Originally written as an assignment for the Children’s Book Writing class with Margaret Meacham through Gotham Writers completed in April, 2022.

Sunlight streamed through plastic slatted blinds as the opaque outline of Imogene Thiessen solidified in the middle of the room. It was her room, after all, but that didn’t stop her pulling a bewildered, groggy double take at the scene materializing around her. A few pillows stuffed into her sheets remained as she left them, though the clock no longer read 1:15 am but now 7:15 am.

Before Imogene could get her bearings straight, her grandmother’s voice rang out from downstairs, “Imogene! Are you up?”

A scratching noise emanated from her computer desk as she hollered back, “Yeah Grandma, getting dressed!”

She could hear her grandmother grumbling to herself in the kitchen below, “Yeah Grandma, in my day we never spoke to…”

But Imogene had more on her mind than her grandmother’s opinion of her tone. Quickly looking up, down, and running her fingers through her hair, she confirmed that all of herself had made it back in one try. A major accomplishment really though there was no time to congratulate herself. The bus would arrive in 15 minutes and she wouldn’t be caught dead wearing the same outfit she wore yesterday.

The same scratching noise came again. “I hear you Miki, I do! Yes, you can come with me today.”

Her voice was muffled as she changed at light speed, tearing off her brother’s old utility jacket, her favorite vintage tee shirt from the 1987 Like Winnipesaukee canoe races, and a pair of jeans with a fresh new burn hole above the knee. Most 12 year olds in her seventh grade class didn’t wear vintage tee shirts and hoodies, but Imogene liked being different — most of the time.

She coordinated the day’s outfit with fresh light wash jeans, slip on sneakers, and an old Tampa Bay Lightning hoodie, Miki’s favorite. Imogene snatched the tawny rat from her cage, gave her a kiss on the nose, and tucked her into her hoodie pocket on her way out of the room.

Downstairs, in the flurry of grabbing toast and choking down some orange juice, her grandmother grabbed her arm. “Did you sleep at all last night, Genie? You look like a corpse.”

Imogene rolled her eyes, shaking her grandmother off. “Thanks Grandma. You look great too. I’ll be home after practice!”

As she raced to the bus stop, holding Miki steady so she didn’t bounce as hard as her half-full backpack, she sighed in exhaustion. There had to be a better way to get the hang of this whole emergence thing without staying up all night taking instruction from a mad old sorcerer in a cave.