The Turning Book 1: What Curiosity Kills

by Helen Ellis

  He rests his chin on my right shoulder. That spot grows warm too, and the warmth radiates up my neck, ending at my earlobe with a gentle pinch. This must be what it’s like to have my ear nibbled. Over the edge of the cement-brick wall of the terrace, skeletal treetops stretch from Fifth Avenue across Central Park to the West Side. Snow clings to rickety branches. If I weren’t so nervous, I might consider it beautiful.

  Nick says, “I want to be with you when it happens. When it happened to me last summer, I was alone in Greece with my grandparents. They were in their garden, getting high with their friends. I was supposed to be taking an afternoon siesta. But I couldn’t sleep and then I thought I was dying.”

  “I’m going to feel like I’m dying?”

  “It doesn’t feel good.”

  “What’s it?”

  “I could smell it on you at school—probably before you knew anything was wrong. Well, not wrong. Different? Special? Kala? Yiayia and Papou have words in two languages to avoid saying there’s anything wrong with their only grandson. Doctors don’t recognize it, so everything we use to deal with it is herbal. My grandparents are cool about sharing their pot, and we go to Naxos every summer to score nip.”

  “Nip?”

  “What you found in her bag. Nip brings the turning out of you. Pot slows it down.”

  Nip, pot, the turning—I’m not even listening. All I heard was a hole: Nick didn’t say Ling Ling’s name.

  I ask, “Your folks are okay with this?”

  “My parents don’t know. Yiayia says if Mom found out, she’d send me for all kinds of medical tests. She says I’ll outgrow it. It’s a phase. She’s never heard of it lasting more than five years. It’s more common in Greece but still believed to be myth.”

  “Like Zeus?”

  “No, not like Zeus. The turning is real.”

  “So, I am sick.”

  He gives me a squeeze, and I am oddly comforted, electrified, and frightened at the same time. He says, “I wouldn’t say sick. I mean, you wouldn’t think of a gay dude’s gayness as sick. It’s seasonal. Two weeks in January and then most of the summer. You can’t totally suppress it, no matter how much you smoke. You have to let it out if you want to be normal most of the time. I can make it easier for you.”

  I nod again, having no idea what Nick is talking about.

  It’s like when my parents talked to Octavia and me about sex when we were kids. They were never specific. They talked of love but not mechanics. If we wanted details, Dad would say, “Ask your mother.” Mom would say, “Look it up in the dictionary.” That’s how I learned that the word Ben Strong called a mean kid in the third grade is slang for the male organ of copulation, which means to engage in intercourse, which means physical contact between individuals that involves the genitalia, which brought me back to the first word I looked up. “Round and round,” Mom said, “that’s pretty much how it goes.”

  Nick says, “New York is dangerous for people like us. Very territorial. Very us-against-them. If they find out about you, they’ll make you pick sides.”

  “What sides? Who are they?”

  Nick unwraps an arm and points. “That’s they.”

  From the fire escape, a body is lumbering over the terrace wall. The figure’s limbs are long and lanky. I can’t distinguish thighs from calves or forearms from biceps. Like Nick, the figure is dressed in shorts and a T-shirt. The shorts are cutoffs. Closing in on us, his vintage 1980s iron-on reads: I’m the boss, Applesauce! His toenails are painted black. He’s wearing yellow dishwashing gloves. The same pair that supposedly squeaked around under Mags’s shirt. He is the deli owner’s son.

  “Yoon.” Nick calls him by name. He draws me closer. “You couldn’t let me do this alone?”

  Yoon pokes the end of our lounge chair with his foot, jostles us.

  Nick sounds wary. “Dude, seriously. Go.”

  Yoon spies the collar of my cartoon pajamas peeking out from my comforter cocoon. He smirks the smirk of a smartass. Like any smartass, he can’t keep a snide comment to himself. His voice is baritone, slow like a yawn.

  “Hello, Kitty.”

  He hooks his arms around my knees and yanks me out of Nick’s tight hold.

  I land on my spine. The comforter softens the impact, but pain sears a line from my neck to my tailbone. The cement is covered with dead leaves and dirty snow-water. The air is mildewed. There is a wet rustling as Nick lunges over me and tackles Yoon.

  The boys roll across the terrace. Yoon’s legs are a vise around Nick’s thighs. Nick bear-hugs Yoon’s chest, pinning his arms. Yoon rears back his head and swings his gaping mouth into Nick’s throat. Nick releases him. He bats Yoon’s face with loose fists. The boys scramble apart, get to their feet, lunge at each other, and roll again.

  I want to scream for help, but the fire ants have found me. They crawl up and out of my knee socks and take over every bit of my flesh. They are between my toes, behind my ears, and in every crevice in between. They scamper across my scalp. They bite. Their bites are unbearable. I twist and scratch inside the suffocating comforter. I’m trapped.

  The boys lean over me, say things—to me, to each other—I can’t make out. My hearing is fading. I’m shrinking. The boys’ faces get bigger and rise like moons.

  Yoon blinks. When his eyes close, they are chestnut. Open, they are emerald green. He smiles, parts his teeth, and unrolls a long, narrow pink tongue. He licks the tips of his incisors, which have grown past his lower gums to form fine points.

  He purrs, his voice velvet. And that’s when he says what he says about us not being vampires.

  And then it happens...

  chapter eleven

  Yoon’s tongue is long and sandpapery. It curls under my chin, swipes the side of my face, wipes goo out of the corners of my eyes, and then goes into my ear. It tickles. I want more of it, even though I am not sure what just happened or how I got myself into a position to be licked—especially by the deli owner’s son. My school skirt, knee socks, and pajamas are in a pile on the terrace. Yoon’s shorts, T-shirt, and yellow gloves are piled alongside.

  I remember.

  Emerald eyes. Black mask. Copper face. White mouth. A blur of teeth and fur. A cannonball made out of cotton. Yoon has turned into the deli cat.

  And I have turned into a kitten.

  I wriggle away from Yoon but am cupped in Nick’s human hands.

  Yoon is sitting on Nick’s lap while Nick offers me to him for a bath.

  Nick says something to me I can’t understand. English is foreign. He could speak Greek, and I’d understand it the same. He is using a soothing tone, saying my name a lot because it’s the one word I recognize. “Mary, (fill in the blank with information on my officially turning). Mary, (fill in the blank with bullshit about how everything is going to be okay). Mary, (I’ll learn to live with it). Mary, (insert what he previously alluded to about medicinal herbs and us versus them).”

  Yoon nibbles my neck. There is a tangle in the fur, and he tugs it loose with his teeth. He tugs too hard, and I squeak. My mew is minuscule. I could cry out with all my might, and Octavia and the twins wouldn’t hear me. If I turn back into a girl—pleasepleaseplease, let me turn back into a girl!—I promise myself that I will be louder in school. Louder in life. I’ll use an “outside voice” inside. To be heard, I’ll need practice.

  “Mew!”

  Nick hears me. He grabs Yoon by the throat and shoves him. Yoon plunges backward into the plastic weave of the lounge chair. He bounces up, squirms, and rights himself, but a furry hind leg slips through two plastic strips. He jerks it free, gains his balance by placing his four feet wide apart on the aluminum frame. He sports the same perturbed look he had on when he straddled my open toilet.

  Nick has stayed human to make sure Yoon doesn’t pick me up by the scruff of my neck and carry me off to his lair behind the potato chip
rack. He places me in the cradle of his bare thighs. If I turn back into a girl—pleasepleaseplease—I am copping a feel.

  Settling onto my belly, I place my arms (no, my front legs) one on top of the other an inch below Nick’s shorts. I flex my hands (no, my paws), and nails (no, claws) come out. In real life (I mean, human life), my fingernails are short because they’re always in my mouth. I marvel at the length, sharpness, and translucency of my claws. I press them into Nick’s flesh to test them. Nick clenches his thighs, and I rise an inch. I retract my claws, grateful I possess weapons that will serve me while my voice is weak.

  In between my hind legs, fit snugly together, is a tail. I have a tail: muscles and a length of bone I’ve never used. It might as well be pinned on like a paper donkey’s. It lies limp because I don’t know what to do with it. When Yoon licks the tip, it involuntarily flicks.

  Nick strokes between my ears with one finger. My ears! They’re no longer on the sides of my head—they’re on top. The space between them is so small that there is room for only two of Nick’s fingers. He switches to two. He rubs the top of my head. He rubs his thumb under my chin. Above and below my face, there is heavenly petting. Nick could crush my skull if he wanted. But I trust him—just like that. Animal instinct.

  I’m not as quick to judge Yoon. His tongue on my tail makes my hind legs twitch. He’s had his own tail licked and knows how to lick mine. Whether he’s cleaning or kissing, his attention is manipulative: press this button and get the desired, expected response. I’ve never had my buttons pressed, but I decide Yoon can press all he wants. My kitten brain does not have room for language, so it stands to reason that it doesn’t have room for a conscience. So what if Yoon’s intentions aren’t honorable? Who cares if I lose Mags’s friendship because I let the guy (well, he’s not really the same guy) she says she fooled around with fool around with me? Two boys at once? Call me what you want. I do not care. I give myself over to them and vibrate with pleasure.

  Nick taps my front paw. Interpretation: pay attention. Tap, tap: focus. He is saying something about the color of my fur because after he taps my paw, he points to the neon orange Speedo glowing in a terrace corner. I’m not nearly as bright, but get the gist: orange is special. Nick looks like he’s never seen my color before. He’s looking at me in what must be the same way the twins’ dad looks at the sun.

  Yoon doesn’t communicate with me via catspeak or mental telepathy. His purrs sound like purrs—they don’t translate to words. I don’t hear his velvet, human voice inside my head. He tells me what he wants with his actions.

  He wants my fur spotless. He licks up my tail to my hip. His tongue searches for and removes bits of debris that will tarnish my coloring. Yoon is twenty pounds, while I doubt I’m even two. If he sinks his teeth into my throat, he’ll rip it out before Nick stops him. If he swings his meaty paw at my head, he’ll break my neck. But Yoon just licks, licks, licks. Who knew that the deli owner’s bitter disappointment of a son was such a mama cat?

  Nick pinches the air with his thumb and forefinger. I get it: I won’t be a kitten for much longer. He puts his hands in front of his face like parenthesis and blows up an imaginary balloon. With each breath, his hands spread farther apart. He slaps his hands together. Interpretation: when I turn back into a girl, it is going to be quick.

  And here I go.

  The fire ants are under my skin and then inside my bones. The ants are big and getting bigger. They want out of my body. They want my body to grow.

  Nick spreads Mags’s comforter on the terrace. He holds me with one hand. His fingers align under my ribs. I go limp. My legs hang over his thumb and pinky. His touch, as gentle as it may be intended, is too much. My body feels bruised.

  “Mew!”

  I can’t hear myself over the wind. My head is pounding. I’m too weak to lift it. Nick places me on a comforter square.

  Yoon crawls on top of me. He doesn’t drop his weight but hovers. His bent legs are a cage. He cranes his head under his chest and gives my nose a lick.

  My paws shake. They swell to the size of my kitten head. They blow up to the size of my human hands, but my paws are still paws—and then the fur splits apart. My skin shows through: kitten skin, not girl’s. The kitten skin is pastier, textured like suede. Each strand of fur stiffens, stands on end like a porcupine’s quills, and then sinks into my flesh with a thousand tiny stabs.

  Yoon coaxes my human hands out of their padded shells. Under his tongue, round toe pads elongate to fingers. Knuckles emerge. The bone growth is torture. But Yoon continues to apply pressure, his tongue saying, Easy does it. Easy…easy. My hands feel sunburned. My kitten skin melts back to my own, caramelizing to my human color like sugar in a pan. There’s the freckle that dots that back of my right pinky! I am so relieved to see the distinguishing mark (the one my mystery-writer mom jokes that she’ll use to identify me if my severed hand is mailed to her by a serial killer), I almost overlook the orange fur that cuffs my wrists. That fur still covers the rest of me. My arms, torso, legs, feet, and every feature of my face must also return to normal. At the thought of the pain, I black out.

  When I come to, I’m naked.

  chapter twelve

  Nick says, “Don’t worry, we didn’t see anything.”

  I’m on the terrace floor, wrapped in Mags’s comforter.

  “And when you turned before, you turned in your pajamas. You were so small, you crawled out your pajama leg.”

  He helps me onto the lounge chair, but I don’t need help. Although my movements are limited in this goose-down burrito (made heavier by the snow puddle I’ve been lying in), I am invigorated. I want to repel down the side of the building. Run through the park. Climb trees! Chase squirrels and steal their nuts!

  I sit and rock, gripping the comforter in front of my bare breasts. I’m not cold. I’m feverish. But the fever feels good. I rub my calves together. The fur is gone. I feel my own silky, albeit stubbly, skin. I don’t need a stitch of clothing to stay warm. I fight the urge to hop to my feet and flash Nick.

  Sitting beside me, he pats my back.

  “I’m calm.” I tell him what he wants to hear. Back-patting is international for There, there. Get a hold of yourself. Excitement’s over. I look around for Yoon.

  I find him sleeping under the foot of the lounge chair. Yoon has not returned to boy form. His emerald eyes are shut, the lids camouflaged within his black mask. His mouth is curled up at the corners in a satisfied smile. He’s on his back, which is broad enough for him to lay flat and keep him from toppling to either side. His front legs are bent, black paws loosey-goosey in the air. His hind legs hang open. His copper belly and balls are exposed. Yoon looks unbothered by his vulnerability. If I looked like him when I fell asleep in public, I might do it more often.

  Nick says, “He’s exhausted from helping you.”

  “I thought you were going to help me.”

  “I am. I did. What, you wish it was my tongue all over you?”

  Good lord, the thought of it. I can barely bring myself to speak—but I do. “You think Ling Ling would like that?”

  “I don’t care what she likes.”

  I venture farther. “Are you two not together anymore?”

  He leans his shoulder against mine—a nudge. Don’t I get it? Temple to temple, his windblown curls tickle my eyebrow. Our warmness mingles. He slips his hand inside my comforter and fishes out my hand. He laces his fingers between mine. That’s a good enough answer for me.

  I ask, “Yoon’s too tired to change?”

  “Nah, he just prefers it this way.”

  “Why don’t you?”

  “Because I have to go to school. If I don’t show up, my folks will find out. I’ll get expelled, not detention. If I turn at night, I won’t sleep. My grades will suck. Or, like Yoon, if I turn too much, I won’t be able to stop myself from sleeping. It’s like passing
out wasted. You could wake up anywhere, but be bare-ass—”

  “Naked.” I finish his sentence. I squeeze his hand. I’m not embarrassed, and I don’t know why.

  Nicks says, “I have this theory that the less I turn, the shorter this phase, as Yiayia calls it, will last. When it ends, I want a normal life. To have that, I have to make it through Purser-Lilley, then college, and then I can start living for real. Yoon thinks this is the life. He’s skipping college so he can turn as much as he wants. That’s why he’s always got those rubber gloves on. If you turn too much, there are side effects.”

  “I thought you said turning’s two weeks, then the summer.”

  “It is, but Yoon always tries to make it last a little longer. Now that he’s out of school, he can spend all his free time researching. There’s hardly anything written about what we’ve got, but he keeps looking. He’s always online or in the field.”

  “Yoon’s parents don’t know either?”

  “Oh, they know. And they are not happy about the college deferment. But in Korea, his parents say what we have is seen as a gift. If Yoon went there, they say he’d be treated like a god, but his parents refuse to go back for political reasons. If Yoon wants to go on his own, he has to work to save the money, and his folks don’t pay him much. He breaks a pickle jar, and they deduct it from his pay. They don’t want him to go because they think he’ll never come back. So, while he’s here, they put up with his shit. No college, late nights running around, feeding strays in the back of their store. Yoon wants to be the first of our kind to be able to turn in his thirties. But that’s sad.”

  “Sad how?”

  “Sad pathetic. Like all those Purser-Lilley moms wearing low-rise skinny jeans. Oh, sorry, is your mom one of those?”

  “No, she’s pretty modest.”

  “My mom’s clinging to her youth. Every time she sits down, I have to look away from her G-string. She says she’s European, but that’s code for exhibitionist. Do you know how mortifying it is to go to the beach in Greece with your mom?”