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1
Some people might think that having a dragon for a pet is scary. I guess it sounds like it might be scary, because of the fire breathing and all, but I have a dragon for a pet and most of the time it’s pretty normal. Except when Dragon does his weird little dancing jig. That’s always terrifying.
But no one else even realizes he’s my pet. They look at him and just see a stuffed animal. They can’t hear him talk or see him move. This might sound weird, but I like that I don’t have to share him with anyone. And I don’t have to explain to anyone why having a dragon for a pet isn’t scary.
Because when you’re a seven-year-old kid in second grade, there’s plenty of other stuff to be scared about. Like realizing you didn’t do your homework ten minutes before you’re supposed to leave for school. Even scarier than that? When your dad realizes you didn’t do your homework ten minutes before you’re supposed to leave for school.
“Argh!” my dad groans, looking at my incomplete vocabulary sheet. “Warren, you said you’d work on this after dinner last night.”
I did tell my dad I’d work on the vocabulary sheet after dinner. But then Dragon and I started a contest over who could think up the most outrageous new word. Extra points for thinking up what the word means. It took an hour until I won with “flubbergitzooper.” I decided it means coughing up goo while you’re at the zoo. So in a way, I did work on vocabulary.
“It’s not Warren’s fault,” my twin sister, Ellie, says. I look at her, surprised she’s taking my side. “He’s so irresponsible, Dad,” she adds. “You can never believe he’ll do anything he says.”
I frown at Ellie. I don’t want her to take my side anymore.
Dad hands me a pencil and points to the vocabulary sheet on the kitchen table. “Finish this,” he says. “Now.”
“Fine,” I grumble. I take the vocabulary sheet and start working on it. I feel a breath of air over my shoulder and notice Dragon standing over me, looking at my writing. “I gotta finish this,” I tell him, and turn back to the sheet. “Don’t distract me again with any more weird word contests.”
“I want a rematch,” Dragon insists. “You only won because I was getting hungry and I can’t think properly on an empty stomach. Sneeberleeber. It means a snail race. A slow one.”
“Not now,” I say, glancing through the kitchen doorway at my dad. He’s helping Ellie reach for her jacket in the hallway closet.
“I can barely read your handwriting,” Dragon says, and tsks. “Is that an A or a P ?”
I look to where his claw is pointing. “That’s a U, ” I say.
Dragon grimaces. “Your handwriting is scary. Also, wrotbloog. Wait, that’s not outrageous enough. Wrotblooging.”
“I’m not playing the outrageous word game now,” I tell him. I quickly finish the vocabulary sheet. It’s not perfect—it’s not even good—but it’s finished.
“Okay, but then you forfeit,” Dragon announces, and crosses his arms.
I push the vocabulary sheet into my backpack and grab the jacket that Dad is holding out in his hands for me.
“You finished?” Dad asks.
“Easy as . . .” I pointedly look back toward Dragon and shout, “a habawablwa!” I rush through the front door before Dragon can think up another word. I zip up my jacket and pull on the gloves I had stuffed into the pockets. It’s cold out, with snow still on the ground from a recent snowfall, but the path to school is clear where people shoveled.
Ellie runs ahead of Dad to catch up to me. “What’s a habawablwa...?”
“I haven’t figured it out yet,” I tell her.
Ellie shakes her head. “I don’t know why I ask.”
I shrug my shoulders. “I don’t know why you ask either.”
Ellie sighs and runs ahead of me. I stop and turn around to see where our dad is, immediately bumping into something.