Grows That Way (13 page)

chapter
twenty-four

“What's up?” says Logan. “I heard Franco shouting.”

Franco whips his hand away from mine. “Tell him nothing,” he whispers.

Logan's eyes are on me as he hesitates at the top of the stairs, his face a mixture of hurt and confusion. I glance up at Franco who is back to looking his usual menacing self.

“Logan is my boyfriend,” I tell Franco. “I don't keep secrets from him. Secrets are toxic and pathological.” I can't believe I said that last bit. I'm turning into my mother.

Before Franco can respond, I add, “He's going to find out sooner or later. Do you want him to hear about it from me or do you want to tell him yourself?”

Franco says, “All right, I'll tell him. That way it won't get all screwed up.”

Oh this I want to hear.

So we walk to school together, all three of us, with me in the middle. Logan won't hold hands with me at first, which is understandable. Franco explains everything.

“You're spraying me with testosterone every morning?” says Logan.

“Basically,” says Franco.

“To stop me from turning gay,” says Logan. He shakes his head in disbelief.

“Taylor's been getting it too,” I say.

“Accidentally,” clarifies Franco.

“You mustn't say anything to anyone,” I tell Logan. “Not because it's a secret though. Because it's private.”

Logan takes my hand finally. “Right. It's a family issue,” he says.

I'm not so sure about being family with the Losinos—all sorts of problems leap into my head, not the least being incest if Logan's and my relationship continues to develop. Logan squeezes my hand, and I understand that he isn't suggesting I join the family as his sister. I remember my mom saying that families came in all sorts of strange arrangements, so I decide to let go my worries on the matter and focus instead on our problem, which is Taylor.

“We need to find out if there's an antidote,” I say.

“For testosterone?” says Logan.

“Yes,” I say. “I could talk to Dr. Cleveland when she comes to the barn. I can work up some sort of question about hormones related to Turner Syndrome so she won't suspect anything.”

Franco says, “I could post a question on my bodybuilders' forum. Maybe this happened before to someone else.”

“It happened to my grandpa's girlfriend Isobel. She was contaminated by his testosterone cream,” I say.

“Could you ask her?” says Logan. “Or would she figure it out and tell?” He turns to Franco and says, “Is that spray stuff legal, Franco? Could you be in some sort of parole violation?”

“I'm not on parole!” says Franco.

“You know what I mean,” says Logan. “Would you have to go back to boot camp?”

“No—it's not illegal,” says Franco. “But they would kick me off the team at school if they found out. I would hate that. My life would be over.”

At least now I see something Taylor and Franco truly have in common: their dramatics around their lives being over. Maybe their old lives could be over together, and they could start something fresh. I decide not to mention this. Franco would probably think I was suggesting some sort of suicide pact for the pair of them, which of course I am not.

“Let's not give up yet,” Logan says.

“Right,” I say. “Franco and I will do our research, and get back together to discuss it tomorrow morning.”

Franco grunts, which I take to mean that he agrees with this plan.

I stop on the sidewalk. “We have a pact,” I say. I turn so we're all in a little huddle, and I put out my hand, palm down, and they each put out one of theirs, then we each add a hand to the stack, and I'm only being partly devious about this, trying for a bit more Big Gorilla on my skin, but I don't get much time anyway, because between Logan and Franco, racing up the sidewalk, faces all aglow, are Amber and Topaz.

“Oh brother,” I say.

“Hi Logan,” says Amber, and then with her voice dropping an octave, “Oh hi Franco, it's nice to see you without Taylor for a change.”

“Hey Bambi,” says Franco.

I think about correcting him, but then I check his face. He knows.

“It's Amber,” she says, smile fading. She knows too.

“And Topaz,” pipes up Topaz, who hasn't figured it out yet.

“We're having a family meeting,” says Franco.

Amber's face turns pink. She stomps past us. “Right,” she says, “pygmy chimp and the big gorilla, together at last.”

“She doesn't take rejection very well,” says Logan, watching their departing backs.

“Who does?” I say, thinking at first of Franco. I also think about myself, and how hard rejection has been on me, and I look at Amber skittering along ahead of us, laughing with Topaz, covering up as though nothing is wrong. I don't want to be part of this. Finally I'm in a position where Amber won't try to torment me and I could pay her back for everything she's done to me, and it doesn't feel right. There has to be a better way.

chapter
twenty-five

Logan walks with me back to his place after school. Mostly we talk about Mr. Brumby who is being extra-grumpy. I suggest that Mr. Brumby's testosterone levels might be too low because he's going through andropause.

“So on the one hand high testosterone can make people difficult like Franco's been since using that stupid spray,” says Logan.

“And low testosterone is bad too,” I say.

“You have to have it just right,” says Logan.

“I guess so,” I say.

“Life is very difficult,” says Logan.

I couldn't agree with him more.

I leave Logan at his house, then ride Pinky out to the stable, which is deserted, except for the horses. Kansas's truck is there, but she doesn't come out to see me. Bernadette must be with her, because she doesn't appear either. Some watch dog. Fortunately Spike is always on duty keeping the horses safe.

Of course Taylor isn't there because she's at home shaving, and Dr. Cleveland is working.

It's perfect really—me and the horses.

I visit each of them, then take Brooklyn to the ring and let him go. He follows me around like a puppy. He stands beside the mounting block and lets me get on even though he's not wearing a halter or saddle. We walk around and I practice relaxing. I sit squarely on my seat bones and lift my sternum and drop my shoulders, and I visualize calmness and tranquility.

And Brooklyn slows to a stop, folds his legs and lies down beneath me.

I lean forward and put my arms around his neck and hug him with all the strength I can muster.

When I arrive back home for dinner, Mom and Dad aren't there. Isobel is in the kitchen peeling carrots for dinner while Grandpa has a nap.

“We sent your parents on a little vacation together,” says Isobel. “Your grandpa and I will stay with you for the week.”

I'm very grateful she hasn't said anything about
baby
sitting.

“Not that you need much help, I'm sure,” continues Isobel, “but it's nice to have company.”

“I think it's good that Mom and Dad are having a vacation,” I say. “They haven't been getting along as well as usual.”

“They told us you hadn't noticed, but I knew that wouldn't be the case,” says Isobel. “I think they'll be fine though. They had a misunderstanding. It happens in couples sometimes. Your mom was able to do some research on the computer. She found she'd somehow subscribed to an excellent online science magazine, and was able to read a number of up-to-date articles about andropause which she passed on to your father.”

“Oh that would be the magazine I signed her up for, when I was doing research about were-apes,” I say. I've been sloppy before using the computer and leaving a trail on the history file; at least this time I'm not in trouble—this time I've actually done a good thing, even if it is by accident.

“Were-apes?” says Isobel. “I don't believe I've heard of them.”

“Oh, they're imaginary creatures,” I say dismissively. “But my research led me to
Ardipithecus
, which is what I thought I saw at the river before I found out about sasquatches.”

Isobel nods as though we're having a perfectly normal conversation. Mom would have turned it into a teaching opportunity about overactive imaginations and the potential misuse of the Internet. I know perfectly well that there's nonsense on the Web. Why is it that Isobel has more confidence in my abilities than my own mother has?

I lean against the warm oven door. Isobel is roasting something. Mom never has time for roasting, except for on major holidays like Thanksgiving, which usually becomes pretty frantic, so I can't say it's something I generally look forward to.

The kitchen air smells rich and steamy. I draw a deep breath and savour it. Plus it's wonderful to be having a relaxed adult conversation. I hate to ruin it even though this may be the perfect opportunity to quiz Isobel about what happened when she was contaminated with Grandpa's testosterone cream. I'm not quite sure how to bring it up but then Isobel takes up where she left off earlier.

“I remember how difficult my life was before my first husband was diagnosed and then had treatment for his andropause,” she says.

“Dad's been pretty moody,” I say, “and he never used to be. Mostly if there was a problem he just wasn't really here. Well, he'd be here and not here at the same time, if you know what I mean.”

Isobel nods. “My ex-daughter-in-law said the same thing about my son.”

“I never even knew he had a bad temper before,” I say.

“It must have been very difficult for your mother, as a therapist, giving advice when she thought her own marriage was unraveling.”

Unraveling? This seems extreme. I'm stunned into silence.

“I expect this is why she's become depressed,” says Isobel.

My mother is depressed?

And I didn't notice?

It's too much to consider, that both my parents have been so deeply unhappy.

I have to try to change the subject. “Isobel, there's something I'd like to ask you about—confidentially. It's not about me really, but one of my friends.”

“Oh I already know what you're getting at,” says Isobel. “Not that I've breathed a word to anyone. When is she due?”

“Due?” I say.

“Kansas, your friend, when is her baby due?”

Kansas is pregnant?

Of course Kansas is pregnant. Suddenly I see it. How could I have missed putting together all the signs? Isobel picked it up in about five seconds. Isobel is so smart, and I am so dense.

I will never be good at life.

“It's another friend,” I say, “with a different problem. I think she has the same problem you did, she's been accidentally contaminated with testosterone.”

“Oh dear,” says Isobel.

“She needs to know if the effects will go away.”

“The effects?” says Isobel.

“She has man hair.”

“Oh dear,” says Isobel. “Sylvia, I don't know the answer to that. Do you suppose we could check the Internet?”

She dries her hands on a towel, and we go to the family room where Grandpa is snoring in an easy chair.

Isobel is awesome on the computer. She types really fast, and knows how to use good keywords in her questions. Still, after fifteen minutes, we don't know the answer. Google has never let me down before.

“Maybe she'll have to ask her doctor,” says Isobel.

“She won't do that,” I say. “She says her life is over.”

“Whose life is over?” says Grandpa, peering over our shoulders at an article on hirsutism in Wikipedia. “Wow, look at that woman,” says Grandpa.

“She's very hairy,” says Isobel.

“I can see that,” says Grandpa. He sounds appreciative. He sounds like he doesn't find this disgusting at all.

“You don't think it's gross?” I ask.

“It's very interesting,” says Grandpa. “Not gross at all.”

“So men wouldn't find a woman disgusting if she grew man hair?” I say.

“Depends on the man, I suppose,” says Grandpa.

Isobel says, “When people love each other, it seems to not matter what they look like. Sometimes others find our flaws attractive.”

“Like Isobel's nose,” says Grandpa.

I can't believe he'd embarrass her like that, and wonder if maybe his senile dementia is returning, but then Isobel laughs.

“That's right, Henry,” she says. “All my life I've been ashamed of this pointy big nose of mine, then I meet Henry and he tells me it's the first thing that attracted him to me.”

“It was a beacon of love,” says Grandpa.