Rocco always knew he was a little different.
While other dinosaurs ran wild through the forest, Rocco spent his time in the kitchen wearing an apron and doing baking experiments.
Rocco was
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I watch the news every day over breakfast with Mama, just to see the weather forecast. This morning, the meteorologist said this would be a good night to see it in Severville. He was a decidedly flimsy man, and looked like he'd blow over in a strong wind. Mama remarked that he probably shouldn't have gone into weather science. But I trust his prediction. I wait in my bed until around one, until I know Gabe's passed out in his cruddy recliner, after the TV programming has deteriorated into nonsense. With the rope slung over my shoulder, I creep down the hall. The inane roar of some game show muffles my footsteps.
When I ease open the front door, the floodlight snaps on, reflecting the snow in one bright wash. It must be at least two feet of snowfall, because Gabe's truck looks like nothing more than a white lump in the driveway. The whole yard is lit like a football field, but the night loiters at the edges. Gingerly, I pull the door shut behind me. It's achingly cold out here. The wind cuts right through my sweatshirt and into my chest cavity. It almost makes me want to sneak back to get my jacket, but I doubt my chances of getting past that sleeping Goliath twice. Thirty seconds of freezing silence slink by until the floodlight turns off. When I'm plunged into darkness again, I know the flimsy meteorologist was right, because the northern lights float above me.
It's kinda like when you stare at something real bright like the bare bulb over our bathroom sink, then look away fast. You can still see the picture of it lingering. Mama said never to look right at the sun ‘cause it'll burn your eyeballs or somethin'. I figure the bathroom light ain't anywhere close to the sun's brightness. But I digress. The aurora are like that. They're like somethin' you weren't ever meant to see. It felt kinda forbidden, almost drunken. They're there, but only for those who know to look.
Right above me, there hangs a shining band of silvery green. I try to imagine what it'd be like to be a person from five hundred years ago, coming up the Peshtigo River in a li'l canoe, looking up into the pitch darkness and glimpsing that color. No wonder they said the aurora were spirits. The whole sky blushes pink, if I squint. It's delicate up there, though. I have to be real quiet if I don't wanna scare it away.
The snow's light and powdery in the yard. I crunch over to the middle of the street and peer up, hefting the rope. It's a straight shot. Underhand would be best. Gulping in one icy breath, I hurl the rope upward. It stretches above my head, much longer than the hundred feet I'd bought, and pierces the sheets of color, disappearing into the blackness beyond. It doesn't falter when I give it a sharp tug, even though I'm sure there's nothing for it to have looped on. Somethin' must be conspiring to bend the laws of the universe tonight. I can only pray that it's on my side.
With that stupid hope still trembling in my gut, I begin to climb. It's tough work, if you haven't done it, dragging yourself up to where you don't belong. Only a few feet up, my shoulders are pulsing with uneasy pain. My coach'd have a fit if he saw me doing calisthenics in the cold without doing warmups first. But I just keep rising, hand over hand. If I could have it my way, I'd never see him again.
For all the hoping I did, I didn't think about what I'd do once I got up here. I shoulda brought my fishing rod; then I could pluck birds right outta the sky or somethin'. The thin air up here does wonders for the brain. Every thought is so clear, I don't mind breathing shallow if it means I can stay a bit longer.