Grows That Way (2 page)

chapter
two

I used to be on drugs. For a while I took human growth hormone, because I am so short from the Turner Syndrome. But it increased my intracranial pressure, which gave me headaches and double vision, which made me crash my bike when I was doubling my cousin Taylor, who got her big toe caught in the chain and cut it off, leaving her a cripple unable to pursue her true-life passion of dancing. Now she's decided to become an animal communicator instead. She's practicing on her dog Bunga, who is so stupid I can't see why anyone would want to communicate with him psychically or otherwise. She's also practicing on Spike, who is very very scary smart. He's a hinny, which is kind of like a mule, only he's a hybrid of a male horse and a female donkey. Mules are hybrids of a male donkey and a female horse. Spike used to belong to me, but Taylor wanted him when I got Brooklyn. Brooklyn The Magnificent. Who I don't get to see today because my dad ran over my stupid bike.

When I've been off the growth hormone for another month or so I'm going to start on estrogen therapy, so I can develop secondary sexual characteristics. My mom has already bought me a brassiere, a fake padded one she thinks I should wear in the interim, but I say no thanks. To me, bras look too much like harnesses, or like the halter I put on Brooklyn's head, but with more lacey bits. Mom acts like I should be all excited about acquiring secondary sexual characteristics, which doesn't make sense to me, even though it would make me normal. From what I see at school, normal doesn't impress me very much. Fake padded normal would be even worse.

To be honest, I did wear the bra once, but only to get Mom off my back. There's no way I was going to wear it to school, because I'm sure somehow Amber would notice and make a big deal of it and embarrass me to death. Instead I wore it on a Saturday, to a riding lesson, which was a big mistake. Maybe I didn't have the straps tight enough, but they kept sliding off my shoulders so I had to wiggle and shrug to get them back into position. Eventually Kansas asked what was the matter with me, so I told her. She didn't make a big deal of it other than telling me all she ever wears is a sports bra because it's practical, comfortable, never shifts and the straps don't dig in. She pulled a wide strap out from under her T-shirt and let it go with a soft snap to illustrate her point. I went home and told Mom I wanted a sports bra and she said, “What for?” She said I didn't need the support and it would only flatten me (which didn't sound like such a bad idea actually), and that the one she'd bought me was much prettier. I told her it wasn't any good for equestrian athletes like me and Kansas and she hasn't mentioned it since.

On normal days, when my dad hasn't been possessed by his shadow side, I ride my bike to school and go the long way that takes me past the stable. If I time it right I can say good morning to Brooklyn as Kansas leads him out to his paddock. I could say good morning to Kansas too of course, but I usually forget, and it doesn't bother Kansas at all because we're both members of the herd of horsewomen, so she understands. Kansas is wonderful. She is totally not normal in the best sort of way.

Today, since I'm walking and I'm short of time, I have to take a more direct route to school. This means I have to sneak through the middle of our subdivision where all the other kids walk, which is another reason I prefer the long route.

I'm about halfway to school, thinking maybe by some fluke I could still elude my tormentors, when I hear loud footsteps and panting coming up fast behind me. I steel myself, and hold tight to the straps of my backpack, expecting it to be ripped from my shoulders as Amber flies past. I can't believe my ears when I hear, “Hey, Sylvia! Wait up!”

It's Logan Losino.

He staggers to a walk beside me, puffing hard and trying not to show it.

“I never see you walking to school,” he says.

“My dad drove over my bike with his Explorer,” I say. Usually I have trouble talking to Logan Losino, but today seems different, maybe because I dreamt about him last night. Maybe because I'm still disturbed by my dad's behaviour and could use an ally.

“Bummer,” says Logan. “How did he do that?”

“He must have had it in four-wheel drive,” I say.

Logan laughs as though I've told him a joke. Logan is always laughing and joking around. Usually I don't mind, and any other day I'd be thrilled about Logan thinking I was a jokester like him. But right now I'd prefer my problems were taken more seriously.

“I've never seen my dad so mad at me,” I say. I don't add anything about how he threw my bike across the yard in case Logan thinks this is an issue for Child Protection Services. I don't want my dad to get into trouble. Or at least not that much trouble.

“Do you think you'll be walking to school from now on?” says Logan. He sounds way too happy, as though he's nowhere near seeing this tragedy from my point of view.

So I tell him that it's very depressing for me, and that the worst part is that I can't ride my bike to see my horse after class, which seems like pretty severe punishment for a small oversight.

Logan chews on his lip to fight back a smile. Nice friend.

We walk in silence for half a block. When we reach the corner, Logan points to a small house down the street. “See that one, with the boat parked in the yard? That's where Amber and Topaz live.”

Amber and Topaz are twins, but they're not identical so as far as I'm concerned they're no big deal. From my perspective there's an advantage to them not being identical, because they have different interests. When they first moved to town last year, both of them tormented me full-time. Since Topaz found out that I'm into horses, she's been nicer to me and only torments me half the time. Amber is still relentless, and sometimes Topaz will get her off my case. If she doesn't, Logan Losino is often mysteriously available to come to my rescue.

I discover that I've stopped, and am staring at the front door of Amber and Topaz's house, expecting them to launch themselves in my direction at any second. I still haven't fully recovered from being attacked by my dad, so I don't know if I can cope with Amber and Topaz. I wish I'd taken a mental health day for myself.

“It's early, they probably haven't left yet. If we keep going we can get to school ahead of them and foil their evil plans,” says Logan. He takes my hand and tugs. When he touches me I almost jump out of my skin. “Come on!” he says, laughing.

And I'm running down the street, holding hands with Logan Losino.

I'm holding hands with a boy.

It feels nice, like it did in my dream. It's like a new world opening up for me. I don't know if I'm more excited or anxious, which is a lot like I felt when I got my first horse, but at least there I had my Pony Club manual to back me up.

chapter
three

I see my cousin Taylor in the cafeteria at lunch, surrounded by her extensive fan club. She was popular last year, but now that she's an amputee it's become ridiculous. I find this very confusing. There is Taylor, missing a digit and her popularity has soared, while I'm missing a whole X chromosome, and have to eat lunch all by myself.

Taylor waves me over, which is nice, considering I'm younger, a grade behind her, and a social leper. The fan club looks at me with disinterest and drifts away to another table. I hear them talking about vampires and werewolves. There's another movie out apparently. I don't understand all the interest in scary imaginary creatures. I saw a werewolf movie once and it was stupid, and hardly scary at all.

I take a vacated seat beside Taylor.

“My mom's picking me up after school and she's going to drop me at the barn so I can spend some time with Spike,” says Taylor. “We could throw your bike in the back if you want a lift.”

“I don't have my bike. My dad ran over it this morning—I left it in the wrong place and he didn't notice. I have to walk straight home.”

“Well, Cookie,” says Taylor, doing a good job of mimicking my mom, “sooner or later you do have to understand that there are consequences for your behaviour.”

I look away, because I don't like anyone but me criticizing my mom, and see Amber across the cafeteria, closing in on us like a heat-seeking missile. Amber idolizes my cousin. I turn back to Taylor so I don't have to watch Amber approach. “My mom wasn't too bad. She was going to drive me to school but Dad wouldn't let her.”

“
He wouldn't let her
?” repeats Taylor. “Your mom went along with that? My mom should have another talk with her.”

“Oh no,” I say in a panic. My dad thinks Auntie Sally is a lunatic, and makes a point of not agreeing with anything she says. “My mom said he was just giving in to his shadow side, and we can sort it out when his mood is better.”

Taylor snorts. “My mom says women shouldn't let men get away with stuff like that. She says it's a form of bullying.”

“Your mom is divorced,” I remind her, and when she shrugs I say, “Twice. Plus she can't keep a boyfriend.” This is something my dad says about Auntie Sally, and now that I've quoted him I feel badly, because I've criticized Taylor's mom.

Taylor doesn't seem to mind. “She could have a boyfriend if she wanted to,” she says. “These days she says that men can be handy to have around, but for the most part they're more trouble than they're worth.”

Amber plunks her tray on the table across from us. “Hi Taylor, hi Sylvia. Mind if I join you?”

Amber never calls me Sylvia. She has a whole zoo-full of names she prefers for me, though apparently not while Taylor is around to be impressed. She takes a seat without waiting for an answer, folds her arms on the table and leans over them, so her chest bulges out even more obviously than usual. I try not to look, but it's as though she's asking me to. If I develop like this after I start taking estrogen, I'm going to wear a flattening sports bra all the time.

Taylor flashes her a polite smile. “Sorry, Amber, we're discussing a family problem.”

Amber's cheeks pinken. She's used to getting her way. Taylor doesn't back down.

Amber makes a show of suddenly noticing that Topaz is sitting at another table, then picks up her tray and cruises away as though this was her idea, as though she hadn't just been rejected in full view of everyone in the cafeteria. I could almost feel sorry for her if she wasn't such a faker. Topaz doesn't look that happy to see her either. Amber makes her move her chair, then takes over the conversation with her usual arm-waving theatrics.

“Besides,” says Taylor, “my mom loves bugging your dad.” She's picked up the conversation right where we left off. She's dealt with Amber with hardly a thought, flicking her off like she was no more than a piece of lint. I couldn't do that in a million years; Amber would stomp me if I tried.

Maybe if I wasn't an only child, I'd have better social skills. Taylor has had lots of practice over the years with her sisters. Her younger sister Erika is a total immature crybaby, and her older sister Stephanie is the most pushy person I know and fortunately now away at university.

Taylor is crushing her empty milk carton with her elbow and looking around the cafeteria for her entourage. I guess I should have been talking more instead of losing myself in thought. I hate trying to make conversation, and I'm not very good at it. But I don't want to sit alone, I don't want Taylor to leave, so I'm scrambling for possible topics when I feel a large shape looming behind me, then Franko kicks out the chair on the other side of Taylor and perches his great bulk on the edge of it.

Franko is Taylor's boyfriend, though I've never understood why. She's so pretty and popular she could go out with any superstar she wants, and instead she's picked Franko. He's Logan Losino's older brother, which is about the only good thing he has going for him in my opinion.

“Hey Babe,” he says. He drops his gym bag at his feet and boots it under the lunch table.

A scent envelops us. It's sharp and medicinal, like the liniment Kansas uses on the horses when she thinks their muscles are sore. I wonder at first if the smell is coming from the gym bag, but then I notice that any time Franko moves, the scent grows stronger, wafting at me in waves of warm air.

I haven't seen Franko for a while. Of course our paths tend not to cross—he's in grade twelve. Again. Last year he was away somewhere so I saw him even less. I didn't even know he and Taylor were dating until a few months ago. I don't see him much this year either because when he's not in class Taylor says he's either playing football or working out in the gym.

Franko doesn't acknowledge me. It's as though I don't exist, or I'm invisible, which is okay in a way because I have to admit that Franko scares me. I've never spoken to him. Being around him makes my tongue seize up.

Franko whispers something in Taylor's ear and she giggles.

Ugh. I would leave if I had anywhere else to go, but the cafeteria is packed, there's not a single empty table. I unwrap my sandwich and take a bite. I try to stay tucked in out of sight behind Taylor, but then Franko leans forward and props an elbow on the lunch table. He's wearing a sleeveless shirt with big loopy armholes to show off the muscles on his muscles. Usually he reminds me of a frog: he's got no neck and his arms don't fold neatly against his body like they're supposed to, plus his hands look puny in relation to the rest of him.

He slides his elbow forward so he sprawls across the table. I can see a big wodge of black hair, like someone's cut a patch out of a bear pelt and stuffed it into Franko's armpit. If nothing else, Franko's good at growing hair. He grows more beard than my dad—I can see little black pinpricks all over his face where he's shaved. Taylor has told me she makes him shave every day, otherwise he has a scratchy growth that gives her whisker burn when they kiss. Sometimes this happens anyway and Taylor says that it feels like her face has been removed with sandpaper. I don't see the appeal. Taylor, meanwhile, has sort of melted into her chair, nodding and smiling at everything he says. Where has her IQ gone?

I sit there in my own isolated universe, and all in all it doesn't seem fair that Taylor has a million friends, and a boyfriend (such as he is), plus she can go to the stable to see Spike after school while I have to walk home—alone. I feel so irked, so much on the outside of things, so tired of this, that I do the unthinkable. I speak. In front of Franko.

“Hey, Taylor, you're sure I can have a ride after school?” I say.

“Of course I'm sure.” She doesn't look at me, her eyes are glued on Franko.

Franko looks past Taylor in my direction, as though surprised to hear a voice and needing to figure out where it came from. He finds me. His eye lashes are thick and dark, and his eyes a deep soft brown.

Okay. I get it. There's one attraction—he has great eyes.

I'm not worth much attention though; his focus immediately slides back to Taylor.

“You're going out to see your mule this afternoon?” he says. “I thought you were going to watch us practice.”

“He's not a mule. He's a hinny,” Taylor corrects him gently, though I'm sure she's explained this a thousand times before.

“Gonna do some more animal communicating?” says Franko. His tone is mocking.

I'm not impressed, but no one's asking me.

When Taylor doesn't answer, Franko says, “Let's get out of here.” He grabs his gym bag then slips his other arm around her waist and helps her to her feet, not that she needs the assistance—I know her balance is fine as long as she's not doing something fancy like trying to stand on pointe. His fingers disappear up under her shirt. Taylor places her hand on his forearm and calmly pushes his arm down.

I think about Logan taking my hand. What if he wanted to do something like this instead? Would I know what to do?

Franko meanwhile is acting hurt and innocent. “What?” he says, sliding his hand back up under her shirt.

“Franko,” says Taylor evenly. She uses a totally neutral tone of voice and expression on her face, like I've seen Kansas do when she's training the horses or her new puppy Bernadette. Maybe that's it. Maybe dealing with boys is just like animal training.

Taylor retrieves Franko's hand and clasps it firmly, lacing her delicate fingers through his thick lumpy ones. She doesn't say anything else. I guess she doesn't want to reprimand him in public, not even in front of invisible me. She's told me before that Franko is sensitive and his feelings are hurt easily. I'll have to take her word for it. Taylor has also told me that she is grateful to him for standing by her after her accident. She said that another boy might have dumped her after she lost her toe and became deformed. From what I can tell there are other parts of Taylor's anatomy that are of much greater importance to Franko than a missing toe.

Franko shifts his grip on his gym bag, and that's when I notice his name embossed on the side, and boy do I feel stupid. I've made another ridiculous spelling mistake, something I'm famous for. Franko's name isn't Franko. It's Franco. For months and months I've been thinking of him as Franko, and it's stupid but the change in spelling instantly makes my feelings about him change too. Franco is softer than Franko. Maybe Taylor has known this all along—that underneath all the macho muscle there is a gentle kind person.

Why does life have to be so confusing? Why can't we all have labels that say “Good Person” or “Bad Person”? It would make everything so much simpler.

“See you later, Sylvia,” says Taylor over her shoulder as Franco drags her away, leaving nothing behind but his smell, which I have to say is still the only thing I really like about him, and only because it reminds me of horses.

I hunch over my tray and finish eating my lunch, hoping that Amber (Bad Person) doesn't notice I've been cut from the herd and am sitting there all alone and vulnerable.