Grows That Way

by Susan Ketchen

  On the other hand, maybe it was a set-up and Franco wants me to tell Taylor, to make her jealous and take him back. In which case I shouldn’t tell her.

  Tell. Don’t tell. When in doubt, forward. When in doubt, don’t.

  What a mess.

  One thing I do know: Amber and Franco are made for each other.

  I feel like an orphan with no one to talk to. Taylor is still hiding behind her migraine. I can’t talk to Logan, because Franco is his brother. My mom and dad are away on vacation. Kansas is AWOL. And everything seems much too complicated to explain to Isobel and Grandpa.

  At the barn Wednesday afternoon, I can’t bring myself to ride. I’m afraid of what emotions I might accidentally communicate to Brooklyn. I hang out with him in his paddock, pick the tangles out of his tail with my fingers, and give him three whole apples from the feed room even though Kansas says I’m never to give him more than two because of the risk of him developing insulin resistance. He nuzzles me when he’s finished, and since his lips are covered with applesauce, pretty soon I’m covered with applesauce too, and I don’t know why, but this makes me laugh. I let him lick my fingers, and he’s very careful and I never feel a tooth, so I know he’d never bite me. He’s my best friend. And I don’t have to tell him a thing.

  Which is different from my situation with Taylor.

  Tell. Don’t tell. Go forward. Don’t.

  That evening, Taylor comes out of seclusion and phones me. I’ve been getting updates on her condition from Grandpa and Isobel, who visit her every day and report back to me over dinner. They’re worried because Taylor is still saying she has a migraine.

  “I sent away my saliva samples,” she says. “How long do you think they will take to get back to me?”

  “How should I know?” I say.

  “The package went overnight express,” she says.

  “Maybe tomorrow then,” I say.

  “I miss Franco,” says Taylor.

  Great. Next she’s going to ask me if I’ve seen him, and I don’t know if I can convince her with a lie. For some reason, I remember Declan telling me not to be a passenger. I can do something. I can offer some guidance. “Everyone’s worried about you,” I say. “Grandpa and Isobel think you have a brain tumor.”

  “Hmmph,” says Taylor.

  “It’s not fair to worry your family. You can’t stay home forever.”

  She hangs up on me.

  I guess I should have said something else. Maybe I should have sung to her.

  chapter

  twenty-nine

  I’m not very good at waiting, but it seems that’s all I can do. Wait for my parents to come home on Saturday. Wait for Taylor’s test results. Wait for Kansas to feel better. Wait for Mr. Losino to interview me about my sasquatch sightings.

  Thursday is pretty uneventful, except for lunchtime. I’m sitting at a table, by myself because Logan has chess club, and Franco saunters by. He stops, looks at me, and winks.

  He is so sure I’m on his side it makes me sick.

  What makes it worse is that, as he turns to leave, I catch a whiff of liniment. He’s still using the stuff. He doesn’t care about anyone but himself.

  Mr. Losino picks up Logan from school because they have to do some shopping in town so I have to walk by myself. At least I hope I’ll be by myself, and that I won’t be joined by my tormentors. I wait an extra fifteen minutes inside the school building to give Amber and Topaz time to clear out, then I take an indirect route through the neighbourhood to make sure I avoid them. Eventually I retrieve Pinky from the Losinos’ shed, but by then it’s pouring with rain so there’s no point in going to the barn. After dinner, Grandpa and Isobel make me play Scrabble with them and given my difficulties with spelling, this is no fun at all.

  To bring my spirits up, that night I try to dream about Brooklyn. I do manage to ride him, but I’m sitting on his back and I’m holding a Scrabble board on my lap. Every time Brooklyn takes a step, the tiles slide all over the place. Someone is telling me to read the words. Read the words! Read the words! Okay, okay, I’m trying! Eventually the tiles line up, but it’s only four letters, and I’m thinking they won’t be worth much even on a double word square, but then I see what they spell: T-E-L-L.

  This doesn’t do anything to raise my spirits. In fact it has the opposite effect, so when I wake up Friday morning all I can think about is that this is the day I will ruin Taylor’s life. Again.

  It doesn’t help that Logan is weirdly happy on the walk to school. I don’t want to ruin his mood, but also don’t want to fake that everything’s okay, because I wouldn’t want him to fake it with me if the situation was reversed. I tell him I’m not happy at all, and that I have to give Taylor some bad news.

  Logan squeezes my hand. “You’re a good friend,” he says. “You’ll do the right thing. Who knows, maybe something will happen today to cheer you up.”

  I’m surprised that he doesn’t ask me what the bad news is, and I’m trying to deal with that when he giggles, which strikes me as totally inappropriate and stuns me into silence. We walk half a block and I still can’t figure out what to say. Logan starts humming, and I decide to let it go. I have enough to deal with without adding more drama. I hum along with him to show there’s no bad feelings, which there aren’t really. It’s just my usual confusion.

  The school day drags on and on, even though I’m dreading the end of the day when I have to tell Taylor what Franco’s been up to. Maybe I’ll phone her after dinner. Or maybe I could send her an email—that would be the easiest thing for me, and the best thing for Taylor because it would give her the privacy to digest the news. I think about how upset she will be, on top of how upset she already is about the man hair she’s growing. Maybe it isn’t fair. Maybe she doesn’t need to know, and I should let things sort out on their own. Why add to her troubles just because I had a dream?

  So I change my mind. I won’t tell her. I’ll get on with my own business. I’ll meet Logan after school, walk to his place, grab Pinky, and then go see Brooklyn. Maybe I’ll even take Brooklyn on a trail ride. Maybe I’ll go sasquatch hunting. I have a plan and I’ll stick to it.

  It’s like I’m counting my strides to my take-off point, but life isn’t going to let me get there.

  First, there’s a problem with Logan. He’s goofing around during afternoon phys ed class, running backwards and dribbling the basketball, trying to make me laugh again. He trips, falls and hurts his wrist. He insists it’s fine, but Mr. Rouncy says his scaphoid bone could be cracked, which would be very serious apparently, so Mrs. Losino has to pick up Logan and take him to Emergency for an x-ray. Logan turns to look at me as he’s led out of the gymnasium, and his wrist must hurt more than he was letting on, because his face is agonized.

  I have to walk to his house to collect Pinky on my own. Okay, I’ve done this before, I can do it again. Today I’m not wasting time like I did yesterday. I slip out a side door and take the direct route, mostly at a run.

  I’m breathing heavily by the time I reach the Losinos’ garden shed, and that’s when I get the shock of my life.

  I slide open the door and see that Pinky has been transformed.

  My bike now looks like something exotic that Avril Lavigne would ride.

  The handgrips are black, the seat is black, so are the pedals. There are two new black fenders and a black rear carrier rack. Four black neoprene skins have been fitted over the frame. The dreadful expanse of pink has been reduced considerably. Over the handlebar is draped the coolest pair of curved black-rimmed protective eyeglasses. I pick them up. The arms are flexible. I can adjust them so the glasses sit perfectly in front of my eyes despite my ears being lower than most normal people’s.

  Now this is a bike I could take to school, except that now it’s so cool looking I don’t know how long before it would be stolen, despite
the new black cable and padlock with keys.

  Plus there’s a bigger problem.

  Franco was the one who suggested I get rid of the white seat and handgrips. Franco is responsible. Obviously he is trying to buy my silence.

  I am so deeply offended that I can hardly breathe. I feel like there’s a brick on my chest, and I know it’s not going to go away until I do the right thing.

  So instead of biking to the barn, I turn in the direction of Taylor’s house. This is an hour ride, but some things have to be done immediately, face-to-face, not by e-mail or phone. I’m so determined it’s as though I’m full of jet fuel, and my legs pump the pedals with an energy I’ve never felt before.

  Any time my legs weaken in the slightest, I think about how Franco has betrayed by dear cousin. I recall his face when I caught him with Amber, full of smug confidence. I think about him winking at me in the cafeteria. I am ashamed and disgusted at how close I came to selling out. I have seen a dark side of myself that I didn’t know existed.

  I also find myself locked in a hopeless battle over whether I love or hate my transformed Pinky.

  I arrive at Taylor’s house physically and emotionally exhausted. Auntie Sally isn’t home, and no one is answering the front door. I check the handle, but it’s locked.

  I know Taylor’s in there.

  Bunga is in the backyard barking his head off as usual. I unlatch the side gate and shove Bunga away when he launches himself at my knee. I try the kitchen door, and it’s locked too. I can see the glow of the computer screen through Taylor’s window. I have to talk to her.

  Bunga disappears between my legs through the dog door. He stands in the kitchen and barks at me some more. Such an annoying little dog, not at all intelligent or respectable like Bernadette.

  Then out of nowhere I understand what he’s trying to tell me, as though I am a hearing-impaired animal communicator, a little slow to pick up on the psychic message. I push at the dog door with my hand so it flaps in, then out, and slaps shut again. The door was installed by a previous resident, for a larger dog than Bunga. I kneel in front of it. A normal human being couldn’t manage, but it seems there are at times advantages to being a pygmy. I have to turn my shoulders sideways, but at least I don’t have any wide hips to worry about, and in seconds I’m lying inside on the kitchen floor, trying to stop Bunga from sticking his tongue in my ear.

  I knock at Taylor’s door. She doesn’t answer, and I walk in anyway, closing the door behind me so Bunga doesn’t bug us.

  Taylor looks awful. She hasn’t combed her hair. She’s still wearing her pajamas, powder blue cotton flannel with puffy white clouds and angels and golden falling stars, buttoned snugly to the neck. She’s resting her head on one hand propped by its elbow on the arm of her chair.

  Wordlessly she points to the screen of the computer, then swivels her chair and slouches off to sit on her bed.

  I check the screen. Taylor has received her test results via e-mail. It’s a disaster.

  chapter

  thirty

  Taylor is loaded with testosterone. The bio-lab says the only way a girl can have levels this high is if she’s taking testosterone supplements or she’s been contaminated by an external source.

  “Franco,” I say.

  “I know,” says Taylor. “He didn’t mean to, I really shouldn’t judge him, he was just…”

  “Dumb,” I say.

  Taylor nods.

  “And self-centered and uncaring,” I say. I try to use a gentle objective tone. I try to filter out the anger I feel for Franco, but it must leak anyway.

  Taylor glares at me. There are dark circles under her eyes, she hasn’t brushed her teeth, and her eyebrows look like they’ve been run over by a lawn mower—I guess these hairs have been growing too, and she has attempted a trim. Despite her exhaustion, she still she has the energy to defend Franco. “You don’t know him like I do,” she says. “He phoned last night and told me how important I am to him, and it’s totally fine if I have a bit more body hair than I used to—he says I’ll look more like an Italian.”

  “An Italian?” I say. I can’t believe she’s bought this load of nonsense.

  “He’s not what he seems, Sylvia. He hasn’t had an easy life. You of all people should know not to judge someone by his appearance.”

  Because this hurts me, and because I’m so exhausted, I tell her point-blank that on Wednesday I saw Franco necking with Amber in the stairwell at school.

  Taylor collapses onto her bed. She covers her face with her hands and wails.

  “You’re sure?” she says between sobs.

  I tell her yes.

  “I don’t know why I’m so upset,” she says. “We were through anyway, I could never forgive him for what he’s done to me.” She cries some more, but I don’t know if it’s over losing Franco or because of her test results, and maybe Taylor doesn’t know either.

  I sit down beside her, and tell her the other part, about Franco trying to buy my silence by refitting Pinky, and how I hated Pinky being so pink before, and I like all the black accessories now, but maybe I should tear them off because this just isn’t right, and then I’m crying too.

  On the other side of the bedroom door, Bunga howls, a pathetic scratchy bugle, as though he’s never tried this before in his life. Taylor sniffs. “That’s worse than Spike’s braying,” she says, which was exactly what I was thinking but of course I couldn’t say so.

  Taylor sits up, reaches for the tissue box on her bedside table and plunks it between us. She blows her nose, runs her fingers through her hair then looks at me, frowning deeply.

  “You call your bike Pinky?” she says. And unbelievably, in the midst of her personal tragedy, she laughs, and has to blow her nose again, and then I laugh and cry at the same time and we go through about a hundred tissues until we’re more or less back to normal.

  Taylor runs her fingers across her upper lip. “Do you see my mustache?” she asks.

  I blink hard to remove the last of my tears, and lean closer and examine the short fuzzy growth. “Logan’s is definitely a lot thicker,” I say, thinking this should make her feel better.

  She’s not pleased. “Oh great,” she says.

  “Maybe it will go away now you’ve stopped getting the testosterone,” I say.

  “I’ll probably have to go for laser hair removal,” says Taylor. She shudders. “Everywhere,” she adds.

  “My mom has a gift certificate that she’s not going to use until hell freezes over,” I say.

  Taylor sighs heavily.

  “You could go to your doctor,” I say. “Maybe he can tell you if you have to do something or just wait for it to go away.”

  “Are you kidding? Mom still takes us to Dr. Destrie. He’d take one look at me and have a heart attack. I’ve been doing research on the Internet and there’s nothing about how permanent this hair is. Dr. Destrie’s so ancient and out of date he wouldn’t have a clue.”

  I don’t tell her that Isobel and I couldn’t find anything in our research either, but I am reminded of Grandpa’s reaction to the woman with hirsutism. “Taylor, maybe some men like hairy women,” I say. “Not just Italian men, I mean.”

  She shakes her head as though this isn’t remotely possible.

  I try again. “Sometimes people love us because of our flaws,” I say.

  “Not Franco apparently,” she says.

  “Spike still loves you,” I say.

  “I’ve been neglecting Spike,” says Taylor. “I haven’t wanted to go to the barn, I didn’t want anyone to see me.” She slides off the bed, shuffles to her desk and picks up the framed photograph of Spike. She kisses her finger and presses it to the glass on top of his nose. “Sorry, Spike,” she says. She’s silent for a moment, studying the picture. Then she turns to me, alarmed. “Spike says sti
nky dog. That’s all he says, over and over, like that other time. What’s going on?”

  Without thinking about how Taylor is scared of everything, and really doesn’t need more trouble right now, I jump to my feet and blurt out, “The sasquatch is back!”

  Taylor’s eyes go wide, and a hand flutters to her throat and then, against all my expectations, she says, “I love sasquatches!”

  My wonderful magical cousin. I had no idea. She stands there with Spike’s picture held tight to her apparently hairy chest, her face suddenly alive with possibilities.

  “Have you seen one?” she says.

  “I saw two,” I tell her. “A male and a female.”

  She doesn’t ask me if I’m sure, she doesn’t suggest I saw bears, or people pulling pranks. “I always knew they were real,” she says. “Franco freaked when I mentioned it one day, he said I was an idiot. He never supported me, not really.”

  I figure she might as well know the whole truth, so I tell her that Franco’s dad isn’t a computer expert as Franco told her, he’s a wildlife biologist who’s writing a book about sasquatches.

  Taylor shakes her head in amazement. “He was such a liar. I should have known better. Well, I did know better, part of me always knew he wasn’t right for me, but another part…” She reaches for Franco’s picture and drops it in her waste basket, adjusting it so the face is down. “Does Mr. Losino know what you saw?”