Look—it’s not easy being the Easter Bunny. 

It’s not that I don’t like painting all those eggs—I do. And it’s not the manual labor aspect; I don’t even hide the eggs, ok, the pixies do that. What sucks is the social expectation. Easter is a real community-driven holiday, you know? Everyone’s always getting together to barbecue or something, and I just…I don’t do that whole “social” thing. But somehow people always seem to expect me to party and picnic and talk about my “process” and “where do you see yourself in five years” and honestly I’d rather watch paint dry. 

Unfortunately, though, I’m a six-foot tall black-and-white bunny-man with a tendency to walk around barefoot in sweatpants. That’s not exactly inconspicuous. And so, despite my longing to be left alone, someone always manages to come along to bug me. I always thought that was a bad thing…until last spring. 

Last spring I was visiting one of my favorite gardens: the Huntington. It was a members-only day, and a slow one at that. Things had just opened up and it was practically empty; just me and the birds and that fresh grass smell. I strolled past the regency-style library, through the rose garden and a sea of lime green grass, until I got to this giant old oak tree with a bench at the base. My bench. It was empty and covered by shade—just how I like it. I sat down in the middle, spreading my arms out to rest them along the top beam. I crossed my left ankle over the right and looked over the roses. 

A split second after I sat down, a small voice blurted out at me. 

“I don’t think I’m a bad person,” it said. “Penny doesn’t say so, though. What do you think? Do you think I’m a bad person?” The voice cracked in some places and whistled on the s-sounds—and I was so confused by the question that it took me a second to realize that it was being asked from somewhere below me. 

I twitched my head down to the right, peering at the wooden seat of the bench. Through the gaps in the planks, a single blue eye peered up at me; it was set in a round, boyish face that was mostly freckles, with dirt smudges across the nose, chin, and bright red cheeks. 

“You’re the Easter Bunny, right?” he asked. “You know about things. Big things. Life things.”

I frowned. “Where did you—why are you hiding under my bench?”

“I think about things a lot,” he continued. “Do you ever think about life and the stuff that you do and how it affects other people? The scale of our lives in the universe? Actions and reactions? What do you think—what’re our responsibilities? If you know something bad is going to happen, do you have to try and stop it?”

“I just got here.”

“Orrr maybe not everything we know is our responsibility just because we know it.” He made a little popping sound with his lips. “I dunno. Just thinkin’.”

I glanced around, looking for parents that seemed to be nowhere. The kid wiggled out from under the bench and stood up. He was round like a watermelon and looked about eight. He was dressed like a pirate—he even had a skull-and-crossbones bandana wrapped tightly around his head, and a matching eyepatch over the left eye. 

“Thomas threw rocks at the ducks,” he said, “and I knew he was gonna—he told me on the bus. But I didn’t say anything about it. Penny said that makes me a bad person.” He plopped down beside me before I could stop him, slouching with a sigh and resting his chin in his grubby hands. “Do you think so? Like Penny?” 

I crossed my arms. “Why are you asking me?”

“Because,” he said, “you’re the Easter Bunny. You’re magic. You know things about people.” 

“Sure, but I just—”

“I’m Franklin.” He swung his legs, gently kicking the top of the grass. “You look like a Franklin, too. Can I call you Franklin? No, that’s silly—we can’t both be Franklin.” 

I sighed. “Can you go bother someone else?”

He flipped up his eyepatch and looked at me, eyes wide and blue like robin’s eggs. “You’re not a big talker, I guess. That’s cool. Penny says I talk too much…” 

“I’m sure even Penny would be better company than me,” I grumbled. “I just want to sit here, alone, and watch the roses.” Then I added, bitterly to myself, “Is that so much to ask…”

“I like the roses too,” Franklin said. “They’re nice. I ate some petals once. I don’t recommend that, though.”

Curiosity got the better of me. “What’d it taste like,” I asked.

“Like craft foam,” he said. 

“You eat that too?”

“Once.” He smiled; one of his front teeth was missing. “Penny calls me stupid for it. I don’t really want to go talk to her…” He scooted closer to me. “You wanna watch the roses alone together?” 

I glanced down at him. “Do I have to answer questions?”

“Not if you don’t want to,” he said. “I’m all out of questions anyway. But I think silence is good when it’s shared, don’t you?” He beamed out at the roses, still swinging his feet. I looked out, too.

I leaned to the side, tilting my head until it was hovering over Franklin’s. I couldn’t help but start wondering about how the roses might look to him—if what he was seeing was different from what I saw, and how different it might be. And that all got me thinking—maybe the whole “community” thing wasn’t all that bad. Maybe I just hadn’t found the right people. Because I’d been to that garden every spring for the last twenty years, at least. I’d stared at those roses for hundreds of hours…

But that was the first time I’d ever wondered what they tasted like. 

***

This story was written to inspire those participating in the Spring Writing Challenge over at the Company. If you feel like challenging yourself, click the link below and join the springtime fun!

Lucy Grecu

Lucy is currently a second-year apprentice at The Company. She grew up in Los Angeles, California, and spent nearly every summer doing musical theater camp. Lucy spends her time drawing fictional characters, reading novels very slowly, and getting her friends to watch every movie she considers a classic. You can find her at LucyGrecu.com, where she blogs about the mundane curiosities of life!