"You are so not normal."
I looked up from where I had been digging in the dirt with my mother's gardening trowel at Heather Quinn. She gazed down her narrow at me, her blonde hair in two pig-tails, and top lip curled in disgust.
"What are you talking about?" I asked.
"You're spending your whole summer vacation digging holes in your back yard instead of doing fun stuff.
"This is fun," I insisted.
"No, it's weird," Heather snapped. Even at nine-years-old, she was a bitch. "I was gonna invite you to go to the pool, but you're too dirty to be seen with." She turned on her heel and began walking out of my side yard, back to the sidewalk.
I stared after her a moment, then shrugged and went back to digging. "It's out here," I muttered. "I just know it."
Honestly, Heather was right. Compared to the other kids in my Deluge, Georgia neighborhood, I wasn't normal. I was the only non-white kid for miles in every direction. I was a cinnamon-hued, dark haired anomaly.
Even at that age, I had realized that I wasn't like the other kids in my school. I knew I wasn't black, at least...not like my mama. She had smooth mahogany skin and kinky black hair that she had to press once a week.
My hair was softer, straighter, and longer, and my skin was lighter than hers. That could only mean one thing, my father was white. I'd never met him, my mother refused to discuss him beyond telling me that he had loved me. I just knew.
In my mind, not only was I too light. My mother's ears didn't look like mine, her ears were small and round and mine were just slightly larger and pointed. My mother was 5'4" and by the time I turned ten, we were eye-to-eye.
Then, there was the reason that brought me to dig in the yard for the entire three months of summer vacation between third and fourth grade...the voice in my head. There was a whisper in my dreams that told me that there was a ring waiting to be found in the earth surrounding my house. It sounded crazy, and I knew that I probably shouldn't mention the hearing voices thing to anyone, even my mother. When she asked what I was doing, I just told her I was digging for treasure. Technically true, but I still felt guilty feeding her the pirate fantasy instead of coughing up the truth.
I didn't find the ring that summer. I made sure to fill in the pot holes I'd made and help my mother re-seed the grass before I had to go back to school. Then, the summer between seventh and eighth grade Billy Wiley got a metal detector for his birthday. I offered him five bucks to let me borrow it and I found the ring in less than twenty minutes. It was buried in the flower bed, under the peonies.
The ring was gold with a huge emerald set atop the band. I never wore it on my finger. My mother had been outside when I'd dug it up. I tried to get her to put it in her jewelry box, but she insisted that I keep it. She even gave me a gold chain to put it on. That's when I decided that being "not normal" was not really such a bad thing. From that day, the necklace and ring never left my neck.
***
"Bye, mommy," my six year old daughter Ella chimed.
"Have a great day, honey," I said giving her a quick kiss on the cheek before she slipped out of the door. She shut the door, gave me a wave and a huge grin that made me fall in love with her again. I blew her a kiss and watched her walk a few paces before turning back to watch the brake lights of the SUV in front of me.
Before I could put the car in gear, there was a knock on my window. I jumped a mile. I'd never been accosted in the drop off lane of Polk Elementary School before.
"Yeah?" I asked powering down my window.
"Are you Deidre Ellette St. Germaine?" the woman towering above me asked.
"Who wants to know?" I asked glancing at the clock on the dash. I had to leave soon or I'd be late for work.
The woman bent down and smiled. I immediately didn't like her. Not only was she tall, she was slim and beautiful. Her hair was so black it actually looked blue where the sunlight hit it. Her dark green eyes were wide and honest. Her dark features only served to make her pale skin look almost transparent. I was momentarily struck by the fact that I'd never met a white person as pale as this woman.
"My name is Trilla," she said and I finally noticed her British accent. "I've come from England on your father's orders."
I gasped and felt myself go rigid. "I don't have a father."
"Yes, you do!" Trilla said shuffling the papers that she clutched in her hands. "Your father is King Dominic Edward St. Germaine, the late king of Ellyrinia."
My ears must not have been working correctly. "King?"
Trilla's green eyes dropped to the pavement. "Late king."
"So," I narrowed my eyes and watched her face for signs of a lie, "he's dead."
