by Helen Ellis
Papou opens his mouth to read from page one. He is proud of his education. His brows furrow as ancient Greek filters through his brain. Understanding comes letter by letter. He mouths the English equivalent before speaking aloud. But he doesn’t say anything.
I can’t read his lips. Digital time blinks by on the side table Bose stereo.
“Papou, what?” Nick asks.
Yiayia breaks the tip off the aloe leaf and squirts green gel along the outlines of my scratches where my skin is raw. She cuts more cheesecloth and tapes the rectangles directly to my arm. She blows cool air through the gauzy pores. She says to Papou, “Speak. Your grandson asked you a question.”
Papou says, “Oh, Nick. Nico mou. Forgive me. I am so sorry. You have to believe your yiayia and I didn’t know.”
“Know what?” Panic creeps across Yiayia’s face. “Sorry for what?” She waves for Nick to help her stand, grabs his hands, and hoists herself to her feet. She hugs him and then rears back to look at his face. She presses her hands to his cheeks, pulls down his lower lids and studies the whites of his eyes. She plucks a hair from his head and rolls the root between her fingers. Nick looks scared. Yiayia screams at her husband, “Sorry for what? Tell me, you old fool! What have we done?”
Papou points at the little library book.
Yiayia rushes to him and hovers over his shoulder. She leans her body into the lamplight. “Oxi!” she cries as she reads. “No, no, no! I don’t believe it! I won’t believe it! Nico mou, where did you get such garbage?”
“I didn’t get it. Mary got it.”
“STUPID GIRL!” Yiayia’s thunderous voice fills the room. “HOW COULD YOU BRING THESE LIES INTO OUR HOUSE?”
Tears hit me in the face like a water balloon. I cover my mouth to muzzle myself, but my skin stinks of vinegar. I gag. I’m not sure what’s so bad about the Greek book, but by the way Yiayia glares at me, I know that the betrayal it reveals is much worse than my being a narc.
Nick says, “Yiayia, Mary didn’t mean anything. She doesn’t know what the book says. What does it say?”
“Antidotos!” Yiayia screams. “For everything! But for you, it’s too late!”
Nick sinks to the floor right in front of me. He leans back against my socks and bare knees. He cups my ankles.
I can’t believe it, I feel tingles—the good kind. In the midst of all this.
Papou raises his arms for calm. “Please! This book could be caca. What’s listed here: Gorcones, Kerkopes, Orinthes, Styphalides. Myths. I’ve never known any of this in real life.” He looks over his reading glasses at his wife. “Have you?”
She says, “Oxi. But your theory is caca. Because we do not know does not mean it is not so. Until our Nick, we thought what he has is as pretend as the rest of this book. But our boy is real. That book, what it says, must be real too.”
Nick says, “Tell me the antidote.”
“Oxi, it’s fiction.”
“But Papou, what if it’s not?” he pleads.
“If it is not, we have apologized. It is too late for you.”
Nick’s head drops. He is devastated. I place my hand on his shoulder.
Ben asks, “Is it too late for me and Mary?”
Papou whispers, “No.”
Nick’s head drops farther, to rest on his bent knees, but he reaches back and places his fingers on top of mine. I spread my fingers so he can slip his in between. Everyone is looking at us, but I am not shy. I understand Nick—always will. He’s stuck. And I don’t think being stuck with him is the worst place I can be. I know there are worse places. I’ve lived there. My sister has too. Damn it, I’ll make sure Octavia is happy with me. I’ll convince her not to tell our parents. I’ll steer clear of Country Club and his strays. I’ll stay away from Yoon’s deli. I won’t hunt. I’ll figure out how to love. Nick and I will keep to ourselves. I won’t let curiosity kill what we have.
Yiayia asks Ben and me, “You would leave Nico mou to suffer alone with what he is?”
I say, “I won’t.”
Yiayia’s eyes soften in my direction. I am chosen. Ling Ling can suck it.
Papou says, “There’s a cure for the new ones, we tell them.” And then he reads: “Ailouros prospopoiia. Ailouros, meaning cat. Prospopoiia meaning personification, from prospa, meaning mask. Antidotos: To rid the body of this condition, the afflicted must drink the blood of a natural-born cat moments before it dies. Thus, you reject the species. The natural cat dies, so dies the cat inside you.”
Nick says, “Papou, I can do it!”
“Oxi, let me finish. The book says the antidote is good only if you complete it before fully transforming a second time.”
Yiayia says: “For you, Nick, it has been many times.”
Papou says to me: “For you, it looks like your time is nearly up.”
Orange fuzz sifts through and feathers out the gauze on my arms.
Ling Ling squeals: “I did it to her! I’m turning! It’s happening to me!”
Nick laughs, but there is no humor in it. “Nothing’s happening to you. Mary’s arms are furring because of all the time you spent with those strays—petting them when they were turned. When you scratched her, you must have had their residue under your nails. Mary, you’ve got maybe an hour. You have to go.”
“Where?”
“The Cellar.”
“What’s Mrs. Wrinkles going to tell me that she hasn’t already?”
“She isn’t going to tell you anything. You’re going to kill her.”
The room falls silent.
“Oh, shit,” says Ben.
“I’m not going to kill that old cat,” I tell Nick.
“Oh, yes, you are!” Octavia grabs my elbow and jerks me out of my chair.
I say, “But she’s the Queen of the—”
“I know who Mrs. Wrinkles is, Fergie! She is a library treasure! A research miracle worker! The reason I’m the youngest Purser-Lilley debate captain ever! But that cat is the answer. Her chaperone is blind! What more do you want, a silver platter? You get in, you get out, it’s over before you know it. You do this one awful thing and then we can all go back to normal.”
“Except for Nico mou,” says Yiayia.
Ben asks, “And what about me?”
“I’m sorry, sweetie,” Octavia says. “Kill your own cat.”
“Can’t we both kill it?” he asks.
I say, “We are not killing Mrs. Wrinkles!”
“Seriously,” Ben asks Papou, “what’s the book say? Can Mary and I both drink from the same dying cat?”
Papou rereads what he translated. He squints at the text. “I do not see why not.”
“What’s wrong with us staying the way that we are?” I ask quietly.
Ben says, “Don’t we have enough problems?”
“What problems? Debate team? Rope-climbing? Getting an A in Fem Lit? Finding someone who likes us just the way we are? These aren’t problems. They’re coming-of-age clichés! Ben, something amazing is happening to us. It’s who we are. And it’s who’ll we be for such a very short time. It’ll be over before we know it—probably before we can legally drink!”
Ben does the math. Three hundred and sixty-five days times five years plus a minimum of fifteen months of being blue in addition to being scrawny equals one hell of an awkward phase. Ben doesn’t shave more than his upper lip yet. He gargles with Proactiv. The turning doesn’t seem so short anymore. He confirms, “Five years is forever.”
He runs out of the study and down five flights of stairs—from the sound of it, he takes two steps at a time.
Octavia screams at me, “Go after him! Don’t let him get to her first!”
“I’m not killing Mrs. Wrinkles. Don’t you get it? I’m not getting fixed!”
“You are, even if I have to drag you to The Cellar myself.”
<
br /> Nick nudges Octavia. The movement is sudden but smooth. He sidles into her. His arm brushes hers. His weight leans into her body and nearly knocks her off balance. He wanted her attention. He’s got it. At first, it ain’t good. I think Octavia’s going to hit him harder than she slugged Ling Ling. But then he does it again: sidles into her with his whole self. Her angst mysteriously quells. Without a word, he’s communicated that they’re on the same side. She needs to calm down or they’ll never get through to me.
Nick picks his scarf up off the floor. He steps forward, and I accept it from him. I touch my throat. A thin line of orange fur has circled my collarbone like a cheap gold necklace. The turning is coming over me so quickly, I don’t feel the tingles—the good or bad kind.
Nick says, “Mary, if you don’t fix yourself, this scarf will be all you’ll have left of me. I’ll never speak to you again.”
Ling Ling perks up on the sofa behind him.
He senses her movement. He doesn’t have to say what he’s thinking. I know he’ll say anything to keep me from fully transforming a second time. Nick hates the turning. He’ll hate me for not trusting him that it’s the worst way to live. He’ll hate me for refusing an antidote that he would take in an instant if our positions were switched. If he has to, he’ll tell me that he will be Ling Ling’s boyfriend for real. If I ignore him, he’ll do it. I’ll spend the rest of my turn-time turning without him and be forced to see him with Ling Ling in class, between classes in the hallways, at my sister’s debates, idle at the bus stop below my parents’ bathroom window. Nick can smell me, so he’ll follow me everywhere and drag Ling Ling along. I know it’s true. I remember what he told me: cats are spiteful and never forgive.
I bolt.
My feet slip down the stairs in my speed. I hang on to the banister and swing my legs out as I leap to each landing. I knock pictures off walls. Glass shatters from frames. Religious icons tumble and clunk. An avalanche is after me. So is everybody else. I’m in the mudroom. Octavia, Nick, and Ling Ling are in with me too. I shove my feet into my loafers and throw on my coat. I fling open the front door. From somewhere behind me, Yiayia is crying. Smoke rolls out of the kitchen. The pastitsio has burned.
chapter twenty
In the basement of Webster Library, Miss Ryan stands before The Cellar door, barring unforeseen customers. She fumbles with her dangly earring. She looks to Octavia and then to me: Octavia’s anonymous friend to whom something weird is happening. Miss Ryan knows what’s weird about me. She knows what’s happening in her used bookstore. When she speaks, I know she is speaking of Mrs. Wrinkles.
“My dears,” she pleads, stepping aside to let the four of us stream in, “help her.”
Octavia and Nick stay on my heels as I tear through the main room to the Old English graveyard. Ling Ling lags behind, slowed by the weight of her designer bag. Miss Gibbs waits for her to catch up and then ducks out, I assume to stand vigil with Miss Ryan. They think we are here to rescue their cat.
It hits me that after I get through with the sphynx, Octavia will never be able to show her face here again. The Cellar is everything to her. But she’s forfeiting her secret haven to keep our family together. To keep my sister, I shouldn’t hesitate to sacrifice the turning, something equally special to me. I shouldn’t think twice about killing Mrs. Wrinkles if that’s what Octavia wants.
Through the Old English bookcase that overlaps the entrance to the book well, I spy Yoon’s Nantucket Reds and yellow dishwashing gloves. He purrs, “Hello, Kitty. We’ve been waiting for you. I knew you’d show up. Come see. The kid here has out-moused you.”
Inside the well, Ben has Mrs. Wrinkles by the scruff of her neck. The sphynx is half in and half out of Mr. Charles’s coat. She is stoic. Mr. Charles does not rise from his stool. He grips Ben’s forearm. His long fingers are vines.
He says, “Young man, you do not want to do this.”
Nick says, “Mary, get close. Be ready to drink her blood when Ben cuts her throat.”
“Cuts her throat?” cries Ben. “With what?”
Yikes. I guess neither of us thought this through.
Mrs. Wrinkles coils her tail around her body and taps the top of Ben’s bare wrist. There is a sizzling. An eraser-size circle of bone sears through his skin. The bone disappears behind a dot of silvery blue.
Yoon says, “Do it, kid. Kill her. Before it’s too late.”
The silvery blue dot branches out, scorches, and rings Ben’s wrist like a handcuff. His face contorts as he looks to me for help. He doesn’t want to go through this alone, but I’m not sure what I should do. Bite Mrs. Wrinkles? Disable Mr. Charles, a blind retired librarian? Ben’s brow and upper lip drench in flop sweat. The sphynx’s tail taps three of his fingernails. They all flip back and fall off. Sizzle, sizzle, sizzle. Tufts of silvery blue fur emerge.
Yoon encourages him: “Like swallowing a mouse, kid. Put her head in your mouth, and suck like a straw.”
“Young man,” Mr. Charles warns Ben, “if I feel your breath, I will kill you. I am not afraid of prison. I’m used to small cells and strange company. Don’t try me.”
Ben opens his mouth. His jaw quivers. He’s in agony and he’s scared and he’s repulsed by what he’s gotten himself into. He tilts his chin to his chest. Mr. Charles won’t allow him to raise Mrs. Wrinkles to his mouth. Ben can’t bring himself to bend over to her. He moans. His moan turns into yowl—a loud, long, mournful cat’s cry.
“Do it,” Yoon hisses.
“Why do you care, Yoon?” I demand. “What are you even doing here? I thought you wanted us to be like you. If Ben and I drink her blood, we go back to normal.”
“You’re not going anywhere, Kitty. And I’m not letting you near this old bag of cat bones. Your life as a turn is too good to throw away. You’re special—even more special than me.”
Nick says, “Shut up, dude.”
“You haven’t told her? Why wouldn’t you tell her? You hate us that much?”
I say, “What are you talking about?”
“Nothing,” says Nick. “Help Ben. He’s having a panic attack.”
Ben has stiffened. He still has hold of Mrs. Wrinkles, but his shirtsleeve is fattening as thick fur spreads from his wrist toward his shoulder.
Yoon coaxes him: “Go on, kid, use your free hand to bash her brains in. Crack that walnut! Once she’s dead, you’ll be free from all this. And Mary and I will—”
“Dude!” Nick interrupts.
Yoon protests, “It’s her destiny.”
I say, “What destiny? To be a turn-cat?”
“No, Kitty, to be so much more.”
“Nick, tell me!”
Yoon purrs, “I’ll tell you.”
I say, “I want to hear it from Nick. I’m here because he convinced me to come. I’m about to kill a cat because Ben won’t do it. I’m going to cut my own cat out of me because my sister won’t live with me if I don’t. And because…” Oh, hell, I’ll just say it! “And because I want Nick and me to be together.”
“Mary, I want that too,” Nick says. “But if you don’t fix yourself, your life won’t just be ruined. It will be over. Country Club wasn’t just up here sniffing around for territory. He was looking for you. He smelled you like we all can.
“Orange cats are genetically alphas. Orange females are genetically rare. Orange female turns are near-myth. There’s never been one in the States. Not since the Turkish War has there been one in Greece.”
Yoon adds, “In Korea, forget about it—it’s been so long.”
Nick says, “Mary, orange turns are rulers.”
“My queen!” Yoon exclaims.
He actually drops to one knee. He places his gloved hands on either side of my feet and kisses my shoe. And then the other one! His lips are so strong, I feel their pressure through the patent leather. He looks up and blinks—his chestnuts turn to
jewels. His emerald eyes tempt me. His incisors are long lumps behind his closed lips. I want him to open his mouth and let me touch their length and fine points. He smirks, but this smirk isn’t smartass; it’s knowing. Yoon knows there’s a part of me that wants to find out if it’s good to be the queen. There’s so much I want to explore, but Nick and Octavia won’t let me.
Yoon lifts and lowers his shoulders as if reading my mind. Shrug it off, he seems to be saying. Don’t let those scaredy-cats scare you. I’m drawn to him. Say what you will about Yoon, but he’s always been honest with me.
Nick, not so much. He lied to me about Ling Ling. He lied to me about Ben. He lied to me about me. True, he had an excuse for every lie—extortion, the right to privacy, my best interest—but he still lied. Saying nothing is the same as saying something untrue.
What else is Nick keeping from me? If I rule the doms, will Nick have to answer all my questions and do as I say?
Octavia and Ling Ling peer into the book well through the shelves of the Old English overlapping bookcase. Ling Ling’s cheeks are wet, but she doesn’t make a sound. She doesn’t want to call attention to her tears because she knows no one will pay her any mind in light of what’s just been revealed.
Look at me! I want to cry. Orange! Royalty! Near-myth Mary Richards!
Octavia says, “Nothing’s changed, Sheba. You still have to take your medicine. Yoon’s using you. He wants your power. With you by his side, he thinks he’s invincible.”
“I am,” Yoon hisses. “We are, Kitty! Ben, kill that cat!”
“Over my dead body,” says Mr. Charles.
But it’s Ben’s own body that Ben is concerned with. Silvery blue fur creeps out of his shirt collar and covers one side of his face. His head looks like a half-molded peach. His eyes go gray. He shrinks by a foot. He crouches in pain. Mrs. Wrinkles hangs from his grip like a lantern.
