What Curiosity Kills (18 page)

  "Yeah! Then itching like crazy. The rope burns were like highways for the fur. It was like my legs were dipped in—"

  "Fire ants?"

  He laughs, overcome with relief that someone knows what he's been through. "I was going to say hornets, but fire ants are good. Next thing I know, I've blacked out. I come to in an alley. I thought I was hallucinating. Like maybe that Jamaican lunch lady finally flipped her lid and hoodooed the fruit punch. But then Yoon helped me turn back to my regular self. He explained a lot. Then, Nick showed up."

  I ask Nick, "You said you picked up my scent at PurserLilley. You must have smelled Ben's. How could you let Yoon get to him first?"

  Nick says, "Yoon got to you first. And as far as scents go, he'll always be able to track you. Like onions in a flower bed."

  "Do I stink?" I ask, humiliated.

  "No, Mary, you smell incredibly good. Your scent is stronger than any I've ever smelled. At school, I didn't know about Ben because your scent overpowers his."

  "Mazel tov," says Ben.

  Yiayia appears in the doorway with a tray. On it sits a large mixing bowl, a bottle of white wine vinegar, fabric scissors, cheesecloth, two kinds of tape—masking and Scotch—and a spiny aloe leaf. She comes toward me. Water sloshes. The dull scissors glint under the dimmed overhead light.

She gives the tray to Ben and says, "Ela, you're the nurse."

  Yiayia eases down onto her knees to doctor me, and I cringe before she even lays her eyes on my arms. I flinch as Octavia pulls the tiny Greek book out of her cardigan pocket. I cringe as she walks across the room to Papou. Flinch as Ling Ling leans so far forward she's going to fall off the couch. Cringe as Ben's nervous hands rattle the operating tray. Cringe, flinch, cringe, flinch. I'm having a slow-motion seizure.

  Papou cradles the book on the wide expanse of his palm.

  "What is this you have?" Yiayia asks him. She cuts a strip of cheesecloth and dips it in the mixing bowl. She wrings out the water and dabs dried blood from my arm.

  Papou extends his palm toward her. Yiayia regards the coverless miniature book.

  Papou reaches under his sweater and removes a pair of drugstore glasses from his shirt pocket. He slips them on his nose, slides them to the exact right spot on the bridge. Settles into the Eames chair. Props his feet on the ottoman. Adjusts the lamp over his shoulder. Sets the brightness to the perfect setting.

  Yiayia sighs with impatience. She's already cleaned the blood from my arms. The mixing bowl water is swirling with red. She cuts more cheesecloth and applies the vinegar. It's pure acid. I bite my lips to keep from screaming.

  "Good girl," she says.

  Since entering the study, Yiayia has not acknowledged Ling Ling. She's kept her back to the bleach-blond bombshell:
a maybe or maybe not so nice sur prise.
Me, I'm
poofu, poofu. Yiayia predicted our fine mess: two girls in he
r grandson's scarves. If pressed, I'm not sure which one of us she'd choose for Nick. I doubt anyone is good enough. Maybe my endurance will better her opinion of me.

  Papou opens his mouth to read from page one. He is proud of his education. His brows furrow as ancient Greek filters through his brain. Understanding comes letter by letter. He mouths the English equivalent before speaking aloud. But he doesn't say anything.

  I can't read his lips. Digital time blinks by on the side table Bose stereo.

  "Papou, what?" Nick asks.

  Yiayia breaks the tip off the aloe leaf and squirts green gel along the outlines of my scratches where my skin is raw. She cuts more cheesecloth and tapes the rectangles directly to my arm. She blows cool air through the gauzy pores. She says to Papou, "Speak. Your grandson asked you a question."

  Papou says, "Oh, Nick. Nico mou. Forgive me. I am so sorry. You have to believe your yiayia and I didn't know."

  "Know what?" Panic creeps across Yiayia's face. "Sorry for what?" She waves for Nick to help her stand, grabs his hands, and hoists herself to her feet. She hugs him and then rears back to look at his face. She presses her hands to his cheeks, pulls down his lower lids and studies the whites of his eyes. She plucks a hair from his head and rolls the root between her fingers. Nick looks scared. Yiayia screams at her husband, "Sorry for what? Tell me, you old fool! What have we done?"

  Papou points at the little library book.

  Yiayia rushes to him and hovers over his shoulder. She leans her body into the lamplight. "Oxi!" she cries as she reads. "No, no, no! I don't believe it! I won't believe it! Nico mou, where did you get such garbage?"

  "I didn't get it. Mary got it."

  "STUPID GIRL!" Yiayia's thunderous voice fills the room. "HOW COULD YOU BRING THESE LIES INTO OUR HOUSE?"

  Tears hit me in the face like a water balloon. I cover my mouth to muzzle myself, but my skin stinks of vinegar. I gag. I'm not sure what's so bad about the Greek book, but by the way Yiayia glares at me, I know that the betrayal it reveals is much worse than my being a narc.

  Nick says, "Yiayia, Mary didn't mean anything. She doesn't know what the book says. What does it say?"

  "Antidotos!" Yiayia screams. "For everything! But for you, it's too late!"

  Nick sinks to the floor right in front of me. He leans back against my socks and bare knees. He cups my ankles.

  I can't believe it, I feel tingles—the good kind. In the midst of all this.

  Papou raises his arms for calm. "Please! This book could be
caca
. What's listed here: Gorcones, Kerkopes, Orinthes, Styphalides. Myths. I've never known any of this in real life." He looks over his reading glasses at his wife. "Have you?"

  She says, "Oxi. But your theory is caca. Because we do not
know
does not mean it is not so. Until our Nick, we thought what he has is as pretend as the rest of this book. But our boy is real. That book, what it says, must be real too."

  Nick says, "Tell me the antidote."

  "Oxi, it's fiction."

  "But Papou, what if it's not?" he pleads.

  "If it is not, we have apologized. It is too late for you."

  Nick's head drops. He is devastated. I place my hand on his shoulder.

  Ben asks, "Is it too late for me and Mary?"

  Papou whispers, "No."

  Nick's head drops farther, to rest on his bent knees, but he reaches back and places his fingers on top of mine. I spread my fingers so he can slip his in between. Everyone is looking at us, but I am not shy. I understand Nick—always will. He's stuck. And I don't think being stuck with him is the worst place I can be. I know there are worse places. I've lived there. My sister has too. Damn it, I'll make sure Octavia is happy with me. I'll convince her not to tell our parents. I'll steer clear of Country Club and his strays. I'll stay away from Yoon's deli. I won't hunt. I'll figure out how to love. Nick and I will keep to ourselves. I won't let curiosity kill what we have.

  Yiayia asks Ben and me, "You would leave Nico mou to suffer alone with what he is?"

  I say, "I won't."

  Yiayia's eyes soften in my direction. I am chosen. Ling Ling can suck it.

  Papou says, "There's a cure for the new ones, we tell them." And then he reads: "Ailouros
prospopoiia. Ailouros
, meaning cat. Prospopoiia meaning personification, from prospa, meaning mask. Antidotos: To rid the body of this condition, the afflicted must drink the blood of a natural-born cat moments before it dies. Thus, you reject the species. The natural cat dies, so dies the cat inside you."

  Nick says, "Papou, I can do it!"

  "Oxi, let me finish. The book says the antidote is good only if you complete it before fully transforming a second time."

  Yiayia says: "For you, Nick, it has been many times."

  Papou says to me: "For you, it looks like your time is nearly up."

  Orange fuzz sifts through and feathers out the gauze on my arms.

  Ling Ling squeals: "I did it to her! I'm turning! It's happening to me!"

  Nick laughs, but there is no humor in it. "Nothing's happening to you. Mary's arms are furring because of all the time you spent with those strays—petting them when they were turned. When you scratched her, you must have had their residue under your nails. Mary, you've got maybe an hour. You have to go."

  "Where?"

  "The Cellar."

  "What's Mrs. Wrinkles going to tell me that she hasn't already?"

  "She isn't going to tell you anything. You're going to kill her."

  The room falls silent.

  "Oh, shit," says Ben.

  "I'm not going to kill that old cat," I tell Nick.

  "Oh, yes, you are!" Octavia grabs my elbow and jerks me out of my chair.

  I say, "But she's the Queen of the—"

  "I know who Mrs. Wrinkles is, Fergie! She is a library treasure! A research miracle worker! The reason I'm the youngest Purser-Lilley debate captain ever! But that cat is the answer. Her chaperone is blind! What more do you want, a silver platter? You get in, you get out, it's over before you know it. You do this one awful thing and then we can all go back to normal."

  "Except for Nico mou," says Yiayia.

  Ben asks, "And what about me?"

  "I'm sorry, sweetie," Octavia says. "Kill your own cat."

  "Can't we both kill it?" he asks.

  I say, "We are not killing Mrs. Wrinkles!"

  "Seriously," Ben asks Papou, "what's the book say? Can Mary and I both drink from the same dying cat?"

  Papou rereads what he translated. He squints at the text. "I do not see why not."

  "What's wrong with us staying the way that we are?" I ask quietly.

  Ben says, "Don't we have enough problems?"

  "What problems? Debate team? Rope-climbing? Getting an A in Fem Lit? Finding someone who likes us just the way we are? These aren't problems. They're coming-of-age clichés! Ben, something amazing is happening to us. It's who we are. And it's who'll we be for such a very short time. It'll be over before we know it—probably before we can legally drink!"

  Ben does the math. Three hundred and sixty-five days times five years plus a minimum of fifteen months of being blue in addition to being scrawny equals one hell of an awkward phase. Ben doesn't shave more than his upper lip yet. He gargles with Proactiv. The turning doesn't seem so short anymore. He confirms, "Five years is forever."

  He runs out of the study and down five flights of stairs— from the sound of it, he takes two steps at a time.

  Octavia screams at me, "Go after him! Don't let him get to her first!"

   "I'm not killing Mrs. Wrinkles. Don't you get it? I'm not getting fixed!"

  "You are, even if I have to drag you to The Cellar myself."

  Nick nudges Octavia. The movement is sudden but smooth. He sidles into her. His arm brushes hers. His weight leans into her body and nearly knocks her off balance. He wanted her attention. He's got it. At first, it ain't good. I think Octavia's going to hit him harder than she slugged Ling Ling. But then he does it again: sidles into her with his whole self. Her angst mysteriously quells. Without a word, he's communicated that they're on the same side. She needs to calm down or they'll never get through to me.

  Nick picks his scarf up off the floor. He steps forward, and I accept it from him. I touch my throat. A thin line of orange fur has circled my collarbone like a cheap gold necklace. The turning is coming over me so quickly, I don't feel the tingles— the good or bad kind.

  Nick says, "Mary, if you don't fix yourself, this scarf will be all you'll have left of me. I'll never speak to you again."

  Ling Ling perks up on the sofa behind him.

  He senses her movement. He doesn't have to say what he's thinking. I know he'll say anything to keep me from fully transforming a second time. Nick hates the turning. He'll hate me for not trusting him that it's the worst way to live. He'll hate me for refusing an antidote that he would take in an instant if our positions were switched. If he has to, he'll tell me that he will be Ling Ling's boyfriend for real. If I ignore him, he'll do it. I'll spend the rest of my turn-time turning without him and be forced to see him with Ling Ling in class, between classes in the hallways, at my sister's debates, idle at the bus stop below my parents' bathroom window. Nick can smell me, so he'll follow me everywhere and drag Ling Ling along. I know it's true. I remember what he told me: cats are spiteful and never forgive.

  I bolt.

  My feet slip down the stairs in my speed. I hang on to the banister and swing my legs out as I leap to each landing. I knock pictures off walls. Glass shatters from frames. Religious icons tumble and clunk. An avalanche is after me. So is everybody else. I'm in the mudroom. Octavia, Nick, and Ling Ling are in with me too. I shove my feet into my loafers and throw on my coat. I fling open the front door. From somewhere behind me, Yiayia is crying. Smoke rolls out of the kitchen. The pastitsio has burned.

In the basement of Webster Library, Miss Ryan stands before The Cellar door, barring unforeseen customers. She fumbles with her dangly earring. She looks to Octavia and then to me: Octavia's anonymous friend to whom something weird is happening. Miss Ryan knows what's weird about me. She knows what's happening in her used bookstore. When she speaks, I know she is speaking of Mrs. Wrinkles.

  "My dears," she pleads, stepping aside to let the four of us stream in, "help her."