Straight at my face.
I wake to a quiet knock on the door. I open my eyes, feeling like I’m pulling myself out of a vat of thick honey. And then it all comes back to me in a flash. I remember Mr. Yazzie and the horrible way he launched himself at me, and I bolt straight out of bed. I look around wildly, hands clutching at my cheeks, feeling for damage. I’m not sure what damage a pet horned toad could do, but wild ones are quite fierce, so I imagine it could be bad. But no, my face is fine. Well, except my nose is still sore from basketball. I breathe a sigh of relief.
Another knock, this time louder.
“Who’s there?” I ask warily, half expecting to hear a strange little croaking reply.
“Nizhoni? Can I come in?”
Just Dad. Not a talking lizard. Relief…Or maybe not. Because if it isn’t Mr. Yazzie at my door, then I must have been asleep and dreamed the whole thing and there’s no one to help me fight Mr. Charles.
“Nizhoni?” Dad asks again. “Please let me in.”
I make a quick pass by the bookshelf to see if a certain stuffed animal is where he should be (he is—looking completely not alive) and go over to unlock the door before flopping back down on the mattress. I try to fake being calm, though my heart is beating out of my chest. Mr. Yazzie seemed so real.…
But I don’t have time to contemplate it further, because Dad pushes the door open, and a most wonderful smell enters the room along with him. The aroma is emanating from a round foil take-out container with a white cardboard top that reads PASTA PALACE.
“I brought you dinner,” Dad says, holding the food out to me.
“Thank you!” I lock the weird dream away for now and concentrate on licking off the drool already gathering in the corners of my mouth. “I take back half the mean things I was thinking about you.”
He shakes the container slightly and laughs. “Only half ?”
“Is that Spaghettini Macaravioli?” I ask, pushing myself up to a sitting position and fluffing the pillows at my back.
“I believe so.” He smiles, handing me the foil pan and a plastic fork. I peel off the top, and the most beautiful pile of spaghetti, macaroni, and ravioli covered in red sauce appears before me. Italian heaven! I dig in as he takes a seat next to me on the bed.
He watches me for a while, then gets a funny expression. I pause, my mouth full of melty cheese and three kinds of pasta. “Do I have it all over my face? Is that why you’re staring?” I wipe my mouth with my sleeve.
Dad laughs. “No, no. You’re fine. I just…” He sighs. “What were you thinking, Nizhoni? With Mr. Charles.”
I groan. I should have known that dinner would come with strings attached.
“I need to understand why you attacked him,” he says. “I know you’ve had some problems with kids at school in the past, but this just doesn’t seem like you.”
“He had a knife,” I explain calmly. I’d practiced using a reasonable voice before I fell asleep and dreamed of Mr. Yazzie. It comes out very convincingly, if I do say so myself. Although, with food in my mouth, it sounds more like He hab a wife, which, admittedly, would not merit a self-defense maneuver. But Dad seems to get the idea.
Yet I can see from his expression that he still doesn’t believe me.
“You think I’m lying,” I say, feeling distinctly worm-buttish again.
He folds his hands in his lap and looks down.
I consider telling Dad all the things Mr. Charles said about mom’s family, but every time I bring her up, Dad gets super sad. Like sitting-around-staring-at-bad-TV-and-forgetting-to-make-dinner level of sad. Until I know more about what Mr. Charles was saying, I don’t want to mention my mom. So I limit my explanation. “He said I could ruin his plans and that he had to kill me.”
Dad’s frown lines deepen to valleys on his forehead. “Why would a wealthy oil executive like Mr. Charles feel threatened by a twelve-year-old girl?”
“I don’t know, but—”
“And kill you? With all of us standing right outside?”
“I know, but maybe the knife was magic.…” That idea just occurred to me, and it’s not a bad one. The knife did not look like a normal one.
“Nizhoni,” Dad says in his no-nonsense voice. “Stop it. Your story doesn’t even make sense.”
I take another bite, but I don’t feel much like eating anymore. My shoulders slump, and I poke listlessly at a ravioli. A single tear treks down my cheek and lands in a mound of cheese.
“There’s nothing wrong with having a big imagination,” Dad says. “Your mom sure did. Always seeing monsters lurking everywhere.”
I jerk my head up so fast I almost drop the Spaghettini Macaravioli to the floor. Dad is talking about Mom! “What?! You never told me that.”
“She was an artist, and artists need big imaginations. That’s probably where you get it from.”
“Dad,” I say, setting my food aside, “this is serious. I need to know everything about Mom seeing monsters. Because I—”
“I always knew Mac had a big imagination,” he goes on, “but I think you do, too. Both my kids are artists at heart.”
“Dad, you’re not listening!” I say, irritated. “About Mom and the monsters—”
“But no matter what, Nizhoni,” he says, his tone sharpening, “you can’t go around attacking people. Fortunately, I was able to smooth things over at dinner.…”
I moan in frustration, but it doesn’t register with him. It’s like he can’t even see or hear me. Did Mr. Charles do something to him, or is he just my normally self-absorbed dad who never listens when I talk about my problems?
“I think I’m done,” I say, thrusting the Pasta Palace container back at him.
He takes it and carefully puts the lid back on. “I’ll save this for tomorrow’s lunch.” He stands up. “Oh, and here’s your phone.” He pulls it out of his pocket and puts it on my nightstand. “But I don’t want you to use it tonight. Get some sleep, and we can talk more later.”
But we never do talk, because by tomorrow, it’s too late.
Dad’s already gone to his job at the state surveyor’s office by the time Mac and I walk to school in the morning. Mac’s going on and on about how great Pasta Palace was and how I missed out on the best night ever, and it takes all my patience not to roll my eyes.
“I can’t believe you sat across the table from a monster and you don’t even care.”
“I care,” Mac says, defensively. “I just don’t think he’s a monster.”
I stop in my tracks. “What? Now you don’t believe me, either?”
“Mr. Charles was a pretty nice guy. He asked me tons of questions, and he even wanted to see my drawings.”
I throw up my hands and start walking again. “Because he was trying to figure out if you have a special power!”
Mac perks up. “Cool! Hey, if I do have a special power, I wonder if I could use it on Adrien Cuttlebush.”
“What special power?”
“I don’t know. You’re the one who just said I had it.”