Kapre

A lot of things slip past you when you're, say, about seven years old.

.............................

"Are you thsure thith ith a good idea, Annemarie?" James asks, struggling to achieve proper pronunciation despite his missing front teeth.

We're in the garden, collecting small bugs for a brand-new experiment.

"Calm down, Jamesey. Mama thinks we're in the tent."
"They might hear us."
I pause and look at him cautiously. "Who?"
"The night monsterth and the kapres. Daddy thsays they thsmoke big pipes and thsit in big treeth. Like that one."

"Kids? Where are you?"

I run through the house screaming bloody murder and dive inside the camp tent that stands pitched on the patio. He dives in after me.

The black of the night makes the tent's interior even darker than I'd like.

"You're the one who's always scared, anyways, meathead." I hiss.
"Then why did you ruuun?"
"Because our mamas are gonna hear us."
"They'll hear uth even more 'cause you thscreamed."

We bicker on for a while, until the sound of our mother's voices cut in.

"JAMES! ANNEMARIE!"

Quickly we slide under the tent blanket for refuge.

"I'm sorry for making you scream, Annie! I'm sorry sorry sorry..."

What a baby.

My mother rips the tent door open. She's standing there with James's mother, whose hands are planted on her hips. I've got the feeling that they're gonna start calling us by our whole names and stuff.

They don't, but they lecture us on a very consequential matter: that of digging through the garden without permission or a pair of rubber gloves. At night. In pajamas.

After they leave, I turn to James.
"I believe in your kapre," I whisper. "we should go hunt for it!"
He brightens. "Yeah! But maybe we should bring along flashlights. It'ths dark."

Nodding, I start to rummage through his backpack for a torchlight. Then suddenly he tugs on my arm, looking rather beseeching.

"Annemarie, promith me now that if the kapre gets uth, we'll help each other out. Okay?"
"Yes, and through anything else, too," I whisper back.
"Spit oath," he says. I reach my hand out to him, and he spits into it. I do the same-most gracious-favor for him, and we shake.

[Eugh. Slimy.]

He smiles at me, so I can see the gap where two new teeth will be sprouting out soon. And I smile back, because somehow, I know he isn't going to fail me.

.............................

Ah, only a true kababata knows just how important and meaningful a spit oath is. It's for life and for death, for sun and for rain.

No, seriously.

Don't you think so? :)