Page 2 of Caution to the Wind

Before I could recover my shock, Henning had picked up the second axe and sent it spinning after the first.

Thud.

It landed in the red bullseye so hard, the entire target vibrated on its legs, rocked back far enough to seem it would inevitably fall, and then tremulously righted itself again.

The three of us let out a series of whoops as we rushed Henning, hugging any part of him we could find. His soft, almost silent chuckle vibrated through my hands as I fit them around his hard waist. Kate’s soft, sweet scent was in my nose, and Cleo’s sticky hand was still glued to mine. It was such a simple moment; it felt silly to be sentimental about it, but I was. Both then, engulfed in a family hug, and now, so many years later, looking back on it.

I had my own family and traditions, my own parents and loved ones, but the moment I met Kate and Cleo, then Henning years later, I’d united with them. Aclickof connection I felt in my stomach like two mechanical parts fitting together to create something more.

I loved the Axelsen family, and they loved me.

It was sweet and uncomplicated.

Kate would pick Cleo and me both up after school every day and take us back to her tiny, meticulously clean bungalow so we could play and study while my parents worked. We had a routine, a unity forged by time together that meant everything to me.

Because before Cleo, I was a loner.

Kids made fun of me early on. I was different, which wasn’t really enough to tap into the human fear of and prejudice against the unknown. But I was different andloudabout it. Unlike the other few non-white kids in my class, I always made a point of sitting with the other kids. I was curious about them, and when they proved not to be curious about me, I clung to my uniqueness as if it were both a weapon and a shield. I begged Old Dragon to make me smoked carp’s head so I could eat the eye in front of my peers with relish while they gagged and groaned. Sometimes, I wore traditional dress to school even when people asked me why I wore a costume.

It wasn’t that I wanted my whole identity to be Chinese. To be defined by the culture of my mother and not the place I was being raised. But I found solace in the richness of my mother and grandfather’s customs. I found community there outside of those school walls. A Chinese child was taught from an early age about the importance of history, of ancestors. That we were all linked through time and space. It was comforting for me to imagine them at that cafeteria table with me, two long lines on either side of geishas and fishmongers, of warriors and dark-eyed comrades. It helped to not feel so alone.

And then, when I was in second grade, Cleo arrived in my classroom one day. She was too thin, almost gaunt, with ashen smudges beneath her haunted eyes. There were scabs on her hands and blood on her fingernails because she picked at them nervously while she sat huddled in her seat.

At lunch that day, I knew what would happen because it had happened to me.

Ray D’Angelo and his crew of stupid boys crowded around Cleo when she sat alone at one of the tables in the cafeteria. He pushed her tray off the table, her food splattering to the linoleum, the red apple rolling and rolling until it stopped at the toe of my shoe.

To this day, I wasn’t sure if it was the red of the apple, a deeply symbolic colour, my favourite colour, or the look of shame on Cleo’s face that made me do it.

It didn’t really matter.

One moment, I sat alone at my table doing my mathematics homework and the next, I was striding over to the bullies. I bent mid-step to retrieve the red plastic tray from the ground and swung it at Ray D’Angelo’s stupid, pretty face a moment before he could turn fully to face me.

He went down like a barrel of apples.

His friends gaped at me until I raised the tray and bared my teeth at them in warning. Then, they scattered. Ray moaned on the ground for a moment, clutching the side of his head.

“Get lost, D’Angelo,” I suggested casually, pressing the toe of my sneaker into his back to give him a gentle nudge.

He cursed under his breath at me, but he did as I suggested and scrambled to his feet, red-faced with humiliation, before running out the cafeteria doors.

One of the teachers came for me then, hauling me to the principal’s office, but before they did, Cleo reached out and ran her fingers down my arm until she could squeeze my fingers in her own.

And that was it.

That little moment was the moment we became best friends.

I thought of it then, secure in this little bubble with the Axelsen family in the middle of carnival chaos. And I made myself a promise little girls often made to themselves that I would love Cleo and her family for the rest of my life.

“Here,” the carnie ambled over with a discontented expression, the red dragon in his arms. “And if you give a damn about my business, you’ll get that bleeding axe out of the target. Can’t budge the damn thing.”

Kate laughed brightly, squeezing us all once more before stepping away with an arm around both Cleo and me. Henning moved forward to take the dragon and then crouched in front of me.

He studied the fierce-eyed toy closely, then offered it to me. “I’ve noticed you have an affinity for dragons.”

I nodded, mute suddenly under the powerful force of his full attention.

“Mei Zhen,” he murmured as if suddenly realizing something.