Grows That Way (16 page)

chapter
thirty

Taylor is loaded with testosterone. The bio-lab says the only way a girl can have levels this high is if she's taking testosterone supplements or she's been contaminated by an external source.

“Franco,” I say.

“I know,” says Taylor. “He didn't mean to, I really shouldn't judge him, he was just…”

“Dumb,” I say.

Taylor nods.

“And self-centered and uncaring,” I say. I try to use a gentle objective tone. I try to filter out the anger I feel for Franco, but it must leak anyway.

Taylor glares at me. There are dark circles under her eyes, she hasn't brushed her teeth, and her eyebrows look like they've been run over by a lawn mower—I guess these hairs have been growing too, and she has attempted a trim. Despite her exhaustion, she still she has the energy to defend Franco. “You don't know him like I do,” she says. “He phoned last night and told me how important I am to him, and it's totally fine if I have a bit more body hair than I used to—he says I'll look more like an Italian.”

“An Italian?” I say. I can't believe she's bought this load of nonsense.

“He's not what he seems, Sylvia. He hasn't had an easy life. You of all people should know not to judge someone by his appearance.”

Because this hurts me, and because I'm so exhausted, I tell her point-blank that on Wednesday I saw Franco necking with Amber in the stairwell at school.

Taylor collapses onto her bed. She covers her face with her hands and wails.

“You're sure?” she says between sobs.

I tell her yes.

“I don't know why I'm so upset,” she says. “We were through anyway, I could never forgive him for what he's done to me.” She cries some more, but I don't know if it's over losing Franco or because of her test results, and maybe Taylor doesn't know either.

I sit down beside her, and tell her the other part, about Franco trying to buy my silence by refitting Pinky, and how I hated Pinky being so pink before, and I like all the black accessories now, but maybe I should tear them off because this just isn't right, and then I'm crying too.

On the other side of the bedroom door, Bunga howls, a pathetic scratchy bugle, as though he's never tried this before in his life. Taylor sniffs. “That's worse than Spike's braying,” she says, which was exactly what I was thinking but of course I couldn't say so.

Taylor sits up, reaches for the tissue box on her bedside table and plunks it between us. She blows her nose, runs her fingers through her hair then looks at me, frowning deeply.

“You call your bike
Pinky
?” she says. And unbelievably, in the midst of her personal tragedy, she laughs, and has to blow her nose again, and then I laugh and cry at the same time and we go through about a hundred tissues until we're more or less back to normal.

Taylor runs her fingers across her upper lip. “Do you see my mustache?” she asks.

I blink hard to remove the last of my tears, and lean closer and examine the short fuzzy growth. “Logan's is definitely a lot thicker,” I say, thinking this should make her feel better.

She's not pleased. “Oh great,” she says.

“Maybe it will go away now you've stopped getting the testosterone,” I say.

“I'll probably have to go for laser hair removal,” says Taylor. She shudders. “Everywhere,” she adds.

“My mom has a gift certificate that she's not going to use until hell freezes over,” I say.

Taylor sighs heavily.

“You could go to your doctor,” I say. “Maybe he can tell you if you have to do something or just wait for it to go away.”

“Are you kidding? Mom still takes us to Dr. Destrie. He'd take one look at me and have a heart attack. I've been doing research on the Internet and there's nothing about how permanent this hair is. Dr. Destrie's so ancient and out of date he wouldn't have a clue.”

I don't tell her that Isobel and I couldn't find anything in our research either, but I am reminded of Grandpa's reaction to the woman with hirsutism. “Taylor, maybe some men like hairy women,” I say. “Not just Italian men, I mean.”

She shakes her head as though this isn't remotely possible.

I try again. “Sometimes people love us
because
of our flaws,” I say.

“Not Franco apparently,” she says.

“Spike still loves you,” I say.

“I've been neglecting Spike,” says Taylor. “I haven't wanted to go to the barn, I didn't want anyone to see me.” She slides off the bed, shuffles to her desk and picks up the framed photograph of Spike. She kisses her finger and presses it to the glass on top of his nose. “Sorry, Spike,” she says. She's silent for a moment, studying the picture. Then she turns to me, alarmed. “Spike says
stinky dog.
That's all he says, over and over, like that other time. What's going on?”

Without thinking about how Taylor is scared of everything, and really doesn't need more trouble right now, I jump to my feet and blurt out, “The sasquatch is back!”

Taylor's eyes go wide, and a hand flutters to her throat and then, against all my expectations, she says, “I love sasquatches!”

My wonderful magical cousin. I had no idea. She stands there with Spike's picture held tight to her apparently hairy chest, her face suddenly alive with possibilities.

“Have you seen one?” she says.

“I saw two,” I tell her. “A male and a female.”

She doesn't ask me if I'm sure, she doesn't suggest I saw bears, or people pulling pranks. “I always knew they were real,” she says. “Franco freaked when I mentioned it one day, he said I was an idiot. He never supported me, not really.”

I figure she might as well know the whole truth, so I tell her that Franco's dad isn't a computer expert as Franco told her, he's a wildlife biologist who's writing a book about sasquatches.

Taylor shakes her head in amazement. “He was such a liar. I should have known better. Well, I did know better, part of me always knew he wasn't right for me, but another part…” She reaches for Franco's picture and drops it in her waste basket, adjusting it so the face is down. “Does Mr. Losino know what you saw?”

“Oh yes, Logan told him,” I say. “He's including my sightings in a book he's writing. He says I've discovered something very important to science.”

“Wow,” says Taylor. “Do you think you could show them to me?”

“Sure. We could go on a search party, you and me and Brooklyn and Spike. Mr. Losino says the best way to see sasquatches is from horseback.” But I'm thinking, What about Logan? I know he'll want to come too, but if I invite him, he'll bring his bike, and his being there will change things between me and Taylor.

It doesn't seem fair that I have to choose, but I do.

“I should tell Spike about the sasquatch,” says Taylor. She gazes at his photo. “He needs to know it's not a smelly dog.” She closes her eyes and the message wafts off through space. I wish I could say that I saw sparks fly out of her head, or watched her aura change, but I can't. I suppose I'm too much a scientist. I want to believe, but deep down, I don't. Not that I need to tell this to Taylor.

Bunga has stopped howling, and is instead scratching furiously at the closed door and making his usual yipping noises. Taylor replaces Spike's photo on her desk and opens the door, I think to let Bunga join us, but instead she stands in the hallway and motions for me to follow. “Show me what's happened to Pinky,” she says.

I take her outside to where Pinky is leaning against the house beside the front door.

Taylor is impressed. “Very cool bike,” she says.

I point out all the new modifications and she examines them carefully.

“You know, Sylvia, Franco wouldn't have done something like this. Even if he'd thought of it, he couldn't have done this good a job. Someone's been very careful and creative here.”

For a second I think that Logan has done it, and my heart speeds up as I imagine him toiling over my bike renovations, and I wonder how I could ever repay him or show him my appreciation, and then Taylor says, “It must have been Mr. Losino, in gratitude for the information for his book.”

Of course she's right. Logan was in school all day, he wouldn't have had the time and, unlike Franco, he wouldn't skip out. Though probably he knew what his dad was going to do, probably he wanted to be there with me when I found my bike, but instead he had to get his hand x-rayed, and that was why he looked so upset when he left the gym.

“Oh that's great,” I say.

It is great—because I can enjoy my new bike (which I will rename Avril Lavigne) and I won't have to feel disloyal to Taylor or that I'm owing anything to Franco. I also don't mind that I don't owe anything to Logan. Relationships with boys are complicated.

“I think I'll be single for a while,” says Taylor. “I'll need some time for my heart to heal.”

“You won't be lonely?” I say.

Taylor shrugs. “Probably. There are worse things.”

“You could have been pregnant,” I say.

“Like Kansas,” says Taylor. When she sees the surprise on my face, she explains, “Spike told me he thought she was in foal. He says Kansas is very excited but needs to keep it secret for a while.”

I nod in mute agreement. I am so relieved that Kansas is happy about the turn her life has taken, that I cannot speak.

We stand shoulder to shoulder, considering Avril Lavigne, and life.

Taylor will be fine on her own for a while, with time to find her direction in life and develop her talents unhindered. I realize that the same applies to me. For starters, I can enjoy designing a scientific experiment to determine whether my cousin really is psychic or whether, like Isobel, she is eerily perceptive.

Besides, until Taylor has the laser hair removal, she's going to have a difficult time at school. It will be hard for her, someone who's always been pretty and popular, especially if Amber develops a campaign, and why wouldn't she?

Fortunately, Taylor has someone to show her the ropes, someone who's been in leper-land before her. Taylor has me.

Taylor sighs. “I wish I could stop feeling like a victim.”

“You could report Franco to his coach,” I say tentatively. “He'd get kicked off the team.”

Her face brightens but only momentarily. “I couldn't do that. He lives for sports.”

“Not just sports,” I say, still feeling the need for some revenge. “There's also Amber.”

Taylor slowly shakes her head. “Amber doesn't have a clue what she's getting into. If we don't do something, she'll be contaminated too.”

Even I don't dislike Amber enough to want this to happen.

“It's not a kindness to Franco to let him continue either,” says Taylor. “It's unhealthy to take steroids, he'll end up needing organ transplants. We have to do something.”

“Franco doesn't listen to anybody,” I say. “Not his parents, not his brother.”

“He used to listen to me sometimes,” says Taylor. “Maybe he'll listen to Amber.”

“I could have a word with Topaz,” I say.

“Maybe if we all work together,” says Taylor.

“Like a herd.”

“Speaking of which,” says Taylor, plucking at her pajamas, “my herd is due back any minute now—Mom's bringing Erika home from swim class. I need to return to my cave.”

“I bet if we phoned Grandpa and Isobel, they'd pick us up and take us to the barn. You could see Spike.”

Taylor shakes her head. “Not today. I'm not quite ready. I'd like some more time on my own to absorb…everything.”

“I understand,” I say, but I'm disappointed. Going to the barn would be a great first step. She can't stay in her room forever,

“How about tomorrow?” says Taylor. “Mom's taking Erika to a swim meet. I can sneak out without being interrogated.”

Thank goodness. It's not school, but it's a start. “Great idea,” I say.

“I'll wear my hat, and gloves. Grandpa and Isobel won't notice anything,” says Taylor.

Ha! Isobel notices everything. I catch myself just before saying so out loud.

chapter
thirty-one

I think Taylor looks odd wearing her hat and gloves in the car, but no one says anything. Grandpa and Isobel drop us at the stable, then head off to watch the swim meet for a while.

Kansas is around back leaning on the fence of the isolation paddock. Bernadette is leashed and sitting at her feet. They're watching a horse I don't recognize, a sorrel, head down, picking nonchalantly at a pile of hay.

“Who's that?” I ask.

“We have a new boarder,” says Kansas.

I like how she says
we
. My chest feels cramped, in a nice way, as if it needs more room to hold my heart.

“She's a barrel racer,” Kansas continues. “Her name's Dudette.”

Taylor and I exchange a glance.
Dudette
. Would that be a male dude with female features? Or a female with male characteristics? I shrug. What does it really matter?

“The family just moved out from Ponoka. I haven't worked with a barrel horse for donkey's ears,” Kansas muses, then apologizes to Taylor.

“No problem,” says Taylor. She loves Spike's ears, while Kansas has never had any success at hiding her scorn for the long pointy things.

“Are you going to be teaching her dressage, Kansas?” I say, because this is her passion, or at least it was before Declan and the foal-to-be came along.

“Not exactly, though the same principles of flexion and bending and collection apply. Terminology is different. I won't be talking about half-halts. We'll work on rating and whoa spots instead.”

“It's all about the bond anyway,” says Taylor. “No matter what discipline you follow, it all comes down to the relationship you have with your horse.”

Kansas clears her throat. “Horses aren't poodles. They can kill you without meaning to. They need discipline and training more than bonding.”

“Spike wouldn't kill me,” says Taylor. “He only ever bites me as a show of affection.”

“Don't come running to me when he affectionately takes your ear off,” says Kansas.

Taylor snorts.

They're never going to agree, and I don't care. I can see where they're coming from and I can love them both. There's no need to jump in the middle. Isobel would be proud of me.

A happy sigh escapes my lungs. It's so great that everything's getting back to normal.

An old Mazda pickup lurches into sight on the driveway and rattles towards the parking area.

“Who's that?” says Taylor.

“Must be Dudette's owner,” says Kansas. “She told me her brother was going to drop her off this morning.”

I feel Taylor stiffen beside me. She's not ready for new people. She ducks in behind Kansas because there's no point trying to duck in behind me.

The truck stops beside the barn and the doors groan open. A teenage girl springs from the passenger side, looking around wildly until her eyes fall upon Dudette. It's as if she's been hit by a magical freezing spell. She stands and stares. She doesn't move a muscle until Dudette raises her head and nickers softly in her direction.

Ah. Good Person. No label required.

I'm less sure about the brother. Tall and sinewy, dressed in black jeans and T-shirt, he has unfolded his long limbs and arisen from the driver side. His arms are tattooed in shades of blue all the way down to his wrists so it looks like he's wearing sleeves but he's not. Weird. Why would anyone do this?

“Keep your hands off that boy now, Sylvia,” Kansas teases me.

I'm about to say, “No problem there,” when Taylor almost dislocates my shoulder as she charges past me, whispering fiercely, “Don't you touch him, he's mine.”

Yup. All back to normal, I'd say.