Grows That Way (12 page)

chapter
twenty-two

After dinner, when the conversation has shifted to a stupefyingly boring discussion comparing cruise lines to Alaska, Taylor and I escape back to her room.

“Did you see her nose?” says Taylor, which is surprising because Taylor is usually too spiritual for catty comments, but then I see she isn't being critical, she's amazed, like I used to be.

“I don't even notice it anymore,” I say, because I don't. It's just Isobel.

Taylor takes a seat at her desk and I perch on the corner. In the glow from the computer screen I am alarmed to see a faint line of fuzz across her upper lip. Poor Taylor. She's living my nightmare, the one where I was growing facial hair. This is really weird. I hope I'm not responsible somehow, I hope this isn't yet another affliction I have accidentally foisted on my cousin.

Taylor does a web search and finds a place on the Internet where we can order and prepay a saliva test for hormones. It's expensive, especially since Taylor ticks off the overnight courier option. Taylor has her mom's MasterCard information from the last time they ordered home decorating books off Amazon.

“Isn't that stealing?” I say.

“No, it's a medical emergency,” says Taylor. “There's no way I'm going to a local compounding pharmacy for a saliva test. Someone's bound to see me and report back, either to my mom or, worse still, to Franco.”

I think about asking Taylor to order two extra sets, one for me and one for my dad. It looks like Isobel's right, you have to provide lots of saliva, and I don't see how I could get that much spit out of my dad without explaining myself. And I'm not nearly as hairy as Taylor, at least not yet anyway. Besides, I'd rather spend my money on a new bridle for Brooklyn. So the one test kit will have to do.

“What if it's delivered while you're at school?” I ask.

“I can't take that chance,” says Taylor. “I'll have to fake a migraine and stay home.”

“How long does a migraine last?”

“As long as I need it to,” says Taylor. “This one could last a long time. Maybe a lifetime. I can't go to school like this. I can't shave everywhere. Look, I'm even growing a mustache!”

I peer at her lip and pretend to be surprised.

“The only reason Mom hasn't noticed is because she needs new glasses,” says Taylor.

I want to help her, but don't have many words of advice. I wish I was more like my mom, who always has some advice handy, not that it's necessarily good, but it's better than this helpless silence. I put my hand on Taylor's arm and say, “Kansas tells me that when in doubt, just like with riding, you go forward.”

“Go forward?” says Taylor. “What the hell does that mean?”

Now that she's asked me to explain, I realize I don't have a clue, and even when I think hard about it I can't see how this advice applies to Taylor's situation, but I muddle on anyway because Taylor needs my help, there's nobody else. “If you're going forward, your horse can't buck you off so easily, that's what Kansas means,” I say.

Taylor says, “Well, my mom tells me that when in doubt—don't. That would be like not going forward, wouldn't it? Like maybe I should sit back and take stock of my situation for a while?”

This is getting way beyond confusing for me. If there's a catchy little phrase for each possible option, how do people make the right decisions? I don't know what to say.

Taylor swivels away from the screen so her back is towards me. She continues talking but I don't know if she's talking to me or herself or the dark space under her bed, which is the direction she is looking. “I know Franco didn't mean to do this, I know it was an accident, he would never do anything intentionally to hurt me. So I can't stop loving him for this, for a mistake. But I don't know if I want to call him, or if I want to see him, and if I do see him how do I stop him from touching me and increasing the contamination? Plus I'm afraid to keep shaving because I've heard this can make hair even coarser, but I'm afraid not to shave because I don't want anyone to see. My life is so over.”

She sniffs loudly. I hand her a tissue. I place my hand on her back and awkwardly rub across her lumpy vertebrae and shoulder blades. In a way, there is not much to Taylor, a thin layer of skin and muscle over bones, the opposite of Brooklyn or Spike, or even Franco I suppose. She is fragile, and indescribably precious to me, and even if right now I don't have a clue how to help her, I know I'll figure out something.

That night I dream about Mr. and Mrs. Sasquatch. They are swimming like dolphins in the deep part of the river. Okay, they're large hairy dolphins, but equally at home in the water. They stay underwater for incredible lengths of time, then reappear way across the pool, sometimes with a salmon in their hands.

Mr. and Mrs. S see me and beckon for me to join them. I'm riding Brooklyn, bareback again, but this time he's not concerned about the sasquatches, and plunges into the river and we swim with them. I would hardly know it was a dream, except that I'm not freezing to death or soaked to the skin.

On the riverbank, watching us, I see Taylor. She's so covered with hair she could almost be a baby sasquatch. She's crying. Somehow I know it's because she's lonely. Seeing Taylor like this makes me want to cry too, despite the fun that Brooklyn and I and the sasquatches are having.

Taylor pulls at her arm hair, then buries her face in her hands.

I look down at my own body, covered only with a transparent wet T-shirt. No hair. No nothing. I lift the hem of the shirt. Brooklyn hair, that's all.

Instead of relief, I feel disappointment. As gross as hair can be, it's also normal, and I'm not. I'm a Turner girl, and always will be.

Brooklyn clambers onto the beach and shakes himself like a dog so I have to throw my arms around his great warm neck to steady myself, and I wake up, wrapped around my pillow, feeling happy and sad at the same time.

It's still the middle of the night. The house is quiet, my clock radio glows red saying 2:22. I grab my flashlight and pull the covers over my head, and examine my sexless little body. The tiny hairs light up all over the place, and I have to admit that they've probably always been there, it's normal body hair that everybody has but mostly you can't see it unless you look very closely. I shine the light across my arm and then across my belly. I contort myself so I can check for hair on the top of my feet, in case it's transformed from my usual fuzz to that coarse dark hair that Logan and Taylor both have. It's the same as ever and I start to straighten myself out again, and the flashlight swings up past my thighs, and that's when I see it. I have a hair. One dark hair. I give it a gentle tug just in case it's lying there on the surface, unattached. My skin tents up at the base of the hair.

I am growing a dark hair.

Ohmygod I may need a bikini wax.

I'm so excited that I could scream, which I mustn't do because everyone is sleeping, so I bite the bed sheet instead.

Here I've been thinking that body hair is gross and I've been telling myself that I'm glad to not be developing or turning into a normal girl like Amber or Topaz but now I have a hair! And I'm ecstatic! Hair isn't nearly so gross when it's your own! I guess I've only been thinking it's awful because I figured I wasn't going to grow any. Maybe I'm a late bloomer too, maybe the Turner Syndrome has nothing to do with it.

I check my armpits. Nothing there. Oh well, it's a start.

I want to phone Taylor. But it's 2:25. And she wouldn't understand, not in her condition she wouldn't.

I lie in bed and remember my dream. I never think of Taylor as being lonely. She has a fan club at school, though of course that may only be due to her being an exotic amputee. At home she has three sisters, and Auntie Sally who probably doesn't count. And she has Bunga, and Spike, and me, and Kansas more-or-less, as Kansas doesn't seem to be available to any of us except Declan nowadays. And I hate to include him, but she does have that dope Franco. Not that he's done her much good if he's contaminated her with his sports spray and given her man hair.

Oh. My spirits sink. Of course. The sports spray. That will be the source of my hair too. It had nothing to do with my becoming normal. I've been contaminated too, though for me it isn't a bad thing like it is for Taylor.

I can't allow Taylor to suffer any longer, not knowing. I have to find out what's in the tonic.

I think about enlisting Logan's assistance, but it's too dangerous for him. Franco would kill him, and I can't risk that.

It's nice thinking about Logan and feeling protective of him. It makes me feel warm and cuddly all over and I fall back to sleep.

chapter
twenty-three

I need a plan, and I can't think of one, even though I have the kitchen all to myself in the morning. I know that Grandpa and Isobel need lots of sleep because they're old and wearing out, plus no doubt exhausted from yesterday's hiking and wading in the river. I hope they haven't died in their sleep from overexertion. Dad says when you're old anything can happen at any time.

For a while I figure that Dad's up and gone to work already, but after I've finished my muesli I hear low voices from Mom and Dad's bedroom. I decide to leave for school before they start shouting again.

I'm in such a hurry, I don't even check the time, and when I arrive at Logan's house he's not waiting for me, and I see by my watch that I'm twenty minutes early. I stash Pinky in the shed, and I'm standing there admiring Logan's bike when Franco walks in. I can smell him before I see him, reeking of liniment, or whatever it is.

The amazing thing is that he's big and he's hairy but he's nowhere near as big and hairy as a male sasquatch, so I don't find him so scary anymore.

He looks sad. Or worried. Or sad and worried. Or maybe mad. I don't know—I'm not very good at this, being a social isolate.

“Hey,” he says.

I say hey back.

“You're Taylor's cousin, right?”

Oh boy. Some people are such slow learners. I tell him he's right, I'm Taylor's cousin.

“She sent me a text. She says she can't see me for a while.”

“Oh,” I say.

“Is she sick? Does she have swine flu? I need her.” He collapses into a plastic garden chair in the corner of the shed. I'm surprised the chair doesn't break on impact; the legs wobble for a couple of seconds as Franco leans forward, plants his elbows on his knees and buries his head in his hands. “I can't believe this is happening to me,” he mumbles.

What can I say? I don't want to break any confidences, not those of Taylor or Logan. Though right now Franco seems as threatening as a garden slug.

His great shoulders slump. His thick neck looks like it can no longer support his head. I'm almost ready to feel sorry for him when he sighs, sits back in the chair, slides out one foot and kicks his toe against Pinky's front tire. “So why do you leave this here anyway?” he says. “Why not ride it to school?”

“It's pink,” I say.

“So?” says Franco.

“I'm not a girly-girl—as I think you've noticed. They'd tease me.”

“I wear pink sometimes,” says Franco. “So does Arnold Schwarzenegger.”

“That's different,” I say. “No one would tease you or Arnold. No one's going to question your masculinity, no matter what you wear.”

Franco snorts. “That's true,” he says.

And don't ask me why, or maybe he's sounding too smug, but I say, “Except maybe sequins. I don't think you could wear those.”

He looks at me with his small dark eyes, checking that I'm not mocking him. I put on my most innocent expression, the one I usually save for dangerous encounters with my parents. Satisfied, he returns his attention to Pinky.

“I thought about repainting it,” I say.

“It'd look like hell,” says Franco, “unless you sanded down the frame and did it properly.”

“That's what I was afraid of,” I say.

“It would be better without the white handgrips and white seat,” says Franco.

He's right. I can see it. All I'd need is black handgrips and a black seat. I can imagine my bike looking like something I could ride to school again, though of course I'd miss my walks back and forth with Logan, but on the other hand I'd have more time at the barn, and maybe I could meet Logan on other occasions, like for sasquatch searches.

I see something else—a glimmer perhaps of what Taylor sees in Franco. It's not a softness, like I felt when I changed the spelling of his name from Franko, and it's not just that he's being useful to me by helping with my bike dilemma. It's something different, which I don't understand let alone approve of, but for some reason I feel excitement at being so close to someone who could be so dangerous. Here I am, little old me, without a plan, winging it and feeling…great. I feel great.

“Taylor can't see you because she isn't well,” I tell him.

“I knew it!” says Franco. “She couldn't break up with me!”

He sounds so relieved it's hard for me to tell him the rest. I don't want to hurt his feelings, not really. It's like I'm testing myself, I feel like a lion-tamer, alone in a cage with a slightly domesticated wild animal and I say, “Franco, she could break up with you.” When he looks at me with scornful disbelief, I say, “What's in your sports tonic, Franco? I've smelled it on her. I think she's having a reaction to it.”

He's expressionless as he considers this information. Brooklyn can do the same thing when I give him an aid and he's not sure what to do about it. Kansas has coached me to be patient. So I wait.

“No way,” he says eventually, but he drops eye contact, and his right hand slides to protect the front pocket of his jeans.

“Let me see the bottle, Franco. She's having a reaction to something. It could even be a good thing if it's your sports tonic, because maybe it will be reversible when she stops being exposed and she'll be well and she'll be able to see you again. Otherwise, she has to wait for tests...”

“Tests?” says Franco.

“She's going to have her saliva tested,” I say.

“Oh no,” says Franco. He moans, takes his head in his hands and lurches to his feet. I back towards the doorway. Franco walks around the shed in tiny circles until he bumps into Pinky. “Taylor can't do this to me,” he says. He picks up Pinky, and I think my bike is going to have another flying lesson, like my old bike had from my dad, so using my best animal-training voice, I tell Franco to stop.

He catches himself. He has the bike at chest height, and he lowers it gently to the ground.

I lift my collarbones. “Let me see the sports spray,” I say, holding out my hand.

The big hairy monster gives in to me. He slips his hand into his pocket, and when he brings it out his thick fingers are wrapped around a small pump spray container, and he drops it in my palm.

I step outside the shed where the light is better and read the label. It's called Big Gorilla. No kidding. It's like a joke. I would wonder what sort of idiot could put this ridiculous name on their product, but obviously some people are buying it.

I take a notebook out of my backpack, and write Big Gorilla on the inside back page. Below the name I very carefully copy out the main ingredient, checking the spelling four times. It's something called 4-androsenediol.

I hand the spray back to Franco. “I'll look it up on the computer at home tonight.”

“I already know what it is,” says Franco. “It converts to testosterone. But I never thought that Taylor...”

He turns his back. Could he be crying?

Do I put my arm around him? I would only reach up to his waist, I don't know if that would provide him much comfort. Besides, can a shrimp comfort a gorilla? I suppose I could take his hand, but that's where the testosterone contamination comes from, the skin-to-skin contact, that's what happened to Taylor.

I consider this for a moment, then slip my tiny hand inside his great paw. I put my other hand on top of his, I sandwich his hand between my own and give it a really good rub.

I have remembered my solo hair.

This may be the only chance I'll get.

I'm thinking how clever I am, rubbing away on Franco's hand, when I catch a movement at the edge of my vision and wheel around to see that Logan is watching us from the open back door.