by Helen Ellis
“It depends.” Nick’s voice is even, without emotion. It’s such self-control that keeps his own fear at bay. “On the circumstances, her level of exposure, how bad she wants it. Could be hours, could be minutes.”
“No,” Octavia decides. “It is not going to happen, Nick. Your grandfather’s going to read the Greek book and tell us how to stop it.”
Nick says, “I hope you’re right.”
chapter eighteen
Nick’s yiayia opens the front door to their townhouse. Out from under her mink, the old woman appears more formidable. She wears thick-heeled, lace-up ankle boots. Her calves are covered by knee-highs a few shades darker than her natural skin color. Her housedress looks like something Mom would describe one of her characters wearing when she’s bludgeoned to death by a neighbor who’s sick and tired of lending her cups of sugar.
Yiayia waves us in out of the cold toward the mudroom. As I suspected, she is not happy to see me. She eyes the warped hem of my plaid skirt and my wrinkled cardigan when I take off my coat. In Manhattan, you’ll see a murderous tomcat on the roof of a library before you see a girl in her school uniform on the weekend—much less one as messy as mine. Who knows where she thinks I spent last night and why she’s imagining I haven’t been home to change. My skirt stinks from being crumpled on the twins’ terrace, laid out on the deli floor, and doused by dust in The Cellar book well.
Yiayia crinkles her nose and says, “Poofu, poofu.”
Nick says, “Yiayia, be nice. You remember Mary. This is her sister, Octavia. You know Ben from gymnastics.”
“Benjamin!” She ignores the Richards sisters. “Mr. Rope Climber Who Couldn’t! Legs better?” She pinches his lean upper arm. “Let Yiayia feed you! In the oven, I have pastitsio: Greek lasagna, but instead of tomato sauce, it’s béchamel. Five pounds you’ll leave with!”
The mudroom is stuffed. Every hook and cubbyhole is taken. Umbrellas lay open like super-sized shiitake mushrooms turned upside down. Black, navy, and brown winter coats line the walls. Crammed in between is a shiny pearl version of the Michelin Man down jacket, with a rabbit-fur lined hood, owned by Nick’s mother. On the bench sits her blood-red, five-grand lambskin designer status symbol. I imagine Nick’s mom sporting it with stiletto boots and skinny jeans; bending over, her hot pink, Hanky Panky whale tail embarrassing her son.
Yiayia notices Nick’s scarf still tied around my neck. She touches the fringe and pulls her fingers away like the strands are barbed wire. She says, “Nico mou, what are you doing? What are you thinking?”
Nick doesn’t answer her.
To me, she says, “My Nick is to catch pneumonia because you don’t want to look like you care that it’s cold?”
I don’t say anything.
“Ela. Hand it here.”
I don’t take off the scarf.
“Ela!”
She may know Nick’s secret, but she doesn’t know mine. Ben for sure doesn’t know. If he sees the orange fur on the back of my neck, the rest of my life will be reduced to a series of prop bets for him and the club kids.
Nick says, “Yiayia, it’s fine.”
“Oh, fine is what it is? It is fine for you to toy with a young girl’s heart?”
Wait. Who’s she mad at? Me or him?
She says, “Take your girl upstairs to Papou and see how fine you think it is. See what he has waiting for you. A maybe or maybe not so nice surprise. Go on, all of you.”
Nick says, “Ben’s going to wait with you in the kitchen.”
“Oxi! Nothing doing. You brought him into this house, he stays with you. He is your guest. You treat him that way. Your mother doesn’t mind your manners, but I do!” She gestures to the stairs. “Ela! All of you! Climb! Papou is at the top.”
Ben asks, “Five flights?”
Yiayia crosses her arms and appraises him. “Do not be the weakling others say that you are.”
The Martins’ stairwell is a hodgepodge: a junk drawer of everything they own with a hook that they don’t want to display in the main rooms—family photo collages, silver- and gold-cast icons of Mary and the baby Jesus, and small oil paintings of the Acropolis, fishing boats, and old women in black kerchiefs on stoops.
Ben breathes heavily as we reach the fifth floor. Static-filled opera music drifts out of the study. It’s the WQXR live matinee broadcast from the Met. Inside, Papou is stretched out on an Eames chair and ottoman and waves his weatherworn hands, conducting the music. He ignores the four of us as if we are latecomers. Intently, he keeps his eyes on the show.
I am sickened by what he sees.
Before him, true diva that she is, Ling Ling Lebowitz lip syncs “Poor Little Buttercup” from HMS Pinafore. Her dark purple bra cups show through her tank top. Wrapped around her throat is Nick’s other black-and-gray-checked scarf.
“Aw, hell no!” says Octavia.
I want to run. I have to get out of here. Nick’s scarf is too tight around my own throat. It itches. It’s strangling me! I want to rip it off and throw it out the window. I want to jump out after it. I don’t care if I break my legs. I don’t care if I never speak to Nick again. I don’t care if I never get a translation from Papou. I’d rather be a freak of nature for the rest of my life than spend one more minute in this room with Ling Ling and her identical two-for-one scarf.
When did Nick give it to her? Before he came to see me on the twins’ terrace? When he wouldn’t say her name? When he said he didn’t care what she liked? When I asked him if they were together and in answer he held my hand? How could he? Mislead me? Lie to me? Kiss me? How could he give me a scarf when he gave her one too?
Nick asks her, “What are you doing here?”
Ling Ling asks, “What are they doing here? You’re my boyfriend.”
“I’m not your boyfriend.”
“Until you give me what I want, you are what I say you are,” she says, marching over to the stereo and shutting it off.
Papou says, “Children, be civil. You are not animals.”
“At least, not right now,” Ling Ling mutters.
Nick glares at her. She’s hit a nerve—for me too. Does she share our bond too? Is she wearing his scarf to cover up proof that she’s turning like me? I have to find out! I have to see her hidden skin! I lunge at her.
I don’t know how I get hold of her scarf. I wanted the scarf; the scarf is in my hand.
It tightens like a noose around Ling Ling’s neck.
She’s so light, I jerk her to her tiptoes.
She pulls back.
I jerk her to me.
She clamps her hands on my forearms. She’s no match for my strength, but her nails are filed to sharp points. She sinks them into my flesh. I grit my teeth. I won’t let her drive a scream out of me. Nick grabs me from behind. Papou grabs Ling Ling. They try to pry us apart, but we won’t be separated. I want her scarf off! I cling to it with both hands. She wants to make me scream. Nick and Papou persist at trying to break up our fight, but then Ling Ling drags her nails along my arms.
I cry out and let go of her.
Her body goes limp.
Papou unhands her.
She comes at me again.
She grabs MY scarf. It comes off my neck with her weight when she drops to the rug. I drop with her. She scrambles on top of me. She straddles me. Her fingernails fly. I shield my face. She bends forward, her face so close to mine, I smell gummy cherries on her hot, ragged breath. Her bleach-blond bangs blind me as she scours my skin. Ling Ling knows what I’ve been looking for on her because now she is looking for it on me.
I stop fighting. Let her find it.
She wraps her hands around my throat. When her fingers touch the fur on the nape of my neck, she tips off of me, lands on her side, and cries. Hysterically. She becomes a blubbering mess. I swear I think she’ll drown in her tears. She chokes as she scr
eams at Nick: “Whyyy?”
Nick reaches into the heap that is Ling Ling and me. I raise my injured arms. Rivulets of blood roll from my wrists toward my elbows and pool in the bunched cuffs of my school shirt and cardigan. I feel like I’m eight again and testing Dad’s love. But Nick chooses Ling Ling. He hooks her hands around his neck, cushions her head against his chest, scoops her up, and carries her to the couch.
I want to disappear. I want to go home.
Octavia takes me by the elbows and helps me stand. She steers me to sit in the chair in front of Ben. Papou places the desk blotter across the arms of the chair. He rests my ruined arms on giant sheets of notepaper. Blood seeps from my wounds onto doodles of turtles and snails. Papou presses an intercom button that leads to the kitchen.
“Nai?” Yiayia’s crackling voice blares.
Papou says what I assume are the Greek words for peroxide and bandages.
Nick sits beside Ling Ling and rocks her. She’s still got his scarf around her neck. She covers her face with the fringe ends and sobs. Nick says, “Shh. Don’t cry. I can’t stand it when girls cry.”
As soon as Ling Ling hears this, she completely loses her shit.
Nicks looks to me. “She’s just jealous.”
Ling Ling cries, “I am not!”
Nick gets up, and Ling Ling falls onto the warm spot he left. She grabs his wrist and pulls, but he won’t sit back down. She cries, “Okay, I am! I’m jealous! Is that what you want to hear? Is that what you all want to hear?” She begs Nick, “How did you do it? Tell me! You said you couldn’t give it to me, but you gave it to her!”
“Mary had it before we got together.”
“You got together?” Ling Ling’s face slackens. Her contraband lipstick darkens as her skin drains of color. She’s sickened by her visions of our kisses, searching hands, partial nakedness, and much, much more than what went on between us. She drops her head between her knees. She moans, “How could you?”
Nick says, “I didn’t have any choice.”
“There’s always a choice.”
Octavia says, “What makes you so sure?”
Ling Ling turns her anger on my sister. “Just who do you think you are all of a sudden? You don’t belong here. There’s nothing special about you. Your birth mom didn’t want you enough to even give you a name. You were number eight, Octo-avia, so that’s what she called you.”
Octavia says, “Your birth mom was too stupid to remember your name, so she named you twice.”
Papou says, “Please! Ladies, civility. You’re not—”
“Animals? We know,” says Ling Ling, “but the rest of them are.”
“The rest of them?” says Octavia. She looks at me.
I look at Nick.
He looks at Ben. Ling Ling looks at the skinny, kid squirreled behind the chair too.
Ben shrugs. His hands disappear behind the suede backing. His belt buckle clanks as he unhooks the catch and pulls out the strap. His button fly pops open. He shifts his weight from foot to foot and slips off his jeans. When he steps out, his monogrammed Seize sur Vingt boxer shorts read BS. His rope burns have healed overnight. All that’s left, from his thighs to his ankles, are faint lines highlighted by dense stripes of silvery blue cat fur.
chapter nineteen
Ben’s a Russian Blue,” says Nick.
“Just the once,” says Ben.
“Dude, check your legs. You’re turning again.”
“How?”
Nick raises his eyebrows. He looks from me to Ling Ling. My busted oxford shirt is open to reveal the front clasp of my bra. Ling Ling’s tank top is drooped over one shoulder. We’re disheveled. We’ve fought a girl fight. Ben can’t help how his body has reacted. Although not specific to boy human or boy cat, he’s had an urge.
Ling Ling says, “Perv.”
Ben turns his back to us and hops into his jeans.
Octavia walks right over to Ling Ling and slugs her in the arm. I guess my sister’s been shocked and scared by so many cats so many times today that she’s not overwhelmed by Ben’s ta-da. Or maybe, no matter what form he takes, he’ll always look the same to her: a picked-on kid who could use some friendly support. Or maybe she’s moved on from fear to unadulterated anger and decided to take it out on Ling Ling.
I wish I’d hit Ling Ling myself.
Ling Ling cries, clutching her arm. “It should be me, not Ben! Not Mary! It’s meant to be me! I was adopted for a reason! It was fate I was at Kropps & Bobbers getting my hair dyed when I was! I saw what happened out back because it’s supposed to happen to me!”
I say, “You saw a kid murdered.”
“No,” Ling Ling chokes out. “I saw Nick turn.”
“She saw?” Now it’s me who’s close to crying. This is more than Nick sharing an identical scarf. This is him sharing what and who we are at our core. I yell at him, “You stole my breath so I wouldn’t see!”
Nick says, “I didn’t mean for it to happen. Country Club killed the king, and we all turned and ran. Turned, as in turned. Then, I had an asthma attack. I only have them when I’m a turn. When I get asthma, I can’t move, Mary. My body seizes up. I’m stuck wheezing in place until the attack goes away. I looked up, and Ling Ling was standing in the back salon doorway, and I heard sirens coming. I was helpless! She picked me up and shoved me in that big-ass bag of hers. She took me home and made me tell her everything and give her the nip with the hope that it would trigger something inside her that isn’t there. She’s been threatening to expose me, to expose all of us, if I don’t turn her too.”
“Can you? Is there a way?”
“No. But Ling Ling won’t believe me because Country Club’s strays have been leading her on.”
Ling Ling asks a very good question. “Why would they promise me the impossible?”
Nick looks at her coldly. “Why do you think?”
I flash back to Ling Ling being passed between Nick and three boys, apparently three stray turns, outside my parents’ bathroom window. I wonder if Nick was with her to protect her or if she blackmailed him into coming along. I can see by her expression that she remembers doing more than spooning with those boys. The stray turns must have had an unending list of requests. Ling Ling must have made her own list for Nick. Slumped on the couch, she looks ashamed of herself. She readjusts her tank top to cover her bra strap. She removes Nick’s scarf from her neck and modestly wraps it around her shoulders.
I ask Nick, “How could you not tell me about Ben?”
“Same reason I didn’t tell him about you. It’s his news to tell.”
“Well, he obviously knew about me or he wouldn’t have tagged along.”
“Nick didn’t tell me,” Ben says, stepping out from behind the chair. “I figured it out at the deli. After you left, Yoon confirmed it. I guess he’s not as discreet as Nick, but he is the one who helped me turn the first time.”
“When?” asks Octavia.
“Last night, before poker. I stopped by the deli on the way to a club. This cat comes out from under the potato chip rack and starts circling my legs. He pushes his face up under my pants cuffs. Then, I start…”
“Tingling?” I suggest.
“Yeah! Then itching like crazy. The rope burns were like highways for the fur. It was like my legs were dipped in—”
“Fire ants?”
He laughs, overcome with relief that someone knows what he’s been through. “I was going to say hornets, but fire ants are good. Next thing I know, I’ve blacked out. I come to in an alley. I thought I was hallucinating. Like maybe that Jamaican lunch lady finally flipped her lid and hoodooed the fruit punch. But then Yoon helped me turn back to my regular self. He explained a lot. Then, Nick showed up.”
I ask Nick, “You said you picked up my scent at Purser-Lilley. You must have smelled Ben’s. How could you let Yoon get t
o him first?”
Nick says, “Yoon got to you first. And as far as scents go, he’ll always be able to track you. Like onions in a flower bed.”
“Do I stink?” I ask, humiliated.
“No, Mary, you smell incredibly good. Your scent is stronger than any I’ve ever smelled. At school, I didn’t know about Ben because your scent overpowers his.”
“Mazel tov,” says Ben.
Yiayia appears in the doorway with a tray. On it sits a large mixing bowl, a bottle of white wine vinegar, fabric scissors, cheesecloth, two kinds of tape—masking and Scotch—and a spiny aloe leaf. She comes toward me. Water sloshes. The dull scissors glint under the dimmed overhead light.
She gives the tray to Ben and says, “Ela, you’re the nurse.”
Yiayia eases down onto her knees to doctor me, and I cringe before she even lays her eyes on my arms. I flinch as Octavia pulls the tiny Greek book out of her cardigan pocket. I cringe as she walks across the room to Papou. Flinch as Ling Ling leans so far forward she’s going to fall off the couch. Cringe as Ben’s nervous hands rattle the operating tray. Cringe, flinch, cringe, flinch. I’m having a slow-motion seizure.
Papou cradles the book on the wide expanse of his palm.
“What is this you have?” Yiayia asks him. She cuts a strip of cheesecloth and dips it in the mixing bowl. She wrings out the water and dabs dried blood from my arm.
Papou extends his palm toward her. Yiayia regards the coverless miniature book.
Papou reaches under his sweater and removes a pair of drugstore glasses from his shirt pocket. He slips them on his nose, slides them to the exact right spot on the bridge. Settles into the Eames chair. Props his feet on the ottoman. Adjusts the lamp over his shoulder. Sets the brightness to the perfect setting.
Yiayia sighs with impatience. She’s already cleaned the blood from my arms. The mixing bowl water is swirling with red. She cuts more cheesecloth and applies the vinegar. It’s pure acid. I bite my lips to keep from screaming.
“Good girl,” she says.
Since entering the study, Yiayia has not acknowledged Ling Ling. She’s kept her back to the bleach-blond bombshell: a maybe or maybe not so nice surprise. Me, I’m poofu, poofu. Yiayia predicted our fine mess: two girls in her grandson’s scarves. If pressed, I’m not sure which one of us she’d choose for Nick. I doubt anyone is good enough. Maybe my endurance will better her opinion of me.
