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This is your dream. You are on a shining train that will carry you to the Emerald City for the wonderful Wizard of Oz to greet you with open arms. The gilded letter–your ticket to this most ardent dream–lies tucked in a breast pocket above your heart, pressing into your chest the way your hopefullish hands have done every night since you learned there was a Wizard one could meet. Your best dream is pushing through into reality as your toes wiggle in your boots; the vibrations of the train hum through the soles.
Yet as the train moves away, as you say farewell to all the people you never expected to wish would fare well (or would wish it on you in return even more unexpectorally), you realize a second, truer and secret hope has come true. You read the glittery pink ink that swoops across the inner page of the travel brochure and your skin tingles with more than just the motion of the train.
This is your dream. Your most ardent dream. You never imagined there might be anyone to share it with, anyone who would want you to prosper, who would miss you when you left for the City. It has always been your sole and solitary dream.
“Come with me,” you call to her over the bellows of the great metal beast carrying you away.
She protestificates. You expected this though, simultaneously, it never crossed your mind that someone might decline, that she would decline such an offer, in order to preserve your dream, so that it might occur exactly as you envisionated.
Joy, pure and bubbling, leaves you in a laugh. Your dream is coming true regardless. She should be there, too. You want her there, and that is no longer a surprise. She found you and reached into your heart with all the abruptness of a kalidah, landed with all the gentleness of a butterfly. She stepped from the spotlight to greet you fully and pulled you into her orbit. (Not like the others orbit, not because she is charming and beautiful and good at sports; because what would waves be without the moon? What would birds be without their song? Animals without speech? Everything would continue on, but the world would lose some sweetness, would it not?). She reached for you when you were certain you were exhaustified of holding onto hope that someone in this world might see you as you are.
You reach out now and haul her into the train (into your dream). The laughter as you both collapse to the floor, exhilarated and stupefied, rings sweetly in the air alongside the huffing and chugging as the train takes the both of you far from where you began.
Sugar and smoke fill your lungs as the two of you climb the steps to the viewing deck. The chamber is emerald green with gold trim, polished to a shine. You meet her bright eyes and your face aches with a matching grin. The world swirls past in rolling flashes of color through the windows: amber wheat fields; tulips in every shade of red and pink; cerulean lakes; and more, so much more than you knew. It’s almost dizzifying.
You sit cautiously on the couch (a part of you still not believing, another part certain it will ruin in some way if you relax into it). She startles you. It’s not on purpose, but she sits beside you, proper at first, then leans all the way back with a pleased noise. (This. This is what startled you.)
“Elphie, I have sat on many a splendiferous cushion,” she turns her head to gaze at you with wide eyes, “Momsy loves a splendiferous cushion and Popsicle rarely says no.” She closes her eyes and stretches her arms to the sky, as if attempting to offer the couch a chance to become something other than a couch, perhaps some splendiferous quicksand. Your lips quirk at the thought. “But Elphie, these are the most splendiferous.”
You smile properly then, soft and quiet. You wouldn’t want to disturb her as she sinks into the cozy not-likely-to-ever-be-muck muck. Suddenly her arm snaps out like an adder (though far less precise) and flaps around until she finds your collarbone. She shoves with more force than you knew she was capable (or perhaps you’re not as immovable as you once were – not for her, at least). You slam into the cushions and groan in surprise.
She opens her eyes then and turns to you, sitting up completely. “Right?! So splendiferous!”
You watch her watch you and the twinge in your joints dissipates (the specter of her hand against you does not). “Yes, darling.” You smile and her smile grows and it’s all worth it in the end, in some inexplicable way. “Thank you.”
“Of course!” She grasps your wrist and her face solemnifies. “I told you. It is my sworn duty as your friend to teach you what it is to be popular.”
You sit up from where she toppled you and adjust your hat, chuckling lightly. “And popular people sink into comfortable cushions?”
“Yes,” she replies with such seriousness you almost feel like apologizing for every time you thought she was shallow. “It is important to recognize what is in front of you and soak it up as much as possible.”
Your face warms as you look at each other. You duck your head slightly and adjust your (perfectly fine) hat once again. “Yes. I do believe that’s true.”
Train attendants come by intermittently. They bring cakes and cookies, drinks and danishes, every color of confection. By way of exploration, you find that one of the tables has a rather tempting button in the center.
“Oh, press it, Elphie, please! I simply must know what it does!”
You were about to take a bite from a pink delight, but you set it down in favor of delighting the pink made manifest beside you. You kneel next to the table to check for any signs or instructions that might, with authority, dissuade one from pressing a mystery button and find none. You glance to the bouncing ball of excitement standing across the room. “If this explodes in my face, I’m blaming you.”
“Oh, hush.” She waves you off before coming to kneel on the floor opposite you, eyes trained eagerly on the not-obviously-forbidden cylinder.
Part of you wonders if this is the price of fulfilling a secret hope: silly acts of surrender. Another part of you thinks you mind it less than you might have previously and press the button.
You both gasp as the center of the table releases itself to reveal a secret compartment. A series of small shelves ring a pillar at different levels and each shelf holds a glass perfectly proportionified for a munchkin child’s hand.
“Oh, Elphieeeeee!!!” She squeals. You cannot help your awe at the fascinating construction either. “Aren’t these the most adorable little glasses!!!!” You laugh and nod, and she cups one between her two hands, gazing at its every aspect like it’s a precious gem she cannot bear to lose. “I will have to ask that splendiferous little mustache man if I can have one. Or maybe where Popsicle can purchase them. Ooooohhhh, Elphie!!!” Her eyes sparkle with wonder and your heart trembles. “What would I do without you?!”
She is sprawled across your lap. She drapes over you, just barely keeping her head resting on your thigh, and snores oh so lightly. Reading the brochure and planning all that they might do seems to have tired her, or perhaps her body prompted her to sleep now so that she won’t be tired later. Whatever the case, she is sleeping in your lap and you are content in a way you are not sure you have been in a while. She is warm and your mind is quiet. You read through the brochure some more, focusing more on the articles than the pictures this time.
On occasion, you surreptitiously turn away attendants. On others, you let your hand trail against her soft dress, her softer skin, her silken hair. For a few minutes you even set the brochure down and focus on her only. She seems to lean into the touch of your nails, your hands, when you glide them through her hair, so you indulge her. (Only her, of course. What indulgence could this be for you?) She smiles slightly in her sleep and you continue your ministrations–trailing, threading, caressing–until it seems the stimulation will wake her.
You return to the brochure. Your fingers itch against the pages.
A little while later she wakes.
You cannot remember where you are or how you got here. It matters very little. You are warm and content. Happy, even. You lay on a blanket in front of a fire. More accurately, you lay on someone who is laying on a blanket in front of a fire. They are humming softly and holding you close to them. The windows are draped in blue and hide you from the rain falling outside. It’s not something to be afraid of here, the storm. You feel there has always been a storm, a crackling fury in the world, in your heart. It has always been here in some way and you have never been able to escape it. You are not escaping it now, but, you think, that that must be okay. Perhaps you will always have to face the storm one way or another, but here you can rest a while first. The storm will not go anywhere. You can rest and be happy a moment and forge a path through the storm in the morning. You nestle deeper into the arms of the person who holds you like you are precious and worthy of a gentle peace. You hear their breath as they inhale, about to speak-
“-ook! ELPHIE, LOOK AT THOSE WATER LIZARDS!”
You jostle most abruptly from your slumber. She sits at attention pointing to something past the window and you feel completely discombobulated. You try to blink into consciousness and see what she saw. The glimmer of scales catch your eye as the passing waterfall ripples uncharacteristically. “What in Oz?” The waterfall is gone before you can see more than that. You sit up, ignoring your fallen hat for the moment, and twist your torso to look at Glinda. “Did you see a water dragon?”
You wait for her response and your brain works hard to process why it’s taking so long (you rarely sleep so deeply and you cannot remember if there had been anything worth remembering, though some unknown feeling lingers in your bones). You wait a few moments more and realize her face is almost as pink as her dress. You never realized how long her eyelashes are.
You blink and lean away. You try to reconfigure your limbs in a manner that you pray to Oz appears natural, but feels lurching nevertheless. You reach for your hat and find she has already picked it up.
She hands it to you, shy. “I think it might have been a fish.”
You take the hat. Her hands and yours linger on the rim. She lets go and you swallow as you place it back on your head. You keep your eyes on the table for a moment as you breathe in, settle. “A fish?” You glance and see her hands twisting, nails picking at fingers. You look up and she explodes.
Her arms spread wide and she stands, a spring uncoiled. “Yes! I mean, there are so, very, many, and I can hardly name one! Let alone one that lives in a waterfall way up in mountains I’ve never been in.”
“That’s true. But you said water lizard. When you woke me.” You aren’t upset. Your brow is furrowed and you are staring at her, but you really aren’t upset.
Her hands go to her hips then flit quickly to fold against her chest, arms crossed. “Well, I- I was mistaken.” The energy seems to fizzle out then. Her hands drop to her sides, smoothing her skirts, and she drops back into her seat. Her knees press into yours then tilt away. You tilt yours to find hers to face her better. “I’m sorry for waking you,” she says, genuine and sheepish.
You place your hands on hers and she turns it so you are palm-to-palm. “You have nothing to apologize for.” You lean in and press your lips briefly to her forehead. (You almost shudder at the touch; she does. You wish you knew why.) You look at her and she meets your gaze with something akin to adoration. “Always wake me for dragons, real or not.”
You wink. She smiles softly. You think, briefly, that her eyes well with tears, but you will never know for sure as she launches herself at you. She hugs you close to her, arms over your shoulders and clutching your dress. (It feels momentous somehow.) You wrap your arms around her waist, hands pressing into fabric, and breathe in her perfume. (It feels like the world holds its breath and exhales all at once.) She buries her head in the crook of your neck. (It feels like nothing has changed.) You hold her like your whole heart is pouring out of you and into her. (It feels… good.)
She lets you go before you do.
You smile and your heart feels full to breaking.
The mustache man enters and announces the train will arrive at the Emerald City Station in 15 minutes.
He leaves.
She takes your hand and drags you to the window to see your future rising in the not-so-distant distance.
You squeeze her hand tightly. You know that it was the right choice. It will always be the right choice to bring her with you.
Emerald walls and columns rise before the train. A shadow in the wall expands into an archway large enough for train tracks and a platform on either side. Golden light pours through the passage as the train approaches, sliding over its interior with the same blossoming wonder of a sunrise. The future arrives with the sound of metal gears braking to halt a metal marvel in its tracks.
The doors open. Your hand is in hers. You are where you are meant to be.