T.J. Klune - Bear, Otter, and the Kid 2 - Who We Are (2 page)

Me either
, I think at him.
Otter, I lo—

“
T
HIS
is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” the Kid says, scowling at me and interrupting my epic story. He sits up in his bed, the covers falling down at his sides. “Bears don’t have wings!”
“Fat with my love for you?” Otter says incredulously from his spot next

to me on the Kid’s bed. “You made me
pregnant
and said I was
fat with my love for you
?”

 

“What the hell are you guys talking about?” I ask, feeling insulted. “That was getting really good!”

 

“If by good you mean not good, then, yes, it was getting
very
good,” the

Kid retorts.
“You made me a pregnant shifting otter!” Otter yelps.
“Whatever,” I say as I roll my eyes. “Mrs. Paquinn told me that shifter

stories are more popular than any other subgenre and that I should try to cash in on them.”

“I think if you’re going all the way down to
sub
genres to start with, then you have a problem already,” the Kid says. “Besides, aren’t those stories all pretty much the same? Be careful, Bear. You wouldn’t want anyone accusing you of copying someone else. Trust me: there’s a few people on the Internet who have
way
too much time on their hands.”

He’s got a point there.

His eyes flash. “And I won’t have you besmirching the good name of PETA! Although,” he concedes, “my evil mustache was a big selling point. And I liked the eyepatch. Can I get an eyepatch?”

“Do you
want
me to be pregnant?” Otter asks me. “Is that all I am to you? A baby factory?”

I ignore him and look at the Kid. “Well, if you hadn’t so rudely interrupted what is obviously a masterpiece in the making, you’d have found out that you also had a robot arm and dark secrets of your own. But since you stopped me, you’ll never, ever know what those secrets are. It’s time to go to sleep.”

The Kid rolls his eyes. “What secrets? Like I would have had an evil twin brother or something? Lame.”

 

“No,” I say, even though that was totally it. Dammit.
I
thought it sounded cool. “Bedtime.”

“Well, I did like how I was in charge of PETA, even if you made it evil.” He yawns and falls back onto his pillow. “Can you leave the light on low? I’m still not used to the new house.” I nod and flip the lamp to its lowest setting and kiss him gently on the forehead. The Kid is out even before I shut the door behind us.

As soon as we’re in our bedroom, Otter spins me around and shoves me face-first up against the wall, holding my hands above my head, pressing his body up against mine and grinding wonderfully into my hip. “I’ll show you pregnant,” he growls near my ear as he licks the nape of my neck.

“That sounds so wrong when you say it like that,” I manage to whimper before his other hand is down the back of my jeans and doing neat things to my ass.

Huh. If this is the reaction I get to one of my stories made up on the fly, maybe I should be a writer after all. Or something. I can’t quite seem to focus right now, and what was I saying? What were we talking about?

Shit.

 

Here we go again.
1. Where Bear Goes to War
W
E WERE
at war, he and I.

I’d inadvertently fired the opening salvo on the day forever known as the Big Move (It’s About Time). It was not intentional, but I’ve learned that maybe the first shots never really are. Of course it wasn’t intentional; who in their right mind would want to face the wrath of the smartest nine-year-old vegetarian ecoterrorist-in-training on the planet?

Not I. Much greater men than I have fallen to him.

It was one of the last boxes in the apartment, and there were only a few things left to pack. I’d gone into the bedroom to make sure we’d gotten everything, that nothing was left behind. It’d startled me, if only for a moment, to see how empty the room was: divots on the floors showing where bedposts had rested for years. Faint outlines of posters on the walls. A stain in the corner that I just
knew
wasn’t going to allow me to get the damn deposit back (and I really didn’t want to know what it was; it was a greenish-bluish thing that screamed “bad tenants.” I thought maybe I should at least try to clean it, but it looked too gross, so I just left it alone). I was struck, oddly, by a sense of sadness at the empty space before me. I don’t adapt to change very well, even if it’s a good thing. So much had happened here, so much that had changed everything about our lives, that it seemed important that I stop and at least send up a grateful thank-you to who’d ever take it.

So I was distracted, okay? It wasn’t intentional. I swear.

I noticed something light blue near the closet. A shirt that somehow had gotten missed. I picked it up, rolling my eyes at the
MEAT ISN’T NEAT
slogan across the front. I don’t know how the hell he’d missed this; it was literally the most favorite thing he owned. Well, that and the random collection of other shirts he started ordering online with my credit card (once he’d learned that all it took was punching in the numbers into the website and he could order whatever he wanted—you’d have thought that Jesus had come back and told him that vegetarians are the next step in human evolution; he’d been that excited.) Every few days a new box would show up at our door, containing shirts with such winners as
GIVE ME TOFU OR GIVE ME DEATH
or one with Gandhi’s face and his quote underneath: “You can judge a society by the way it treats its animals.” That one had made me feel a little guilty. And way creeped out, because Gandhi’s eyes seemed to follow me everywhere, like he knew, just
knew
I was thinking about pulled pork.

But it was when that last one had come that I had to draw the line. Imagine, if you will, sitting down for breakfast one randomly bright and sunny morning, and your little brother walks into a room wearing a shirt that says
WANT LONGER LASTING SEX? BECOME A VEGETARIAN!
Seriously? Come on.
Seriously
!

I was in the middle of saying something to Otter when the little shit walked into the kitchen, pretending not to notice me noticing him. My spoon had dropped from my hand and clattered onto the table, and Otter had followed my line of sight as the blood drained from my face and my jaw dropped open. And did that big bastard help me? You bet your ass he didn’t. Otter started bellowing great gales of laughter and pounding the table with his gigantic paws, causing it to rattle and shake. I glared at him for a moment and then looked back and waited for He Who Was About To Have His Internet Privileges Seriously Revoked Forever to turn around.

You would have thought the Kid was the greatest method actor in the history of the craft. He calmly took a packet of oatmeal from the cabinet and laid it on the counter. He took a bowl from the dishwasher and placed it next to the oatmeal. He walked to the fridge and took out his filtered water and walked back to the counter. He tore open the packet and dumped the oatmeal into the bowl. He threw the packet into the garbage. He unscrewed the cap on his water and poured a bit into the bowl. He screwed back on the cap and walked back to the fridge and put the bottle inside and closed the door. He walked back to his bowl and walked over to the microwave and clicked the button and set his breakfast inside. He closed the microwave and set the timer for three minutes. While it counted down, he watched it with disinterest, glancing down at his fingernails, picking at something on his arm. He fixed his hair in the reflection off the microwave and got a spoon from the drawer. The timer finally dinged, and he took out his oatmeal and blew on it, grimacing slightly as if the bowl was hot. He grabbed the spoon and walked toward the table. He pulled the chair out and sat down, spreading a napkin in his lap. He politely asked Otter if he was done with the first pages of the newspaper. Otter—who by this time was gasping for air with tears streaming down his face—waved his hand in the Kid’s direction. The Kid picked up the newspaper and muttered to himself about this and that (depending on what day it was, it could be anything from the economy to gay marriage laws—that last he’d
really
taken an interest in, much to my horror) and opened the newspaper. He picked up the spoon and stirred his oatmeal for a bit, blowing on it to cool it further.

And while this whole thing was happening, while my little Marlon Brando was giving the performance of his career, that vein in my forehead grew bigger and bigger, and my jaw began to ache as I ground my teeth. My eyes had never left him, not once since he’d entered the room. I knew he’d felt them on him the moment he’d walked in. I knew he’d heard Otter doing his best impersonation of what it must sound like to be murdered by laughter. And through it all, Tyson McKenna’s face remained bland and passive, as if he were unaware of his surroundings.

I cleared my throat.
He flipped a page in the newspaper.
I cleared my throat again, louder this time, and it came out like a growl. He took a bite of oatmeal, hissing a little bit as if it was still too hot.

I cleared my throat yet again, not so much a growl as me sounding like I was trying to start a lawn mower unsuccessfully.

He went back to the newspaper and said, “Gee, Papa Bear, I sure hope you’re not coming down with something. Especially since it’s so close to the Big Move (It’s About Time).”

“Kid,” I said through gritted teeth.

Otter looked back and forth between us, that crooked grin on full display, the gold and green in his eyes shining brightly. I made a mental note to kill him later.

“Oh, look,” Ty said, “Newt Gingrich made himself appear crazy again. Bless his heart. You’d think he’d know by now that he’s better seen and not heard.” He paused. “Well, maybe not even seen.”

“Kid,” I said louder, sharper.

“And the weather! Well, I never! The extended seven-day forecast says there’s a 40 percent chance of rain
every day
? I shall have to remember to take an umbrella when I have my engagements.”

“Tyson James McKenna!” I shouted.

He calmly folded the newspaper and laid it down on the table before folding his hands in front of him and finally looking at me. “I’ve noticed,” he said seriously, “that when people don’t have anything meaningful to add to a conversation, they usually just raise their volume.”

I didn’t get it, so I dismissed it. I figured he was insulting me somehow. “
What… in all that’s holy… are you wearing
?” I ground out. Quite loudly.

His eyes widened in surprise as he looked down then back up at me. He glanced at Otter as well, a look of gentle confusion on his face. I could hear Otter starting to lose it again, and I knew I needed to end this now.

“What are you talking about, Bear?” the Kid asked me. “I’m wearing clothes. It’s a thing people do. It’s kind of a societal norm.” He paused for a moment, his face scrunching up. “Well, except for nudists. Did you know that they have resorts where people can go and just walk around naked? CNN did this in-depth investigative report on one, something about how the main nudist dude was embezzling from other nudists or whatever, and for the life of me, I just can’t see the appeal in that, because it seems like it’d be kind of gross to have to stare at people’s dangly parts all day while you’re playing shuffleboard and sipping mimosas. I mean, what if you wanted to eat a veggie corn dog? The visual alone must be enough to make you ill. And don’t get me started on other phallic foods. You’d think Mother Nature was a nympho with how many foods are shaped like penises.”

“Tyson—” I said again, starting to stand, knowing if I didn’t end this now, he’d likely go on all day.

“What are swingers?” he asked, cutting me off.
Otter broke and started hyperventilating. Big help, that one. “Are you out of your mind?” I shouted at the Kid.

“It’s true!” he shouted back. “There are so many foods that look like dongs!”

“That’s not what I’m talking about!”
“Then spit it out! I’m not psychic, Bear!”
“You can’t wear that shirt!”

He glanced down at it, then back up at me, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Why?” he asked. “Worried the soul of that cow you consumed last night won’t allow you to reach your full potential?” He looked over at Otter and reached out to pat his hands. “I’m so sorry,” he said quietly. “You must be so bored by now. You know.
In the bedroom
.” This last part came out as a whisper.

“Hey! He eats meat too,” I reminded the both of them angrily, as Otter looked like he had just been given the Nobel Prize for Awesomeness. “He does,” the Kid agreed. “But he at least has the common sense to feel guilty about it afterwards.”

“I do,” Otter whispered. “Sometimes, it’s hard for me to get to sleep at night, knowing the next morning I’ll be eating a big pile of bacon while I cry.”

“Oh, Otter,” the Kid sighed greatly, the weight of the world on his shoulders. “If only there was a vegetarian church where you could go confess and be absolved of your meat sins.”

“Like the Church of Edamame?”
“Church of Tofu?”
“Church of—”

“So help me God, I will punish the both of you,” I growled, ignoring the smirk in the Kid’s eyes and the flare of lust in Otter’s.

“What is your major malfunction?” the Kid asked. He and Otter had recently watched
Full Metal Jacket,
and Tyson had thought Gunnery Sergeant Hartman was God. He asked me that question at least six times a day now. I told Otter he was never allowed to pick out movies ever again. Otter had just grinned and told me to shut up.

“You can’t wear a shirt that talks about sex!”
“Who says?”
“I do! You’re nine years old!”

“Oh, please. I’m not wearing it because
I
have sex. I’m wearing it because it’s a proven fact. And I’m nine and one-quarter. That’s practically ten. Double digits, Papa Bear.”

“Proven by who?” I asked suspiciously.
He looked at me as if I was stupid. “PETA.”

I was incredulous. “PETA said that?
PETA
? Tyson, that’s like the NRA saying guns don’t kill people, that people kill people. Of
course
they say that!”