Heroes of a New Age

In Which I'm Adopted by a Snake

My name is Danielle and I was four when I started seeing monsters. At least, that's what everyone said.

I don't remember much from my first foster home. I think it was a nice place, out in the suburbs, a big house with a big yard, lots of kids. I was just one of half a dozen.

They didn't think much of what I saw until I started drawing pictures... the hydra stalking the park, or the woman with the snake's tail pushing a stroller down the sidewalk. Her baby had a snakey tail too, flopping out of one side of the stroller like a pudgy land-mermaid.

I was proud of the pictures. They weren't too bad for a four-year-old. My foster mom didn't appreciate what I saw in the neighbors. They sent me back.

The monsters didn't go away though. It was like they were following me from house to house. No matter where they moved me, there would be strange creatures and people that no one else seemed to notice.

It wasn't all bad, though. At the group home in the Bronx, they'd take us to Yankee Stadium, and we'd see the baseball games, and get hotdogs. The man who sold them was big and scary and had his baseball cap pulled low over his single eye, which was right in the middle of his face. But, he smiled at me, and heaped my hotdog with pickles and ketchup, and I put what little change I had left into his tip jar. It was the best hotdog I'd ever had.

I lived at that home for the longest, with maybe eight other kids at any time. I wasn't the youngest or the most scared for long. There was always someone littler, and lonelier. I did my best to be encouraging. Life as a foster kid wasn't so bad. You got your three square meals, and you learned to defend yourself from the mean kids pretty quick.

They were just unhappy because they hadn't been adopted. Every kid wants to belong somewhere. I did too. For as long as I could remember, I'd always felt like I was missing something. I figured everybody felt the same way. But it didn't mean they didn't deserve to be punched in the face for being jerks.

When I was eight years old, I had another shot at adoption. I'd been good and hadn't shown anybody my sketchbook of monster sightings, or gotten into any fights. I was good at fights, even though I was small, and a girl, and the new kids had learned not to mess with me, cuz I would stick up for anybody.

The day my new parents arrived, I wore my best outfit, a frilly sort of flowery dress, though I still wore my jeans. One of the bigger kids braided my hair for me and tied it back with a white ribbon. Mrs. Taylor, who ran the group home with her husband, had bought me a brand new backpack, which I filled with my most precious belongings— my baby blanket, a smooth piece of subway tile from the station near Yankee Stadium, little treasures, as well as some extra clothes, though Mrs. Taylor had told me that the family would give me new ones.

But, when I came down to the living room, where Mrs. Taylor was meeting the woman who had come in, I froze at the bottom of the stairs. Through the door, I could see her, impeccably dressed in a grey suit with a pencil skirt, a matching cloche hat above a perfectly styled bob, and a Louis Vuitton purse large enough for me to climb into. The woman was clearly very impressive to Mrs. Taylor, who wrung her hands nervously as they talked quietly.

The problem was... despite her nice clothes... she had a snake's tail coiling from the hem of her skirt where her legs should be, and as I came close, she turned yellow, lamp-like eyes on me.

"Hello, little girl," she said, as I hesitated in the doorway, shifting my weight from foot to foot, tugging on the hem of my dress. Mr. Taylor appeared behind me and nudged me forward with an encouraging nod. I went, avoiding looking at the tail, or the eyes...

"She's just shy," Mrs. Taylor laughed nervously as I dragged my heels. "Come on, say hello Danielle."

"Hi," I mumbled to the floor.