Cyborgia

by D. M. Darroch

  “BP got me suspended? Jerk!”

  “Hmm? What’s that?” asked Billy.

  “Get to class, guys! The bell’s about to ring,” called Ivy as she ran past.

  “Mind your own business,” Billy said. “Always telling us what to do.”

  “I don’t know, she’s not that bad.”

  Billy stared at him. “Seriously? She’s not that bad? You’re right. Your life is weird lately. Forget the cornflakes—did you fall and hit your head this morning?”

  “Dude. I’ve got a story to tell you. And it’s going to sound totally crazy. But it’s not. And I can totally prove it happened.”

  The bell for class change rang.

  “In science, okay? We can be lab partners.” Angus ran to his math class while Billy headed in the other direction.

  4

  The Vet Visit

  “Of course you can’t be lab partners for this project,” said Mrs. Howitzer in science class.

  Angus and Billy looked at each other. “Why not?” they asked in unison.

  “I don’t believe you need me to answer that question, but I will. Angus, your science grades are, not to put too fine a point on it, in the toilet. And Billy, yours are on the rim trying not to get sucked into the vortex.”

  “Huh?” said Billy.

  “Remember the week we were working on recording our scientific findings? One of you was supposed to wear a blindfold and describe different foods using senses other than vision while the other took notes. Your classmates actually did the assignment. Do you remember what you two turned in?”

  “No,” said Angus and looked at Billy. Billy was studiously examining his hi-tops.

  “Look.” Mrs. Howitzer slapped a piece of paper down on her desk. Angus saw the left-sloping scrawl that was his best friend’s handwriting. If Billy had been the scribe, that meant that BP had performed the experiment. Uh oh. He read, “Stop moving One-Eye and help me put this stupid blindfold on.”

  That wasn’t so bad, thought Angus.

  And then he continued reading: “What is this *#?&% slop that old battle ax is making us *#?&% eat? It smells like *#?&%! No *#?&% way is that going anywhere near my *#?&% mouth.”

  The notes got worse from there. Angus blanched and shoved the paper back to Mrs. Howitzer.

  “Um, I guess I wasn’t feeling quite myself that day,” Angus said sheepishly.

  “And your lab partner certainly didn’t help matters any. Why did you write all that down and hand it in, Billy? What were you thinking?” Billy continued staring at his shoes and shrugged. “That’s why I asked you to switch roles the next time we did an experiment,” continued Mrs. Howitzer. “But that didn’t help matters much either, did it?”

  Angus thought about Gus. Based on what he’d learned about Gus when he’d been in the primitive world, Gus would have been a responsible guy, not prone to cursing and rude behavior like BP was. He would have done what was asked of him, been kind, and worked hard. How bad could that assignment have been?

  And then he looked at the paper. Random crease lines indicated that the paper had been crumpled and then smoothed out. A strange brown color, the paper was poked full of holes where someone had pressed too hard with a pencil. Squiggles and lines covered the page. There were some rudimentary stick figures holding what looked to be bows and arrows running from a flying creature with a mouth full of pointed teeth. Pretty bad. Gus was illiterate. And then a ray of hope.

  “Our names aren’t on this,” said Angus. “How do you know this is our work?”

  “It was given to me in this.” With the end of her pen, Mrs. Howitzer picked up a small dried piece of leather shaped like a tiny bag. Angus and Billy leaned over her desk and peered closely at the specimen.

  “What is that?” asked Billy.

  “Is that ...” began Angus.

  “The stomach of a small mammal, probably an opossum. Yes, in fact. It appears to be,” said Mrs. Howitzer. “So you see, gentlemen. This week, I do not want to read epithets. I do not want to unwrap the innards of a marsupial to view a picture my three-year old granddaughter could have drawn. I want to receive a scientific explanation of your experiment. That is why Billy, you will work with Patricia, and Angus, you will work with Ivy.”

  Two feminine groans from across the classroom made it abundantly clear that Patricia and Ivy didn’t like this plan any more than the boys did.

  Dr. Shouyi entered the examination room, Sir Schnortle tucked under an arm. “Oh, are we trying a new look?” she asked.

  Mrs. Clark adjusted the cowboy hat on top of her head. “Well, my son likes it.”

  “How is your son? Doing well in school?” She plunked Sir Schnortle on the examination table. He crept slowly away from her and flattened himself against the wall.

  “Oh yes. Straight A’s like always,” lied Mrs. Clark.

  “Good. Good. So, about Sir Schnortle here.” The cat regarded the veterinarian with a baleful eye.

  “Yes?”

  “I thought we had discussed a diet for him.”

  “Yes. I bought him the diet food you recommended, and I fed him exactly the amount you said.”

  “And nothing else? No treats, no raw meat, no scraps off the table?”

  “No, nothing. Why do you ask? How much weight has he lost?”

  Dr. Shouyi shook her head. “You remember I told you that obesity is extremely dangerous for cats: It can lead to diabetes, osteoarthritis, respiratory problems, and non-allergic skin conditions.”

  “Yes, I remember all that. See? It’s here in my notebook.” Mrs. Clark showed Dr. Shouyi the notes she had taken at Sir Schnortle’s last checkup.

  “Somehow he’s gained four pounds.”

  “What? How is that even possible?” asked Mrs. Clark. “Did you remember to take off his collar?”

  “Yes, I did. Good thing, too: It weighs several pounds on its own. A beautiful collar—those crystals are remarkable—but I don’t recommend keeping it on Sir Schnortle. It’s simply too heavy. But unfortunately, the excess weight is all Sir Schnortle, not his collar. You’re certain that you’re the only one in your home feeding him? He’s not getting extra food from someone else?”

  Dr. Shouyi read the confusion on Mrs. Clark’s face and said, “Well, I would ask your family. And if neither your husband nor son has been feeding the cat outside of mealtimes, I recommend reducing his intake a bit more. And absolutely no treats.”

  Sir Schnortle growled low in his throat.

  Dr. Shouyi scooted the reluctant cat to the middle of the table, pulled up his tail to examine his backside, poked him in the abdomen, and pried open his mouth to check his teeth. Sir Schnortle wiggled and squirmed, but Dr. Shouyi held him fast. The cat’s eyes opened wide and he yowled as he felt a cold metal implement prodding him where no implement should ever go.

  “Normal temperature.”

  “I don’t know what happened, naughty boy, but you’re still a chubby little man.”

  Mrs. Clark slowed the car and stopped at a red traffic light. She looked at the cardboard cat carrier taped, stapled, and buckled up next to her in the passenger’s seat.

  “And now I have to give you even less food. I’m sorry little man, but you have to lose weight.”

  The light changed to green and Mrs. Clark began driving again. “Dr. Shouyi says you could end up sick with diabetes. You don’t want that, do you my little fat man?”

  “If Dr. Shouyi is so smart, why didn’t she tell you I had a deviated septum? That’s why I can never take a decent nap. I’m not getting enough oxygen—all the snoring,” said the box.

  Mrs. Clark gasped, clenched the steering wheel, and stared at the box.

  “I mean, sheesh. That exam is a little personal, don’t you think? She stuck a thermometer in my butt! Who does that to a person? And I’ve got diarrhea from that diet food you feed me. Do you know how embarrassing that is? Knowing that whoever cleans your litter box sees you have the runs? It’s inhumane.”

  Mrs. Clark bla
nched, gasped for air, and rolled her car into a ditch.

  5

  Too Much Ivy

  Angus banged into the house and headed for the refrigerator.

  “Freaking Mrs. Howitzer is making me and Billy change lab partners. I’m starving. Have you got anything good?”

  He stuck his head inside the refrigerator. “There’s no yogurt in here. You’ve got to get some of that honey stuff, you know, the one that’s got the fat on top. I can’t remember the last time I had a decent bowl of yogurt.”

  “You had the last three yogurts for breakfast yesterday. That’s why there’s none left,” said Mrs. Clark from her seat at the kitchen table where she was having a staring contest with Sir Schnortle.

  “Oh,” said Angus. “I must’ve forgotten. I’m gonna have these little sausages, okay?” He slammed the refrigerator door.

  “Don’t ruin your supper,” said Mrs. Clark automatically, unblinking eyes intent on the cat’s. “And grab a glass of milk.”

  Angus popped a sausage into his mouth and talked while he chewed. “Mom, why are you wearing that hat?”

  “I thought you liked it.”

  “I never said that. I don’t know how to say this, Mom, but it’s not your best look,” said Angus. He opened the refrigerator again and poured himself a glass of milk.

  Sir Schnortle yawned and looked away.

  “I know you can understand me.” The cat looked at her with a bored expression and walked away. “I can wait all day!” she yelled.

  “Mom?”

  Mrs. Clark shook her head, looked at Angus, and smiled. “Did you have a good day, honey?”

  “We were talking about your hat.”

  “What about it? You like it. It makes me look young and adventurous.”

  “Not so much, Mom.”

  She sighed and took it off. “Oh well, it was giving me hat head anyway.” She scratched her scalp.

  “Mom, I was wondering, when I saw you painting my room: I didn’t think it was you, at first.”

  “Well, that’s silly. Who else could it have been?”

  “No, I mean, I didn’t know that you painted.”

  “You’ve seen me paint before. Remember all the painting we did when you had your little easel?”

  “Mom, I was like, in preschool. We smeared paint on our hands and feet and stamped the paper. That wasn’t painting.”

  “Of course, that was painting. What you meant was that you didn’t know I could paint murals.”

  “Yeah, like that.”

  “Well, maybe there’s a lot you don’t know about your old mom.”

  “Yeah, that’s probably true. There’s a lot you don’t know about me, either.” Angus smiled.

  “Ummm hmmm. I wonder.”

  “So Mom, the thing is, I really like the paintings, but the superhero bed sheets? They’ve got to go.”

  “Too much?”

  “Way too much.”

  “Okay, I’ll get rid of them. I’m a pretty good painter though, huh?”

  “The best.” Angus and his mom smiled at each other. At that moment, he wanted to give her another hug, but Sir Schnortle came back into the kitchen and nuzzled his leg. He set his plate of sausages on the counter before reaching down and picking up the cat.

  “He came right to you! He let you pick him up!”

  “Yeah?”

  “But, he has never let you do that before ... he usually runs and hides when you walk into a room ... lately anyway.”

  Angus and the cat looked at each other. Sir Schnortle’s eyes gleamed. “I guess we’re friends now.” He put the cat down. “Mom, Ivy Calloway’s coming over. We have to work on our science project together.”

  “Okay, honey.”

  “I’ll be in the lab.” Angus picked up his half-eaten sausage and his glass of milk. Sir Schnortle followed Angus into the garage.

  As soon as the door closed, the cat said, “I’m your partner? That’s great! I’ll get to meet myself!”

  “Shhh. You don’t want Mom to hear you.”

  “Too late. She already did.”

  “What? When?” Angus balanced his glass precariously on the lip of the workbench and popped the last piece of sausage into his mouth.

  “She took me to the doctor today. She stapled me into a cardboard box with no windows and no explanation whatsoever. And that doctor? No understanding of personal boundaries. Zero. Zip. Nada. Seriously awkward. I guess I lost my temper a little bit and said something to your mom.”

  “What? What did you say?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Then, your mom almost killed me.”

  “This is making less and less sense. If I didn’t know better, I’d think we were in a parallel world—you know—a world in which you have absolutely no brain whatsoever. What the heck were you thinking?”

  “Settle down. I wasn’t thinking. I was mad. You know how I get.”

  Angus nodded. He knew. Ivy had a short temper.

  “So your mom, like, totally freaks out, and the next thing I know, I’m lying sideways in the stupid box and your mom is freaking out even more. Turns out, she ran off the road and some policeman had to rescue us.”

  Angus stared. “I don’t believe any of this.”

  “Come on, really? Your mom is a little loopy, let’s face it. She wears a cowboy hat and chaps. You guys don’t own a horse.”

  “Okay, so then what?”

  “So after some more adventures with a tow truck and stuff, we get home, and she finally lets me out of the stupid box. But she keeps following me around and talking to me and trying to get me to talk to her. Like all day. I couldn’t take a nap, do a little light reading, nothing. She even followed me to the litterbox. Horrifying. And when she’s not talking to me, she’s staring at me. Totally annoying.”

  “Well, it’s kind of your own fault. Look at things from her point of view. Every day she feeds her fat little cat, grooms her fat little cat, plays with her fat little cat, talks to her fat little cat. One day her fat little cat starts talking back.”

  “Hey! I’m not fat!”

  “Probably not, but Sir Schnortle sure is.”

  “What do you mean, probably not?” demanded Ivy.

  “I’ve never seen what you really look like.”

  “Well, trust me, I’m not fat.”

  “Whatever you say. But so long as you’re in Sir Schnortle’s body, you’re fat.”

  “Shut up,” Ivy muttered.

  “Hey, I don’t care if you’re fat, thin, triangular, or octagonal. You’re the only person I know who can jump into animal bodies. You could be shaped like a stop sign and I’d still think you’re awesome.”

  “I’m. Not. Fat.”

  “Okay. Okay. Jeesh. Women.”

  Angus reached into the ten-gallon metal garbage can and pulled out a circuit board. He brushed it off and reached back in for a jar of nuts and a handful of wires.

  The cat jumped up on the workbench. The weight of the crystal collar acted like a projectile and continued to propel Ivy’s head after her body had stopped. Her face lunged forward and whiplashed back, and she toppled over to her side, barely missing the glass of milk. She looked quickly at Angus whose head was still buried in the trash can, and she began grooming her tail as if nothing unusual had occurred.

  After taking a moment to regain her aloof demeanor, Ivy said, “So, tell me about myself.”

  “Huh?” asked Angus shoulder deep in the trash can.

  “Your science partner. The other me. I’m coming over to work on a project with you, right? I’ve seen myself other places, but today I’m actually going to be able to meet myself. That’s pretty neat, don’t you think?”

  “I’ve got to get a new screwdriver,” said Angus.

  “Angus! Tell me. What am I like? The other me.”

  Angus continued rummaging through the trash can. “I can’t believe they threw out all my experiments. The other Ivy’s a lot like you: She likes to argue; she’s opinionated; she thinks she knows everythin
g.”

  “Angus!” The cat raised its hackles.

  “Well, a lot like you, but not totally. Your temper is way worse.”

  “Watch it!”

  “But she’s not as much fun as you are. She can be a little ... prissy.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Ivy.

  A clang reverberated throughout the garage as Angus bumped the side of the metal can. “Now why would they get rid of these?” He brandished two pieces of metal rebar. “That’s just throwing money away.”

  “Angus. How is she different from me?” pressed Ivy.

  He dropped the rebar on his workbench. “She’s a little too ... clean ... too punctual. Always follows the rules and knows the right answer. And let’s you know she knows when you don’t know. You know? She’s too ... perfect. It can be too much, understand?”

  The two friends heard the muted chime of a doorbell from inside the house. “I think I’m about to find out.”

  “Don’t you have to be careful? Won’t seeing your alternate self make you jump to another parallel world? Maybe you’d be safer in the kitchen with Mom,” said Angus.

  “No, I’ll be fine. As long as I don’t focus all my thoughts on her, my consciousness will stay here. I’ll sit over here like a bored cat, and she won’t even notice me.”

  Ivy batted some nails off the workbench and settled seemingly into a nap. She curled her tail around her body and peeked through an eyelid. At that moment, the door dividing the garage and the kitchen banged open.

  “I’m here, Angus. Where should I put my stuff?” Ivy Calloway burst into the garage, long brown hair floating behind her, and an overstuffed backpack weighing down her right shoulder. Angus pointed to the workbench where cat-Ivy feigned sleep. “Ooh! A kitty! I love animals and they love me, too!” squealed person-Ivy.

  “Don’t!” cried Angus as person-Ivy reached for cat-Ivy. Cat-Ivy sprang upright and dove-fell off the workbench, crashing into the trashcan.

  “What is wrong with your cat?” asked Ivy.

  “Oh, he’s a little skittish,” said Angus. He heard Sir Schnortle hiss from behind Mr. Clark’s stack of snow tires. “I’d better check on him.”