the prologue pt 2

here's the (secondary) prologue to my original fantasy adventure book! this is likely one of the last pieces of my book I will share before it is completely finished and can be read as a whole, enjoy!

Prologue Mateo

My butt was wet from sitting on the park grass for hours.

The grass was like March, lingering cold and wet and now my pants were too. Mom told me to sit on my jacket but I didn’t bring one. She had asked Dad where the picnic blanket was and he said he had forgotten it. So we stood near the back, watched the musicians play, and ate our sandwiches with a hand below to catch falling pickles.

It had been a couple of months since the baby had died. I didn’t understand how a baby could die before it was born, but Dad told me Mom was really sad about it and to not ask questions about where the baby went right now. Mom had cried all day again, and it took Dad all afternoon to convince her to come out. I caught snippets through the wall between Mom’s sobs.

Please. It will be good for you, for the family.

Mom said yes, and Dad and I immediately ran out to buy sandwiches and an extra large bag (a family-size bag) of honey dijon potato chips. Dad packed the tote bag and helped Mom get dressed, and we walked the three blocks to the park. A bit too late for an up-close view, but it's about the music, right? Dad’s optimism gleamed.

I was too wiggly, very few eight-year-olds would find enjoyment in watching wrinkly retired people play instruments I could never afford to play, so Mom told me to sit.

In the wet grass.

And so, my butt was wet.

But hidden away, at the bottom of my backpack where no one would find it, was a pale green baby blanket.

And I refused to sit on it.

And so, my butt was wet.

“Mom, can I go to the swings?” I asked softly, afraid of the stream of consciousness in her mind. Swing. Children. Baby-swing. Baby.

Mom watched ahead, eyes transfixed on the stage. Like I wasn’t even there.

“Go on, Teo, we’ll be right here,” Dad stepped in, putting his arm around Mom, though she reacted like a statue; stone cold.

I looked up at the glowing street lamps in the dark, the sun had set rather quickly, and the park was lit ominously by the lights collecting moths and the moon watching over us in the distance.

I sat on the squeaky swing and pushed myself off in the sand below.

And I wondered why Mom thought I wasn’t enough.

And then there she was, like a child ghost floating from the trees of Howarth Park. Shivering, crying, barefoot, glowing.

I jumped from the swing and ran. Not away, but toward.

She was visibly startled and backed up when she saw me, so I slowed down, my anxious feet always running faster than my brain. Her eyes were wide with fear, slate gray and terrified. She trembled, her arms bare and pale and freckled to high heaven.

I crouched, as though she were a stray dog or cat because when you’re eight, anyone younger or smaller than you is an opportunity to be grown up.

“Are you lost?”

Her eyes darted around, and she hugged herself tight, her knees buckling.

“Oh, you’re cold!” I realized. If I was cold, she must be too. I looked around for a lost jacket near the slide or park bench, but saw nothing, and recalled the green blanket in my backpack. I swiftly pulled it out from under my various unnecessary necessities and slowly wrapped it around her shoulders.

“See? Nice and soft, and warm,” I smiled at her, but she did not return the favor, only pulled the blanket closer and sniffed it with a big inhale, her exhale shaky.

“Where are your Mom and Dad?” I asked, “Are they back at the concert?”

She shook her head and furrowed her eyebrows as if she was concentrating very hard. And that’s when she began to cry again, this time with her eyes closed tight and her hands at the side of her head.

Oh no.

I hated crying. It made my stomach twist up into knots and tangles that took hours to come undone. Crying was unsolvable, frozen, stuck, panicked. When someone cried I ran away in self-preservation or talked too much and made things worse.

But I couldn’t run now.

She had the blanket wrapped tightly around her fingers. I would never get it back.

“It’s okay!” I said putting my hands up, again, treating her like a lost puppy who could bolt at any moment. “I’ll help you find your family! I promise. And if you don’t have a Mom and Dad, I can share mine.”

She took a stuttered breath and opened her eyes.

“Yeah, they’re really nice, and Mom makes dulce de leche cake sometimes, which is yummy,” I smiled at her, and she looked like she might smile back. “Do you- do you like dulce de leche cake?”

The girl shrugged. “I don’t know. I like strawberries.”

My heart did cartwheels and my chest was full of fireworks.

I didn’t run. And she talked.

“I like strawberries too!” I said excitedly. “My name is Mateo. What’s your name?”

I paused, afraid she could not remember, because she stood before me for a long time, running her hand over the blanket’s edge.

“Sarabeth,” she whispered softly, as though it were a secret.

“Mateo!” I heard Mom call from down by the swings. I had run a bit too far from the playground.

“That’s Mom,” I said, turning back to Sarabeth. I put my hand out for her to hold. “Will you come with me?”

And she nodded, her curly hair bouncing.

“Mateo! You scared us!” Mom pulled me tight into her chest, squeezing more ferociously than I think I’d ever been hugged. “Where on earth-” Then she caught sight of Sarabeth, who still held on tightly to my hand. “Who’s this?”

“Sarabeth,” I said. “She likes strawberries.”

And that was all we knew. Sarabeth had skin like a daytime constellation, adored strawberries with a burning passion, and only trusted one person; me.

Mom and Dad whispered the entire walk home after Sarabeth had a meltdown when Dad offered to carry her on his shoulders. They whispered about how strange it was that she was barefoot, stumbling from the woods. They whispered about calling the police, which Dad shot down faster than Mom could finish her sentence. And they whispered about me, and if I would be safe with her in the house.

I couldn’t understand how they found her dangerous. She was small, even smaller when we learned her true age of six, and she trusted me with her whole heart.

Because I gave her the blanket.

She did not let go of my hand the entire walk home, even as I carried her on my back, dozing off to sleep on my shoulder.

And I whispered to her, “I promise, I will find your family for you, Sarabeth.”

But somehow I knew, whether I wanted it to be true or not, Sarabeth’s family would never be found.

No matter how hard I looked.