by Frankie Rose
“What are you up to, Monster?” I’m eight years old, diving in our indoor swimming pool for the seashells my father tossed into the shallow end for me.
“I’m a mermaid, Daddy!”
“Of course you are, Monster.”
I growl at him, baring my teeth, which are sadly half missing.
“You’re getting ferociouser and ferociouser every day, my little mermaid monster.” He laughs and lobs one of the shells I’ve collected back to the bottom of the pool. I growl even louder, throwing in a stern frown and a downturned mouth for good measure.
“Miss Wilmott says ferociouser isn’t a word, Papa.”
Dad’s brow creases, and he bends down to pull off the Italian leather shoes my mother bought him. “She did, did she?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Well you just tell her that it exists in Dr. Evil’s dictionary, okay? She won’t be able to argue with that.”
“Okay, Papa. She taught us about a Greek moth today.”
My dad laughs out loud—a hearty belly laugh, even though he doesn’t have the paunch to back it up. “Do you mean myth?”
I nod solemnly. “It was about a man whose papa made him some wings out of feathers and wax so he could fly out of prison. He went too high up in the sky, though, and they melted off.”
“Ah, I know that story. That’s one of my favorites. Do you remember his name?”
“Icarus, daddy! His name was Icarus!”
Eleven
Midnight Run
