Bad enough.
The twist?
Deep down, they know no one should have to feel grateful for that. And you know it too.
A BOY ON PLANET GIRL
Chapter 11
Not Normal
Not Normal is not being able to tell your best friend in the whole world what is going on. Not Normal is eating alone. Not Normal is having to stop chewing midmouthful so you can listen, in case there is something happening upstairs. Not Normal means a stomach so tight with anxiety all you can do is pick at your food and listen, pick and listen.
Pick, listen, and realize Not Normal is not contained. Your own kitchen has been invaded by it. Savory smells, sweet smells, delicious smells, all cocooned in extremely toasty kitchen warmth, but all your nose tunes into is wafts of weird cleanliness, disinfectant, and sickness. A distinct, bad-breath stink is in your house.
Not-Normal must be kept warm. I drag myself out of my seat and yank open the kitchen stove and shove more precious wood in. Behind the iron door, I hear wood that wasn’t quite ready to burn hiss, and that is exactly how my thoughts are: hissing. Not quite dry enough. Not quite ready.
The wood spits. Even behind the iron, you can hear explosions of fury, pockets of moisture, superheating too, too quickly. And I sit back down and for a moment, the stove spluttering, the shutters drawn, curtains pulled across. I can almost imagine winter has come.
When the sputtering stops, I hear their voices. Mumma’s. Kate’s. Its. Low, murmuring, but I hear them. So I haven’t killed it. Seems like it’s not that easy to kill an XY—or at least not this one. Not even accidentally. I shove away the plate of delicious food I have only picked at and go upstairs.
“Ah! Here’s River!” Kate says in a gentle, happy (i.e., weird) voice as I stride in, ready to fight.
The boy’s gaze swings my way and locks on.
“We were just explaining to Mason,” Mumma says, “how there’s really nothing to be afraid of here.”
Except for him, my brain adds. The creature—he’s awake!—and the way he’s looking at me. What is that?
“Isn’t that right, River?” Kate asks in that weird lullaby voice.
“Suppose so.”
Kate gives me an un-lullaby glare.
“I mean, yes, of course.”
It clears its throat, sniffs. “I wanna see for myself,” it tells me—me, not Mumma or Kate.
“Oh, I’m not sure that’s such a good idea right now,” says Mumma.
“There’s always tomorrow,” Kate says. “Don’t feel you have to push yourself.”
“I wanna see,” it tells me, reaching to pull out the IV.
“No! Don’t take that out!” says Kate.
“It’s what’s making you better,” says Mumma.
It looks at me. “It’s true!” I tell it. “I mean, for crying out loud, all we’re trying to do is help you. Just keep the damn thing in, can’t you?”
It’s the tension that’s making me speak like that, a thing I am for sure going to have to explain to Kate and Mumma later, because I am very much aware that they are staring at me in tight-lipped shock.
The creature eyes me, then gives a curt nod. It shakily maneuvers itself out of bed, still buttoned into my too-tight pink satin bathrobe (that I am so never going to wear again). Mumma goes to offer it a helping hand, but the creature recoils.
And I deduce a thing that further observation will teach me is right and true: it is afraid of my mumma. You’d think it would be afraid of me, for pinning it, and anyone with any sense would be most afraid of Kate, who is truly fierce. But Mumma? It’s afraid of my firm-but-fair, reasonable, sensible Mumma.
“Give the guy a hand,” Kate tells me.
Boy. Him. His. Son. Male. Guy?! I don’t think I’ve ever even heard that word before. What exactly is a “guy”?
The creature darts a look at her like it has heard that word. Like it knows that word.
“I’m good,” it mumbles at me.
I know what that means—it’s granmumma-speak for “I’m okay, thank you.” The creature doesn’t seem okay, but I don’t want to help it—I don’t want to touch it—so I don’t. Instead, it curls a fist around the coatrack, which becomes a giant walking aid for the tour.
A tour, that’s what it feels like. I know because I have been on a tour to Birmingham. The whole school went. I was raging mad about it because I’d be missing two live math classes and my first dynamics seminar. I was raging mad on the train, and I was raging mad until we got there. Then my jaw dropped. So many things I’d never seen before: high-rises, tons of roads, an escalator, tons of people—I mean every kind of people—a museum packed with art, including religious objects, that was just incredible to me…and the National Council.
That part became boring because, after I’d studied the quite interesting building adaptations, all that happened was talk—and as they talked, I remembered: I am missing very, very important classes for this.
The creature, though it tries to hide it, seems shaken by all it sees. It hides it very badly, I decide. This is my room, Mumma says. The creature won’t even step inside. It backs away. This is the bathroom, Mumma says. The creature—it cannot seem to help itself—shambles in. Our bathroom is normally such a mess. Thanks to the granmummas’ anxiety, it is sparkling clean and super-tidy. The creature moves straight for the bath.
“This is a bath,” it mutters.
“Yes,” Kate answers, Mumma and I being speechless. “You can have one anytime you like.”
WHAT?! No, you can’t! I’m thinking. Who takes baths?! No one takes baths! I mean, even the grumbling granmummas have gotten used to not taking them! Baths are for emergencies—and birthdays! Baths are special!
“And when you use the toilet, put the seat down afterward,” says Kate.
Me, Mumma, and the creature all look at Kate: What?!
Kate draws so deep a breath I have thoughts about her inhaler. “I’ll explain later,” she says.
“Would you like to go back to bed now, Mason?” my mumma asks.
It looks at me.
What does it have to look at me for? I shrug an up-to-you shrug.
It slinks out of the bathroom, me in front—just wishing it’d go back to bed and we can nail the door shut and all get some sleep—Mumma and Kate hovering behind it, like it’s a first-steps baby about to fall. And then it pauses and looks down the stairs.
“Do you want to see downstairs?” Kate asks.
Please, I’m thinking. NO!
“Or just wait until tomorrow?” Mumma says.
Apparently, the “guy” wants to see right now.
As it starts down the stairs, hand on banister to steady itself, Mumma darts past. It’s what you’d do with any shaky first steps: get in front to catch a fall. With Mumma ahead of him, the creature stops.
“You need to leave him be,” Kate says from the top of the stairs.
“But—” Mumma says.
I mean, really, that creature is going to tumble, and though I know nothing of XYs, I’m pretty sure their necks would break just like ours.
“Back off,” Kate tells Mumma and elbows me. “You help him.”
I frown hard at her. No!
She frowns harder—GRRRR!—back at me.
I feel the creature flinch as my arm links through its arm. And it looks at me—and that look, the fear in it, makes me know it isn’t just afraid of breaking its XY neck; it’s afraid I might shove it. ARGH! That’s a horrible, HORRIBLE, HORRIBLE thought. And I realize: I have done what it did to me. I threatened to hurt it, didn’t I?
“It’s okay,” I tell it. “You’re good,” I say, as it takes another step, and so I help it down the stairs.
It feebly pulls its arm away from me as soon as we’re down.
Kate descends behind us.
“So
what we’ve got here is my room.” She shoves open the door to a mess so complex and long established that not even the granmummas’ anxious hands could clean and tidy it.
“We put you in here first, when River found you. Do you remember?”
It looks at me.
“After I brought you home in the cart. Do you remember that?”
It shakes its head a little.
“And this is Mumma’s study,” I tell it. The door is open, I flick on the light.
I love Mumma’s study. It’s packed with amazingness. It’s got all kinds of sculptures and paintings and books, books, books, floor to ceiling.
It turns away immediately and—
“This is the front door,” Mumma says, opening it just a little to let in a blast of chilly night air. The creature shivers immediately, and she shuts it again.
It plants a steadying hand against the wall.
“Do you need to sit down for a moment?” Mumma asks.
“Think you can make it to the kitchen?” Kate says. “River, go get the door.”
I head for the door, the creature shuffling rapidly after me, and when I open it, the shock on its face is a thing to behold—for a moment, its astonishment is beyond disguise, and it sways in the grip of it, so I steer it to the table and deposit it in a chair.
• • •
And so it comes to be that Mumma and Kate are sitting at the table having a polite chat with the creature over a cup of mint tea and a slice of cake. And me—I’m there too because Kate whispers, “You’ve gotta stay. I think he trusts you!” when I dare to suggest that I might just head off to bed.
I don’t feel trusted. I feel watched.
Of course, when I say “having a polite chat,” I mean Mumma and Kate are trying to explain what’s what to the XY, and when I say “over a cup of mint tea and a slice of cake,” that’s what Mumma and Kate are having. Me and the creature sit in brooding silence, not touching a thing. Though I do keep looking at the array of cakes—and I keep catching the creature doing the same thing, its nose flaring with those enticing, sweet scents, then looking at me. It’s cake—creature—cake—creature—cake. A disturbing combination.
Meantime, Mumma and Kate in the background, delivering lines as though they’re in one of the plays we put on for the granmummas. We’ve done tons of them: Twilight, High School Musical, Hamilton, and even a disastrous production of Les Misérables. Anyway, anyone could deliver lines more smoothly and convincingly than this:
Mumma: We can explain all this again tomorrow—
Kate: Or whenever—
Mumma: But the thing is…
Kate: Yes, what is the thing?
Mumma: I’m getting to it.
Kate: Well, hurry up and arrive, because this boy is in no fit state to listen to a speech right now.
Mumma: The thing is…
Kate: We’re very happy that you’re here.
Mumma: Yes!
Kate: Everyone is.
(Kate kicks River under the table; River smiles ice at Creature; Creature stares back with shark eyes; River stares at a cake instead; Creature does the same.)
Mumma: Won’t you please have some cake?
River (thinking): Sharks don’t eat cake.
Kate: He’s just come out of a coma.
Mumma: Yes. Yes, of course. So, Mason, the thing is…
Kate: If you need me to handle this, just say the word.
Mumma: No. I just need a moment to…
Kate: Also, I actually think I might be better at it.
Mumma: Are you sure?
Kate: Sure I’m sure!
Mumma: It’s just really important that—
Kate: Listen up, mister—
Boy. Him. His. Son. Male…Guy. Dude. Mister.
Mumma: Oh, Kate, I really—
Kate: Do you want me to do this or not?
Mumma: Perhaps you should.
Kate (to the creature): See, now, I’m guessing this is pretty much as weird for you as it is for us.
(River opens her mouth, then shuts it again at Kate’s raises “SHUT UP” hand.)
Kate: And this is VERY weird for us. We haven’t seen a boy in sixty years.
Mumma: Well, we haven’t seen an XY boy.
Kate (to Mumma): Not now.
Mumma: But—
Kate (to Mumma): Not now.
Kate (to shark creature Mason): Scroll back, eh? This is my granddaughter, Zoe-River—
Mumma: Kate adopted my mother when—
Kate: Not now. And this is my great-granddaughter River. The one who found you.
River: Saved you.
Kate: Not now. We…would really, really like to know a little bit about where you come from.
(Creature looks at River.)
Mumma: And why you left the Sanctuary.
Kate: NOT now.
Mumma: No one will hurt you here. No one is going to…rape—
Kate: NOT NOW.
Mumma:—or kill you.
Kate: No one does that kind of thing. Not around here. Not ever.
Mumma: Well, very rarely.
Kate: NOT NOW. So we were just wondering, where have you come from?
Mumma: Yes! We’ve got this map here—(Slides cakes aside to place map in front of creature)—and…perhaps you could show us?
(Creature looks at River. Creature looks at map, a slight frown on its hairy face. Creature looks back at River.)
Creature (to River): Where even is this?
I think the next part would be too hard to do onstage, at least with our school’s drama skills. I’d describe the scene as quiet confusion, leading to quiet uproar. Creative English is no more my thing than BASIC GEOGRAPHY is the creature’s.
“This is the southwest of Britain,” Kate says.
“And we’re right here,” Mumma says, pointing out the village on the map.
I don’t know what she thinks it’s going to say—Ah, yes! Now I see! And I’m from right here! A charming little secret village full of furry faces just outside Ilminster! perhaps—but it doesn’t say a word.
“River, run and get the globe,” Kate tells me.
“But…that’s so out of date!” I can hear Mumma saying as I grab the globe from her study. “The scale! The countries, the divisions don’t even apply anymore!”
I know Kate suspects something, something Mumma and I can’t even quite imagine, but can almost, almost suspect too. The way the creature looked at that map… Is it truly possible that it does not recognize a huge chunk of Britain?
When I plonk the globe in front of it, that thought escalates.
It stares. Though the stove is still hissing hard, I hear the softest gulp in its throat. Though the heat in the kitchen is crazy, I see a new bead of sweat trickle into its wispy beard.
Is it truly possible that—
Kate’s thinking must be escalating too. “So…this is the world,” she says, turning the globe. “This is Britain”—her finger jabs—“and this”—her nail traces out a minute section—“is what is shown on this map.” And she taps the map, just in case there is any doubt at all in the creature’s mind—and I have the feeling there’s a lot of doubt. Dark bands of armpit sweat are SOAKING down MY bathrobe.
“The southwest,” my mumma says, as though she’s still expecting the creature to go, Oh yes! and point out Ilminster, most probably, or somewhere, or anywhere.
“Mason, have you ever seen a map before?” Kate asks.
“I’ve seen maps,” the creature tells me. “Games got maps.”
“Uh-huh, but of real places?” Kate asks. “This map is real.”
“This is where we are,” Mumma says. “This is where you’re living.”
In my room, I think.
The creature—it suddenly seems
overwhelmed. Physically? Mentally? I don’t even know. I am supposed to be up at 4:00 a.m. for a thermodynamics seminar, and I am impossibly tired. I grab cake and stuff it into my angry face, watching the creature.
“I ain’t staying here,” it says.
Chapter 12
Boys Don’t Cry
I ain’t stayin’ here.
What brilliant words! I could applaud it: YES! GO! JUST GO! I WISH I’D NEVER FOUND YOU! I DON’T CARE HOW PRECIOUS AND IMPORTANT YOU ARE! YOU SCARE ME, AND YOU ARE WRECKING MY LIFE. GO!
There is the most awkward of awkward silences. Mine is particularly awkward because I am trying to suppress glee with cake. I stuff cake into my face to hide the grin that’s desperate to appear on it.
“You can go anytime you like,” Kate tells it.
“Oh, Kate, I—” Mumma says.
“Do you want me to handle this or not?” Kate blasts at Mumma. “Mason, that front door is never locked. You can just go. The question you’ve got to ask yourself is where would you go to. You can’t go back to a Sanctuary. You’re contaminated now. You’ve got the virus.”
“The running dead,” it says. Not even a shark’s cold grin.
“Only you’re not dead, are you?” Kate comes back at it. “Do you know why?”
“Are there others like you?!” Mumma says.
“Not now,” says Kate.
Mason, oozing sweat, raises a hand to his head. It doesn’t move any farther. His fingertips turn white with the pressure they’re poking into his XY skull.
“Don’t really get what you’re saying here,” he mumbles.
“So…there’s a virus that should have killed you by now and—” Mumma tries to explain.
“I know about the goddamn virus! Who doesn’t know about the goddamn virus?”
Well, I’d say that’s about the first thing we all have in common. On the whole planet, who, indeed, does not know about the goddamn virus?
“You’re infected, and you’re still alive. We don’t understand why you’re still alive, but we want you to stay alive,” Kate says. “We’ll do everything we can to help you. And no one—hear me—no one is going to hurt you.”
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