Dragons in a Bag Read online

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2018 by Zetta Elliott

  Cover art and interior illustrations copyright © 2018 by Geneva B

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Random House Children’s Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  Random House and the colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

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  Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools, visit us at RHTeachersLibrarians.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Elliott, Zetta, author. | B, Geneva, illustrator.

  Title: Dragons in a bag / Zetta Elliott ; illustrations by Geneva B.

  Description: First edition. | New York : Random House Books for Young Readers, 2018. | Summary: In Brooklyn, nine-year-old Jax joins Ma, a strange and miserable old woman, on a quest to deliver three baby dragons to a magical world, and along the way discovers his true calling.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2018015339 | ISBN 978-1-5247-7045-7 (hardback) | ISBN 978-1-5247-7046-4 (library binding) | ISBN 978-1-5247-7047-1 (ebook)

  Subjects: | CYAC: African Americans—Fiction. | Magic—Fiction. | Dragons—Fiction. | Brooklyn (New York, N.Y.)—Fiction. | Fantasy. | BISAC: JUVENILE FICTION / Fantasy & Magic. | JUVENILE FICTION / Animals / Mythical. | JUVENILE FICTION / People & Places / United States / African American.

  Classification: LCC PZ7.E45819 Dr 2018 | DDC [Fic]—dc23

  Ebook ISBN 9781524770471

  Random House Children’s Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.

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  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Acknowledgments

  For Marie,

  whose dragons

  are still

  in my bag

  Mama strokes my cheek with her finger before pressing the doorbell. I feel tears pooling behind my eyes, but I will them not to fall. Mama has enough to worry about right now.

  “It’s only for a little while, Jaxon. I’ll be back before you know it.”

  I nod and look up at the peephole in the door. If I look down at my feet, the tears will fall and my nose will start to run and Mama will know I don’t want her to leave me here.

  Mama’s biting her lip and tapping her toe nervously. She presses the doorbell again, letting it ring longer this time. We both hear someone stirring—and cursing—inside the apartment. Mama laughs nervously and says, “Ma curses like a sailor sometimes, but she’s a harmless old lady. She’s fun, too—you’ll like her, Jax.”

  I never even knew I had a grandmother living in Brooklyn. Mama never mentioned her before. Sometimes Mama hides things from me—or that’s what I let her believe. Mama thinks I don’t know our landlord’s trying to get rid of us. She takes down the eviction notices he pins to our front door, but I still know what’s going on. Today Mama has to go to court. I want to go with her, but Mama wants to leave me here instead.

  A heavy body shuffles toward the door. Mama and I wait patiently as at least three locks are turned. The chain stays on and lets the door open just a crack. I cringe as a raspy voice asks, “What you want?”

  Mama smiles sweetly and places her palm against the door. She speaks slowly and politely. “It’s just us, Ma. I called this morning and told you we were coming. Remember?”

  The woman behind the door barks at Mama, “Course I remember. You called and asked if you could leave the boy with me and I said NO!”

  The sweet smile on Mama’s face doesn’t budge. If anything, it hardens. Mama tries to push the door open, but the chain’s still on and my mysterious grandmother doesn’t seem ready to move out of the way.

  Mama puts her other hand on the doorframe and leans in so that the woman on the other side of the door can see and hear just how desperate she is. “It’s only for a few hours. Please, Ma. You’re all he has.”

  I step back and wonder if that’s really true. I’m sure Vikram would let me stay at his house for a while. His parents like me and don’t mind having me around. Mrs. Patel calls me a good influence. That’s what the grown-ups who know me always say. But this mean lady won’t even open the door and give me a chance. If she doesn’t want me around, that’s fine by me.

  But it’s not okay with Mama. She’s whispering to the woman behind the door, but her smile is gone now, and there are tears shining on her cheeks. I want to hold Mama’s hand, but instead I take another step back and hold on to the straps of my book bag. Mama’s saying one word over and over again: please.

  I have never seen my mother beg anyone for anything. But it doesn’t work, because the door finally closes. Mama rests her forehead against it before wiping her eyes and turning to me. “Let’s go, Jax,” she says wearily.

  I sigh with relief and take Mama’s hand. Just as we start to walk down the stairs, I hear the chain slide, and the door opens once more.

  “One day. Give me your word, Alicia. One day.”

  Mama says, “I promise, Ma.” Then she pulls me back over to my grandmother’s apartment. The door is open, but the lights are off and I can’t see anyone inside. Mama gives me a quick hug and pushes me through the doorway. Before I can ask her when she’ll be back, Mama rushes down the stairs and is gone.

  I step inside the dark apartment.

  “Lock the door, boy,” my grandmother growls.

  I look at the three locks on the door and decide just to flip the one closest to the knob in case I have to make a quick exit. Then I let my eyes adjust to the shadows before searching for my grandmother. The apartment smells musty, but it looks tidy. The living room has two big windows with heavy curtains that shut out the spring sunshine. I shrug off my book bag and set it down by the door. I figure if things don’t work out here, I can always run away and hope the Patels will take me in.

  I am standing in what must be the dining room. There’s a short hallway to my right, and I think my grandmother’s voice came from that direction. Light spills into the hallway, and a moment later, I hear pots and pans clanging. I figure my grandmother must be getting ready to cook something, so I move over to the kitchen and stand in the doorway.

  My grandmother is wearing a purple velour housecoat that clashes with the orange-and-green wallpaper in the kitchen. The housecoat must be old because the fabric is worn thin at the elbows and around the butt area. I’m guessing my grandmother sits a lot, though I didn’t see a television in the living room. Right now she’s standing at the sink, peering into a cupboard that looks pretty empty.

  “You hungry?” she asks in a gruff voice.

  “No, ma’am,” I reply.

  “Boys are always hungry,” she mutters before taking a jar of peanut butter off the shelf.

  I watch as she grabs a knife from the dish rack and a loaf of bread from on top
of the fridge. It looks like I’m getting a sandwich whether I want one or not. Her white hair shudders like an angry cloud as she smears peanut butter onto the bread, all the while mumbling to herself. I’m pretty sure she’s talking about me, but her voice isn’t quite loud enough for me to hear, so I figure she’s not actually talking to me.

  I stare at the worn patch on the back of my grandmother’s housecoat and wonder what her face is like. She hasn’t looked at me yet, so I guess she’s not curious about my face. I wonder if we look alike. Folks always tell me I look just like my mother. We have the same dark eyes, long eyelashes, and curly eyebrows that creep across our faces like twin caterpillars.

  There’s a box on the kitchen table that looks like it just came in the mail. It’s about half the size of a shoebox, and lots of colorful stamps surround my grandmother’s address. But there’s no name written on the box—and no return address that I can see.

  I go over to the table to get a better look. I slip onto one of the chairs and examine the stamps. Most of them show birds and butterflies, but others have dinosaurs and lemurs on them.

  “Where did this box come from?” I ask.

  My grandmother grunts and says, “Far, far away.” She pauses, glances at me over her shoulder, and adds, “I have an old friend in Madagascar. You know where that is?”

  I don’t look up, but I can feel her eyes on me. Something tells me this is a test. Luckily, I know the answer. “It’s an island off the coast of Africa,” I reply.

  She puts down the knife and—for the first time—turns to really look at me. I’m not sure what she sees, but when I look in my grandmother’s face, I see an ordinary old woman who doesn’t look anything like me or my mother. In fact, her eyes are a murky blue-black color, and she doesn’t have any eyebrows at all. She squishes up her face and says, “Boy, what you know ’bout Africa?”

  I wonder what she wants me to say. Geography is one of my specialties.

  I sift through all the facts in my head and say, “Africa’s a continent. There are more countries in Africa than there are states in the Union. Madagascar’s in southern Africa, off the east coast of Mozambique.”

  She folds her arms across her chest, and her elbows nearly poke through her velour housecoat. “Well, well, well,” she says in a voice that lets me know she’s impressed.

  I stare at the box so my grandmother won’t see that I’m annoyed. People never expect a kid like me to know anything about anything. I’m used to it, but it still bothers me sometimes.

  My grandmother turns back around and finishes making the sandwich. “Your mama teach you ’bout Africa?”

  I shake my head but then realize my grandmother can’t see me. So I say, “No, ma’am. I taught myself.” Then I add, “There are lots of rare animal species that live on Madagascar.”

  “Ain’t that the truth!” she replies with a short laugh.

  For the first time today, I start to relax. Maybe we do have something in common after all. I reach out my hand and turn the box so I can check the stamps on the other side. To my surprise, the box jumps!

  My mouth falls open, but I hide my surprise when my grandmother turns around and brings the sandwich over to the table. She sets the plate down and then eases herself onto a chair.

  “Eat,” she says before shoving the plate closer to me.

  I’m not really hungry, but I figure it’s probably easier to just do as I’m told. I take half the peanut butter sandwich off the plate and keep my eye on the box. The peanut butter is thick, and it takes a long time for me to swallow just one bite. I glance over at my grandmother and see in her eyes that she’s laughing at me.

  “You need a beer to wash that down,” she says. “Why don’t you grab a bottle from the fridge?”

  Beer? I’m nine years old! I figure I’ll just see what’s inside the fridge and pour myself a glass of milk instead. I push back my chair and take three steps across the kitchen. I have to tug hard to open the fridge door, and the only thing inside is a head of wilting cabbage and a six-pack—of root beer.

  “Want one?” I ask her.

  “Sure,” she says. “Why not?”

  I grab two bottles and close the fridge door. That’s when I notice that the box has moved from the kitchen table to the counter. I didn’t hear my grandmother make a sound, but the box is definitely out of reach now.

  I set one bottle of beer in front of my grandmother and watch as she twists off the cap before taking a swig.

  “Ahh!” she says once she’s swallowed. “Nothing like a cold beer first thing in the morning.”

  The clock on the wall reads 11:20, but I don’t tell my grandmother that. I just sit down and open my own bottle of root beer. I take a small sip and watch the box on the counter. I think I see it move a fraction of an inch, but maybe my eyes are playing a trick on me. Maybe my grandmother just moved the box so I wouldn’t get any peanut butter on it. Or maybe she doesn’t want me to know what’s inside.

  I feel my grandmother watching me, so I look down at my sandwich instead. I force myself to pick it up and take another bite.

  “Not hungry?” she asks.

  When I shake my head, she helps herself to the other half of my sandwich. With her mouth full, she asks, “You like to read, boy?”

  I nod, and she continues. “Good—I got plenty of books. No TV, but you can read any book that’s in this apartment.”

  “We don’t have a TV, either,” I tell her, happy to have discovered another thing we have in common.

  “Oh, yeah?” she replies. “I guess your mama didn’t forget everything I taught her.”

  I glance at the box again. This time I’m sure I see it move. My grandmother gets up suddenly and puts the lid back on the jar of peanut butter before returning it to the cupboard. She slams the door shut and says, “I need to make a phone call. When you’re finished eating, just go on into the living room and find yourself a book. Understand?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And quit calling me ‘ma’am,’ ” she snaps. “It’s getting on my nerves.”

  “Sorry…Grandma.” I don’t know if it’s the peanut butter or the strangeness of that word that almost makes me choke. I take a quick sip of root beer and look up to see my grandmother’s shocked face staring at me.

  “Boy, I ain’t your granny!”

  Now it’s my turn to look shocked. “You—you’re not?” I stammer. Did Mama run off and leave me with a total stranger?

  “Well…what should I call you, then?” I ask.

  She grunts and pushes her chair in. “What everyone else calls me—Ma.”

  Then the woman who is not my grandmother shuffles out of the kitchen, leaving me alone with the mysterious box.

  I sit by myself in the kitchen with my eyes glued to the box and my mouth glued shut by peanut butter. I try not to blink, but nothing happens for so long that I cave. Did I imagine the whole thing? Maybe there’s nothing special inside that box after all.

  Then I hear a scratching sound at the window, which is open just a crack. At first, I think the breeze is making the crisp, yellowed paper blind scrape against the window frame. But when the sound keeps up, I realize there’s something moving out on the fire escape.

  I take another swig of root beer to unglue my mouth—just in case I have to cry for help. Then I stand up and take a deep breath. I go over to the window and carefully lift one corner of the drawn blind. The sight of a furry gray squirrel makes me sigh with relief. Squirrels are harmless, but this particular one seems determined to open the window. She reaches her paws under the edge, and her sharp claws scratch against the metal frame.

  “Want to come in?” I ask, even though I know she can’t understand me. But to my surprise, the squirrel stops reaching under the window and nods at me!

  I glance over my shoulder to make sure Ma’s not around
. She must have one of those really old rotary phones because I can hear her dialing it in the dining room. I tug at the blind so that it rolls up a bit. The squirrel clasps her paws together and eagerly hops from one foot to another. If I ever let a rodent into our kitchen, Mama would pitch a fit! I think they’re kind of cute, but Mama says squirrels are just rats with bushy tails. I bet Ma would pitch a fit, too, but something about this squirrel makes me think it’s a risk worth taking. I lift the window so the squirrel has enough room to crawl inside.

  The first thing she does is hop onto the counter where Ma left the stamp-covered box. The squirrel grabs the box like she’s going to lift the package up. Then she turns her head and rests it on top of the box. She closes her bright black eyes, and I realize she’s listening to whatever’s inside.

  For several seconds, the kitchen is silent. I can hear Ma’s voice in the other room. It sounds like she’s arguing with someone. Finally, the squirrel lets go of the box and bursts into a fast-flowing stream of screeches and chirps. I can’t understand what she’s saying, of course, which seems to frustrate the squirrel. She hops from the counter to the table and grabs what’s left of my peanut butter sandwich.

  “Are you hungry?” I ask. “Go on—take it. I don’t want any more.”

  I expect the squirrel to start nibbling at the half-eaten sandwich, but instead she hops back onto the counter and sets the sandwich on top of the box. We both wait to see what will happen. A low rumbling sound comes from within, and then the box suddenly jumps and the sandwich goes flying onto the kitchen floor!

  I bend down to pick it up, and that’s when I feel the squirrel’s four feet on my back! When I stand up, I see that she has hopped from the counter to the top of the fridge. The determined squirrel is pushing aside Ma’s breadbox to reach the cupboard it’s blocking.