked on the gravel drive, the ultimate status symbol gleaming in the sunshine. It appears out of place alongside our small old house, porch chipped, off-white paint peeling. My family aren’t fancy car people. Us Walshes aren’t even acquainted with fancy car people. Well, I guess we doknowthe Murphys. But they have only ever come here the once.
Anxiety builds in my belly.
I linger on the porch to shed my chest guard and rip off my muddy boots, frayed laces abandoned for quickness. The leather and metal clasps thunk against the wood. Right when I open the screen door, James waltzes in like he owns the place. Typical rich guy behavior.
I’m three steps behind him, rushing into my own living room to find our parents. There’s Mom, all gracious and warm honey grins. Jeffrey, Dad’s right-hand man and dragon trainer, clutching his hat, the one article of clothing that never leaves his person. Then Dad himself talking with the Murphys, both well shined like their car.
I smile, letting relief drown out my anxiety. Judging by the jovial scene, this could be good news packaged in metallic silver. I’m far too much of a worrier, as Mom keeps reminding me. Though no use wondering where I obtained that particular trait as she eyes the grass stains and dirt on my billowy white blouse. I look half-run-over. The embarrassment rushes back. A dragon hasn’t thrown me in a very long time. And I need to prove my skills if I’m to continue to care for Hort.
“Good. James somehow persuaded you to get off that dragon. Come.” Dad waves toward the little love seat, the only chair left unoccupied. No way am I sitting there next to James, squished together tight. Plus, Mom would kill me for ruining the upholstery. I can’t tell if the commotion of visitors devoured Dad’s awareness or if he’s justthatused to me being a literal mess on two legs. Though at our entrance, everyone stands anyway. Crisis averted.
“Sorry, I’m a little mud—”
Before my mom can agree and direct me to change, James’s mom hugs me tight, no consideration for her fluttering robin’s-egg blue skirts, silver threaded at every seam.
“You remember Farren, our daughter,” Dad says, unworried that I might have destroyed an article of clothing worth more than a custom dragon saddle. Mom looks ready to apologize for the brown stain, but Mrs. Murphy is so unbothered it becomes a game. Whoever points it out first loses.
“How could I ever forget the girl who saved my boy’s life.” She reaches for me again and squeezes.
Not to stereotype, but I always found Aine Murphy a bit cold, the picture of how the wealthy of Hardsill dress and look, with metal embedded in every fiber of their coordinated outfits and noses held just high enough to gaze down on everyone else. But it seems when it comes to her songratitude thaws her intensity. This is another weird consequence of saving your rival’s life. Gratefulness and warmth from the Murphys. In doing my job as spotter, I’ve single-handedly hurled our family relationship from colleagues to… acquaintances.
Over James’s mother’s shoulder I catch his dad glowering, that same pained look of disdain James has inherited. Though while James’s face reads aloof, his dad’s reads cruel. James may annoy me, but his dad scares me.
Mrs. Murphy finally pulls away and cups my shoulders. “I know you and James will get along well,” she whispers. “This will be good. So good.”
“What…?” I don’t know what to ask first.What are you doing hereseems a tad rude. And yet, I’m about to risk it when Dad continues.
“James Murphy is going to be our new intern.”
The sentence clangs, off-key and sending wild vibrations down my spine. “Intern?” If there were any intern position, I should know about it, what with me being his daughter and the only “intern” we’ve ever had. Unless he means James is taking the summer hand position? We’ve hung up help wanted ads around town. I even pinned the flyer to the communal school board because I had this silly dream that’s how I’d gain a best friend and real confidant. It’s finally happening and in result I get… a Murphy. I cut to James who’s watching me intently, awaiting a reaction. This is why I’ll have to get used to talking to him.
Oh my god. Is this my fault? Did he only learn about the job because of my loneliness?
No, this can’t be happening. James couldn’t possibly want this. He doesn’t need the paycheck. James’s fame as a rider is only escalating. Plus, with each passing semester it looks more like James will win the one all-around scholarship position to Revers Academy, as Colm so rudely pointed out. So, how does this make sense for him?
Wait.Don’t think you can ever beat me in medical just by watching, that’s what I’d said to him. And James had answered he knew. He knew! In a few months the culmination of our rivalry for the Revers Academy scholarship ends. Come early fall we will perform before the head crafting teacher, Mr. Moore, and other recruiters. So, I know what this is—a ploy to finally win.
I don’t have many nightmares. This situation just catapulted into my darkest horrors.
“Yes, intern. We need the help.” Dad glances in the direction of the barn and then to the Murphys.
“I know James is looking forward to it.” James’s mother prods her son, wanting a response. Good luck with that. The first time I met James, we were twelve and a Sprinter broke their leg on his father’s dragon tracks and James stood stone-faced, watching. He’s at least part psychopath.
“We’re looking forward to it as well. We have a few breeds here that can be quite the handful.” Dad laughs in easygoing optimism. As if those dragons couldn’t kill an ignorant person.
“All copper, tin, and iron plated though,” James’s dad utters in disdain.
