“They call me a lot of things. Nutjob is one of them,” he sighed.
I cocked my head to the side with the nagging urge to slam someone against the wall.
“Who calls you a nutjob?” I asked, keeping my voice level.
If anyone was a nutjob it was me. I was the one standing waist deep in the pond trying to have a serious conversation with a little kid.
“The kids at school. Sometimes adults. I don’t like it.”
I let out another long, slow breath and rubbed the bridge of my nose.
“I don’t like it because it hurts my feelings,” he went on explaining.
“I’m not mad at you, buddy. You’re right. It’s not nice to call people nutjobs and I didn’t mean it that way. I meant for a wild otter shifters must seem strange.”
“Not strange,” he shook his head. “Just different. Everyone is different,” he shrugged. “So, why were you mad?”
The kid wasn’t giving up on that question, was he?
“It’s an adult thing,” I said, hoping that would end the conversation and that he’d go back to his house where he belonged until his dad came home. I glanced around wondering where Jade got off to after he shoved me into the pond.
Instead, the kid walked closer and put his hands on his knees, staring into the water.
“I see my rock,” he said, his eyes lighting up.
“How can you see anything down in this water?” I asked.
“I’m an otter,” he shrugged and pulled off his shoes. He tossed them behind him one at a time before splashing into the pond. I moved forward, intent on stopping him before he got wet, but he shrank down into his otter form too quickly for me to catch him. Then he swam around my legs and picked up a rock that was about two inches in front of my left foot. I’d been right by the stupid thing for probably ten minutes now.
He swam up, breaking the surface of the water and holding his rock in his little otter hand. Floating on his back, he turned his rock this way and that and then traced its indents that made up two eyes and a mouth. He hugged the rock to his chest before swimming to the edge of the pond and climbing out. A second later, he was once again a drenched little boy.
“Will you come and cook breakfast? I’m not allowed to use the stove,” he scrunched up his nose. “I would go to the fishpond…. But Canton doesn’t like it when I eat his fish. He’s sort of stingy with them. Said they were for looking at but I think he eats them at night when no one is around.”
“I think that your dad wouldn’t like to come home and find me in the house,” I said, rubbing the back of my neck.
“He said he’d talk to you when you found the rock and I have the rock,” he said, holding it out for me to see.
“I don’t—” I stopped myself. Whatever problems this kid had or didn’t have he didn’t need whatever weirdness that was going on between me and his dad added to the list.
“Do you just want to stay in the pond? Were you mad last night because I was in the pond and you wanted to play in it?” he asked.
“No, that’s not why I was mad,” I laughed.
“Then why? And why won’t you cook breakfast? Did your mummy not teach you to cook? Your mummy is the octopus dragon lady, right?”
“My mum is her mate,” I said, answering the last question, fearing he might keep firing away at me if I didn’t sneak in and answer at least one.
“Oh. She’s nice. I watch her sometimes. She’s always bringing home food. Does she bring you food too? Is that why you don’t know how to cook?”
“I do too know how to cook.”
“Oh, okay,” he glanced down at his muddy bare feet. “You just don’t want to cook for me. That’s alright. I’ll go home now. Have fun swimming.”
He started to walk away, and I called out for him to stop. Why was this kid intent on making me feel like a jackass?
“Yeah?” he sniffled as I waded out of the pond.
“Your dad really hasn’t made it home yet?” I asked him.
