Paul opened his front door. The sun was just beginning to peer over the horizon and the morning dew was glistening on the green grass. The birds were singing and the air was filled with the strong scent of garbage.

Paul forgot to take out the trash the night before and was now rushing to accomplish his chore before the garbage truck came. His tiny arms struggled with the weight of the bags as he alternated between hauling them on his shoulder and dragging them on the ground. It was a bit embarrassing. He was in the eighth grade—trash duty should not be that difficult. He never imagined the curb was so far from his house.

He set the bags down for a breather halfway to his destination. He glanced around the neighborhood and spotted something that filled him with trepidation and amusement in equal measures.

Over the six foot hedge in his front yard, Paul saw the top of a head. No, not a head, hair. Mounds and mounds of curly, golden hair. The owner of the hair emerged from behind the hedges and marched across the driveway. Paul watched her in wonder as she strolled across his view.

Her baggy jeans (at least four sizes too big) were tucked into her boots and clinched with a rope belt. Her purple giraffe shirt was speckled in blue paint. The way she picked up her feet and bobbed her head made him think of a flamingo. And the hair! It exploded from all sides of her head in a swarm of frizzy blondness. Bits of bobby pins, hair ties, and comb bristles found in the mass of curls were testimony that no one could tame her wild mane. She was one of those rare occurrences that Paul couldn’t help but stare and admire the oddness.

She almost disappeared behind the hedges again when she froze. She turned her head slowly to look at Paul like a cat who just noticed a defenseless mouse. She removed her goggles from her face. Goggles, not glasses. The legend went that after she broke her fifth pair of glasses in the same year her parents invested in EverGlassing®—the scratch-resistant, glare-reducing, titanium-enforced, waterproof, bulletproof goggles. She dropped the goggles around her neck, abruptly changed direction, and marched toward Paul like a soldier in a war.

Although she was only two years older than him, he became aware of his short stature due to the extra height her hair added. He became slightly nervous as she approached, wondering what she could possible want from him. He knew who she was, of course, everyone in the neighborhood did, but he had never spoken to her before. Actually, he had only observed her from afar and this was the closest he had ever been to her. From this distance, he was able to observe that her eyebrows were located abnormally high on her forehead, giving her the appearance of being perpetually surprised.

When she stopped before him, Paul said with a smile, “Hi Greta, what are you doing here so early in the morning?”

“On a mission. Need money.” She reached behind her and, like a magic trick, produced a bulging sock. She opened it, exposing a treasure of quarters, dimes, nickels, and pennies.

“How much do you need?” Paul asked.

“Thirteen cents.”

Paul rummaged through his pockets and produced a quarter. He dropped it into the sock.

Greta held the sock up to her ear and shook it. “That’s enough.” Without another word, she turned and marched away. The manner in which she retreated reminded Paul of a rhino destroying everything in its path.

Paul was relieved at first that she only wanted spare change but then became very curious about what this “mission” Greta mentioned could be.
He glanced at his dark house and looked down at the garbage bags at his feet. “Sorry,” he said to the trash. “It looks like you will be the first casualty of this mission.”

He abandoned the heavy bags and dashed after Greta. “Hey! Wait! What are you doing? Where are you going?” he asked as he caught up to her.

“The mission needs transportation.” She reached the end of the sidewalk and continued her elephant-like stride into the street without looking for traffic. Paul followed cautiously. Greta stepped over the curb, onto the sidewalk, and continued right onto a neighbor’s freshly-cut lawn.

“Um, maybe we should take the sidewalk?”

“Logic dictates that the most direct route will be the fastest,” Greta chided as if talking to one of lower intelligence.

“…Okay?”

Greta marched through backyards and front yards, climbed over fences, and parted shrubs. Paul felt bound to avoid flower bushes but Greta did not see this restriction.
Suddenly, they were standing on a front step of a house on the complete other side of the neighborhood in less time than Paul imagined. The lawn was perfect, there wasn’t a weed in any of the many flowerbeds, and the house was larger than most in the neighborhood.

Greta rang the doorbell.

There was no answer.

“Maybe we should come back later,” Paul said. “It is still early.”
Greta didn’t respond, but began to repeatedly push the doorbell. Paul could hear rings echo through the house. He took a few steps back.
From within, Paul heard angry voices, then someone shout “I am not talking to her!” Then they were calling for someone named Verra. Paul assumed Verra was a friend of Greta.

Greta was still ringing the doorbell.

Finally, a girl opened the door.

Paul didn’t know what he was expecting, but he assumed a friend of Greta must have a similar…fashion sense, but the girl looked normal. Really normal. She was wearing a simple blue t-shirt and pajama shorts. Her slightly bed-worn black hair was pulled back from her angled, dark-skinned face. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes.
Behind her, Paul saw the girl’s parents scowling from a safe distance. Their house was modern and expensive—tall ceilings, beautiful wooden archways, huge chandeliers. It was the kind of house he was afraid to enter, in case he broke something valuable.
Before the girl could say anything, Greta said, “I will be waiting in the car,” and strolled away. The girl and Paul watched her bouncing hair go.

“She got you too?” the girl asked.

“Yeah.”

“I’m Verra.”

“Paul.”

“Nice to meet you.”

Paul asked, “Are you a friend of Greta?”

“No, yes…well, I don’t know. She just started showing up at my house after I got my driver’s license a few months ago.”

They followed Greta into the garage. Three cars rested inside—a minivan, an Oldsmobile, and parked in the corner, a corvette.

Greta was sitting in the corvette.

Verra and Paul got into the Oldsmobile. They stared at Greta in the corvette and she stared back. And stared. Paul sensed a stalemate.

Verra started the car.

And they stared.

Finally, Greta got out and came to their car. Instead of getting in the backseat—which was completely empty—she shoved her way onto the Paul-occupied passenger seat. He was forced into the awkward middle seat between Greta and Verra.

“Why are we not in that vehicle?” Greta demanded.

Verra blinked. “It is a corvette.”

“It has the most horsepower and speed. It would be the optimal choice for a mission such as this.”

“It is a corvette,” Verra repeated slowly.

They glared at each other and Paul sensed that they were on two completely different wavelengths.
Finally Greta shook her head, as if she couldn’t understand these illogical beings next to her. “Why are we not moving?”

“I don’t know where to go.”

“The department store, of course.”

“Of course. I should have known.” They whizzed out of the driveway.


An hour later, they were back in the car with two plastic tubes, lots of duct tape, many other gadgets that Paul couldn’t name, and an empty sock (Paul received the twelve cents change) and heading for Greta’s house.

Like Greta, her house was a sight to behold. It was very old and showed signs of age and neglect—the blue paint was faded, windows were cracked, shingles were missing. However, it had a sense of sturdiness about it. Like if a hurricane came through and knocked over every house in the neighborhood, it would still be standing. It knew its purpose in life and it would not be deterred.

The front yard, more commonly known as the “jungle,” was infamous in the neighborhood. The next door neighbors complained about it all the time. But Paul thought it had a perfect blend of beauty and chaos. There were flowers everywhere—in the flowerbeds, of course, but in the middle of the yard as well, and even in between the stones in the rock path to the front porch. With the flowers came huge, beautiful weeds, sometimes more spectacular than the flowers. Where there weren’t flowers or weeds, waist-high grass danced in the breeze like waves in a pond. Through the grass, narrow footpaths weaved and Paul spotted hidden treasures in the tall plants like an abandoned tricycle and the glowing orange eyes of a cat. A large oaked loomed overhead, standing guard over the house.

Greta jumped out of the car before Verra parked the car. She marched through the front door which had been left wide open. Paul imagined that she burst out of her house at the very beginning of morning, ready to start her mission, with no time to close the door behind her.

“Should we go in?” Paul asked.

“She didn’t say we couldn’t.”

Verra and Paul entered the house and he looked around. Like the front yard, he thought it had a charm to it even in its disorganized state. There was a lot of random stuff everywhere that did not go together. There was a small wooden rocking horse next to a huge buffalo head next to a giant pink umbrella. Everything was cluttered and things clashed horribly, but yet Paul liked the house. He could tell the people who lived in it, really lived in it and they loved their house.

He didn’t have much time to look around since he was forced to rush up the stairs to catch up to Verra and Greta. They entered a small bedroom right at the top of the stairs.

“What happened?” Verra asked.

It took Paul a few moments to comprehend the scene in front of him. Blue paint was everywhere, splattered against the walls, floor, and ceiling in a mess. It was blotchy and the old yellow paint could still be seen. Most of the furniture had been removed but a chair and desk received a similar treatment to the walls.

But the paint definitely wasn’t painted on. Attached to the ceiling fan with a long string, was a can of paint with holes in the bottom. Paint was still dripping slowly onto the floor. There was also a box in the middle of the floor with the remains of a paint can and a blue explosion. Paul finally comprehended what was going on. He laughed. “This is the mission! To paint your room!”

Verra joined his laughter. “You know, if you had just painted it with a paintbrush instead of going through the trouble of this ‘mission,’ you would probably be done by now.”

“Don’t talk blasphemy. True, it might have been faster today, but if I can devise a way to paint a room quickly, it will save me time in the long run. See, you must think logically.” She began to unpack the things she bought from the store.
“While testing my other ideas, I found the major flaw to be lack of control. Things just exploded, sometimes literally, and paint went everywhere. I needed something in my hands that would apply the paint but using a paintbrush would take too much time. I needed a projectile weapon and I thought the best would be a flamethrower. Except instead of flames, it would shoot paint. I will be the first person to create a paint-thrower.”

Verra nodded slowly. “When she said projectile weapon, I thought ‘paintball gun.’ But, nope. The right answer was flamethrower that shoots paint. I don’t think I have this whole logic thing down yet.”

Greta ignored the sarcasm. “Here, hold this,” she said to no one as she held out one of the plastic tubes. She dropped it and Paul had to dive for it before it hit the ground. “And this.” She dropped the other tube which Verra caught. “Hold them like this,” she said as she shifted the plastic tubes they were holding and then started to tape them together. “Okay, now get that thing and put it here.” Under Greta’s direction, they slowly assembled her paint flamethrower.

“This is never going to work,” Verra said as she stared as the completed machine. Paul had to agree. The contraption was held together with a pound of duct tape, a whole roll of string, and prayers.

Greta loaded the gun with cans of paint and then put on her goggles. Verra and Paul stepped back. Greta lifted the gun onto her shoulder like a bazooka. Paul held his breathe. Moment of truth. Greta pulled the trigger.

The paint flew out of the gun and splattered against the wall in a graceful arch. It was like watching the water fountain at the city pond or blue fireworks. The paint splashed everywhere—the ceiling, the floor, even on Paul, but he was too amazed to care. Greta was completely in control and it only took her about five minutes to turn every surface blue.

When her mission was complete, she dropped her paint-thrower and stood in the center of the room with her hands on her hips. Paul could sense the pride from her as the paint dripped onto the floor around her. “It still needs work but this was a good start.” She then turned and left the room, Verra and Paul followed. Greta closed the door behind them and wiped her hands on her pants.

“This was amazing! You should let me know the next time you are planning a mission,” Paul said.

Greta looked at him. He expected her to say something like “Of course, thank you for all your help today.” Instead she just looked at him blankly, and asked “Who are you?”