Chapter Text
Although in the beginning I had simply known him as “The Boy,” I came, over time, to understand that the boy’s name was Wyborn (or Wybie, as he liked to be called). Originally, I had thought he would be the child that needed protecting. The one I was sent to guide. However, for years I laid in wait, nestled in the crook of his arm, or curled up in a basket balanced on his bike, and no danger came.
That is, of course, until The Girl. It had been years now, and she had established herself, with a great amount of gusto, as C-O-R-A-L-I-N-E. Not Caroline and certainly not anything as nonspecific as the girl. I suppose I do have to respect the commitment to a name. For all of my existence, I have had many, and eventually they do begin to bleed together. I have often wondered what it would be like: to live one life, have one name, and then to die with it, held close to your chest as a prized possession. I will never know, though, how it is to know oneself so profoundly, and that is alright.
In any case, the danger, and such my duty to Coraline, came and went, and already a story has been penned of it, as it usually goes. I have never been the one to tell the story of the main event. I lurk in the duller moments. The little things, and the even littler things, upon which hinge matters of life and death. Far too boring, though, for a story. As it stands today, I lurk in what is usually the dullest moment of all. The Happily Ever After (which is never quite that happy, mind you). The almighty guide through peril and adventure that is Me has become a housecat, content to catch mice and lie in the sun until the cycle begins anew.
For now, I watch the boy Wybie pace, wringing his hands together. He does this often. He seems to need to always be moving, whether it’s this, a hand running through his hair, or one scratching behind my ears. I have certainly never complained about the latter. as I watch, he brings his pacing to the ornate mirror that hangs on his wall, fiddling with his hair so as to get the curls to fall Just Right. I have observed him enough to know this means he is expecting company. Well, that and I heard him make the plans. Once he is content with his hair (for the next five minutes, upon which he will fix it again), the boy Wybie flops down on his bed, sticking two white earbuds in his enormous ears, all the better to ignore me with.
Attention hog that I am, I gracefully hop to the floor, strolling over to his bed, and jumping onto the soft mattress. My paws sink down into the material, and I curl up next to the spot where his hand has come to rest. As he begins to pet my coat, I begin to drift off. No time like the present for a well-earned catnap after a hard day of being this bedroom’s only intelligent resident.
I kid.
Mostly.
When the doorbell wakes me from slumber, I discover I am not the only one who’s succumbed to the temptations of a quick nap. The boy Wybie’s snores do not permeate my ears for long, though, as the very familiar (and very loud) voice of his grandmother sounds through the apartment, “WYBORN! THE DOOR”S FOR YOU!” His jolt awake almost pushes me off the bed, and I protest with an indignant mew.
Too late, though, as he’s already halfway out the door before I’ve gotten it out. “I’m coming!” I hear him shout, and the thump-thump-thump of him running down the stairs becomes further and further away. Realizing that I am the adult supervision for the afternoon, my paws once again hit the carpeted ground, and I begin to make my way after him.
I sometimes wonder how they keep this pace up. Always moving. Always a new adventure. They weren’t children anymore. Though, hardly adults either, I suppose. In any case they were too fast for an old cat like me.
“Is the cat coming?” inquired Coraline’s familiar voice as I reached the bottom of the stairs.
“You got any way to make him not come?” asked the boy Wybie, pulling his boots on.
“Good point,” she said. “Speak of the devil.”
Wordlessly (how else?), I maneuvered my body into the basket the boy Wybie carried, lying on the blanket he’d thrown over its contents, and settled in for the ride.
“Wuss puss,” Coraline commented, though she smiled at me.
Wuss puss indeed.