Egg

        Forgotten among the food scraps in the trash, something glimmered at me. Cautiously, I started on a circuitous route around the kitchen counter to mislead my older brothers for as long as possible. With four older brothers who feel entitled to participate in every adventure and grasp at every prize, deception is a girl’s best friend.

        The object buried in the bin looked rounded, glinting with a warm light that my brothers must have mistaken for the after dinner candlelight. As I picked up the leftover casserole dish and scraped the unwanted leftovers into the trashcan, I surreptitiously examined this small sphere resting on top of the broccoli stems. It appeared to be an egg. Eggs were not uncommon items to go in the trash, but normally they did not give off their own light. I must be imagining things. 

“Jenny, what you looking at?” Tommy shouts at me from the kitchen table. 

“Well I was daydreaming before you started yelling at me. Can’t a girl have a moment to herself?” The cardinal rule of deception is never respond negatively to a question, always create an alternative story. Replying ‘no not looking at anything’ would have been the surest and fastest way to bring my brothers over––and that’s a different strategy altogether.  

Then the egg changed color. At that moment I knew I had to get the egg out of the kitchen immediately. It was mine. Thanking God that I had chosen to wear a baggy sweatshirt today, I turned my back to my brothers at the kitchen table and pretended to drop the casserole dish into the trashcan. Reaching down to reclaim it, I snatched the egg up and carefully transferred it to the front pocket of my sweatshirt. I didn’t even care about food residue on the now red egg, it was far more precious than my clothes. Depositing the casserole dish into the sink, I scampered out of the kitchen to the hollers of “Klutz!” and “Stop daydreaming girl!” 

Three years ago, when I was thirteen and could not bear the thought of going through puberty with no personal space, I built myself a hobbit hole. Modeled after the homes of my favorite characters, my hobbit hole was built into a large mound of earth in the far back of our forrest property. As I hollowed it out that summer, I remember thinking how absolutely unfortunate it would be if the hill contained the remains of some ancient burial site. Since I started tunneling, I did come across the occasional rodent skeleton, but never anything that looked remotely human. After three years of continuous remodeling, my sanctuary was warm, dry, well lit, lined with my favorite books, and was a treasure trove of all the things I’d stolen over the years. Little did I know then, that my assiduously crafted refuge would become my tomb. 

Leaving the kitchen and escaping my brothers, I knew that I had to go to my hobbit hole. Because I never wanted to be followed, per usual I went first to my room and then climbed from my window to the tree just outside it. Climbing from tree to tree so as not to leave an obvious trail, I wound my way around our densely wooded property until I arrived at my real home. I pulled out the egg from my sweatshirt: it was now a creamy blue. 

At this point I felt a prickling on the back of my neck. Something mysterious was going on––eggs didn’t change color. Though I did take some comfort in the fact that I could fit the egg in the palm of my hand. I assumed that at least whatever fantastical creature eventually hatched, it could not be too dangerous for me to handle at its small size. I hoped naively that it could be my pet, a creature so amazing all of my brothers would be jealous, and it would be all mine, loyal to me only. Unless the creature grows to be gargantuan, or is poisonous, I thought I would probably be okay. 

That assumption was my first mistake. Before my eyes, the egg began to break apart. Pieces of the shell flew off in a dramatic fashion and once the air started to whistle, I leapt out of my hole and hid around the corner of the entrance, head peeping around the frame to watch what my egg was doing. Swiftly, with a speed that was not natural, a reptilian head protruded from the remains of the shell. As its body forced its way out following the head, my hands began to shake. The snake that slithered out of my egg was a sinister creature. As it looked at me I started to realize that the price of my curiosity might be too high. 

Not running at that point was my second mistake. The snake made its way toward me and whispered sibilantly: “Sssso you ssssought to possssessss me?” 

The snake was talking. It must be a demon. Or the devil. Or a messenger from Hell. I tried to play it off, “No of course I would never try to possess one such as you, great serpent. I hoped you could be my friend?” I thought that charm and the appearance of innocence might be the best trick to appease this creature. 

“Sssssounds like you sssspeak disshonessstly, child. Sssadly you do not know, itsss imposssssible to deceive the Deceiver.” True terror paralyzed me as I suddenly realized the identity of this egg I’d salvaged. I had brought the Devil to my most sacred space to hatch. The snake lunged and I screamed as it made its way up my body to circle my neck. 

“Ssshh little one,” the devil crooned, “I will make you sssspecial and sssstrong and your brothersssss will never sssseee you as ssssmall again.” 

After that, I made no more mistakes. I was never again ridiculed or belittled. My brothers never could find the body.