What Curiosity Kills (11 page)

  I'm not as quick to judge Yoon. His tongue on my tail makes my hind legs twitch. He's had his own tail licked and knows how to lick mine. Whether he's cleaning or kissing, his attention is manipulative: press this button and get the desired, expected response. I've never had my buttons pressed, but I decide Yoon can press all he wants. My kitten brain does not have room for language, so it stands to reason that it doesn't have room for a conscience. So what if Yoon's intentions aren't honorable? Who cares if I lose Mags's friendship because I let the guy (well, he's not really the same guy) she says she fooled around with fool around with me? Two boys at once? Call me what you want. I do not care. I give myself over to them and vibrate with pleasure.

  Nick taps my front paw. Interpretation: pay attention. Tap, tap: focus. He is saying something about the color of my fur because after he taps my paw, he points to the neon orange Speedo glowing in a terrace corner. I'm not nearly as bright, but get the gist: orange is special. Nick looks like he's never seen my color before. He's looking at me in what must be the same way the twins' dad looks at the sun.

  Yoon doesn't communicate with me via catspeak or mental telepathy. His purrs sound like purrs—they don't translate to words. I don't hear his velvet, human voice inside my head. He tells me what he wants with his actions.

  He wants my fur spotless. He licks up my tail to my hip. His tongue searches for and removes bits of debris that will tarnish my coloring. Yoon is twenty pounds, while I doubt I'm even two. If he sinks his teeth into my throat, he'll rip it out before Nick stops him. If he swings his meaty paw at my head, he'll break my neck. But Yoon just licks, licks, licks. Who knew that the deli owner's bitter disappointment of a son was such a mama cat?

  Nick pinches the air with his thumb and forefinger. I get it: I won't be a kitten for much longer. He puts his hands in front of his face like parenthesis and blows up an imaginary balloon. With each breath, his hands spread farther apart. He slaps his hands together. Interpretation: when I turn back into a girl, it is going to be quick.

  And here I go.

  The fire ants are under my skin and then inside my bones. The ants are big and getting bigger. They want out of my body. They want my body to grow.

  Nick spreads Mags's comforter on the terrace. He holds me with one hand. His fingers align under my ribs. I go limp. My legs hang over his thumb and pinky. His touch, as gentle as it may be intended, is too much. My body feels bruised.

  "Mew!"

  I can't hear myself over the wind. My head is pounding. I'm too weak to lift it. Nick places me on a comforter square.

  Yoon crawls on top of me. He doesn't drop his weight but hovers. His bent legs are a cage. He cranes his head under his chest and gives my nose a lick.

  My paws shake. They swell to the size of my kitten head. They blow up to the size of my human hands, but my paws are still paws—and then the fur splits apart. My skin shows through: kitten skin, not girl's. The kitten skin is pastier, textured like suede. Each strand of fur stiffens, stands on end like a porcupine's quills, and then sinks into my flesh with a thousand tiny stabs.

  Yoon coaxes my human hands out of their padded shells. Under his tongue, round toe pads elongate to fingers. Knuckles emerge. The bone growth is torture. But Yoon continues to apply pressure, his tongue saying, Easy does it. Easy…easy. My hands feel sunburned. My kitten skin melts back to my own, caramelizing to my human color like sugar in a pan. There's the freckle that dots that back of my right pinky! I am so relieved to see the distinguishing mark (the one my mystery-writer mom jokes that she'll use to identify me if my severed hand is mailed to her by a serial killer), I almost overlook the orange fur that cuffs my wrists. That fur still covers the rest of me. My arms, torso, legs, feet, and every feature of my face must also return to normal. At the thought of the pain, I black out.

  When I come to, I'm naked.

Nick says, "Don't worry, we didn't see anything."

I'm on the terrace floor, wrapped in Mags's comforter.

  "And when you turned before, you turned in your pajamas. You were so small, you crawled out your pajama leg."

  He helps me onto the lounge chair, but I don't need help. Although my movements are limited in this goose-down burrito (made heavier by the snow puddle I've been lying in), I am invigorated. I want to repel down the side of the building. Run through the park. Climb trees! Chase squirrels and steal their nuts!

  I sit and rock, gripping the comforter in front of my bare breasts. I'm not cold. I'm feverish. But the fever feels good. I rub my calves together. The fur is gone. I feel my own silky, albeit stubbly, skin. I don't need a stitch of clothing to stay warm. I fight the urge to hop to my feet and flash Nick.

  Sitting beside me, he pats my back.

  "I'm calm." I tell him what he wants to hear. Back-patting is international for There,
there. Get a hold of yourself. Excitement's
over.
I look around for Yoon.

  I find him sleeping under the foot of the lounge chair. Yoon has not returned to boy form. His emerald eyes are shut, the lids camouflaged within his black mask. His mouth is curled up at the corners in a satisfied smile. He's on his back, which is broad enough for him to lay flat and keep him from toppling to either side. His front legs are bent, black paws loosey-goosey in the air. His hind legs hang open. His copper belly and balls are exposed. Yoon looks unbothered by his vulnerability. If I looked like him when I fell asleep in public, I might do it more often.

  Nick says, "He's exhausted from helping you."

  "I thought you were going to help me."

  "I am. I did. What, you wish it was my tongue all over you?"

  Good lord, the thought of it. I can barely bring myself to speak—but I do. "You think Ling Ling would like that?"

  "I don't care what she likes."

  I venture farther. "Are you two not together anymore?"

  He leans his shoulder against mine—a nudge. Don't I get it? Temple to temple, his windblown curls tickle my eyebrow. Our warmness mingles. He slips his hand inside my comforter and fishes out my hand. He laces his fingers between mine. That's a good enough answer for me.

  I ask, "Yoon's too tired to change?"

  "Nah, he just prefers it this way."

  "Why don't you?"

  "Because I have to go to school. If I don't show up, my folks will find out. I'll get expelled, not detention. If I turn at night, I won't sleep. My grades will suck. Or, like Yoon, if I turn too much, I won't be able to stop myself from sleeping. It's like passing out wasted. You could wake up anywhere, but be bare-ass—"

  "Naked." I finish his sentence. I squeeze his hand. I'm not embarrassed, and I don't know why.

  Nicks says, "I have this theory that the less I turn, the shorter this
phase
, as Yiayia calls it, will last. When it ends, I want a normal life. To have that, I have to make it through PurserLilley, then college, and then I can start living for real. Yoon thinks this is the life. He's skipping college so he can turn as much as he wants. That's why he's always got those rubber gloves on. If you turn too much, there are side effects."

  "I thought you said turning's two weeks, then the summer."

  "It is, but Yoon always tries to make it last a little longer. Now that he's out of school, he can spend all his free time researching. There's hardly anything written about what we've got, but he keeps looking. He's always online or in the field."

  "Yoon's parents don't know either?"

  "Oh, they know. And they are not happy about the college deferment. But in Korea, his parents say what we have is seen as a gift. If Yoon went there, they say he'd be treated like a god, but his parents refuse to go back for political reasons. If Yoon wants to go on his own, he has to work to save the money, and his folks don't pay him much. He breaks a pickle jar, and they deduct it from his pay. They don't want him to go because they think he'll never come back. So, while he's here, they put up with his shit. No college, late nights running around, feeding strays in the back of their store. Yoon wants to be the first of our kind to be able to turn in his thirties. But that's sad."

  "Sad how?"

  "Sad pathetic. Like all those Purser-Lilley moms wearing low-rise skinny jeans. Oh, sorry, is your mom one of those?"

  "No, she's pretty modest."

  "My mom's clinging to her youth. Every time she sits down, I have to look away from her G-string. She says she's
European,
but that's code for exhibitionist. Do you know how mortifying it is to go to the beach in Greece with your mom?"

  "No, but when we go to Myrtle Beach, my mom wears a huge hat and is always lecturing us to put on more sunscreen."

  "Beaches in Greece are topless."

  "Got it."

  "So, forgive me if I don't want to embrace my wild side. Wild people embarrass themselves."

  I think about that. The wildest thing I've ever done was going down a fifteen-story-high, spiral water-park tube last summer. A hundred and fifty twisty yards in one minute. My back bumped the fiberglass connector joints the whole way. My neck killed from straining to keep my head up. I was so scared of getting water up my nose, I held my breath. I didn't even scream. My face must have been blue when I shot out. It was a horrible rush—but it was a rush. The lifeguard gave me his hand, I tugged my one-piece out of my butt, and for the next half-hour, I thought I could do anything.

  I could do anything now.

  I kiss Nick—just take my temple off his and turn my lips to meet his mouth. He tenses, like when I pricked his bare thighs with my kitty claws, but I don't pull back. He could push me away if he wanted me to stop. He doesn't. He keeps hold of my hand and keeps his lips softly pressed against mine. It is black-and-white movie kissing: sweet, like I'd hoped.

  Yoon mewls. He is dreaming of a meadow. His front paws bat at a butterfly. With a dream-leap, his body wrenches into a C. His heart races under his coarse copper chest. I let go of Nick's hand and reach for Yoon's belly. I want to rub it and reassure him, You'll get that butterfly next time.

  Nick stops me. He says, "Don't get yourself started."

  "If I touch him, I'll turn?"

  "Yeah."

  I touch my lips, tingling from Nick's kiss. I can't hide my panic. Are those warning tingles or tingles everybody gets when they kiss their crush?

  Nick says, "Don't worry. Only touching a cat or one of us in cat form will trigger the turning. Soon enough, you'll learn to control it. I can. So can Yoon. Pot helps, and there are other ways. But for now, for you, the turning's like puberty. No matter what you do, zits happen."

  For an idiotically vain moment, I'm grateful that I don't have any pimples.

  He grins. "I'm normal now—kiss me as much as you want."

  I do. He opens his mouth, and mine goes along. This is Technicolor kissing. He pulls me into his chest so that half my rear end is off the lounge chair. Wind sweeps between our bodies and into an open flap in my comforter cover.

  Yoon miaows—a warning like the one I heard from Peanut Butter or Jelly when I put my foot through their spinning circle of a wagon train.

  I ask, my lips barely lifting off Nick's, "Should we wake him? He sounds like he's having a nightmare."

  "Let him have it," Nick mutters as he moves his mouth to my neck. His curls caress my throat. "Maybe he'll fall off a building and die in his sleep."

  "Mrowl!" Yoon's warrior cry breaks us up. He is out from under the lounge chair. His lips retract. Drool drips off his canines.

  "Back off, dude," Nick warns.

  "What is it between you two?" I ask.

  Nick says, "He doesn't want me this close to you. He thinks I'll talk you into suppressing the turning. If it was up to him, you'd turn all the time."

  Yoon pounces at me.

  Nick puts himself between us. Yoon hits Nick's chest. Nick falls backward into me. We all fall off the lounge chair. Caught in Nick's arms, Yoon's glowing emerald eyes implore me: Help
!
He's bigger than me! Be on my side!
But Yoon looks plenty tough. Besides, what's a fair fight between a boy and a cat?

  Nick gets to his feet. Yoon twists to free himself, but Nick chucks him in the air and then catches him like a bristled, sabertoothed sack of potatoes. Yoon sinks his claws into the curve of Nick's neck and shoulders. Nick curses. Dots of blood seep through his white Purser-Lilley T-shirt. Nick lifts Yoon straight up. His claws—wet with blood—slip out of Nick's skin and shirt. The fabric rips from an extra-long thumb claw. Yoon's black mask furrows.

  Nick tosses him away from his chest like a basketball. Yoon rebounds off the terrace wall, lands on his feet, and gives his silent hiss. Yesterday, Yoon's no-noise made a battalion of mice scatter off my back landing, but tonight, it doesn't scare Nick.

  Nicks stomps. Scat!

  Yoon leaps onto the terrace wall and then dives off.

  I run to the wall and lean over. I hear him before I spot him leaping from one grated fire-escape landing to the one below. He soars over the metal stairs. His copper coat blends with rust, but he becomes more visible in the light cast from the apartment lobby when he jumps to the sidewalk. I lose sight of him when he dashes across the tarred pavement to the bricked, Fifth Avenue border of Central Park and then into the bushes and trees.