She sighed. Sometimes she hated parties. She wanted to go and get a slice of that black rum cake. It was her favourite. But people would see her eating. She slouched protectively over her belly and stared across the room at the television. The programme had changed. Now it was an old-time movie or some shit, with guys and girls on a beach. Their bathing suits were in this ancient style, and the girls’ hair, my God. One of them wore hers in this weird puffy ’do. To Gilla’s eye, she looked a little chunky, too. How had she gotten a part in this movie? The actors started dancing on the beach, this bizarre kind of shimmy thing. The people watching the television started pointing and laughing. Gilla heard Hussain’s voice say, “No, don’t change the channel! That’s Frankie Avalon and Annette Funicello!” Yeah, Hussain would know crap like that.
“Gilla, move your butt over! Make some room!” It was Kashy, shoving her hips onto the same chair that Gilla was on. Gilla giggled and shifted over for her. They each cotched on the chair, not quite fitting. “Guess what?” Kashy said. “Remi just asked me out!”
Remi was fine; he was just Kashy’s height when she was in heels, lean and broad-shouldered with big brown eyes, strong hands, and those smooth East African looks. The knot that had been in Gilla’s throat all night got harder. She swallowed around it and made her mouth smile. But she never got to mumble insincere congratulations to her friend, because just then . . .
They came back . . .
Roger strode in with his posse, all laughing so loudly that Gilla could hear them over the music. Foster shot Gilla a grin that made her toes feel all warm. Kashy looked at her funny, a slight smile on her face. Roger went and stood smirking at the television. On the screen, the chunky chick and the funny-looking guy in the old-fashioned bathing suits and haircuts were playing Postman in a phone booth with their friends. Postman! Stupid kid game.
They came back . . .
They came back from the ride . . .
Gilla wondered how she’d gotten herself into this. Roger had grabbed Clarissa, hugged her tight to him, announced that he wanted to play Postman, and in two twos Clarissa and Roger’s servile friends had put the lights on and herded everybody into an old-fashioned game of Postman. Girls in the living room, guys stationed in closets all over the house, and Clarissa and Hussain playing . . .
“Postman!” yelled Hussain. “I’ve got a message for Kashy!” He was enjoying the hell out of this. That was a neat plan Hussain had come up with to avoid kissing any girls. Gilla had a hunch that females weren’t his type.
“It’s Remi!” Kashy whispered. She sprang to her feet. “I bet it’s Remi!” She glowed at Gilla, and followed Hussain off to find her “message” in some closet or bathroom somewhere and neck with him.
Left sitting hunched over on the hard chair, Gilla glared at their departing backs. She thought about how Roger’s friends fell over themselves to do anything he said, and tried to figure out where she’d learned the word “servile.” The voice no longer seemed like a different voice in her head now, just her own. But it knew words she didn’t know, things she’d never experienced, like how it felt to unfurl your leaves to the bright taste of the sun, and the empty screaming space in the air as a sister died, her bark and pith chopped through to make ships or firewood.
“That’s some crazy shit,” she muttered to herself.
“Postman!” chirped Clarissa. Her eyes sparkled and her colour was high. Yeah, bet she’d been off lipping at some “messages” of her own. Lipping. Now there was another weird word. “Postman for Gilla!” said Clarissa.
Gilla’s heart started to thunk like an axe chopping through wood. She stood. “What. . . ?”
Clarissa smirked at her. “Postman for you, hot stuff. You coming, or not?” And then she was off up the stairs and into the depths of Mr. and Mrs. Bright’s house.
Who could it be? Who wanted to kiss her? Gilla felt tiny dots of clammy sweat spring out under her eyes. Maybe Remi? No, no. He liked Kashy. Maybe, please, maybe Foster?
Clarissa was leading her on a winding route. They passed a hallway closet. Muffled chuckles and thumps came from inside. “No, wait,” murmured a male voice. “Let me take it off.” Then they went by the bathroom. The giggles that wriggled out from under the bathroom door came from two female voices.
“There is no time so sap-sweet as the spring bacchanalia,” Gilla heard herself saying.
Clarissa just kept walking. “You are so weird,” she said over her shoulder.
They passed a closed bedroom door. Then came to another bedroom. Its door was closed, too, but Clarissa just slammed it open. “Postman!” she yelled.
The wriggling on the bed resolved itself into Patricia Bright and Haygood, entwined. Gilla didn’t know where to look. At least their clothes were still on, sort of. Patricia looked up from under Haygood’s armpit with a self-satisfied smile. “Jeez, I’m having an intimate birthday moment here.”
“Sorry,” said Clarissa, sounding not the least bit sorry, “but Gilla’s got a date.” She pointed towards the closet door.
“Have a gooood time, killa Gilla,” Clarissa told her. Haygood snickered.
Gilla felt cold. “In there?” she asked Clarissa.
“Yup,” Clarissa chirruped. “Your special treat.” She turned on her heel and headed out the bedroom door, yelling, “Who needs the Postman?”
“You gonna be okay, Gilla?” Patricia asked. She looked concerned.
“Yeah, I’ll be fine. Who’s in there?”
Patricia smiled. “That’s half the fun, silly; not knowing.”
Haygood just leered at her. Gilla made a face at him.
“Go on and enjoy yourself,” Patricia said. “If you need help, you can always let us know, okay?”
“Okay.” Gilla was rooted where she stood. Patricia and Haygood were kissing again, ignoring her.
She could go back into the living room. She didn’t have to do this. But . . . who? Remembering the warm cloak of Foster’s arms around her, heavy as a carpet of fall leaves, Gilla found herself walking towards the closet. She pulled the door open, tried to peer in. A hand reached out and yanked her inside.
With the lady inside . . .
Hangers reached like twigs in the dark to catch in Gilla’s hair. Clothing tangled her in it. A heavy body pushed her back against a wall. Blind, Gilla reached her arms out, tried to feel who it was. Strong hands pushed hers away, started squeezing her breasts, her belly. “Fat girl . . .” oozed a voice.
Roger. Gilla hissed, fought. He was so strong! His face was on hers now, his lips at her lips. The awful thing was, his breath tasted lovely. Unable to do anything else, she turned her mouth away from his. That put his mouth right at her ear. With warm, damp breath he said, “You know you want it, Gilla. Come on. Just relax.” The words crawled into her ears. His laugh was mocking.
And the smile on the face . . .
Gilla’s hair bristled at the base of her neck. She pushed at Roger, tried to knee him in the groin, but he just shoved her legs apart and laughed. “Girl, you know this is the only way a thick girl like you is going to get any play. You know it.”
She knew it. She was only good for this. Thighs too heavy—But must not a trunk be strong to bear the weight?—belly too round—Should the fruits of the tree be sere and wasted, then?—hair too nappy—A well-leafed tree is a healthy tree. The words, her own words, whirled around and around in her head. What? What?
Simply this: you must fight those who would make free with you. Win or lose, you must fight.
A taste like summer cherries rose in Gilla’s mouth again. Kashy envied her shape, her strength.
The back of Gilla’s neck tingled. The sensation unfurled down her spine. She gathered power from the core of her, from that muscled, padded belly, and elbowed Roger high in the stomach. “No!” she roared, a fiery breath. The wind whuffed out of Roger. He tumbled back against the opposite wall, slid bonelessly down to the ground. Gilla fell onto her hands and knees, solidly centred on all fours. Her toes, her fin
gers flexed. She wasn’t surprised to feel her limbs flesh themselves into four knotted appendages, backwards-crooked and strong as wood. She’d sprouted claws, too. She tapped them impatiently.
“Oh, God,” moaned Roger. He tried to pull his feet up against his body, further away from her. “Gilla, what the hell? Is that you?”
Foster had liked holding her. He found her beautiful. With a tickling ripple, the thought clothed Gilla in scales, head to toe. When she looked down at her new dragon feet, she could see the scales twinkling, cherry-red. She lashed her new tail, sending clothing and hangers flying. Roger whimpered, “I’m sorry.”
Testing out her bunchy, branchy limbs, Gilla took an experimental step closer to Roger. He began to sob.
And you? asked the deep, fruity voice in her mind. What say you of you?
Gilla considered, licking her lips. Roger smelled like meat. I think I’m all those things that Kashy and Foster like about me. I’m a good friend.
Yes.
I’m pretty. No, I’m beautiful.
Yes.
I’m good to hold.
Yes.
I bike hard.
Yes.
I run like the wind.
Yes.
I use my brain—well, sometimes.
(A smile to the voice this time). Yes.
I use my lungs.
Yes!
Gilla inhaled a deep breath of musty closet and Roger’s fear-sweat. Her sigh made her chest creak like tall trees in a gentle breeze, and she felt her ribs unfurling into batlike wings. They filled the remaining closet space. “Please,” whispered Roger. “Please.”
“Hey, Rog?” called Haygood. “You must be having a real good time in there, if you’re begging for more.”
“Please, what?!” roared Gilla. At the nape of her neck, her hamadryad hood flared open. She exhaled a hot wind. Her breath smelled like cherry pie, which made her giggle. She was having a good time, even if Roger wasn’t.
The giggles erupted as small gouts of flame. One of them lit the hem of Roger’s sweater. “Please don’t!” he yelled, beating out the fire with his hands. “God, Gilla; stop!”
Patricia’s voice came from beyond the door. “That doesn’t sound too good,” she said to Haygood. “Hey, Gil?” she shouted. “You okay in there?”
Roger scrabbled to his feet. “Whaddya mean, is Gilla okay? Get me out of here! She’s turned into some kind of monster!” He started banging on the inside of the closet door.
A polyester dress was beginning to char. No biggie. Gilla flapped it out with a wing. But it was getting close in the closet, and Haygood and Patricia were yanking on the door. Gilla swung her head towards it. Roger cringed. Gilla ignored him. She nosed the door open and stepped outside. Roger pushed past her. “Fuck, Haygood; get her!”
Haygood’s shirt was off, his jeans zipper not done up all the way. His lips looked swollen. He peered suspiciously at Gilla. “Why?” he asked Roger. “What’s she doing?”
Patricia was still wriggling her dress down over her hips. Her hair was a mess. “Yeah,” she said to Roger, “what’s the big problem? You didn’t hurt her, did you?” She turned to Gilla, put a hand on her scaly left foreshoulder. “You okay, girl?”
What in the world was going on? Why weren’t they scared? “Uh,” replied Gilla. “I dunno. How do I look?”
Patricia frowned. “Same as ever,” she said, just as Kashy and Foster burst into the room.
“We heard yelling,” Kashy said, panting. “What’s up? Roger, you been bugging Gilla again?”
Foster took Gilla’s paw. “Did he mess with you?”
“What the fuck’s the matter with everyone?” Roger was nearly screeching. “Can’t you see? She’s some kind of dragon, or something!”
That was the last straw. Gilla started to laugh. Great belly laughs that started from her middle and came guffawing through her snout. Good thing there was no fire this time, ’cause Gilla didn’t know if she could have stopped it. She laughed so hard that the cherry pit she’d swallowed came back up. “Urp,” she said, spitting it into her hand. Her hand. She was back to normal now.
She grinned at Roger. He goggled. “How’d you do that?” he demanded.
Gilla ignored him. Her schoolmates had started coming into the room from all over the house to see what the racket was. “Yeah, he messed with me,” Gilla said, so they could all hear. “Roger sent the Postman for me even though he doesn’t like me and he knows I don’t like him, and then he stuck his hand down my bra.”
“What a creep,” muttered Clarissa’s boyfriend Jim.
Foster stepped up to Roger, glaring. “What is your problem, man?” Roger stuck his chest out and tried to glare back, but he couldn’t meet Foster’s eyes. He kept sneaking nervous peeks around Foster at Gilla.
Clarissa snickered at Gilla. “So what’s the big deal? You do it with him all the time, anyway.”
Oh, enough of this ill-favoured chit. Weirdly, the voice felt like it was coming from Gilla’s palm now. The hand where she held the cherry pit. But it still sounded and felt like her own thoughts. Gilla stalked over to Clarissa. “You don’t believe that Roger attacked me?”
Clarissa made a face of disgust. “I believe that you’re so fat and ugly that you’ll go with anybody, ’cause nobody would have you.”
“That’s dumb,” said Kashy. “How could she go with anybody, if nobody would have her?”
“I’ll have her,” said Foster. He looked shyly at Gilla. Then his face flushed. “I mean, I’d like, I mean . . .” No one could hear the end of the sentence, because they were laughing so hard. Except Roger, Karl and Haygood.
Gilla put her arms around Foster, afraid still that she’d misunderstood. But he hugged back, hard. Gilla felt all warm. Foster was such a goof. “Clarissa,” said Gilla, “if something bad ever happens to you and nobody will believe your side of the story, you can talk to me. Because I know what it’s like.”
Clarissa reddened. Roger swore and stomped out of the room. Haygood and Karl followed him.
Gilla regarded the cherry pit in the palm of her hand. Considered. Then she put it in her mouth again and swallowed it down.
“Why’d you do that?” Foster asked.
“Just felt like it.”
“A tree’ll grow inside you,” he teased.
Gilla chuckled. “I wish. Hey, I never did get a real Postman message.” She nodded towards the closet. “D’you wanna?”
Foster ducked his head, took her hand. “Yeah.”
Gilla led the way, grinning.
They came back from the ride
With the lady inside,
And a smile on the face of the tiger.
Left Foot, Right
In her award-winning short story “Travels with the Snow Queen,” Kelly Link writes that fairy tale heroines often seem to have difficulties with their feet; too-tight glass slippers, being forced to dance in red-hot iron shoes, having one foot stuck to a loaf of bread, et cetera. While I was writing this next story, I really began to feel that Kelly was right.
“Allyuh have this in a size 9?” Jenna puts the shiny red patent shoe down on the counter. Well, it used to be shiny. She’s been wearing it everywhere, and now it’s dulled by dust. It’s the left side of a high-heeled pump, pointy-toed, with large shiny fake rhinestones decorating the toe box. Each stone is a different size and colour, in a different cheap plastic setting. The red veneer has stripped off the heel of the shoe. It curls up off the white plastic heel base in strips. Jenna’s heart clenches. It’s exactly the kind of tacky, blinged-out accessory that Zuleika loves—loved—to wear.
The girl behind the counter is wearing a straw baseball cap, its peak pulled down low over her face. The girl asks, in a puzzled voice, “But don’t you bought exactly the same shoes last week?”
And the week before that, thinks Jenna. And the one before that. “I lost them,” she replies. “At least, I lost the right side”—she nearly chokes on the half truth—“so I want to replace
them.” All around her, other salespeople help other customers. The people in the store zip past Jenna, half-seen, half-heard. This year’s soca road march roars through the store’s sound system. Last month, Jenna loved it. Now, any happy music makes her vexed.
“Jeez, what’s the matter with you now?” the girl says. Jenna startles, guiltily. She risks a look at the shoe store girl’s face. She hadn’t really done so before. She has been avoiding eye contact with people lately, afraid that if anyone’s two eyes make four with hers, the fury in hers will burn the heart out of the core of them.
But the girl isn’t looking at Jenna. With one hand, she is curling the peak of her cap to protect her eyes against the sun’s glare through the store windows. Only her small, round mouth shows. She seems to be peering into the display on the cash register. She slaps the side of the cash register. “Damned thing. It’s like every time I touch it, the network goes down.”
“Oh,” says Jenna. “Is not me you were talking to, then?”
The girl laughs, a childlike sound, like small dinner bells tinkling. “No. Unless it have something the matter with you too. Is there?”
Jenna turns away, pretends to be checking out the rows of men’s running shoes, each one more aerodynamically fantastical than the last, like race cars. “No, not me. About the shoes?”
“Sure.” The girl takes the pump from Jenna. Her fingertips are cool when they brush Jenna’s hand. “What a shame you can’t replace just one side. Though you really wore this one down in just a week. You need both sides, left and right.” The girl inspects the inside of the shoe, in that mysterious way that people who sell shoes do. “You say you want a size nine? But you take more like an eight, right?”
“How you know that?”
“I remember from last time you were in the store. Feet are so important, you don’t find?”
Jenna doesn’t remember seeing the girl in the store before. But the details of her life have been a little hazy the past few weeks. Everything seems dusted with unreality. Her, standing in a shoe shop, doing something as ordinary as buying a pair of shoes. Her standing at all, instead of floundering.
Falling in Love With Hominids Page 8
