Five-year-old Ruby and her best friend Oli, age six, have come from Kalamazoo with their folks to see the shark exhibit at the Shedd Aquarium here in Chicago, but the sharks disappoint. The kids were expecting bigger. Fortunately, they’re preoccupied with other matters—they’re forming a band.

“It’s called the Dragons,” Oli says. “I’m the founder of it. We have two drums—rock drums—and three guitars. You can be the lead singer,” he tells me, unwittingly indulging my neither secret nor unique fantasy. Then he points to my boyfriend and adds: “Ben can play the drums. We’ll have three drums. It’ll be sweet.”

Ben asks Oli who his influences are while Ruby tries to clean her brand-new mermaid doll’s already grimy face with her thumb and some spit, mom-style.

“I like the White Stripes, DJ Shadow, Mogwai. Mostly I like to rock out,” Oli says.“I like Björk,” says Ruby. She also likes the movie Amélie. “Except for the part where the scary guy goes like this,” Ruby says, slowly drawing her hand down the side of her face.

On the way to dinner, Ruby says, “Hey-what’s-up-guys?” to a group of strangers on the street.

I ask Oli how he spells his name.

“K-I-N-G-A-R-T-H-U-R,” he says.

To read the rest of this piece, please purchase this issue of the Believer online or at your local bookseller.

—Elizabeth Crane