The Kingdom of Kevin Malone by Suzy McKee Charnas

there was that line about being “imprisoned.” And what weapon did we already have? It made no sense. Prophecies are supposed to be sort of obscure, but this one seemed like pure, frustrating gobbledygook.
    In the shower I thought things over.
    What was important was that I was home now, out of the Fayre Farre, with a souvenir to remind me that it had not been just a dream. The moorim, nattering frantically to itself in a high, breathy voice, had one foot braced on my left ear and was trying to winch its way back up to the top of my skull via my wet, slippery hair, hanks of which were clutched painfully in its other three feet. I finally gave the creature a boost with my hand for fear of being plucked bald by its desperate mountaineering.
    But, moorim or no moorim, I didn’t absolutely have to go back , did I? The prophecy was only a prophecy, not a history of something that had already happened. Even the moorim couldn’t make me return. Probably.
    So what did I want to do about Kevin and his Fayre Farre? What should I do? Anything?
    I mean, a magic sword, for Pete’s sake, and Kevin the Promised Champion! Should he be in charge of a whole world? What kind of supreme ruler would he be to Scarneck and Singer, and Sebbian’s poor bereaved family, and all the giants and trolls he’d stocked the place with?
    Could I even be sure that Kevin really was the hero of the story? For all I knew, Anglower was a freedom fighter leading an uprising against a rotten royal family of which Prince Kavian was the current and terrible heir apparent.
    God, it was so complicated. And it was so real.
    It now seemed obvious to me that if the Branglemen decided to chop Kevin’s head off because I didn’t play my part in the epic of the Fayre Farre, well, Kevin’s head would be off. Really. In his world and mine. My smarting knuckles and millions of scratches told me that, not to mention the moorim’s warm little weight on my skull.
    Speaking of which: I turned the shower on harder and hotter, to see what would happen. But the moorim hung on tightly, making pathetic muffled moans into my scalp. Since I didn’t really want to drown it, I let up on the water. The moorim shifted its sopping little weight higher onto the top of my head and lay there gasping faintly.
    I needed someone wise and understanding to consult with, but talking to Cousin Shell was not an option.
    I couldn’t dry my hair because the moorim kept skipping around up there and kind of grabbing my fingers when I got too close. It had sharp little claws, and small rivulets of water seeped off it into my hair and down my skin.
    Pulling on my bathrobe, I flopped down on my bed with Claudia’s park book. The moorim sat on my head and fidgeted. Maybe it was grooming itself, combing its fur with its tiny clawed fingers. I didn’t let myself think about what it might be looking for.
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    Hours later I heard my mother’s quick footsteps heading my way. The moorim dove for cover, deeper into the back of my hair, which had dried into a Brangle-like mass without the smoothing effects of my hair dryer, brush, or comb.
    â€œAmy?” Mom said, sticking her head in my bedroom doorway. She looked composed but red-eyed. I braced myself for the worst.
    â€œHave you been sitting in here alone thinking about Shelly?” she said, taking the park book out of my hands and looking at it. “No, I guess not. Well, come on—it’s dinnertime.”
    â€œI’m really not hungry,” I said, trying to look meek and contrite.
    She sat on the end of my bed and looked at me. “I don’t understand you. I thought you were close to Shelly, but you’re acting so selfish and unpredictable—running off yesterday with Rachel, and today with some kid I’ve never even heard of, and coming back here looking like a drowned rat!”
    â€œI told you what happened,” I