Grows That Way Read online

  Grows That Way

  Grows That Way

  by

  Susan Ketchen

  OOLICHAN BOOKS

  FERNIE, BRITISH COLUMBIA, CANADA

  2012

  Copyright © 2012 by Susan Ketchen ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without prior written permission of the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a newspaper or magazine or broadcast on radio or television; or, in the case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, a licence from ACCESS COPYRIGHT, 6 Adelaide Street East, Suite 900, Toronto, Ontario M5C 1H6.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Ketchen, Susan

  Grows that way / Susan Ketchen.

  ISBN 978-0-88982-285-6

  I. Title.

  PS8621.E893G76 2012------jC813’.6------C2012-900604-1

  We gratefully acknowledge the financial support of the Canada Council for the Arts, the British Columbia Arts Council through the BC Ministry of Tourism, Culture, and the Arts, and the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund, for our publishing activities.

  Published by

  Oolichan Books

  P.O. Box 2278

  Fernie, British Columbia

  Canada V0B 1M0

  www.oolichan.com

  Cover photograph by Isobel Springett, www.isobelspringett.com.

  eBook development by WildElement.ca

  For Mike

  chapter

  one

  Logan Losino is walking beside me. He’s wearing his goofy knit cap pulled down over his ears, even though the sun is shining and we won’t have snow for at least another month.

  We’re on our way to school. So why aren’t I riding my bike?

  My horse Brooklyn is walking behind us. I can feel his warm breath on the back of my neck as though he’s looking for an opportunity to sneak between me and Logan, but we’re walking so close together this isn’t going to happen.

  I’m wondering where I can put Brooklyn while I’m in class all day and whether I could tie him to my locker, and that’s when I realize I must be dreaming—lucid dreaming, my specialty.

  In lucid dreams I am in control and can do anything I want, which makes them different from my regular dreams, and from my regular life come to think of it. In lucid dreams I could probably even fly but usually I dream about riding horses. When I was younger, meaning a couple of months ago, these dreams were less realistic, sometimes even including a unicorn, but I’ve outgrown that sort of thing now. Still, I have no idea why I’m dreaming about Logan Losino.

  I feel his fingers fumbling for mine, and then we’re holding hands.

  Did I want that?

  I look up at Logan. He’s grown. I decide to make myself the same height as him, something that will never happen in the real world because I have Turner Syndrome and I will always be a shrimp. I suppose I could make Logan shorter instead of making me taller, but that doesn’t seem fair. And it’s fun to be the height of a normal human being for a change. It’s almost like walking on stilts.

  Logan smiles at me through his mustache. Mustache? When did Logan grow a mustache? All I remember him having is a faint line of fuzz. I don’t even like mustaches. My dad grew one last summer and I made him shave it off because he looked like Hitler and then his upper lip looked diseased because it wasn’t tanned like the rest of his face.

  “I like your beard,” says Logan.

  I have a beard? My free hand flies to my face. I do have a beard. It’s soft and furry under my fingers. Great. More hair. I already have extra due to my low hairline at the back of my head, but at least that’s hidden, and besides I like to think of it as my mane so I don’t mind it too much. Face hair would be way different. I feel kind of panicky, but then I notice that Logan really does like my beard, and he’s acting as though it’s normal for a girl to have a beard. I guess it’s okay. And it’s only a dream. At least I’m pretty sure it’s a dream.

  Logan Losino is leaning towards me and his lips are puckered as though he’s going to kiss me and just in time Brooklyn sticks his great long head in between us so I guess Logan kisses him instead, and I feel an uncomfortable mish-mash of relief and disappointment at the same time. I hate feeling confused. It’s how I feel a lot of the time when I’m awake. I start thinking that maybe I’m not in a dream at all, and that Brooklyn will be running loose on the school grounds while I’m inside being ridiculed for my beard.

  I feel so upset that I wake up. It was only a dream. I stroke my cheek to be sure. Skin. Soft plain skin. Thank goodness.

  Dad is rushing out the door when I arrive at the breakfast table. He’s late as usual but throws me a kiss.

  Mom is standing at the counter quietly sipping a coffee. She’s still in her dressing gown.

  “You okay, Mom? Not going to work today?”

  “I’m taking a mental health day,” says Mom. “It’s important for psychotherapy professionals to model good self-care.”

  “And it’s different from skipping out?” I’m not trying to be a smart aleck. Really, I’d like to know the difference between skipping out and taking some mental health time. But Mom doesn’t hear it that way.

  She frowns at me. “Of course I’m not skipping out. That would be irresponsible.”

  “Okay, Mom.” I pour some Shreddies into my bowl and add milk until they start to float.

  I hear the garage door opening, and the faint purr as Dad starts his car, followed by a lot of crashing grinding noise. Mom spills coffee on the counter as she puts down her mug. And I remember I was in a hurry last night and didn’t put my bike away in its designated parking spot beside our paper recycling bin. I was going to move it after dinner and I forgot.

  “Oh no,” I say. I want to slide under the breakfast table. I want this to be a dream, something that I can change, or something that won’t be real when I wake up. I need my bike desperately, not so much for riding to school as for riding to the boarding stable where I keep Brooklyn.

  Dad flings open the back door and fastens his eyes on me immediately even though I’ve leaned in behind the cereal box.

  “You left your bike behind the Explorer!” he yells.

  “You didn’t look?” Mom asks him. “You didn’t check your mirrors?”

  The fire-breathing dragon turns in her direction. “I will not be criticized by someone who drives a car that can park itself.” My mom has a new Prius. Dad’s right, it has a computer that can take over when you’re parking, though Mom is afraid to use it—she says she doesn’t like giving up control to a car.

  “But Dad,” I say, “Mom never uses the computer, she always parks manually.”

  “So wasn’t that a total waste of money!” Dad yells at Mom.

  Maybe I can slink off to my room without anyone noticing. I ease my butt off the chair.

  “There’s no need to raise your voice, Tony. That never solves anything,” says Mom. She picks up her mug and takes a sip of coffee as though nothing major is wrong. She could be right about that. No one’s died. At least not yet. Though Dad looks like he’s brewing an aneurism. Probably I should follow Mom’s example and stay calm. This is what Kansas always tells me too, when I’m out at the barn. I settle my seat bones back on the chair, square my shoulders and lift my head as though there’s a line pulling it up to the sky, just like how I ride: balanced and ready for anything.

  “Don’t you expect me to drive her to school now,” says Dad, stabbing a finger in Mom’s direction. �
��I’m late as it is, and it’s about time she started to suffer the consequences of her behaviour.”

  This is odd. He’s sounding more like Mom. The psychobabble must be contagious. What would be more normal would be for Dad to be complaining about the cost of fixing what used to be a perfectly good bike.

  “I can drive her,” says Mom. “I’m not going in to work today. I’m taking a mental health day.”

  “She’s modeling good self-care,” I tell Dad, hoping he’ll pick up the hint and do some deep breathing before his own head explodes.

  Dad looks back and forth between me and Mom as though he can’t decide which of us is the greater enemy. I feel sick when he settles on me, and only barely manage to hold my balanced posture. I stretch my neck taller, and Dad glares at me. He’s never done this before. Usually when he loses his temper it’s because the computer has seized up, or because he and Mom are arguing. I’ve never been the focus, so haven’t noticed before how small his eyes become as they sink back into his head, and how his lips get so thin that his mouth disappears, and the only thing left of his face is a great big nose. It’s as if he’s transformed into a totally different person or some sort of predatory bird with a beak specially designed for tearing apart small animals. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.

  He grabs the Shreddies box and flings it at the counter, leaving me totally open to attack. “You will walk to school, Sylvia.”

  Instead of pecking me to death, he pivots and slams the door behind him. Through the kitchen window I see my bike airborne before it lands in a tangled heap on the lawn.

  I pick up my spoon and swirl it through my untouched breakfast. There are ripples in the milk that make me realize my fingers are trembling. I’ve totally lost my appetite, but Mom will insist I eat everything because breakfast is the most important meal of the day. I can’t believe this has happened. It’s the first time that using my balanced confident riding posture hasn’t helped me with a difficult situation. This time, if it did anything, it made matters worse.

  I take a peek at Mom who is watching from behind the curtain as Dad backs out the driveway. I’m not sure, but I think there are tears in her eyes. I so wish I’d put my bike away like I was supposed to.

  “Mom, I’m sorry.”

  She wipes the spilled coffee from the countertop. When she turns to face me, there’s no sign of tears so I guess it was just how the light came in the window.

  “It’s good that you apologize, Sweetie. You made a mistake by not putting your bike away properly. But I hope you’re not apologizing for anything else, because that display was not an example of effective parenting.”

  I feel like I’ve entered an alternate universe. I can’t remember Mom openly criticizing Dad’s parenting before. They have a rule about being a team and working together and presenting a united front at all times. Maybe in this universe I don’t have to go to school. It’s worth a try.

  “Mom, do I really have to walk to school? I don’t know if I have time. I could stay home with you today. If I’m late Mr. Brumby won’t let me into class anyway.”

  Mom knows about Mr. Brumby and how he rules his class with an iron hand. She doesn’t approve of his methods, she says he has no grasp of motivation theory. So she nods sympathetically but then says, “It won’t hurt you to walk, Cookie. I think it would be wise to go along with your dad on this, tactically speaking. He’s not exactly wrong about you experiencing the consequences of your behaviour.”

  I see the united front is re-forming, which is a comfort in a way. At least it’s familiar. But the rest of what she said is very strange. Tactics? Usually Mom preaches openness and honesty. I couldn’t count the number of times she’s told me and Dad that all family secrets are toxic and pathological.

  “Shouldn’t there be consequences for Dad’s behaviour too? Why did he have to get so mad at me?”

  “I’m not sure,” says Mom. “It probably had nothing to do with you. I expect it’s some sort of displacement behaviour. And when people give in to their shadow sides…” She sighs heavily and stares out the window towards the pile of metal that used to be my bike. She becomes so lost in thought that she doesn’t complete her lecture, not that it would have helped. Even when she explains herself I usually don’t have a clue what she’s talking about.

  Though I am relieved I wasn’t the real cause of Dad’s anger, I wonder what else could be going on. I try to remember the last time I caught my parents hugging. Mom won’t discuss this with me, she’ll say it’s private, which is somehow different from a secret, though don’t ask me how. I can only hope that as part of her mental health day she will drop by Auntie Sally’s for a talk and a glass of wine.

  “What about after school?” I say. “I want to go to the barn and ride Brooklyn today. Kansas is going to give me a jumping lesson.”

  Mom shakes her head. “Sorry, Honey, I’ll give Kansas a call a let her know you have to postpone. We’ll discuss it more tonight. Hopefully your father will be in a better mood.” She checks her watch. “You better get a move on if you don’t want to be late.” She tops up her coffee, saunters to the table, pulls out a chair and sits down. I take my bowl of cereal to the sink and flush it down the garburator and Mom doesn’t say a word. This is so not like her. It’s like she’s on drugs. I think they’re both on drugs. Mom’s on some sort of tranquilizer, and I have no idea what my dad’s on, but something. Too bad there wasn’t something that worked for me.

  chapter

  two

  I used to be on drugs. For a while I took human growth hormone, because I am so short from the Turner Syndrome. But it increased my intracranial pressure, which gave me headaches and double vision, which made me crash my bike when I was doubling my cousin Taylor, who got her big toe caught in the chain and cut it off, leaving her a cripple unable to pursue her true-life passion of dancing. Now she’s decided to become an animal communicator instead. She’s practicing on her dog Bunga, who is so stupid I can’t see why anyone would want to communicate with him psychically or otherwise. She’s also practicing on Spike, who is very very scary smart. He’s a hinny, which is kind of like a mule, only he’s a hybrid of a male horse and a female donkey. Mules are hybrids of a male donkey and a female horse. Spike used to belong to me, but Taylor wanted him when I got Brooklyn. Brooklyn The Magnificent. Who I don’t get to see today because my dad ran over my stupid bike.

  When I’ve been off the growth hormone for another month or so I’m going to start on estrogen therapy, so I can develop secondary sexual characteristics. My mom has already bought me a brassiere, a fake padded one she thinks I should wear in the interim, but I say no thanks. To me, bras look too much like harnesses, or like the halter I put on Brooklyn’s head, but with more lacey bits. Mom acts like I should be all excited about acquiring secondary sexual characteristics, which doesn’t make sense to me, even though it would make me normal. From what I see at school, normal doesn’t impress me very much. Fake padded normal would be even worse.

  To be honest, I did wear the bra once, but only to get Mom off my back. There’s no way I was going to wear it to school, because I’m sure somehow Amber would notice and make a big deal of it and embarrass me to death. Instead I wore it on a Saturday, to a riding lesson, which was a big mistake. Maybe I didn’t have the straps tight enough, but they kept sliding off my shoulders so I had to wiggle and shrug to get them back into position. Eventually Kansas asked what was the matter with me, so I told her. She didn’t make a big deal of it other than telling me all she ever wears is a sports bra because it’s practical, comfortable, never shifts and the straps don’t dig in. She pulled a wide strap out from under her T-shirt and let it go with a soft snap to illustrate her point. I went home and told Mom I wanted a sports bra and she said, “What for?” She said I didn’t need the support and it would only flatten me (which didn’t sound like such a bad idea actually), and that the one she’d bough
t me was much prettier. I told her it wasn’t any good for equestrian athletes like me and Kansas and she hasn’t mentioned it since.

  On normal days, when my dad hasn’t been possessed by his shadow side, I ride my bike to school and go the long way that takes me past the stable. If I time it right I can say good morning to Brooklyn as Kansas leads him out to his paddock. I could say good morning to Kansas too of course, but I usually forget, and it doesn’t bother Kansas at all because we’re both members of the herd of horsewomen, so she understands. Kansas is wonderful. She is totally not normal in the best sort of way.

  Today, since I’m walking and I’m short of time, I have to take a more direct route to school. This means I have to sneak through the middle of our subdivision where all the other kids walk, which is another reason I prefer the long route.

  I’m about halfway to school, thinking maybe by some fluke I could still elude my tormentors, when I hear loud footsteps and panting coming up fast behind me. I steel myself, and hold tight to the straps of my backpack, expecting it to be ripped from my shoulders as Amber flies past. I can’t believe my ears when I hear, “Hey, Sylvia! Wait up!”

  It’s Logan Losino.

  He staggers to a walk beside me, puffing hard and trying not to show it.

  “I never see you walking to school,” he says.

  “My dad drove over my bike with his Explorer,” I say. Usually I have trouble talking to Logan Losino, but today seems different, maybe because I dreamt about him last night. Maybe because I’m still disturbed by my dad’s behaviour and could use an ally.

  “Bummer,” says Logan. “How did he do that?”

  “He must have had it in four-wheel drive,” I say.

  Logan laughs as though I’ve told him a joke. Logan is always laughing and joking around. Usually I don’t mind, and any other day I’d be thrilled about Logan thinking I was a jokester like him. But right now I’d prefer my problems were taken more seriously.