Chapter 2: Blooming Backwards

“And what made me think we'd last forever? Was I so naïve? Of course it all unweaves."

~XTC, “The Wheel and the Maypole"

I recently listened to a podcast on asexuality; the interviewees said that, in spite of never had any sexual interest in other people, they still felt arousal at things like immobility by tar pits. They weren't furries, but honestly, that's the great thing about being a furry. Once you're the number one acceptable target for insult comedy on the web, any other “embarrassing" traits you might have pale in comparison.

I myself am asexual. Look at the recurring specialty themes in my favorites tab, and that's as intimate as it ever gets. These personal accounts are as intimate as it ever gets. Yes, I have intimacy problems, and I first learned about them from a girl named Cecilia Perez.

Hold the phone… I left the last story on a cliffhanger. I told Simon I liked the look of my pocket knife, and I made him think that I was going to stab somebody. Well, I didn't. I think my claws would have come out a little more if that had been my intention. I think my nose would have flattened and swollen up or my ears would have become prickly. I wanted to show how angry I was without actually admitting to anger. I couldn't let him in on my anger. Friendships end when facing anger.

I think I owe the events leading up to that knife remark a little more attention. 2005, BARF youth. Auria and I walked through the door, saw the name in big green droopy lettering, and some guy tried to impress the girls in the room by upchucking. He didn't succeed, but he did manage a pretty good gag. He was tall, sinewy, and had a faint resemblance to Matt Damon.

“This guy must be the group heart-throb," mumbled Auria. “Well, you take what you can get. Shall I get a mop?" She said this out loud. I took a seat at a table where two guys arm wrestled while a girl sat unimpressed over the matter. The guy on my right wore a plaid, short-sleeved button-up jacket. He was blonde and baby-eyed, compensated by his pronounced biceps. The guy on my left had dark moppy hair. Considering the stalemate, he was probably built for arm wrestling, but his teenage muscularity was obscured by a nylon jacket.

My first thought was how boring arm wrestling matches are to watch. This weary specta-ting girl they were fighting over seemed to agree.

“For Pete's sake, let me show you how it's done."

She shoved nylon John out of the way and nearly turned the table over conquering blonde Ron's arm.

“Um… yay women's lib?" I said.

She had a sandy complexion with a straight, flat nose. Her hair was tied in a long braided pony tail that dropped to her hips. Her arms were rather impressive and everything below her waist was well-supplied. Her jeans, though baggy, couldn't hide the muscle. Everything on her torso, however, was modest. In contrast to her limbs, her belly and breasts didn't have much to speak of. I wondered if she'd won the match with mere surprise.

I caught myself sizing her up and switched my staring to the guy on the floor. He picked himself up and brushed off his jacket.

“Point taken, we'll just go wrestle over Lin."

But there would be no fighting over Lin, because the youth administrator, Bernard, walked in the door to do his nightly shtick, which in this case was to pretend to pull off his thumb or something. Then he led us to a room with metal chairs and gave a little lecture about judging based on appearance. Much less exciting than watching a girl interrupt a guy contest to compete herself.

After some octogenarian gave a little speech about how she “found Christ" after her husband left her, we walked to the auditorium for another sermon. I approached the arm-wrestling girl for a conversation.

“So, Barf. Just who came up with that name?"

“Ssshh! Wait 'til we're out of earshot."

I turned around. Damn, we really were still in earshot. Bernard was putting away metal chairs with a few of his peers. I checked his face for any sign that he'd heard me, and then I asked again.

“What does it mean?"

“I don't really pay attention. I've got important things on my mind."

“Really? I've got more important things on my mind too. I never expected we'd have so much in common. We could be twins!"

“Well, my Adam's apple isn't growing a beard."

The barfing boy broke in.

“What do you know, Cecilia? You don't have an Adam's apple."

I felt around my throat. Yes, there was a patch of fur there. I was tempted to skip church and hide in the bathroom, but I wasn't prepared to make up an excuse. Cecilia said something about having an “Eve's apple" instead, and the guy who'd cut me out guffawed.

“Shh! Ty, not so loud."

I really thought that she'd accept me. After all, I wasn't the one treating her like a trophy. I had the feeling that if I got on anyone's bad side, then peeling my name off their personal “naughty list" would be next to impossible. I'd already done that when I was thirteen. I used to be a bully. A physical one. And I was among the scrawniest kids, so that made me among the dumbest. Or at least, the street-dumbest.

I wouldn't let that happen again. I wouldn't become the “bad kid." Solution? Next time I have something critical to say about “Barf," say it to a guy. Guys don't flirt around here.

*

The Church itself, “Trinity Baptist," was our permanent choice after my parents got sick of hopping. That first night at Barf, a woman named Lisa Perez invited my family over for dinner. Given my recent skin revelation to Cecilia, I was reluctant to do anything Trinity-related, and I said so to mom. She sent Auria after me.

“Come on, it'll be good for your social life."

“My social life is just fine, thanks." I was at my bedroom desk at the time. “Besides, if I won't go on mom's orders, what makes you think I'll go on yours?"

“They've got horses." She left.

“And just how's that supposed to convince me to go?"

“It isn't." Dad stepped out from the shadows. I knew I was going to get it, but, like, what is he, Batman? “You're going, because you'll learn to make a good first impression."

“But I am making a good first impression." I held up my drawing of Yoshi diving head first into a vat of spaghetti. “I'm showing them I have a wonderful work ethic."

He sat on my bed and gave me the Kubric stare. “Are you going or not?"

I saved my pride by telling myself that I agreed to go because I was curious about the horses. That's not true. I was afraid of what would happen if I said no. I think that Dad was fully aware of that. Here's the thing; my Dad used to play college football. He had quit after failing to take over the coach's job, but not before collecting a fair amount of muscle. His desk job wea-thered away much of his muscle mass and turned it to fat. He could still have overpowered the average person, though. Even the above average person and, while we're at it, the above above average person.

And don't get me started on his face: There was something of the Bush dynasty in there. His brow enjoyed quite a bit of that athletic musculature while his brown eyes gave off a deceit-ful tenderness. A kempt pad of gray hair and a few soft wrinkles stemming from his temples told of an equally dishonest warmth. Behind a shell of ersatz warmth was a forceful brutality, one that he wasn't afraid to set free.

“Fine, I'll go."

“Good." He stood and patted my shoulder. I watched him leave, and I swear I saw a bit of disappointment in his face. I think he was checking my shoulder for muscle development. I think he was affirming to himself just how little of a man I was. Well… all I can say is, he was right.

I put that out of my mind on the way over. The Perez livestock industry was truly something to marvel at. They had horses, as Auria promised. They also had cattle, sheep, and chickens. I had my headphones in. I couldn't concentrate on not thinking about Dad's victory without the help of pop music. I might have even forgotten I had awful family members if Dez hadn't kept poking me.

“What's with all those fat cartoons?"

I took off my headphones. “What?"

“Those fat cartoons on your computer. What's with them?"

“None of your business."

And then she screamed at me and stomped her foot, demanding an answer.

“Quiet back there!" Yelled Dad. “Desiré, if you can't behave yourself, I'm taking my belt off when I get home."

Wow, Dad's going after one of the other kids. It's about time.

“Don't you dare threaten my daughter."

Wow, Mom's going after Dad. It's about time.

I think she might have even pinched him. She reached over; I couldn't really tell, as dark as it was inside the car. At any rate, she touched him in a way that calmed him down for the moment, although he did come back with, “She's my daughter too."

All of the barn houses and silos we'd passed dwarfed the actual Perez residence. A border collie and a Labrador were the first to meet us. After verifying our scent, they peed on our tire and Mrs. Perez came out to greet us. I knew Dad was angry about the tire. He stared in disbelief as the dog ignored the fact that this was a big red Mercedes in perfect condition. He'd take it out on the rest of us later. For the moment, he'd have to keep it balled up while he made a good first impression.

Mrs. Perez led us into the living room, and the first person I saw was Cecilia. She didn't give me more than a fleeting glance before beckoning Auria over. At the time, I supposed this must have something to do with the boy/girl segregation phase we all go through when we're kids, but there would be no joke flirting tonight, that's for sure.

Mr. and Mrs. Perez didn't have any sons. Cecilia was the youngest of three girls. Marlina was Auria's age. Sabrina was in California studying forensic anthropology. There were some other girls from Barf youth there, but they scampered back to the bedrooms to do who-knows-what. Dad got hooked into a theological conversation with Mr. Perez, who seemed to believe that God had led him to marry Lisa Woods so that her white Protestantism would spread to his home country. This all left me to babysit.

We couldn't play a board game, because Dez likes to catapult the pieces all over the room. We couldn't play with crayons, because in her opinion, the walls make the best canvas. And we couldn't play one of those shut-up-and-sit-still games, because when has that ever worked? So I took her for a walk around the fields without permission. My parent's permission, that is. I asked Mrs. Perez if it would be okay if we took a look at the horses. She said yes, so that was all the permission I needed.

It took a few moments for our eyes to adjust. Our skin, for that matter, got a little goosey. This was late in November, when it got dark and cold early. I didn't bother to grab our jackets on the way out because that would slow me down and increase my chances of getting caught. Dez wanted to go back inside, but I dragged her to the fence.

“Look, brat brain, you obviously stuck your nose in my private computer files. I'm sorry if you're cold, but anyone who noses around deserves it. Besides, I'm doing you a favor. Horses, remember?"

“Horses in the cold are no fun."

She bit my wrist and made a run for the pond down the hill. She sat there and sulked, attracting the curiosity of the dogs.

“So you got roped into babysitting?"

I turned and saw one of the girls heading my way. I couldn't tell who it was at first; obviously one of the Perez girls, I just wasn't sure which one.

“Cecilia? Is that you? Why aren't you hanging out with my sister? Or… our sisters and the rest?"

“Tuh, who cares. I'm not into all that girly stuff."

I know I'd promised myself no flirt-snarks, so I folded my arms and gave her a get lost-snark. “I suppose your more into all that 'join-forces-with-bitch-baby-sisters-and-torture-the-babysitter' stuff."

“I've scarred babysitters by myself before, so I don't need your 'bitch baby sister' for that. Or your bimbo sister, either."

Maybe I should have apologized for swearing at a girl I barely knew. Maybe I should have defended Auria's honor. Maybe I should have admitted that I had a bad attitude because I never wanted to come over in the first place and asked where her terrible attitude came from. I was, in fact, about to go with option number three, but I felt something strange happening to my ears and nose. Something visible to Cecilia, for she squinted and stared at me like Roz scruti-nizing Mike Wazowski for his paperwork negligence.

I went with option four; change the subject fast.

“Say, what are those dogs' names?"

I pointed and Cecilia turned. I think I caught her off guard. She actually answered my question.

“Buzz and Falcon. They're herding… wait…" she turned back to me. “Really? You're going to save face by blurting out questions like that?" She shook her head and snickered. “You're terrible at being a teenage boy."

Like I don't get that message all the time from my dad. “Said the girl who broke up an arm-wrestling match by joining it."

This surprised her. I'm an otherwise sensitive guy, but whenever I met somebody I didn't like, I took a little joy out of offending them. After all, doesn't femininity ring from every letter of the name “Cecilia?" Any “Cecilia" who wins an arm-wrestling match just isn't living up to her name.

The problem was, Cecilia knew it.

“I'm not aspiring to be a teenage girl." She looked at me square in the eyes. “I know what that looks like. I have two older sisters. I want to be a medical scientist."

“Okay, great." So much for the wind in my sails. “Well, I'm not aspiring to be a teenage boy because I already am one. And excuse me for being an over-analytical prick, but I don't see what being raised on a farm has to do with wanting to be any kind of scientist."

She dropped her stare. “I don't either."

She turned away completely, and I realized that winning this dumb argument was not much to brag about. She turned sideways, and I found myself sizing her up again. The lower half of her body seemed to have grown. I hate to sound like a voyeur, but her butt looked like it tested the limits of her jeans. And her legs! I swear to God, they were doubling in depth, emancipating either side from the seam.

“Hey, uh…" I said, more to take my eyes off her legs than anything else. “Your mom gives out horse riding lessons, doesn't she?"

*

That was the first of several weekly family-oriented activities. The pattern was usually the same. I'd fail to weasel my way out of going, get stuck watching Dez once we got there, and then sneak out to look at the horses. After the first two weeks, Buzz and Falcon developed a fear of Dez, so they began inspecting me instead. Once December came we'd had to pile together in a mutual blanket to keep warm.

Sometime after Christmas break, I told Simon about the evening festivities, how it was pretty much an all-girl situation. I'd been holding off because we Baptist-raised kids tend to hit the berserk button if we bring up the subject of romance to our superiors. Suggest that you might have a crush, and you'll instantly hear a series of horror stories about STDs and teen pregnancy. When I talked to Simon, I wanted to be open. I told him nearly everything short of Cecilia's butt growth. In fact, I left out Cecilia altogether. If he had a beef with the “Barf" comics, he'd certainly latch onto this as something to preach about.

jechoes90: I think Mrs. Perez has noticed I don't stick around.

shathiscan76: Yeah, who'd want to with all that ruckus.

jechoes90: She asked me one evening if I was interested in riding horses. I said no, but who knows?

shathiscan76: That sounds like a great idea! You should try it. Trying new things is what helps people grow.

jechoes90: Go grow a tumor.

Every time Simon said something like that, I closed the message window and logged out as a way of giving him what for. Then I'd peruse YouTube for inflation cartoons, only to find the same ones I'd seen about a dozen times.

It might be worth mentioning that the first clip to ever turn me on hadn't been uploaded. The video tape I'd seen it on had been destroyed, and I was about four when I saw it. I learned that God will never warn you before he punishes you, that there is an abstract set of principles that he expects you to know beforehand, and if you miss those principles, you're dead. I didn't learn not to show off, like the writers supposedly intended. I showed off my drawings all the damn time to both my friends and complete strangers.

I gradually developed the idea that perhaps I was using the internet to block off real social relationships; the kind where I could punch people who told me to “try new things." As we fell into place at Trinity, my parents and I reached a stalemate over whether or not I should take up farm work. I got to know my peers a little better, although I never invited them over or went to any party that wasn't a family event. They were all pretty much divided by school choices; homeschooled kids would mingle at a domestic event, public schooled kids would cajole with their friends independently. Homeschoolers hung out at home, public school-ers hung out in public.

So as somebody who enjoyed neither attending social events nor hosting them, I figured doing chores on somebody else's property was a decent middle ground. It was either that or joining the football team, and I certainly wasn't going to have a bunch of sweaty bro'ntosauruses dog pile on me while Dad lectured me about being a real man.

To my surprise, it was not Mrs. Perez who would be showing me the ropes. She was nowhere around when my mom dropped me off at the ranch. The person who greeted me was this elderly woman leading a horse. “Ain't got your driver's license yet? Heck, you don't need one where you're going anyhow."

Cecilia led a horse of her own at a distance. “My grandmother, Gail Woods. And just to be clear, I'm only here to pretend to have quality time with her. It'll shut my mom up."

“Damn, well I'm here to shut my mom up."

She snorted. “Don't force me to shut you up."

I was almost certain I was going to be shoveling hay or shearing sheep or milking cows. I watched as they hooked their horses up to a couple of posts, and then Mrs. Woods introduced me to my pony, a gray-coated geyser who looked like he'd doused a jug of Nyquil. All throughout the saddling process, I was a little uneasy. I'd been caught goofing around when I should have been working before, and when a Trinity dad came pushing a wheelbarrow from the cow pasture, I thought this would all come to surface as a prank.

“Hey, um, you're Missy's dad, aren't you?"

 “Unfortunately." Mr. Hogan set the wheelbarrow down and dropped a pad of hay into it. “Can't get my kids to help me with squat."

I turned around to see Mrs. Woods digging through the supply closet. “Hey, um, this is my first day here. I thought I was supposed to help with farm chores, but Mrs. Perez's mother wants to take me for a ride. Not complaining, just a little confused."

He shrugged. “Ever used a milking pump?"

“Well, not yet, but if you ever need me…" I had never intended to get this involved. I was offering my services without consulting Mom or Dad. Doing anything outside their approval was alien territory to me, but the whole point of being here was to get me out of the house, right? “If you ever need me, I'm always stuck at home. I'd do anything just that my mom and my sisters aren't looking over my shoulder all day."

That brightened his eyes a little. “I like the sound of that. Well, I'll have to see how committed you are," he glanced at Cecilia, who returned the look. “You staying past six?"

“I could, but I'll have to check with my parents."

“No, no, no. How old are you, son?"

“I'm about to become sixteen."

“You've got to own your commitments. You can't wait around, checking with your folks on every last thing you say you'll do."

“What's holding you up, boy?" Mrs. Woods came along and clapped me on the shoulder. “Vern, you got your own kids. Put them to work, why don't you?"

Mr. Hogan darkened his gaze upon Mrs. Woods. “Because the call of the I.T. department was just too much for them."

I saw skin and muscle shift around both adults' faces, although I couldn't tell whether or not this phenomenon was of the same nature as my own sudden mutations. I looked back at Cecilia, who'd already mounted her horse. She gave me the look that said, “hurry it up," and I intervened in the argument.

“Say, uh, I've got his hooves all clear," I said. “I'm not sure about how to put the saddle on, though. Could you show me?"

“It's half the reason I'm here," said Mrs. Woods.

Before I could follow her to the supply closet, Mr. Hogan caught me by the arm. “Remember, never let your folks have the 'amen' when you live your life. Only you can have that." He took the wheelbarrow and left.

Those are not the kinds of words that I ever expected to hear from a parent, much less a Baptist parent. Of everything that could drive a church apart, encouraging disagreement between parents and children was most effective. I myself was a closeted rebel, and I suspected Cecilia might be the same. She'd have had a harder time doing so with so much royal rural blood behind her, but this country business might just have been the opportunity I'd been waiting for. Bonus points for being ironic: here they thought I was being so cooperative when I was really taking the first step towards ditching the family.

*

It didn't take long for me to take Mr. Hogan's advice. Throughout the Spring, farm obligations overtook those of the family, and without any input from my parents. I still had school to do; there was no getting out of that. But there was no denying that I was learning more from my time on the farm than my textbooks, something Mom never caught onto.

Sometime in March, I'd taken on the herd by myself. Mr. Hogan had to deal with a sick goat, and Mrs. Woods had jury duty. The modern way of milking a cow involves attaching a quartet of suction valves to the teats, which suck the milk into a bucket with the help of an oscillation pump. There were ten cows I could milk simultaneously, and there were twenty-eight in the pasture altogether, so even with assistance, I had to scramble around, making sure nobody kicked the valves off her teats and, if at all possible, catching cow feces with a shovel.

On this particular evening, I'd come over to get out of a dinner party at someone else's house. The Canondrews were another part of the cowboy community, but they overlapped with that brand of homeschooled Christians whose chief goal in life was to recruit “sinners" via cultural alienation. Hell, even Auria hated them. One of their daughters caught her reading The Talented Mr. Ripley, asked her if the author was saved, then ran through a list of books that supposedly would make her holier.

Anyway, here I was, scrambling around, kicking up cow dung and wasting diaper wipe after diaper wipe. I was on the second round of cows when I ran out of wipes and wondered aloud why they couldn't keep a full drawer of wipes at all times.

“Oh, but we do." Cecilia showed up. She handed me a much-needed wipe canister, and I disinfected the stray valve.

“I'm so glad you're not one of the Canondrews."

She gagged. Then, after I stuck the valve back on, she said, “That's the first compliment I've ever heard from you."

“What, that you're not the last person I want helping me?" I saw another cow raise its tail and I grabbed the shovel. “It was either this crap-filled evening or another. I just picked the one involving animals."

“The Canondrews have animals. Their grandmother trains dogs."

“I was referring to moral crap," I said, struggling to hold the shovel upright under the weight of a five pound cow patty. “Just how many kids do those people have?"

“I lost count after nine."

“And they're all self-appointed home missionaries?"

She didn't understand. I told her about the Mr. Ripley incident, and she came back with a juicier story about how all the older sisters got caught writing Bible verses in graffiti around town in an attempt to witness to the hoodlum community.

“Damn, they should really get to know my friend Simon. He'd leave his wife to marry that bunch in an instant." I then realized she'd never met or even heard of Simon before. I found out immediately just how hard it was to convey the aggravation of minor annoyances caused by people no one else has met. Cecilia gave me a confused look, and I scooted away with the loaded shovel.

After I dumped the load over the fence, I noticed my fingers getting a bit webby, as though my fingers fell in love with their neighbors and they all wanted to hold hands, only instead hands, they only had skin to hold. This skin came up to my knuckles. Cecilia, for the moment, was tending to one of the cows, detaching the valves from its udder. I thought of a way to shift the conversation towards something more substantial, so I returned the shovel and said, “What kind of dogs does Mrs. Canondrew have?"

“Herding dogs, hunting dogs, anything with speed."

“Speed? What, does she raise dogs or cars?"

“The Canondrews don't even own cars." Cecilia dumped the milk into a pasteurization bucket. The milk bucket itself didn't have a handle, and combined with the milk, it weighed about twenty pounds. Invoking the full power of her arm muscles made the otherwise dormant bicep and tricep lines something to marvel at. Then I snapped to and remembered I still had seventeen more cows to take care of, not to mention a four inch poop pile to scoop away.

My parents showed up on our forth-to-last cow. Mom clasped her hands at the sight of me working alongside another person while Dad tried to drag a whimpering Dez over.

“Isn't it wonderful?" said Mom. “This can be such a good learning experience for you."

“It sure can," I said. “I learned that the perfect Dez repellent is a live cow."

Mom gaped at me for a moment, then turned around just in time to see Dez pick up some gravel and throw it in Dad's face. Now that she had a fight to break up, I could get back to work.

*

As my commitment to the farm grew, my dedication to school waned. This was emotion-ally trying on my mom. See, she was about to lose Auria to college. Auria had divided her senior year between finishing high school and taking college classes just as preparation. She'd charmed her way into it. Mom wasn't happy about it, but Dad was thrilled. Auria just seemed to have that magical quality over Dad that let her shirk family duty without him minding so much. Maybe she got it from Mom.

The Canondrew visits became a regular thing. They went to the church where nobody knew anything about The Legend of Zelda. I didn't have the foggiest idea what Dad expected out of these evenings, but Mom told me that Mrs. Canondrew got word of my panache for animal husbandry, and that she wanted my help in training the dogs. I accepted, thinking that this would take me even further away from the family.

It did. It also brought me closer to Cecilia, who'd already been assisting Mrs. Canondrew for months. That was a little puzzling. I can't imagine what somebody who hated an entire family so much would be helping out their grandmother for. I didn't say anything, though. I felt that there might be something cosmic going on.

My first job involved carrying a cat into this spaniel's sniffing range. If Dixie barked, I'd have to leave and wait half a minute while Cecilia tsk'd. Then I'd come in again. Dixie would bark, and I'd take the cat out. This went on until Dixie could welcome the cat within the same two feet, then she'd get a cookie.

We tried this with several other dogs, and my mind wandered to my interest in inflation cartoons. Since I'd been feeling morally conflicted, I wondered if I could eliminate my personal arousal. Maybe watch a few seconds, close the window, wait for my hormones to settle, then bring it back up. Yes, I'd feel much less guilty if I got rid of the sexual component.

“Jordan, are you out there? Come in, Tate's not barking."

I reentered the room, and if I'd been holding a younger cat, I'm sure he would have made a candy cane pole out of my arm. Tate took longer to calm than Dixie, and giving the fact that I was carrying in a cat that was either ancient or on sedative drugs, something about this classical conditioning business seemed unethical. In fact, I asked Mrs. Canondrew what the deal was.

“Herbie's my oldest cat," she explained. “The big dogs take good care of him, almost like he was their own baby."

“This doesn't include… you know, suckling, does it?"

She laughed. “Well, I think they're well past the age for that. But the thing I've seen in nature the most is how the young care so earnestly for the old. Take me, for instance. I used to dress in ribbons and Mary Janes for the couple who lived just down the block. They lost their daughter, and don't you know what a heartache that is. It all went so well before Mr. Hayes took me behind the shed, and after that, my father had the dress-up stopped."

I didn't know which parts of this story I should respond to. None of it had to do with carrying a biblically-aged cat in front of an angry dog, and I'd never had a serious conversation about death or child loss in my life. Cecilia, from the other side of the room, pointed at her head and swirled her finger around in a “cuckoo" fashion. So this was why she hung out. Mrs. Canondrew was crazy. Cecilia came to listen to this senile yet active woman regale her with historical nonsense. I could get on board with that.

Much of our dog training did involve classical conditioning. Sometimes we'd replace Herbie with a can of tuna, and sometimes instead of staying put, the dogs would have to run to the other side of the yard without getting distracted by flying tennis balls or Frisbees. Each time we went, Mrs. Canondrew would have a little more to say about her heart-breaking role play as someone else's child. She'd share other snippets of her life, how she'd interrupted a sermon with fireworks and never got caught, how she'd watched a whole crowd of men streak across railroad tracks somewhere in England; but no topic did she share more intimately or repeatedly as her make-believe time as Emily Hayes.

One night in May, the Perez's hosted a get together. It was the first night I didn't have to babysit Dez. Mom and Dad enrolled her in soccer. She had a game that night, and I decided to show my support by not going and rooting for the opposing team. Auria dropped me off, then went home to ignore her homework assignments. After I was all done wishing I could blithely neglect end-of-semester assignments like her, I joined in a game of ultimate Frisbee until Mrs. Woods announced she'd be taking us for a hayride.

Cecilia and I wound up lying next to one another while everyone else tried to make it into a shipping thing. I just wanted some more personal gossip time.

“Is it true, what Mrs. Canondrew said about pretending to be someone else's daughter?"

“I don't know. None of her grandchildren ever talk about it, and I'd sooner drown in a lake than ask her son."

I'd been checking for signs of transformation on the old lady's face. Even though most of my time was spent around other adults, the only people I'd seen change unnaturally were people close to my own age. I couldn't guess the trigger. Was it honesty? Defensiveness? Embarrass-ment? Whatever it was, anyone much younger or older than I was seemed to have more control over it. And Cecilia had noticed it.

“Do you ever notice changes in people's…" I couldn't bring myself to finish the ques-tion, partly because I didn't want to sound like a schizophrenic, partly because I was about to limit it to faces.

“Let me try," she said. “Do you think people ever scare themselves with their own secrecy?"

I didn't get it. “What's so secret about pretending to be someone else's daughter?"

“Nothing, apparently. That's why Paige looks so normal when she shares these things. I mean, filling in for the dead?" Cecilia sat upright and looked down on me. “That's big. It's big to us. Being told to stay home and keep your parents company for the rest of your life? That's not so impressive. I bet you'd see some definite changes in Paige if she accidentally revealed something like that."

“What kind of changes?"

Cecilia crossed her arms and flopped back onto the hay. “Don't be dumb."

I'd asked not out of ignorance but wishful thinking. We both knew we were thinking of our near-transformations, and we both chickened out before actually breaching the topic.

The only way to do this was to confess. If I shared something extremely embarrassing about myself, then maybe telling her I was a werewolf would be less of a challenge. I had to pick something that would really bother her, something that would make my own skin crawl and possibly give me a fever if I'd ever let it be known.

Neither one of us was talking. If we didn't say something soon, we'd both be embarrassed. We wouldn't have to confess. We'd transform into whatever animal lay hidden beneath our skins right in front of the other teens. And I couldn't let that happen.

“I'm addicted to inflation porn," I whispered.

Dammit! That could have caused enough embarrassment to blow Cecilia's butt right out of her pants. That's right, she'd be embarrassed, not me. If we were playing a game of chicken, I sure wouldn't be the one to swerve.

“What?" said Cecilia. “Don't be rude. I don't care what you're addicted to. I wouldn't be surprised, though. You never talk to anybody else."

“You don't either," I said. “You're embarrassed, right?"

I'd failed. I'd made a lousy confession that she didn't care about, and I think she got the impression that I had a crush on her and was trying to make her jealous. I was embarrassed, too embarrassed to notice whether or not I was vampiring out. If we hadn't been concealed by the evening dark, I think somebody might have pointed it out.

I wish my evening could have ended there. I phoned Auria when we got back to the house and told her the party was over. Before I left, I got an incidental pick-me-up from Mrs. Canondrew, who'd been talking to a friend of hers.

“Oh, here he is, the one I've been telling you about." She didn't introduce her friend, she merely accosted me by the shoulder and brought me in. “Only half a year in town and he's already the talk of the farm. It's a miracle we'd get a volunteer like him."

Mrs. Woods came in. “And he works like a horse. I tell you, Vernon and I nearly strangle one another for the chance to have Jordan Echoes on our side."

I was elated. For the moment, simply saying “thank you" could not have expressed the amount of pride I took in being the object of professional competition. Instead, I excused myself to wash my hands. The sensation of going from shame to pride in less than five minutes takes a lot out of you; you almost feel like a gold star turning into a trophy.

When I scooted away, I bumped into Cecilia. She blushed and turned about face before I could apologize, not for the collision but for the praise.

I feel much differently about this now that I've been through college and taken a look at all the praise I've ever received. In high school, I think my mom was much too lenient on me. There was not a lot of challenge that went into taking the kinds of tests and doing the homework that she assigned me. I think much of her parenting was designed to protect me from the challenges I'd face in the real world. That included the challenges of interacting with other people. I certainly felt something towards Cecilia, but whether there was a sexual or romantic component to it, I can't be sure, so when I say I forgot to apologize, I say so with dramatic irony. I was the one who deserved an apology. I was being treated like property.

*

I didn't see much of Cecilia around the farm. Mrs. Woods told me she'd become ob-sessed with college preparation. “You youngsters will be older than I am before you even graduate," she said. Truth be told, I was seeing Cecilia more around my sisters, especially Auria, than at the farm. She even came to Auria's graduation without any of the rest of her family. We didn't say much to one another. I'd been too squeamish from hugging people I barely knew to try and rekindle an uncertain relationship. I was rather reclusive myself, spending my interaction near my brother, but I'll get to that later.

Then came the time to return to Mrs. Canondrew. I really didn't want to hear about her job as human compensation for someone's dead daughter, but something much worse lay in store for me, and it took the form of Cynthia and Rhonda Canondrew, seated on the sofa in the living room. A large sheepdog named Sal sat at Cynthia's side.

“Where's your grandmother?" I said, assuming that they were only there because Cecilia refused to come.

“What does God think of pornography?" said Rhonda. “He hates it. God sees everything, Jordan Echoes. God sees you looking at pornography, and he hates it."

Cynthia gave her a light nudge in the elbow. “Not so fast, that's not the way to do it. Remember, tender, loving kindness, the way mom used to rebuke us."

Cynthia was the one holding the Bible, absorbing its holy mediating power. I almost suggested she hand it to Rhonda and make her less bitchy. Either one of them would chuck it at my head if I said that.

“We want to help you," said Cynthia, adopting the tone of a babysitter. “You see, pornography is sinful, and whenever we sin, we hurt God."

“Look, um… if there's a Bible study being held here, then I'm in the wrong place. Besides, it's tender loving care, not kindness."

“We know you love God," said Cynthia. “And loving God and watching porn just aren't compatible. 'Man cannot serve two masters,' as it says in Matthew 6:24."

I began to sweat. Sal looked up and snarled at me as I reached for the doorknob.

“Please stop this," I said. “You're agitating the dog… and what makes you think I look at porn? Furthermore, how is it any of your business?"

I had more to say, but Sal barked. Cynthia shushed him, and invited me to take a seat.

“No," I said. “I'm calling my mom."

“Go ahead, I bet she'd be on our side," said Rhonda. “God's on our side." Cynthia interjected to remind her that they were on God's side, rather. “Yes. And you're mom's not taking a stand against God if she knows what's good for you."

Cynthia pinched Rhonda's wrist. “Tender, loving kindness. I know he's mocking us, but didn't we mock mother when she first rebuked us?"

“You don't even think about God, do you, Jordan?" snapped Rhonda. “You're a sheep. This is all according to Satan's plan. Satan has turned you into a sheep, and you're fat for the slaughter because all you care about is porn."

I wasn't sure of their exact ages, but I did know that there was, at most, a two-year age difference between any of us. I felt as though I were going blind as I studied their faces for any trace of animal characteristics. I don't remember seeing any. I couldn't see anything unnatural, because there was nothing natural there to begin with.

I stood rigid; the power of Rhonda's religious aggression made escape impossible. Suppose they should tell my parents. What would happen to me then? Cynthia stood, took my hand and led me to the adjoining chair. The moment I sat down, Rhonda began praying. Sal dropped from his cushion and sat opposite me, daring me to make a run for it. Cynthia positioned my head to concentrate on the floor, then she herself sat down.

All I could think about was my survival. I endured it. Rhonda tried to force me to join in the prayer, and I have to say that I came out victorious there; assuming she wanted more details about what I was looking at, all I could do was mumble “I'm sorry," over and over until Mom pulled up outside.

“Mrs. Canondrew wasn't there," I said. “Her granddaughters were. They… didn't know anything about dog training."

“Is anything wrong?" Mom took her eyes off the road for a moment. I denied any bad feelings. “You would tell me if something was wrong, wouldn't you?" Sure I would. Just look at how much good that did me. Still, I gave her the answer she wanted, the answer that kept my fur from piercing through my skin.

I truly wish I could say I saw Rhonda and Cynthia get their downfall, but there are too many hateful people to preach poetic justice. I still don't know what they were doing there, why Paige never showed up, or why they thought I looked at pornography. I mean, I guess one of the other teens might have overheard me on the hayride and then spread a rumor as a joke, but I have no certainty.

Actually, I was certain of one thing: Farewell, Mrs. Canondrew. I can only hope your granddaughters won't be disappointed in the afterlife.

Still, I always had the Perez farm to fall back on. Except, well, as you know, I somehow became less desirable to Mrs. Woods and Mr. Hogan. I wonder if they'd got word that I was a porn addict. I didn't think so, because my parents never confronted me about it. That doesn't change the fact that Mrs. Woods promised to pick me up, changed her mind and sent Mrs. Canondrew instead, and the woman who thought I was such a miracle never showed up.

After I made that remark about the knife, I blocked Simon from contacting me and went to the only thing I could truly fall back on. Inflation cartoons. Not porn, mind you. Porn involved people having sex with one another. Nobody was having sex in the videos I watched, or the cartoons I drew. It was just safety, and I would never let anyone know where I was safe again.