Lydia and Wyatt

“…eighty-eight, eighty-nine, ninety…” Lydia bounced diagonally down the driveway on her brand-new pogo stick. She’d saved a long time for this thing, and she was going to stay on it for 100 bounces if it killed her. It was $17.95, and worth every penny. Her dad paid her 10 cents per wheelbarrow load of yard debris, and 50 cents to wash the car. After what seemed like an eternity (and several unnecessary car washes) she took her earnings to ToysRUs. The pogo stick was red and shiny with black rubber handle grips, and it made a satisfying metal springing noise. She was crunching up and down the driveway to her heart’s content when her little brother, Wyatt, missed from the free throw line and their basketball started rolling down the street.
Lydia and Wyatt lived on top of one of the steepest hills in south Eugene. Luckily Lydia was only seven years old, because if she had ever tried to start a stick shift on that hill, she’d never want to get her license. Their neighbors across the street had a trampoline, and it was literally slanted. Going to the house west of their house practically required rock climbing gear. In fact, living on this hill really improved their outside shot, because if they missed, the ball was lost forever.
Wyatt, who was only three and therefore couldn’t get his rebound very fast, was devastated. Lydia tossed her shiny new pogo stick safely into a bush and started to run after the ball, which was already clearing the ridge in the middle of the hill and disappearing over the side. It was headed for Donald St., which was like half a mile down the hill. Lydia stopped after a second and kept her eye on the ball (which as anyone who’s ever played catch and accidentally thrown a ball into a forest knows is a much better strategy than immediately running toward the lost ball). Since this was their dad’s only basketball, they decided they’d have to go after it. Being only seven and three, they generally had to ask permission to go beyond the yard. There was absolutely no way they’d be allowed to walk all the way down the hill by themselves, so Lydia made an executive decision and dragged their Radio Flyer wagon out of the side yard.
The Radio Flyer was the kids’ vehicle of choice because a) both of them could fit on it with Lydia in the back reaching over Wyatt to steer with the black metal handle, and b)if they fell out, usually they’d just fly into some grass in a heap, as the wagon was close to the ground to begin with. Falling off a bicycle or roller blades was a lot more complicated. The kids spent hours on that wagon, with Lydia pushing the wagon for a head start and then leaping into it at the last second for a terrifying ride through the side yard that usually ended with the kids covered in scrapes and laughing hysterically.
After looking both ways for cars and their parents, the kids pushed off (or rather, simply let go) of the curb. The hill was sickeningly steep. No one in their right minds would embark on such a ride, the kids realized too late. They were FLYING down, and at the halfway ridge Lydia thought she saw an orange blur several hundred feet in front of them. She wrenched the handle to the left, which made the wheels catch on the pavement. They hurtled toward the side of the street and smashed into the curb. The front of the wagon caught on the curb, and the back acted as a catapult. Lydia was pretty sure she did two full somersaults in mid-air, and Wyatt did an impressive handspring off the sidewalk before they both vaulted over the side of a ravine and rolled forever before landing in a prickly hedge. Stunned, they looked around. They were in someone’s yard.
The yard was bubbling. Upon further review, there were about nine fountains gurgling water in this yard. The fountains, complete with cherubic angel statues, were arranged in a circle around an old-fashioned garden infested with ivy. The vines twisted up and around each chipped stone angel. Beyond the garden was what looked like a run-down guest house with a broken window. The house must have been behind it, but they couldn’t tell from where they crouched. The yard was surrounded by thick trees so they couldn’t see the street above. It was a sunny, hot summer day, but the trees made it shadowy in the yard. Lydia shivered.
“I think we must be near Kari’s house,” she whispered to her brother. Kari was their 17-year-old babysitter who lived somewhere midway down the hill. Lydia in fact had no idea where they were, or exactly where Kari lived, but she felt like if she didn’t say something Wyatt would get scared. Besides, it was reassuring to think that Kari might be close by. She was a great babysitter. She taught Lydia how to draw funny cartoon people and she took the kids for walks in the rain.
Lydia squinted at something orange in the brush across the garden. The ball! She started toward it when Wyatt grabbed her arm. Something or someone was moving in the trees.
“Whaddat?” said Wyatt. Lydia put her finger up to her lips. Wyatt clamped his hand over his mouth. They stared into the trees as a figure emerged. It was a little boy maybe a little younger than Lydia. He had dark curly hair and was wearing a white, button-up shirt with brown shorts. He had white socks pulled up to his knees and brown loafers. The boy looked curiously at the hedge, and then at the basketball in the brush. He picked it up and wheeled around suddenly like he’d heard something. He glanced back at the hedge and ran back through the trees.
“Hey!” Lydia whispered indignantly. Wyatt, ever the practical one, pointed toward the street in a clear vote to return to the wagon, but Lydia grabbed his arm and tugged him into the trees.

That's all for now. More soon. I got writer's block. If anyone has any brilliant ideas as to where this story should go, they should post them. I used to live on a hill just like the one Lydia and Wyatt live on, and I even had a Radio Flyer just like theirs. And a little brother with a name suspiciously close to Wyatt. I always wondered where the balls I lost ended up. Probably not in a yard full of fountains, but hey.