What Curiosity Kills

by Helen Ellis

  chapter twelve

  Nick says, "Don't worry, we didn't see anything."

  I'm on the terrace floor, wrapped in Mags's comforter.

  "And when you turned before, you turned in your pajamas. You were so small, you crawled out your pajama leg."

  He helps me onto the lounge chair, but I don't need help. Although my movements are limited in this goose-down burrito (made heavier by the snow puddle I've been lying in), I am invigorated. I want to repel down the side of the building. Run through the park. Climb trees! Chase squirrels and steal their nuts!

  I sit and rock, gripping the comforter in front of my bare breasts. I'm not cold. I'm feverish. But the fever feels good. I rub my calves together. The fur is gone. I feel my own silky, albeit stubbly, skin. I don't need a stitch of clothing to stay warm. I fight the urge to hop to my feet and flash Nick.

  Sitting beside me, he pats my back.

  "I'm calm." I tell him what he wants to hear. Back-patting is international for There, there. Get a hold of yourself. Excitement's over. I look around for Yoon.

  I find him sleeping under the foot of the lounge chair. Yoon has not returned to boy form. His emerald eyes are shut, the lids camouflaged within his black mask. His mouth is curled up at the corners in a satisfied smile. He's on his back, which is broad enough for him to lay flat and keep him from toppling to either side. His front legs are bent, black paws loosey-goosey in the air. His hind legs hang open. His copper belly and balls are exposed. Yoon looks unbothered by his vulnerability. If I looked like him when I fell asleep in public, I might do it more often.

  Nick says, "He's exhausted from helping you."

  "I thought you were going to help me."

  "I am. I did. What, you wish it was my tongue all over you?"

  Good lord, the thought of it. I can barely bring myself to speak—but I do. "You think Ling Ling would like that?"

  "I don't care what she likes."

  I venture farther. "Are you two not together anymore?"

  He leans his shoulder against mine—a nudge. Don't I get it? Temple to temple, his windblown curls tickle my eyebrow. Our warmness mingles. He slips his hand inside my comforter and fishes out my hand. He laces his fingers between mine. That's a good enough answer for me.

  I ask, "Yoon's too tired to change?"

  "Nah, he just prefers it this way."

  "Why don't you?"

  "Because I have to go to school. If I don't show up, my folks will find out. I'll get expelled, not detention. If I turn at night, I won't sleep. My grades will suck. Or, like Yoon, if I turn too much, I won't be able to stop myself from sleeping. It's like passing out wasted. You could wake up anywhere, but be bare-ass—"

  "Naked." I finish his sentence. I squeeze his hand. I'm not embarrassed, and I don't know why.

  Nicks says, "I have this theory that the less I turn, the shorter this phase, as Yiayia calls it, will last. When it ends, I want a normal life. To have that, I have to make it through PurserLilley, then college, and then I can start living for real. Yoon thinks this is the life. He's skipping college so he can turn as much as he wants. That's why he's always got those rubber gloves on. If you turn too much, there are side effects."

  "I thought you said turning's two weeks, then the summer."

  "It is, but Yoon always tries to make it last a little longer. Now that he's out of school, he can spend all his free time researching. There's hardly anything written about what we've got, but he keeps looking. He's always online or in the field."

  "Yoon's parents don't know either?"

  "Oh, they know. And they are not happy about the college deferment. But in Korea, his parents say what we have is seen as a gift. If Yoon went there, they say he'd be treated like a god, but his parents refuse to go back for political reasons. If Yoon wants to go on his own, he has to work to save the money, and his folks don't pay him much. He breaks a pickle jar, and they deduct it from his pay. They don't want him to go because they think he'll never come back. So, while he's here, they put up with his shit. No college, late nights running around, feeding strays in the back of their store. Yoon wants to be the first of our kind to be able to turn in his thirties. But that's sad."

  "Sad how?"

  "Sad pathetic. Like all those Purser-Lilley moms wearing low-rise skinny jeans. Oh, sorry, is your mom one of those?"

  "No, she's pretty modest."

  "My mom's clinging to her youth. Every time she sits down, I have to look away from her G-string. She says she's European, but that's code for exhibitionist. Do you know how mortifying it is to go to the beach in Greece with your mom?"

  "No, but when we go to Myrtle Beach, my mom wears a huge hat and is always lecturing us to put on more sunscreen."

  "Beaches in Greece are topless."

  "Got it."

  "So, forgive me if I don't want to embrace my wild side. Wild people embarrass themselves."

  I think about that. The wildest thing I've ever done was going down a fifteen-story-high, spiral water-park tube last summer. A hundred and fifty twisty yards in one minute. My back bumped the fiberglass connector joints the whole way. My neck killed from straining to keep my head up. I was so scared of getting water up my nose, I held my breath. I didn't even scream. My face must have been blue when I shot out. It was a horrible rush—but it was a rush. The lifeguard gave me his hand, I tugged my one-piece out of my butt, and for the next half-hour, I thought I could do anything.

  I could do anything now.

  I kiss Nick—just take my temple off his and turn my lips to meet his mouth. He tenses, like when I pricked his bare thighs with my kitty claws, but I don't pull back. He could push me away if he wanted me to stop. He doesn't. He keeps hold of my hand and keeps his lips softly pressed against mine. It is black-and-white movie kissing: sweet, like I'd hoped.

  Yoon mewls. He is dreaming of a meadow. His front paws bat at a butterfly. With a dream-leap, his body wrenches into a C. His heart races under his coarse copper chest. I let go of Nick's hand and reach for Yoon's belly. I want to rub it and reassure him, You'll get that butterfly next time.

  Nick stops me. He says, "Don't get yourself started."

  "If I touch him, I'll turn?"

  "Yeah."

  I touch my lips, tingling from Nick's kiss. I can't hide my panic. Are those warning tingles or tingles everybody gets when they kiss their crush?

  Nick says, "Don't worry. Only touching a cat or one of us in cat form will trigger the turning. Soon enough, you'll learn to control it. I can. So can Yoon. Pot helps, and there are other ways. But for now, for you, the turning's like puberty. No matter what you do, zits happen."

  For an idiotically vain moment, I'm grateful that I don't have any pimples.

  He grins. "I'm normal now—kiss me as much as you want."

  I do. He opens his mouth, and mine goes along. This is Technicolor kissing. He pulls me into his chest so that half my rear end is off the lounge chair. Wind sweeps between our bodies and into an open flap in my comforter cover.

  Yoon miaows—a warning like the one I heard from Peanut Butter or Jelly when I put my foot through their spinning circle of a wagon train.

  I ask, my lips barely lifting off Nick's, "Should we wake him? He sounds like he's having a nightmare."

  "Let him have it," Nick mutters as he moves his mouth to my neck. His curls caress my throat. "Maybe he'll fall off a building and die in his sleep."

  "Mrowl!" Yoon's warrior cry breaks us up. He is out from under the lounge chair. His lips retract. Drool drips off his canines.

  "Back off, dude," Nick warns.

  "What is it between you two?" I ask.

  Nick says, "He doesn't want me this close to you. He thinks I'll talk you into suppressing the turning. If it was up to him, you'd turn all the time."

  Yoon pounces at me.

  Nick puts himself between us. Yoon hits Nick's chest. Nick falls backward into me. We all fall off the lounge chair. Caught in Nick's arms, Yoon's glowing emerald eyes implore me
: Help! He's bigger than me! Be on my side! But Yoon looks plenty tough. Besides, what's a fair fight between a boy and a cat?

  Nick gets to his feet. Yoon twists to free himself, but Nick chucks him in the air and then catches him like a bristled, sabertoothed sack of potatoes. Yoon sinks his claws into the curve of Nick's neck and shoulders. Nick curses. Dots of blood seep through his white Purser-Lilley T-shirt. Nick lifts Yoon straight up. His claws—wet with blood—slip out of Nick's skin and shirt. The fabric rips from an extra-long thumb claw. Yoon's black mask furrows.

  Nick tosses him away from his chest like a basketball. Yoon rebounds off the terrace wall, lands on his feet, and gives his silent hiss. Yesterday, Yoon's no-noise made a battalion of mice scatter off my back landing, but tonight, it doesn't scare Nick.

  Nicks stomps. Scat!

  Yoon leaps onto the terrace wall and then dives off.

  I run to the wall and lean over. I hear him before I spot him leaping from one grated fire-escape landing to the one below. He soars over the metal stairs. His copper coat blends with rust, but he becomes more visible in the light cast from the apartment lobby when he jumps to the sidewalk. I lose sight of him when he dashes across the tarred pavement to the bricked, Fifth Avenue border of Central Park and then into the bushes and trees.

  Nick says, "I have to go after him. If I don't, he'll come back for you."

  "So go."

  "I can't catch him unless I turn."

  "So turn."

  "I don't want you to see."

  "You saw me."

  "That was different. Go inside."

  "No."

  "Go inside!"

  "You can't make me."

  When he kisses me, I think he can make me do whatever he wants.

  But I want to see him turn! I tell myself to stop kissing him. Coach told us that smart girls like us get pregnant because they think only a boy can bring them to, as Webster's defines, intense or paroxysmal excitement, which means an explosive discharge of neuromuscular tensions. I close my eyes. His arms wind around me. One hand clutches the back of my neck. The other flattens against the small of my back. I want to let go of the comforter cover and let it drop to my ankles.

  But my fingers won't open. They are clutching the comforter and will not unclutch. I want to slide my thigh between his legs, but my leg will not move. My head is locked. My jaw is locked open. My tongue is petrified against the roof of my mouth. My pulse throbs in my ears, but my chest won't rise or fall. My lungs are not filling with air.

  Wait a second.

  I am not breathing.

  Nick steps away, and I stay stuck.

  My eyelids are sealed shut, but wind fills my gaping mouth. Wind whips in the opposite direction, blowing my hair in front of my face. When the wind whips back, I can't shake my head to loosen stray strands caught in the moisture Nick has left on my lips.

  I am paralyzed. I try to wiggle my fingers and toes, to unglue my eyes. Nothing works. Paralyzed is paralyzed—except my skin is alive! I feel everything. The ice-cold air against my exposed face, neck, and shoulders is electric. I should fight my paralysis, but it feels too good. My resolve is weakening because there is no air getting to my brain.

  Nick says, "I'm sorry, Mary. You're not hurt. I only stole it for a minute—enough for me to turn and get away."

  Breath-stealing? It's not a myth! What else cool can I do?

  The comforter tugs between my hands. Nick must have dropped into cat form and landed on the hem. There's another tug as he kicks off. I hear his claws graze the top of the terrace wall. The fire escape clanks. The clanks grow more distant and then the sound of him fades into the sounds of the night.

  My fingers crack as my hands unclench. My toes pop as I rise off my heels to flex my calves. I snap my neck, roll my head around in a circle. I hear a spark like when you touch a doorknob after walking across a carpeted room in your socks. It is the sound of a breath: mine.

  I open my eyes and inhale more deeply. I am alone but still buzzed. I can move, but I don't. I remain on the terrace, gazing out over the trees, and feel what's left of the good feeling Nick gave me until it is gone.

  chapter thirteen

  On the far side of Mags's pitch-black room, Octavia sits in the oversized beanbag chair. She holds Kathryn Ann's box of Goo Goo Clusters. She plucks out a foil-wrapped, chocolate hockey puck and throws it at my face.

  I duck.

  The Goo Goo smacks the glass door. I dodge the next one before it's out of her hand. She tries to pelt me with Goo Goo after Goo Goo, but I am too quick. I stand in place, clad in Mags's down comforter, and bob left and right. I see everything that's thrown. To my new eyes, the room is bright.

  Out of ammunition, Octavia throws the box.

  She scrambles out of the beanbag. The bag is slippery. It scrunches when she shoves her hands into the blob. She reaches for the edge of the nightstand and pulls herself up. She sweeps her hands across the front of the table, slides open the drawer, and grasps for Mags's water gun. She aims it at me like a Smith & Wesson.

  She says, "I can't live with you like this."

  "Like what?"

  "Don't even try it. I saw what you are."

  "What did you see?"

  "Mary, don't. I saw you. You know what I saw!"

  "Did the twins see?"

  "Does it matter? I saw. I can't live with you! Mom and Dad won't understand. They'll think I'm crazy. I'll be put in a state home and then out on my ass at eighteen!" The water gun shakes in her hands. She whimpers, "My life is over."

  "Octavia, did the twins see?" I beg to know.

  "No!"

  "Are you sure?"

  "What difference does it make? You turned. Into. A cat! Your boyfriend turned into a cat! And so did that deli guy!"

  "Yoon."

  "Whoever!" Her eyes are wide and misty. "They gave you cat! You caught cat!"

  I tug the comforter around my shoulders and wait for an answer to my question about the twins seeing or not seeing. I could stand with my back against the terrace door and wait like this all night. I am eerily calm. It's like I've taken one of Kathryn Ann's airplane pills. Oh, my word, y'all, is that turbulence? Well, that is just fine. Oh, my word, y'all, are we nose diving? Well, that is fine too. Tailspin? Hon, would you mind unhooking yourself from that jump seat and getting me a splash more Tabasco sauce for this here tomato juice?

  Octavia says, "Look at you—you're all stalker-y, like a cat. Fine!" She nods to the twins' closed communal bathroom door. "They tried waiting up for you, but the Xanax took effect. They're doped up like Peanut Butter and Jelly. Oh, God, Mary, I hate those cats, and now I'll have to hate you."

  "You don't hate Peanut Butter and Jelly," I tell her. "You're scared."

  "Hell, yes, I'm scared! Of you! How can you be so reasonable? You are standing in front of me in a comforter with your clothes in your hands—with two different boys' clothes in your hands! You're talking to me like we're talking about you breaking curfew. You turned. Into. A cat!"

  "What did Nick look like?"

  "A frickin' cat!"

  "What kind?"

  "I don't know! I was trying not to look. Besides, all cats look alike—"

  "In the dark."

  "Don't play with me, Mary." She is serious; she wouldn't call me by my name otherwise. "I hate cats. All cats. They're disgusting, selfish, nasty. Vicious!"

  "Peanut Butter and Jelly?"

  "Yes! Is your memory that short?"

  I raise my hand to examine Jelly's scratch, but the cut is gone. A faint line is all that's left of the crusty scab from a few hours ago. Along with unabashed boy-kissing, breathstealing, and in-the-dark seeing, quick healing must be something else the post-cat me can do. I study the tips of my normally bitten-to-the-quick fingers. My fingernails are short but not ragged. There's not one hangnail. Every cuticle is smooth.

  I offer my hand to Octavia for her to inspect, but she trembles twenty feet away against the wall. She brandishes the water gun. Sh
e doesn't want me to leave my spot against the terrace door. We're alone in a room together. I am breaking her cardinal cat phobia rule.

  I say, "I'm not going to hurt you."

  "Yes, you will. You can't help it. Cats are hunters."

  "I'm not a hunter."

  "You are, whether you know it yet or not!"

  "What do you think I'm going to do, chase you under the bed? Pick you up with my mouth?"

  "You'll give me a heart attack."

  "You're sixteen."

  "So, you'll scare me to death! I'm not debating you. You turned. Into. A cat!"

  I take a step. My front foot hasn't touched the floor, but Octavia hears the rustle of the comforter.