What Curiosity Kills (5 page)

  "Oh. No. You. Di'hint!"

  I don't say a word. I slide down the wall, sit on the bath mat, and wait for her to fall back asleep.

  But I fall asleep instead.

***

In the morning, I wake up with her towel balled beneath my cheek and her knuckles rapping against the bathroom door.

  "I'll be out in a minute!"

  Octavia says, "You've been in there all night! You know I need my sleep. I can't believe you woke me up."

  "You woke yourself up! I came in here to get away from you. All night long, you were going on and on with your dream debate. Harry Potter encourages the occult. Hogwarts promote
s
cohabitation and thus promiscuity. When Hermione gives herself a cat
face, it means she has her period.

  "Oh, my God." My sister's voice lowers. "What else did I say?"

  Other than witch, Octavia said nothing else. Fortunately, this

one time, her debate topic is something I can fake my way through. I've never read Harry Potter, and Octavia knows this. But I've watched the movie trailers. And when it comes to book banning, I've seen my fair share. Burning books in Alabama is as popular as four-wheeling. When I lived there, you could forget about getting your hands on a copy of Ar
e
You There God? It's Me, Margaret
. In the Bible belt, Judy Blume and J. K. Rowling are interchangeable. Their novels, along with any censored author's, contain one or more of the three M's:
m
agic, sexual mischief, or menstruation.

  I hold my breath. There's no response. It's a pretty big moment: for the first time in our lives together, not only have I out-debated Octavia, but I have made her believe a complete and utter lie.

  I turn on the shower and get in.

  Now, this isn't one of those stories where I tell myself last night was all a bad dream—the whole thing with the mice and the cat and the fur, I mean. And I'm not going to stick my face in the shower spray, wash my hair, and go all Herbal Essence, then glance down at my legs, see that orange fluff, do a double take, and think, Or was it? The fur is there. I sense the patch like a headless pimple. There is a constant pressure of something foreign working its way out of my skin.

  I grab my razor. I don't bother to lather up. I shave, swiping from ankle to knee. The Bic triple blades stick. I jerk the clogged razor away from my shin. The disposable head breaks off. It clatters and slides toward the drain. Instead of touching the fur myself, I examine it with the dull, curved, pink plastic handle.

  The patch on my shin has not grown. The fine orange fuzz flattens under the water. Narrow strips of skin are visible between wet orange clumps. The stringy diagonal line on my left foot is also unchanged.

  I decide then and there not to tell Octavia what's happened to me.

  Why? Because Octavia will tell our parents. Hey, if the situation were reversed, I would too. It's what a good sister does when the other sister's in trouble. In the past, trouble meant passing out on a Pilates mat or getting harassed by a racist gym coach; trouble with Ling Ling or trouble understanding
The Yellow Wallpaper
in Fem Lit; troubles that could be dealt with or disregarded. Our parents are good at distinguishing which is which. But my current trouble is something they never bargained for when they adopted me. They were ready for acting out, for testing them, for the rebellion that will never happen. But this is worse than teen pregnancy. I let a strange, diseased cat into our house. I got myself sick. The fur is my fault. Hopefully, I can get rid of it before anyone notices. I'm not ready to show my parents the kind of freak I really am.

  I mask the evidence with knee socks and put on the rest of my school uniform. When I come out of my bedroom, I find Octavia at the dining table, sitting before a tray full of small glasses of orange juice. Mom is sitting across from her with a notepad.

  "Mary, look at you, all dressed and ready for school!" Mom believes if I look good, I am good. She's trying to forget my fever last night. Plus, she's convinced there's nothing a healthy breakfast won't cure. She asks, "Are you feeling well enough to help your sister pick the orange juice with the arsenic?"

  Octavia gives me the same
can-you-believe-this?
look that the twins give us when their mother comes home with a face full of fresh Botox. I shrug. Everybody's parents are weird in their own ways.

  Our mother is a cozy mystery writer. Cozies are for whodunit readers who like to cozy up with a good, not too graphically violent book about everyday heroines falling ass-backward into scenes of crimes. There's usually a pet involved, at least one love interest, and always a wacky best friend. Mom's amateur sleuth is Rebecca Starling, and her novels are set in 1930s Hollywood. Mom yearns for the return of girdles and white gloves. Marilyn Stasio, mystery-book critic for the New York Times Book Review, once wrote that Mom was better at describing what dead bodies wear than their causes of death. Since then, Mom has tested out methods to get away with murder.

  She informs my sister and me that arsenic has an almond aftertaste and wants to know if we can taste the almond extract through the acidity of the OJ.

  Octavia says to me, "Come on, belly up to the bar."

  Happy to be distracted from my own troubles, I pick up a glass and take a sip.

In gym class, Fridays are for noncompetitive cardio. Just for fun, Coach calls it. My idea of fun is staying put on the bleachers with Marjorie, Mags, and Octavia. Coach's idea of fun is anything she might have done at summer sports camp when the fields were rained out—emphasis on anything. Crab soccer, single-sex square dancing, you name it. Today is parachute day.

  Nick Martin (yes,
the
Nick Martin) and Ben Strong have doctors' notes excusing them from further rope-climbing in the boys' gym, so they help our coach carry in an extralarge, folded parachute. The machismo of the boys' coach is legendary. Ling Ling Lebowitz has made a nice little business writing phony get-out-of-gym-free notes on her pediatrician mom's prescription pad. She sells or barters the notes to boys who aren't in peak physical shape or in the mood to hear their coach threaten to rip off their heads and take a dump down their necks.

  Despite what his name might imply, Ben Strong is scrawny. His shorts reveal shredded inner thighs and calves from the many times his coach bullied him into climbing the rope. Nick's legs look okay to me—better than okay. So does the rest of him. What's he even doing here? Didn't he get what he needed from Ling Ling last night? I try not to stare.

  Marjorie mutters, "Nick's eyes are bloodshot."

  Octavia offers an explanation: "Recurring pinkeye."

  "He doesn't have pinkeye," I say. "He was out late."

  "How would you know?"

  "Isn't everyone out late besides us?"

  I'm not going to tell the girls about spying on Nick and Ling Ling by the bus stop. If I tell them, they'll ask me what the two of them were doing. I'll have to describe Ling Ling wrapped in Nick's arms. I'll have to admit there's something so alluring about her that Nick was willing to share her with three other boys. I'll ramble on about the connection I felt to him when he couldn't possibly have known he was looking at me. I'll tell them about the deli cat. About my shin and my foot. I'll spill my guts out for everyone to see. Thanks but no thanks. I'll keep myself to myself.

  The boys lay the parachute across most of the gym floor, stretching it out in a humongous circle. Judging from their huffing and puffing, it's heavy—the type of chute used to drop a year's worth of supplies to missionaries in the middle of nowhere. Mustard yellow, it's painted with the world's largest Have-a-Nice-Day face.

  I take a position in front of a big, black dot eye. Marjorie and Mags stand to my right. Octavia stands to my left. Ling Ling is across from us, centered in front of the no-lipped smile. Other girls fill in the arcs in between. When Coach blows her whistle, we bend over and grab hold of the thick seam.

  Coach cries, "Shake it, ladies!"

  Gripping the seam at our hips, we move our arms up and down, up and down, fast, like we're fanning flames. The parachute flaps, the happy face warps, and the beating material fills the gym with claps of thunder. It is such ludicrous exercise that we crack up. We feel ten years old, except everyone's boobs are shaking, and those of us who don't have boobs stand out even more.

  Ling Ling's hard, round B-cups are so vacuous, the cups dent. Flapping, she has no real breasts to stop the underwire from riding up. Her faux breasts are at her neck. She has no idea what's happened, and smiles at the boys. Ben gawks. Nick avoids the spectacle that is Ling Ling by focusing on the faded squares on the wall where team photos and plaques used to hang before sports were banned. Even though most of us girls don't like Ling Ling, we are mortified for her. That is, all of us except for Octavia, who looks like she thinks Ling Ling's getting the fate she deserves. My sister's just as flat-chested as Ling Ling and me but opts for camisoles instead of not-sowonderful bras to avoid such a scenario. How long have we been shaking this thing?

  "My arms are killing me!" I shout.

  "Your arms?" shouts Coach, who's walking massive circles around us and has timed it perfectly to hear me complain. "In those dress socks, you should worry about the pain your nose is going to be in, Mary Richards!"

  To avoid exposing my fuzzy shin and foot when changing for gym class, I'd said I left my gym socks at home. To avoid using a pair of extras the coach keeps in a wicker basket on the corner of her desk, I swore I'd rather die. The coach has no patience for hysterics. As long as I participated in today's activities, she claimed that she didn't care if I worked out in my plaid skirt and cardigan. I didn't go that far. I'm flapping my arms like crazy in white shorts and a Purser-Lilley T-shirt. I'm in sneakers. Only my socks aren't athletic. Sweat has soaked through the wool.

  Coach says, "Put some muscle into it, ladies! Up and over!"

  We lift the parachute over our heads and then twist and drop to our knees, bringing the rim of the parachute to the floor so we are encapsulated in a stuffy, echoing igloo. We beat the seam against the unused (but twice-monthly waxed) basketball court. Above us, the parachute wavers like a jaundiced jellyfish.

  "All together, ladies!" The coach blows her whistle.
Tweet
tweet, tweet-tweet!
"Keep tempo with your neighbor!"

  Nick's shadow is cast against the parachute. He's right in front of me. I know it's him. Ben's shadow would be skinnier. The coach's would have an outline of a discontinued Purser-Lilley softball cap and a clipboard. If I took one hand off the seam and pressed my fingers against the parachute, I could touch Nick. Before I work up the courage, I'm struck in the head.

  I topple backward. The parachute seam gaps in my empty spot. Laid out, I glimpse Nick's sneakers: red Chuck Taylor high tops, laces undone.

  Octavia turns around to help me up, and her head and shoulders graze the underside of the parachute.

  Coach shouts: "Ladies, back in place! Pump those arms! Keep the parachute up! Gentlemen, do not throw the tennis balls directly at the ladies! This isn't dodge ball! Your directive is to make the parachute collapse! Throw the tennis balls at the top, along the sides, above the ladies' heads! We may not be allowed to play tennis at this school, but by God, we will use the sports equipment your parents' good money once paid for! These are perfectly good tennis balls! Put 'em in the air!"

  
Tweet-tweet!

  A hailstorm of tennis balls pummels the parachute. Nick's shadow hurls the balls and then chases after them when they bounce off. Ben's shadow whips by, throwing double-handed while he's in motion. He collects two balls with each hand every time he bends over. When he throws them, they split in four different directions, but all four balls strike the parachute. Ben moves so fast that if his pipe cleaner–thin thighs weren't so far apart, they'd chafe.

  Octavia marvels, "Who knew he had it in him?" She stretches her arms wide to cover my place.

  I scoot to the center. Don't ask me why. It's a rare opportunity and a cool thing to do. The world's largest Have-a-Nice-Day face warbles high above me as the rest of the girls struggle to keep it inflated. Elbows pump like pistons. Knuckles bang against the floor. I'm inside a stove-top Jiffy Pop popper, but the popcorn's on the outside. Tennis balls keep coming. Girls have sunk from their knees onto their butts. Ponytails stick to damp T-shirts. Everyone's back is to me. No one besides my sister knows where I am until the coach shouts, "Cease fire! Cease fire! Ladies, up and over!"

  Girls scramble to their feet, swing the parachute above their heads, and toss it backward so it will plunge to land at their heels. As the parachute descends upon me, I spy Nick spy me. My panic registers on his face. Before everything goes black (or mustard yellow, to be exact), he falls forward into a pushup position and rolls toward me, under the seam, before the parachute hits the floor.

  We're covered. Trapped. Nick clutches my wrist.

  I turn my head but don't see him. The deflated parachute has filled in the space between us. There is not a lot of air. I won't waste my breath. I wriggle my wrist to signal him that I'm okay.

  The coach blows her whistle: three short tweets, then three long, then three short. Maybe she thinks all Purser-Lilley kids spend weekends watching Turner Classic Movies and learned Morse code for SOS from Inspector Poirot in Death
on the Nile. It doesn't take the coach long to figure out that i
n case of emergency, her students only know how to respond by whipping out their cell phones. If I suffocate, I bet Ling Ling will use my death to spearhead a movement to get cell phones reinstated.