Say: “There’s a Dragon, Camel Boy!”
“Watch out, King Arthur, there is, there is…” my son, Jay, says. He stands teetering on stage in his little burlap robe, his Merlin costume, swinging his arms and shuffling his feet. He looks to the side of the stage where his kindergarten teacher, Miss Katie, sits smiling in an honest-to-God director’s chair. She mouths something, but my son only furrows his brow, looks out at us parents, and scrunches his face. His mouth and chin are obscured by the cotton ball beard his mom, my Ex, made for him. His eyes are huge and I worry that underneath his lips are quivering.
At home, during my weeks with him, he and I practiced his lines. He’s only got three of them. He’s supposed to warn Rylee Faulk, who plays King Arthur, that there’s a dragon protecting the sword in the stone. Not part of the legend, but they’re only six.
The parents titter in the silence.
Rylee Faulk, in her cardboard armor and Burger King crown shouts. “Say: ‘There’s a dragon,’ Camel Boy!”
Gasps from the parents. Miss Katie hops up from her director’s chair. My Ex, seated at the far end of my row, stands and makes a choked outraged sound alarmingly close to a death rattle.
Rylee’s mom, in the third row, stands and says, “Oh my God. I’m so sorry darling.” (Whether “darling” refers to my son or my Ex, I’m unsure.)
At the beginning of the school year, Miss Katie texted all parents to warn/admonish that students were mocking my boy’s cleft lip. His scar divides the flesh between his nose and upper lip, which puffs out below either nostril. This engendered “Camel Boy.” A plastic surgeon in Nashville said he’ll fix it once he’s older.
My son raises his wizard staff, a large piece of brown construction paper rolled into a cylinder, shoulder high, then levels it at Rylee to hurl like a spear and says, “Die, Pants!”
(There was another incident where Rylee had an accident, wet her pants on the playground, followed by a similar email to the parents.)
Unphazed, Rylee readies her sword, also construction paper, only more elaborate in, well, construction.
Jay throws. Rylee effortlessly bats the spear aside with a twirling parry. Some parents actually cheer.
Saying, “No, no, no—children, this is not how we [something inaudible],” Miss Katie charges into the fray but skids to a halt. Rylee and Jay cross and grasp each other in a bear hug, giggling, squealing.
My son, I know, has an enormous crush on Rylee. She’s all he talks about. My Ex, in our “updates on Jay” chats during drop off exchanges—which are generally the two highlights of my month (the chats are)—insists our kid is too young for a crush. But I had crushes at his age.
At the smattering of applause, Rylee and Jay bow. Miss Katie steps forward and insists they finish the show.
Two of Jay’s friends push on a wooden backdrop, a mural of a green dragon coiled around a gold hilted sword. The quality of the painting far outstrips the costumes, the props, and the other backdrops, which were made/painted by the kids. The dragon was the work of Miss Katie. Our printer paper handbills, mock programs with bios for each little actor and stagehand, concludes with a page-long bio of Miss Katie, who apparently earned a technical theater MFA at UT Knoxville.
The final scene is supposed to be Rylee alone, though Jay remains onstage holding her hand. Rylee, after proclaiming “Have at thee” whacks the dragon painting, then—although she already has a sword—kneels in front of what one assumes is Excalibur.
A blackout, the show’s only light cue, and lights up on Rylee and Jay appearing to contemplate a first kiss. Again, Miss Katie rushes in, this time making it, and grabs their hands. She raises them, which earns an enthusiastic, if confused, second applause.
In the elementary school’s lobby—White Plains is K-6th—we parents mill about congratulating one another and one another’s children. I find my Ex and say “What the fuck was that?” a little too loud.
“Right?” she says.
“The sword thing was cool,” I say. “The kid’s got a future in that.” (I don’t know what “that” is, but this is how most of our conversations go.)
“I guess,” says my Ex. “Nice dragon.”
Rylee’s mom shoulders through the small, needlessly congested crowd and apologizes for the “Camel Boy” thing.
Jay rushes between the three of us and announces that he and Rylee are “betrothed”—his words—then demands someone take them out for ice cream to celebrate. Rylee’s mom and Jay wander off to join the crowd-within-crowd praising Rylee.
Tonight is supposed to be my Ex’s handoff of Jay to me. It’s now the two of us alone. “Ice cream?” I say.
My Ex stands frowning, looks back and forth from me and Jay, says, sharp and sarcastic, mocking,“Are you asking me out?” But looks instantly, deeply embarrassed. We both flush. We both teeter on the tile of the lobby. We sway, swinging our arms, and shuffling our feet. Look off into the wings.
Travis Flatt (he/him) is an epileptic teacher living in Cookeville, Tennessee. His stories appear in Fractured, Variant Lit, Prime Number, Gone Lawn, and other places. He enjoys theater, dogs, and theatrical dogs, often with his wife and son. @WriterLeeFlatt (Twitter/X) @travisflatt.bsky.social Travis Flatt, Author (Facebook)
