I'm talking about Christmas eve, of course. What many call the night before Christ's birth. My parents being the agreeable, sociable citizens they are invited Aar's family and Marra's over for dinner in ethos of the festival.

Hello? Do you understand?

Their entire family.

'Momma, there's really no need,' I told my mother. 'I mean, can't we do it like every year? Aar can come over and we'll have a nice - '

'Bee.' She looked tired, like she wished this conversation had never begun. 'Is this how we raised you?'

'I'm afraid your mother is right, dots.'

Dad has been calling me 'dots' ever since he got me a polka-dot nightgown when I was, like, seven. Apparently, I fell in love with it and wore it day and night. He tells me I tried to wear it to school, too, but I refuse to believe that. Whenever I tell him to stop calling me that, he goes Who am I supposed to call dots but my own "dot"-er?

Uh, no one, Pops? It's not mandatory to call someone by that name. It's hardly a name in the first place.

(The only person lamer at Dad puns than my Dad himself would be Aar. I suppose you know.)

'Where did you even come from?' I asked him then.

'Bedroom,' Pops replied flatly. He doesn't seem to know what rhetorical questions are. 'This new friend of yours. This Marra kid. He lost his parents, didn't he?'

I looked down at my Crocs (what? They're comfy!), feigning shame. Everyone knows everything in small towns. 'Well, more or less,' I mumbled.

'More or less lost his parents?' Momma observed. I swear, she has ears like a moth. Or a bat. Or an owl. All of them have super strong hearing. 'What do you mean?'

'Yes, what do you mean, dots?'

Oh, and Pops has a tendency to repeat what others say. As Es would put it: I don't wike it.

What was I supposed to tell them anyway? That Mar's parents live on in spirit inside his Uncle? Now that would earn me a trip to the local priest, whom I try to avoid as actively as my young orthodontist.

'Nothing,' said I. 'You don't want to know.'

'We don't want to know.' See? Repetition!

'And his cousin, the one who's . . . ' Momma waned off. Obviously she was going to say "retarded" but was scouting for a better word. Then she gave up altogether. 'We barely know this new friend of yours. We only let you go with him because of Mr. Om - '

'Yes, Mr. Om - '

'-you know, his company recently featured in the Forbes' list of the Top 10 Most Successful Local Businesses in the - '

'-he donated to the Sunshine Charity for handicap children too, he's so kind - '

On and on they went. Sometimes I forget the grump we went through so much with is actually such a prosperous guy. I remember Aar even called him an "old fart" once. Mr. Om isn't much of a grump anymore, though. I’ve discovered that if you mention his favorite movie in front of him, he starts to fan-boy like a teenage girl over her beloved music-band. It’s nice to see there’s still a kid sitting inside that cranky body.

Only the kid's senescent. Always hibernating (like bears in winter, you know?), unless you mention anything related to The Godfather.

Yep, that’s his favorite movie.

(Don’t tell anyone - especially Aar The Movie Buff or Mr. Om The Dormant Fanboy - but I’ve never seen it. Nervous clinking.)

Mr. Om keeps mostly to himself in his gothic mansion. There have been some renovations there, like the glowering windows have been replaced by designer ones, the sphinx at the front gate (not door; gate - there's a difference) replaced by an altar of sorts, the walls inside decorated with patterned wallpapers, blooming plants (yay!) in the yard-garden, a gleaming gourmet kitchen, et cetera, et cetera. All a sign of Mr. Om's renewed spirit. He generally keeps himself occupied with work. I guess he wants to earn an honest name for himself, considering his present wealth originated mostly owing to his pelting after the Coven Thirteen. No one knows it, of course. But he knows.

Like when you get away with cheating in your Geography exam and somehow get the highest score. You feel triumphant, of course, but there's a thick coat of guilt coating your heart, because you know in your heart of hearts that you don't deserve it.

Not that I would know. I don't cheat.
Do you?

Disgraceful.

I hope you get caught the next time you do.

But okay.

'-and then there's the new neighbors, we have to invite them too,' Momma was saying.

'Yes, new neighbors,' Pops rebroadcasted.

'Wait, we have new neighbors?' I asked. This was news to me. Now that I thought about it, I had seen some movers a couple houses down the block. But mainly I'd been so caught up in my summer science project (a hydraulic brake, it's pretty cool) and all the assignments I had missed while I was starving to death in a cell. Aar says he won't bother. 'What neighbors?'

They didn't bother to answer me. '-with them and Mr. Om, we need to keep everything perfect-'

'-perfect, yes, for Mr. Om-'

'-he's so kind-'

Their mouthing-off on Mr. Om resumed while I retreated to my room, thinking of all the things that could go awry. Big man, Mr. Om, big man.

Occasionally he would join one of our "Es sessions" - weekly hour-long assemblies where me and Aar and Mar would try to teach the former-spirit how normal humans behave.

Try to. So far we'd been failing miserably.

After all, her tutors could only teach her so much. We told them she has ADHD. I'm not going to expand that acronym for you, you should know. Awareness is a must. To be honest, I won't be surprised if we tested her and she actually got diagnosed by it. She really is hyperactive (that's a hint, thank me later).

And she asks loads of questions. I'm not saying that that's a bad thing, curiosity is great and all, but her questions are simply . . .

When we told her the Earth is ellipsoidal (that's right, not a sphere) and that it rotates about its own axis perpetually, she was like, 'Then why don't we fall off when we're on the bottom?'

Congratulations, Flat-Earthers. You got a new member for your community.

It was also really hard hammering into her head that now she can die. The concept to her was like XXL-sized shirt contoured over a newborn's head. Loose. Unfitting. She knew what "death" was, she just didn't realize that now if a car hits her, she won't just pass through it. She'd pass for good.

That's one of the many reasons we were still trying to keep her indoors as much as possible. You never know when Es might spot a butterfly and decide to chase it to a freeway on Mars.

I really want to go to Mars, by the way. I want to do a lot of things that I won't be able to now.

Because, you know, the whole I'm-about-to-be-pecked-to-death-by-a-flock-of-deadly-ravens thing.

Mar loves space, too, maybe he'll go there for me someday. But the odds of Marra of all the people in all the planets of all the galaxies being an astronaut are, well, negligible.

No offense. I like that mad lad.

Why else would I go to a suicide mission to help him settle the score with a bunch of evil old ladies?

I still can't believe all that really happened. It could well-neigh be a dream. But I have my cavities to show for that. And a human Es. And a duo-limbo Mr. Om. (Get it? Two limbs. Twist on duo-lingo. I wish I could tell this to Aar, that'd show him.)

But - but what if this has always been the reality and I dreamt the whole thing up? Aar and me and Mar and Mr. Om and Es, having a collective crazy dream?

That sounds more plausible than what actually happened, if we're being honest.

Am I crazy? Surely there are some books that I can read to find out. Would I be able to detect the symptoms if I were in fact off my trolley?

The amulet. Yes. The one Rasthrum gave us before we left. At least we have that as proof.

I remember holding it in my palm, feeling the silver. Staring at it for minutes on end.

It looks like several rings melded into one big, convoluted circle. With a tiny, two-inch shotel running through the center.

That's a venerable Ethiopian weapon, a shotel is - a curvy blade, size intermediate between that of a dagger and a sword. Look it up.

You know the feeling when you see a glass jar filled with perfectly round, colorful marbles, and you just want to put one - or two, or three - in your mouth, even though you know it's dangerous and can kill you?

Right. Hold that thought. We'll come back to it.

You can probably make a fluke on what happened, but you don't really know until I tell you about the 'mares. The 'mares were what started it all. The 'mares are the reason I am where I am.

And the bananas, of course. The hexed, loggerheaded bananas. Never forgetting the bananas.

Anyhow, you get why the dinner party was a bad idea, right?

Es was not ready to interact with people other than us. She was just not.

She didn’t even understand the concept of payment or money yet. One time we took her to this convenience store – and she lost her mind. She picked anything and everything up, claiming she had wanted to have all this for years but never been able to because of not being able to interact with the physical world. She was accused of shoplifting and has been permanently banned from the store.

That's why See, despite being my pet, was found mostly at the revamped mansion. To keep Es company. Since she couldn't hover around wherever she wantes to anymore, lest she end up in prison or a mental asylum, and often got bored.

Oof. The catch of being human.

Es has a great acreage ahead of her.

And here's the thing. No matter how many times you teach a giraffe the alphabets, it's never going to learn. Because it's - and here's the shocking part - a frigging giraffe.

I can't believe some scientist actually tried that. He could have come to the {Undisclosed} School Of {Undisclosed} and asked me, pfft. Then again, I guess that's part of their job. Experimenting and testing nonsensical stuff out.

We wouldn't have gotten to know about X-Rays if Sir Roentgen weren't poking around at equipment like a disobedient little physicist.

(Fun fact: he didn't know what they were, so he just called them "X"-Rays, get it? 'Cause in math we're always trying to find the variable, and more oft than not it happens to be "x". Scientists crack me up.)

If not for mad scientists, we wouldn't have gotten Frankenstein's monster either, heh?

Tortoises and tortillas! I'm starting to palter like Marra!

Maybe this job isn't as easy as it seems.

But now that we're on the topic, let me tell you what happened on that dinner at Christmas Eve. I think you'll find this to be rollicking fun.

For me, though, it was a rollicking disaster. Especially because of what happened after.

Mr. Om's favorite movie is The Godfather. What's yours? ( ╹▽╹ )

Stay tuned! Stay safe! You got this!