Born That Way (10 page)

“Oh.” But I'm thinking, I rode a horse that thinks he's a stallion? My knees get weak and wobbly but Kansas doesn't notice.

“Actually, in the wild many stallions aren't herd leaders the way that Hambone tries to be. Often it's a boss mare who's in charge of finding food and water. The stallion is there to protect the mares from predators—and from other stallions of course. What's interesting to me is that when a mare's in charge of a herd the horses spend more time grazing and relaxing.”

Kansas enjoys sharing her horse knowledge with me; her voice gets all perky. It's different than when Mom tries to teach me about life and psychology, partly because I'm truly interested in horses but also because with Mom there's this heavy seriousness that isn't there with Kansas. I trust Kansas completely. I could tell her anything.

But then I realize that of course I haven't told her everything.

We put out Electra and Photon and then Kansas goes back for Hambone, who is kicking the heck out of the back wall of his stall. Kansas stands in front of his door with her arms folded. “You stop that and I'll let you out.”

Hambone kicks the wall again and Kansas takes a step backwards away from him. He stares at her, then walks to his stall door and hangs his head out.

“Okay then,” says Kansas. She puts a halter on him, clips on the lead rope and before she takes him out she tells me to stay well out of the way. But he walks like a perfect gentleman out to the paddock and it's not until she's slipped off the halter and set him free that he flattens his ears, spins and takes off screaming after his mares, driving them to the far end of the pasture, all of them bucking and kicking and striking like maniacs.

“Don't they mind being treated that way? Electra and Photon, I mean.”

Kansas shrugs. “It's herd dynamics.”

Hambone bites Photon on the bum and a chunk of fur flies into the air. She squeals and kicks and he bites her again. Kansas laughs and shakes her head. “He is such a moron. When Electra and Photon were together at my last place, Electra was boss mare, and she could move Photon across the pasture with the flick of an ear. Hambone goes way overboard. Makes me wonder if he's not proudcut.”

“Proudcut?”

“Well the technical term is
crypt orchid
. In some stallions only one testicle drops and when they are gelded the other testicle is left up inside them. So—
crypt
, as in hidden, and
orchid
for testicle.”

I think I am never going to know all the gender variations that nature has to offer. It seems that so many things can go wrong, it's something of a miracle if everything turns out the way we think it's supposed to.

The mares want to graze; they stop, lower their heads and grab a bit of grass, but Hambone isn't finished yet. He runs at them with ears pinned, rears, then pushes them down the fence line.

“How'd you like to ride that?” says Kansas, following Hambone's trajectory with her eyes.

I lean on the fence beside her and take a deep breath. She might as well know. “Well, actually, I have ridden him.”

“You have?” She's not mad like my mom would be. She's more just surprised.

“Before you got here. I put my skipping rope around his neck and rode him in the field. Not very much. It was too scary.”

“No kidding.” Now she sounds impressed.

“He didn't want to go. But he understood English, so when I figured that out he did what I asked him.”

“Well I'll be damned. There's more hope for that horse than I thought. And you!” She puts a gloved hand on my shoulder and looks at me with admiration. “Well you're full of surprises too!”

“I wore my bike helmet.”

“Well that's good. But you have to promise me that you won't do it again.”

I shake my head. “No way. Not now that I've seen what he can be like.”

“Hey,” says Kansas looking around. “Where's my tea?” She spies it on the dirt pile and strolls over to retrieve it. A swell of warmth comes over me as I watch her, realizing how she didn't make a big deal of my riding Hambone without permission. Mom would have turned it into a two-hour safety lecture.

Kansas comes back to the fence and drinks down her tea in a couple of gulps. It can't be very hot. She wipes her lips on the back of her sleeve, then pulls a pack of cigarettes out of her jacket pocket. I couldn't be more shocked if she'd grown horns, sprouted wings and flown away. This is even less understandable than her not wanting to use computers.

“You smoke?”

“Not often.” She flicks a lighter and draws on the cigarette.

“But cigarettes cause cancer. Everyone knows that.”

“I'm working on it.”

“My Uncle Brian used to smoke. My mom told him he had to quit, and he did, but it was too late and he died anyway.” This is only partly true, because it's never been totally clear to me that Uncle Brian died from smoking, but I'm desperate. I can't take a chance on Kansas dying of lung cancer.

“Well, I'm sorry to hear that,” says Kansas.

“Maybe I could help you quit, maybe if I reminded you . . . ”

Kansas shakes her head, then takes a drag on her cigarette. She turns her face away and blows a thin stream of smoke into the paddock. “Thanks, Sylvia, but I don't expect that would work very well. I'm a boss mare kind of person. No one's ever been any good at telling me to do anything.”

I try to smile at her. I try to think of something else that might change her mind. I tell myself it's none of my business but then I'm overwhelmed with this horrible sense of helplessness as I see how little control I have of my life and of anyone else's life, how I can't make bad people stop doing mean things and I can't make good people stop doing dumb things and it's so hard to be fourteen and I can't imagine fifteen being much better and a huge lump forms in my throat and my eyes fill with tears and a ridiculous embarrassing sobbing noise erupts from my chest.

“Hey,” says Kansas.

And she looks at me and I don't even cover my face with my hands, the tears stream out of me as I stand there like an idiot.

“Hey, okay, I'll put it out. I was going to quit anyway, one day. Why not now?”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

That night after dinner we have one of our dreaded family conferences because Mom and Dad can't agree on whether to go to a family therapy session with John and they want my “input”.

Dad says he doesn't like John, and Mom says that doesn't mean he isn't a good therapist. Dad says we should be seeing someone from outside of Mom's agency and Mom says she wouldn't know who to pick because every day she sees a new refugee from another counselling practice. Dad says that of course all she hears are bad stories because if someone is happy with their therapist they never leave them or better still they are cured and don't need to go see someone else. Mom says Dad is frightened and there's nothing to be frightened of because we have a good family and Dad says in that case why do we need to go? At which point they both look at me.

“I'm fine,” I say.

They look at me some more.

“I don't need a therapist. I have you to talk to—both of you.”

“What if there was something you didn't want to talk about with your parents?” says Mom. “Something about boys or—”

Before she can add anything more embarrassing I say, “I could talk to my friends.”

There's a long silence and my mom says, “What friends, Pumpkin?”

“Kansas.”

They look at each other.

“Who's Kansas?” says Dad.

“My new friend.”

“Is Kansas a . . . a . . . boy?” says Dad.

My nose wrinkles. “No,” I say, bewildered. Why would I want a boy friend? Boys aren't interested in horses.

“Is this someone new in your class?” says Mom. “Because we haven't heard about her before.”

I don't want to tell them, but it has to come out sooner or later. I try to tell them carefully so they don't find reasons for objecting to my friendship with Kansas. I don't tell them that she used to smoke cigarettes, or that her clothing looks second-hand, or that she lives in a trailer behind a barn. “She's really nice. She says she'll give me riding lessons if I help out at her stable. She's on the way to school.”

“And how old is this person?” says Dad.

I have no idea. Who cares? She likes horses. She owns horses. She treats me like a human being. She could be fifty and I wouldn't care. “I'll ask her.”

“Is she married?” says Mom.

The two of them are relentless. “No.”

Dad is looking at Mom with alarm. “You don't suppose she could be a lesbian? Preying on little girls?”

I can't believe he said this. It is so insulting. Placing slow, venomous emphasis on every word, I say, “I am not a little girl.”

“Oh, Tony, for heaven's sake,” says Mom. I'm glad to see that she's angry too. “How many times do we have to go through this?
Gay
does not mean
pedophile
. My brother Brian—”

She stops. Her face is turning red. Is she going to cry?

“Kansas is not a lesbian,” I say, using my most exasperated tone. Of course, I don't know if Kansas is a lesbian but at this point I don't care. And what would it matter anyway? Maybe it would be better if she was a lesbian since I'm probably a bisexual but I don't know and I don't care and it doesn't matter. She likes horses.

“Does she have family in town?” says Dad.

Mom sniffs. “Could we meet her at least?”

“You two are piling on,” I say.

“We are not,” they say together.

I fold my arms. I am not going to answer another question.

“I really think we should meet her,” says Mom.

I tighten my lips. I don't want them to meet her. She's my friend.

“Okay, that settles it,” says Mom.

“Fine, but not John,” says Dad.

“I'll find someone else. I've heard there's a new therapist in town with a special interest in adolescent sexuality.”

I groan aloud. My life is ruined. All the limestone fortification in the world couldn't save me now.

I am banned from the computer until I get some therapy. I think this goes way beyond punishment, and infringes on my human rights. Computers aren't toys. The internet is more than a source of mindless passive entertainment like cable TV. My parents are depriving me of an education and they are isolating me from the Googleverse. I think about reporting them to the Helpline for children but I know they will also be monitoring my telephone calls so there's no point in trying. I am totally at their mercy—it always comes down to this.

The situation is so hopeless that I shut myself in my room and do something truly desperate. I sit on my bed and cross my legs and close my eyes and try to imagine being surrounded by white light and being protected by a white unicorn with a golden horn, like Taylor does. Nothing happens. I think maybe my position isn't right so I sit in the chair at my desk and try again, but still nothing happens. Taylor seemed to think this was easy, but she has more experience being spiritual than I do. The only other spiritual position I know is what people do when they pray, so I kneel beside my bed, put my hands together, bow my head and close my eyes. That's when Dad comes in.

“Jesus,” he says.

I open my eyes and look at him but I don't get off my knees.

“What are you doing, Munchkin?”

I'm so mad at him that I say what I know will really bother him. “I'm praying.”

Dad comes in, shuts the door behind him and sits on my bed. “When did you get religious? Is this something you got from your new friend?” He makes it sound like a disease that I could accidentally catch from somebody. Obviously if there's to be any possibility of retaining my friendship with Kansas I have to keep her well out of this.

“Taylor taught me.”

“Your cousin Taylor? She's a Christian?”

Still I'm not sure how far to take things. “I think she's more of a Druid.”

He relaxes a little. “Oh. Well, I'm still a bit surprised . . . ”

“You're the ones who named me after an ancient nature goddess.”

“Sylvia? That's what it means?”

I am so smitten by hearing my full name roll off his tongue that all I can manage is one brief nod.

He ruffles my hair, then says he didn't mean to mess up the hi-lights, which makes me laugh so I get up off my knees and sit beside him on the bed. He puts his arm around me and I start to cry. Again. I hate this so much.

“I said I was sorry,” says Dad.

I grab my head in both hands and groan. “I don't care about the hi-lights,” I yell at him. “I only did it for Mom and because she said you would like it.”

“Well I do like it, Shorty,” he says and gives me a squeeze.

And I'm drawing my breath to tell him to stop calling me Shorty when the door opens and Mom pops her head in and says, “You two doing okay?”

“We're doing fine, Evelyn. Aren't we, Munchkin?” He squeezes me again. I feel like a tube of toothpaste. If he squeezes me much more there's no telling what might come out. I am really really mad at both of them. I close my eyes. I'm trying to control myself. The bed sags as Mom sits down, then she wiggles up against me. She tries to put an arm around me but it's difficult because Dad is holding me tight under his armpit and there's no room for Mom's hand and he's not giving way. I feel her fingers scrabbling against my ribs. I can't make space for her because Dad will feel me moving away from him towards Mom, and I can't stay like this or Mom will think I don't want her here. I scrunch my eyelids tighter together and try to close my ears too because I really don't want to hear them if they start going at each other, and that's when the white light happens. It starts as this tiny white speck and it grows and grows until I'm breathing it in and breathing it out and it must be filling the whole room but I'm not going to take the chance of opening my eyes and ruining anything. There's a hum in the distance which is probably the voices of my mom and dad but they're so far away it doesn't matter. I'm okay. I am really okay.

And I hear a funny rippling sound, kind of like neighing, kind of like laughing.

It's the unicorn.