Feather by Feather and Other Stories

by Lynn E. O'Connacht

  “Hi!” I’m not sure when I answered, but I’m so breathless with panic I can’t even tell whether she’s heard me.

  “Hi. So,” Jess says.

  “So.” I have no clue what to say. I’m fiddling with my hoodie’s zipper. Down and up. Down and up. Parroting Jess probably isn’t a good idea, but what else can I do? I don’t want to be an ass again and this may be It. My last chance, my only chance. And I don’t know what to say.

  “Come over.” Two words, but I crumble into a heap with relief. “Are you crying?”

  No. No, I’m not. Why would two words make me cry? They’re just words, but I can taste the salt on my lips. I’m saying, ‘Yes. Sorry,’ before I’ve even realised it.

  “I want to talk to you.”

  “I noticed,” and I’m not sure whether the gulping sound I make then is a laugh or a sob. You’ve got to gather yourself together, Jules, but all I can do is sit on the floor and listen. Jess’ house’ll be empty of parental units for a few hours yet. I’d ask her to come here, but I’m not alone. “I’ll be there. Soon.” At least I manage to choke out that much. “Got, got to clean my face first.”

  “Okay.”

  “See you soon.” I’ve already hung up before I realise that she’d started to say something more. I’m wiping at my face with a sleeve. Stupid tears. Jess wants me to come over. Cycling may, under the circumstances, not be the best of ideas, but it’s the only one I’ve got. Going by bus or walking would take forever.

  Once I’m sure my face is (and will stay) dry, I scramble together a bag. I’ve still got one of Jess’ T-shirts from a sleepover. Don’t ask me why I haven’t returned it yet. I pack up little knickknacks, souvenirs from the things we’ve done together. Jess has her own, sure, but I don’t know… Maybe, if I show them to her, I can remind her of all the good times and she’ll forgive me? That or if she kicks me out of her life I can drop them off in a rubbish bin on my way home. Or something. She said she’s a cat, for crying out loud! Tell me what I’m supposed to do with that.

  Anyway, my bag hasn’t got unlimited space and I can’t keep stalling forever. ‘Cause that’s what this is really about. I’m stalling. I’m a coward. I never dare to do stuff in PE and I don’t dare to face Jess with the real possibility of her dumping my ass (just before Winter Ball). Deservedly, but still. I really do want to see Jess at least one last time, though, so I force myself into the garage and onto my bike. At least my face is still dry and I didn’t get spotted by Chester or Marie. I love them to bits, but they’re still just kids.

  And… I’m off onto the road. I’m not sure how often I’ve gone down this route now, but I could get there in my sleep if not for the traffic. I’m glad it’s not too bad today. Sometimes it’s horrid and I just want to get to Jess’ house as soon as possible. I wonder if her parents know she thinks she’s a cat. Pay attention to the road, Jules. Don’t let your thoughts wander, not now. Get to Jess safely. I have to get to Jess. We have to talk.

  When I get to Jess’ house, she lets me in and kind of ignores me as I follow her into the living room. I’ve dumped my bag in the hall and it’s only now that I’m snugly inside that I realise I forgot to put on a coat and I’m shivering. I’m not sure that’s all because of the cold either… I settle on the edge of the couch, fiddling with the buttons on my shirt. I bought this with Jess; she picked it out of for me, said it brought out the colour of my eyes really well. She’s vanished off into the kitchen now and when she comes back she’s holding two steaming hot mugs and puts one down on the table in front of me.

  I stare at them. What the hell, Jess? I keep telling you and telling you that chocolate doesn’t fix the world. Not that she ever believes me. So. I resist the urge to stretch out and lounge on the couch with relief because now I know Jess wants things fixed as much as I do. She only ever breaks out the hot cocoa for things she desperately wants to set right. Thank you, guardian angel or whatever you are, for that.

  As humbled as I am, we’re still not speaking. In my case, it’s because I can’t. If I try to say anything now, I’ll just start bawling. I’m just so relieved to know Jess wants to work things out too. Even if neither of us knows where to start. Jess has settled down on a chair near the couch, cradling her mug in her hands. I can’t move to pick up mine. Seriously, if I move I’ll start crying and I do not want to start this conversation that way. Besides, the cocoa is still way too hot for me. Jess is staring at me, also silent. I guess I’ll have to move and talk eventually, but for now I stay rooted to the spot.

  A dull sound makes us both startle. We fly up and into the kitchen to see what the noise is, to check whether one of her parents came home early or something. But it’s only Lancelot getting stuck under the laundry basket. I pick the basket up as Jess puts her mug down (I have no idea how she’s kept from spilling anything) and starts gathering the clothes. As we toss everything back in, Lancelot glares at us like it’s our fault the basket tipped over. I can’t imagine it being Jess’ fault and I wasn’t even in the kitchen, but Lancelot is a cat. Of course everything is our fault.

  Jess is a cat too. I try to imagine her behaving like Lancelot, but I can’t. She’s actually trying to tidy up the clothes somewhat and, looking around for some way to help, I discover that she did spill some cocoa. I grab a paper towel and start cleaning it off the floor tiles before Lancelot has a chance to spot the spill. Maybe Jess is crazy after all, but does it matter? I’ve never known her to harm anyone. I glance up at her, shyly; she’s turned her back to me, so all I can see is her dark hair tumbling down her back. She’s a vegetarian. She couldn’t harm something if she tried. That’s not very catlike. Not terribly insane either. Isn’t that, like, the definition of insanity or something? That you’ve got to be a threat to people? Jess isn’t. So what if she thinks she’s a cat?

  I straighten when I’m gone and toss the crumpled-up towel away. Lancelot’s pounced on the laundry basket again. He’s trying to steal one of the bras while Jess is trying to get it back from him. I laugh at their silly tug-of-war and the way that Jess hisses at Lancelot, but eventually she’s victorious and holds the bra up triumphantly. I applaud her as she dumps it into the basket and, tossing the remaining clothes in after it, says she’ll sort them out again later. We stand there, just for a second, and she moves the basket closer to the wall.

  “So you’re a cat,” I say. Blurt it out, really. I love seeing her laugh and be silly, but that’s not why I’m here. We’ve got to talk. I want to talk. I want Jess to know that I’m there for her as much as I can be, that I’ll try. That I do need some time to adjust, like… I don’t know like what. But I can’t make myself say any of that. I can only watch her, my heart thudding fearfully in my chest.

  “Yes…” She hesitates and picks up her mug again. “Sort of.”

  “I tried to look it up. After I got home.”

  Jess looks cornered, backing away into the living room again. “Did you find anything?”

  I can’t imagine she doesn’t know the answer, but I give her some space before following, scrubbing my hand through my hair as I do. “Yeah. No. I don’t know.” I stop in the doorway, watching Jess. I think, if she had cat ears, she’d be folding them way back, wary. Lancelot weaves around my feet, so I lean down to pet him.

  As I continue talking, I keep my eyes on him. “Some of what I read was… awful, Jess. So much hate. But… there were others there and… I don’t know them, you know? They’re just words on a screen to me. And you… You’re real, Jess.” I have to stop and draw breath, still not daring to look up. I plunge on before she has a chance to interrupt. I think she wants to. “Not that they’re not, I guess. Real, I mean. I don’t mean that. Like that. But. God. They’re – I don’t know them at all, Jess. They could be anyone. Anything. But I know you.”

  I have to pause for breath again, but, looking up at last, it doesn’t seem like she’s about to interrupt me. She’s giving me some time to gather my thoughts and go on, though the knuckles holding her mug are
so pale… I love her for giving me time. God, I hope I’m not making a fool of myself or being an ass again… “I know you, Jess,” I repeat. “I know what you’re not. I know you trusted me. I know you’re not a liar or a troll or someone who’d just make stuff up for fun and giggles.”

  I fall silent. Lancelot has plopped himself down beside me, so I scritch him behind his ears. Jess’ parents say he likes me because I’m not overly fond of him. I think he might be growing on me. I squat there, waiting for Jess to speak, but I can barely hear what she’s saying. It’s so soft and Lancelot is still right beside me, purring like a race engine. I pick him up and carry him to the couch. He’s not allowed on the pillows, but he’s allowed on people’s laps.

  “Try,” I encourage Jess. “I promise to listen.” At least I hope she was trying to talk to me. In my soul’s heart I promise not to laugh, not to run out again. If only she’ll trust me just once more. Let me try to be worthy of you, Jess. Lancelot won’t stay on my lap for long, but by the time Jess is ready to speak my drink has cooled down enough for me to pick it up.

  “When…” She falters, shakes her head. “When I told my best friend, I lost her.”

  I promised her I’d listen. I promised I’d try. So I sit still and wait, wanting to speak, wanting to hold her hand and stroke her hair because I can see she’s upset. I do none of it. I let her be and do what I should’ve done the first time: stay.

  “I’m…” Jess scratches at the back of her neck, not looking at me. “This body… It’s wrong, Jules. It doesn’t work how it should! It… It’s hard to explain.”

  I can’t help it. I tell her that it’s hard to understand too and laugh nervously. She looks so hurt and affronted… I’m an idiot. I know. I rush to explain, “I don’t mean that nastily, Jess. I’m just… nervous. Scared.” My confession now. “I don’t… want to say the wrong thing, do the wrong thing. I’m sorry. I’m trying. That’s all I can do. Go on.” I tuck a stray lock behind my ear and take a sip of cocoa to keep my hands busy. It’s bitter. Jess really wants things fixed. I pray both of us wanting it so badly is enough.

  Jess takes a deep breath and stares at her own mug. She’d better take a sip before her trembling makes it spill over, but she doesn’t seem to notice. “Sometimes I want to groom my tail, only it’s not there. Or I want to swish it and it’s not there. Or I want to prick my ears up or fold them down and they’re in the wrong place and they don’t move and –”

  She stops talking, but I can see the tears shining beneath her lashes and I can see her mug trembling so much. I put mine down and scoot over. I rest one of my hands on her knees and use the other to steady her mug. Meowing, Lancelot head butts my arm. Because Jess is looking like a statue, I let go of her mug and pet the cat a few times. I guess he wants to be a part of this too.

  “I want to purr, Jules,” she whispers. This time, I pluck the mug from her hands hastily and put it on the table. She doesn’t resist. “I want… So much. And I can’t. I can’t do it right. So. So I try. Be normal. Blend in. I want to hiss when I’m angry” — Actually, she does hiss when she’s angry, but I probably shouldn’t make a point of it right now. — “and I can’t because it’s Not Done.”

  Again she falls silent. She bends forward over my arm to take her hot cocoa and drink from it. I don’t say a word. I’ve got nothing to say. Sometimes, especially when we’re snuggling against that marvellous headboard, she makes purry noises. I always thought that was just Jess. Well. It is just Jess. Just… Not how I’d imagined. I want to tell her… I don’t know. Something important. But she’s recovered enough to continue, so I’m quiet.

  “I used to think everyone felt like me, that it was normal. Monica and I were playing around when I told her.” She takes a deep breath and closes her eyes a moment. “We were playing at being bookworms. I remember. We were… seven, eight years old? That’s when I learned other people didn’t feel like that, like me. Because I was serious and… it was just a game to her.”

  “Man, I’m sorry, Jess.” Idiot. You were going to be quiet, but I’ve said it now. And I am sorry. Losing your best friend sucks; I only lost mine for a week, may still lose her forever. I can’t stop talking now either because I’ve got to make us both understand. “It sounds crazy, Jess. I don’t mean that badly or, or like I’m criticising, but it’s hard and I don’t understand. May never… But… I, I guess deep down… I also kinda knew, you know? Knew you were different. With all the things that you do. Like… Sometimes you try to purr, or bury your nose under my arm.” I pause to make sure I’m not actually holding a filled mug myself; I can feel my hands trembling. I’m not, thank God. “I’ve thought about it, what you said. Been thinking about it ever since I ran and… I guess I can see what you’re saying. Sort of. And. Yeah. I suck at words, Jess, especially when they matter and you know I’m an oblivious git. I remember when I first worked up the courage to ask you out –”

  That gets a grin because it was a total disaster, but I go on, “I’m so scared of saying the wrong thing, Jess. I’ve said that, but… I love you. And… Please don’t take this the wrong way because I’ve got no idea how it’ll sound, so please don’t be angry if it’s stupid or insensitive.” I take a deep breath, grab my mug and stare at it as I try to cling to it so tightly I’ll crush it to pieces. I can’t look at Jess, I can’t, but I’ve got to say this. “It’s just… I don’t know whether… whether you’ve got some disorder or something or whether this is real or what. I don’t know whether I believe people can be… what you are. But I don’t care, Jess. D’you hear me? I. Don’t. Care. I’d like to understand, sure, don’t get me wrong. I’ll find it hard to understand and I don’t know whether I can or what I think, but… I can at least accept it’s true for you and we can work from that. Can’t we?”

  Lancelot is circling around my foot now, pushing his body against my leg. I ignore him. “You’re not angry, are you?” I ask into the silence. Please, God, let her not be angry. Please, please.

  “I…” She hesitates. “I don’t know, Jules. It’s better than how Mon reacted?”

  I laugh nervously and rub my thumb along the rim of the mug. Round and round like a mantra. Don’t look. Just watch the circles. “Doesn’t sound like she set a high standard.”

  “She didn’t.” Oh, God, I’ve screwed up. Jess’ tone is flat and final and it takes me everything I’ve got not to flinch. I’ll lose her. Lancelot heaves himself into my lap, but I’m only dimly aware of the claws kneading painful punctures into my legs or his ginger hair getting all over my jeans.

  “Can we just… work on acceptance?” I ask in a small voice. “Not, not that I don’t. Accept. Or I wouldn’t be here, willing to listen. But, but. I think… we need time.”

  “Yes.”

  Shit. I fucked up. “I want to try, Jess.”

  “I know.”

  Round and round the rim. Look up, Jules, but I don’t. Round and round the rim goes my thumb. I’ve shared one of my deepest secrets with Jess and she accepted it without question or disbelief, and this is how I’ve repaid her. Still, I shoo Lancelot off my lap and scoot to the far end of the couch. I pat the pillow beside me, my heart sinking, but I’ve got to try. I look up to catch Jess nibbling her lower lip. While we sit, indecisive, Lancelot wanders off, his tail waving a farewell. Finally, Jess comes over and nestles herself against me.

  “I stole my brother’s favourite sweater,” I tell her and ignore the stab in my chest. He’s dead now. “And then I cut it up for an art project.”

  “What?” Jess shifts to look me in the eye.

  “I know it’s not as big as your secret, but I’ve never told anyone that. It’s all I had to share.” And one secret deserves another.

  “Oh. Thanks.” She lays her head back onto my shoulder. Does she understand what I’m trying to do? I hope so, but it’s okay. “I’ll be sure to tell your brother.”

  She’s teasing, I know, but. I flinch. I seek out her hand and squeeze it lightly. “He died,” I whisper. “He die
d and it’s my fault.” I should never have taken his sweater. I can’t believe I’m telling Jess, but before I even know what’s happened we’ve shifted and I’m sobbing my heart out only it sticks in my throat as I try to talk, explain to her why it’s my fault. Even though she keeps shushing me and telling me it’s not my fault at all. I hate her then, just a little, but I don’t have the words and she’s not letting go and, even if I hate her, I love her too because she’s there. She’s always there. I choke that out, when I’ve got breath for words again and she’s not saying anything. Always always always I’ll be there for you, Jess. Always. No matter what. I don’t care if you’re a cat or a woman or a man or, hell, an alien bent on world-destruction. I don’t care. You’re Jess above all else and I love you.

  She shushes me, successfully this time, and makes me drink my almost-cold hot cocoa and that makes me laugh. Lancelot has returned and clambers onto the couch and into Jess’ lap, though he’s half-sprawled over mine. I tell Jess I love her. I ask her to Winter Ball again. I just about manage not to ask her to marry me as we sit on her couch, drinking no-longer-hot cocoa and petting a purring Lancelot and each other. (Jess is doing her Jess-purr thing.) At some point, Jess turns on the TV. At some point, I call my parents to tell them I’ll be staying at Jess’ house tonight. It’s all a bit hazy, really. She’s brought out chocolate ice cream too. I’ve brought out my bag so we can go over our memories. I think we’ll be all right.

  I know we’ll be all right.

  To Love a Cat is probably one of the most angsty stories I’ve written in a long time. It’s also one of the emotionally and narratively messier ones, since it’s entirely from Jules’ point of view. Jules is a bit of a mess, trying to figure out their feelings and their life.

  If you think you’ve noticed that there’s a pattern where most of my romance stories features characters identifying on the ace spectrum somewhere, you’d be right. Jules is, so far, the only one who’s outright described themselves as asexual, though.