Baker's Dozen Page 7

  That was another one of their family’s differences. Twyla, her dad, and her two brothers all had a great sense of smell. When she’d been a kid, she’d wondered if the reason her mom couldn’t smell Franklin’s tears or where Dad had dropped his keys was because her nose was so tiny, like the rest of her. It wasn’t until Twyla had gone to school that she’d realized it was just something her family did.

  “You’re young for the change.”

  Twyla almost protested that she wasn’t young—she was fourteen, after all—but her curiosity got the better of her. “What do you mean by change?”

  “People in the Evans branch of the family…change. Not like those silly werewolf movies your brothers love. We’re bred for the city. We change into dogs.”

  “What?” Twyla didn’t believe him. Dad had to be pulling her chain. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Not kidding.” Dad shook his head. “Knew your brothers would change, but your mom and I weren’t sure about you. You were the only one attracted to other dogs growing up. You even wanted to get a puppy.” He shuddered. “But today, you not only growled at your brother, but you bared your teeth at him.” Now, a glare. “Don’t you feel it, deep inside you? That difference?”

  Twyla thought about it. She felt…the same as she’d always felt. “Show me,” she dared her dad.

  Her dad smiled as he started unbuttoning his shirt. “You kids are all so different. Franklin refused to let me show him, just marched back inside the house. He figured out how to change on his own. Still didn’t talk to me for over two weeks.”

  Twyla remembered that fight from the previous year. Franklin had just turned seventeen. It had ruined his birthday party.

  “Morris didn’t believe me, even after I’d shown him. He kept saying it was a trick.”

  Twyla remembered that fight as well, only the month before. Morris had warned her never to trust Dad or believe him, no matter what he said. Her brother wouldn’t tell her why he was so pissed off, or what had changed his mind. He was sixteen.

  Her dad slipped off his shirt and then took off his socks and sandals. “It’s no trick.”

  Twyla didn’t think of her dad as beautiful. But there was something majestic about how he stood there in their tiny backyard, bare-chested, arms wide, proud and free.

  A golden light crept over her dad’s dark skin, like haze from a bright concert light. Then he started shrinking, still mostly human, though his face had started elongating. Smooth black skin sprouted black fur: a Doberman, Twyla realized excitedly. A fierce joy filled her as her dad finished the transformation. “That’s amazing,” she told the dog now standing beside her. Clear brown eyes, brighter and more intelligent than a regular dog’s, stared back. His teeth were sharper as well.

  Now Twyla felt the difference. Her skin felt naked without that fur; her face, scrunched in. She knew there were ten thousand scents in the wind that she was missing. She curled her hands, feeling the claws already starting to form from her fingers, the dewclaws just beneath the skin above her wrists. The world started to gray out, the color leaching from the fall leaves. Scents from the wind took on shape and dimension, as if a new map of the world suddenly lay on top of the old one.

  “No!”

  Twyla jerked back to herself. Her fully human father stood beside her. “Not yet,” he said. He very slowly reached out his hand toward her.

  Twyla felt her soul shrink. Why was her own father scared of her? Then she realized her teeth were still bared and a quiet growl came from her throat. “Sorry, Dad,” Twyla said, pulling herself upright.

  “You need some training. Before your first change,” her dad told her solemnly, placing both hands on her shoulders and squeezing. His palms felt super-heated through her shirt. “Promise me you’ll wait.”

  “But you said Franklin figured—”

  “Your eldest brother merely had to let go,” her dad said. He leaned in and confided. “He can be something of a tightass.”

  Twyla bit her lip to stop from laughing out loud. That described Franklin perfectly. She couldn’t believe her dad had just said that.

  “You, on the other hand, need to learn how to come back.” Dad dropped his hands and picked up his shirt.

  “What do you mean?” Twyla said, conscious that she hadn’t promised she wouldn’t change on her own.

  “You need to learn more about being human,” Dad said. “That’s why it’s dangerous for someone so young to start. Unless you know how to live in this body, we’ll lose you. You’ll never change back.”

  Twyla wondered if it was already too late.

  * * *

  The oaks lining the driveway to the Tai Chi studio were some of the largest Twyla had ever seen. They had to be at least four feet across. A one-story, white-stucco house sat at the end, guarded by fragrant bushes. Black banners with Chinese characters scrawled in red framed the door like warning signs that Twyla couldn’t read. Low wooden benches stood in reserve.

  “I don’t know why your dad thought this would be a good idea,” Mom said as she got out of the car. “You get in enough fights as it is. I wanted you to learn chanoyu—the Japanese tea ceremony.”

  “No thanks, Mom,” Twyla said, rolling her eyes. All that formality and stuffiness with fancy kimonos just wasn’t her thing. She didn’t really like tea, even.

  Her mom sniffed. “Just remember to be polite to Uncle Tomi,” she warned. “Hello!” she called, sticking her head through the door to the studio.

  A very tall, thin man with long black hair tied in a ponytail turned around. “Akira!” he said happily. He walked over, speaking rapid Japanese.

  Twyla wanted to melt into the ground. Now all the students would know she was Japanese. Not that it mattered, as she took a look around. She was the only black student as well. Figured.

  Her mom introduced her to Uncle Tomi, an uncle through marriage to her mom’s younger sister. Twyla had met him maybe once or twice before. He wore a white Chinese-style jacket and plain, black cotton pants.

  “Konnichiwa,” Uncle Tomi said, hands pressed in front of him, giving a short bow.

  “Konnichiwa,” Twyla replied, bowing as well.

  “You speak Japanese?” Uncle Tomi asked, clearly delighted.

  “Just a few phrases,” Twyla told him. Kids at school who were into anime spoke more Japanese than she did.

  “No matter. Many of the principles of Tai Chi are expressed in Chinese, anyway. At least in the school I teach.”

  “I’ll come get you in an hour,” her mom said, and Twyla wanted to die all over again. All the other students looked older and had probably gotten there on their own. She was the only kid.

  Twyla had only taken two steps into the room when Uncle Tomi said in a harsh voice, “Shoes.”

  Twyla backed up immediately. How could she be so stupid? They never wore shoes at home. She should have noticed that the low benches outside had everyone’s street shoes lined up under them.

  “Akira says you’ve never taken Tai Chi before? And that you’ve been getting into fights?” Uncle Tomi asked when she walked back in.

  Twyla hadn’t thought she could be more mortified. She’d been wrong. She merely nodded at her uncle.

  “While Tai Chi is a martial art, and I do teach push hands in the advanced class, in the beginning class you’ll only learn form. We’ll start with the breathing.” With that, he turned and walked out of the entrance way and into another room.

  The studio ran long one way, skinny the other. It had beautiful, dark hardwood floors. Both of the shorter walls were painted a bright, happy red. The other walls were a pristine white. A low altar squatted in the far corner, with a scroll painting of some old guy with a big forehead hanging over it.

  Twyla put her hands together and bowed like the other students did before she walked into the room. No one ever believed her that she tried to do the right thing and that she didn’t start all the fights she got into. She tried to copy the others, the people at school, until she couldn
’t anymore. Then the wildness took over.

  The other students arranged themselves in loose lines. “The newest student stands at the end of the line,” one of the guys told Twyla with a jerk of his head toward the back.

  Feeling like she could die all over again, Twyla found her place.

  “Feet together,” Uncle Tomi said as he walked to the front of the class. “Hands loose by your sides. Close your eyes. Now breathe. Feel the qi flowing from deep in the earth, up through the soles of your feet, spiraling up your legs…”

  Twyla tried to feel everything Uncle Tomi described, but it was difficult to feel balanced with her eyes closed. How could she possibly relax when she was afraid she was about to fall over? What if one of the other students pushed her, or attacked her with her eyes closed?

  Learning form wasn’t any better. They started with their feet together. Then Twyla needed to shift her weight to her left foot and slide her right foot out, so she was standing with her feet parallel, hip-width apart.

  “Now look at your feet,” Uncle Tomi instructed. “Are they parallel?”

  Twyla discovered that her right was in front of her left. At least she wasn’t the only one who had to correct her stance.

  “Again. Eyes up here.”

  Twyla tried to step straight out but overcompensated now, stepping behind. Only after five tries did she step straight.

  The next move involved raising her arms, led by the wrists, then flipping her hands up and sweeping them down, in time with her breath.

  Two existing students were also fairly new. Uncle Tomi separated them out with Twyla to just practice those first two moves repeatedly.

  The other students organized themselves into groups based on how far along they were with the form. Twyla glanced enviously at the most advanced students in the opposite corner who flowed gracefully through the entire form, watching and correcting each other.

  Uncle Tomi went from group to group, teaching and helping. The other students in Twyla’s group were both men and much older than her. They didn’t bother to introduce themselves. After a bit they both started doing the next move in the form. Twyla watched them and tried to pick it up, but it was hopeless, as it involved shifting her weight and moving her arm to the side, then facing the front again.

  After class, while Twyla sat outside and put on her shoes, Uncle Tomi talked with her mom. Twyla heard her name more than once. Class was supposed to be calming and shit, but Twyla was burning with anger and humiliation. Finally she couldn’t stand it any longer. “Mom, you know it’s rude to talk about someone in front of them when they can’t understand you.”

  “Uncle Tomi was just telling me you had great potential,” her mom told her proudly.

  Twyla looked away, surprised. Mom was telling the truth. Like her dad, Twyla could literally smell a lie.

  “Though we’ll have to work on your manners,” Uncle Tomi added.

  Twyla bit her lips together as shame and anger warred inside her. She couldn’t give Uncle Tomi a piece of her mind, no matter how much she wanted to. Instead, she was going to have to come back and be embarrassed all over again.

  Twice a week.

  * * *

  When Twyla found herself staring into space instead of solving for X for the third time that night, she groaned, leaned back in her chair, and stared at the posters taped to her ceiling. Usher grinned at her while Drake looked soulfully into space. “This is useless,” she muttered as she put her feet back on the floor and sat up. She was never going to finish her math homework if she couldn’t focus for more than two seconds at a time. And she was damned if she was going to be stuck in summer school again. She’d rather drop out and work at a fast food place.

  Twyla shoved her math book away from her, pushed in the keyboard tray, and stood up. The poster of Queen Latifah stared past her, large and majestic, as if daring her to be as cool. Twyla curled her hands into fists. She wouldn’t rip all the posters off her walls. She’d done it before, and it hadn’t helped.

  At the end of the hall Twyla heard Morris say “Ow!” Franklin’s voice followed, saying, “What? That wasn’t hard. Pussy.”

  Seemed her brothers weren’t really studying, either. Maybe they could take a break together, or at least that’s what they could tell Dad if he came checking on them. Twyla walked down the hall, past all the family photos—of them as kids, their parents and grandparents—down to the bedroom the boys shared. “Hey,” she said as she pushed the door open and leaned against the jamb.

  Morris’ desk stood closest to the door. He looked up and scowled at her. Franklin, from across the room, turned his chair to face her, grinning. “What’s up?”

  Twyla eased herself into the room. It smelled strongly of them, sour and musky. Franklin’s car posters covered the walls on his half of the room, while Morris mainly had movie posters with hot babes, as he called them. Books, clothes, and shoes littered the floor. Mom wouldn’t make them clean it up until the floor was covered and there were merely trails from one end to the other. Twyla didn’t like the boys’ room—it was stuffy and crowded. Tonight it also made her feel melancholy, and she looked around it carefully, as if trying to preserve it in her memory.

  “Something wrong?” Morris asked. “Or you just wanna hang out with the cool kids?”

  “Yeah. Cool,” Twyla said, rolling her eyes. She closed the door and walked farther into the room, then leaned gingerly against Morris’ bed. The comforter was clean enough to risk contact; Mom couldn’t pay her enough to touch the sheets, though, not until after they’d been washed in boiling water.

  “You guys know our family’s different, right?”

  Franklin and Morris exchanged a look. “Different how?” Franklin finally asked.

  “We change,” Twyla said, finding it more difficult to talk about than she’d thought it would be. Then again, this was the first time she’d said the words out loud.

  Though Franklin was nodding his head, Morris asked, “Change how?”

  “Into dogs, dumbass.”

  “Yeah,” Morris said with a grin.

  Franklin said, “Wait. Why did Dad tell you already?”

  “Seems I’m ahead of the curve,” Twyla replied smugly.

  “Always knew you were an animal,” Franklin teased.

  “What breed are you?” Morris asked.

  “What breed are you?” Twyla asked, deflecting the question.

  “Franklin’s a Doberman like Dad,” Morris replied. “But I’m more like a German Shepherd.”

  “Really?” Twyla asked, though she could kind of see it. Franklin did take after their dad, tall and dark-haired, while Morris looked like their Uncle Ezra, who was wider, with broad features and lighter skin.

  “So, what are you?” Franklin asked.

  Twyla bit her lip. “I don’t know. Dad won’t let me change yet. Says I’m too young.” She rolled her eyes at that, letting them see just what she thought of it.

  “You are young for the change,” Franklin told her.

  “How the fuck would you know?” God, her brother was a pompous ass sometimes. “You didn’t know anything about this until last year.”

  “I’ve been studying this shit for fifteen months,” Franklin told her primly. “So yeah, I do know more about it than you do.”

  “Great, O fountain of wisdom, tell me why Dad’s so freaked about me maybe not changing back.”

  “Not changing back?” Franklin asked, his nose wrinkling, implying that the question was inconceivable.

  “Ass,” Morris said, drawing Twyla’s attention. “Of course he wouldn’t have problems. I bet you’re even a pedantic prick when you’re a dog, always following the rules. You like wearing a collar.”

  Franklin gave a warning growl. The hairs on the back of Twyla’s neck rose and she found herself snarling in return.

  “Whoa,” Franklin said, holding up his hands. “Down, boy.”

  Twyla fought to overcome her instinct to charge into battle. She relaxed her face so she was
no longer baring her teeth, dropped her hands, and forced her fingers straight.

  “No more fights for you,” Morris told her.

  “That’s what Dad said,” Twyla confessed. “He said the change was too close—I wouldn’t be able to control it in a fight.”

  Morris and Franklin exchanged another look. “Yeah, you should listen to Dad and not change yet,” Franklin said.

  “What he said,” Morris added, pointing his thumb at Franklin. “And while he doesn’t understand how appealing slipping the leash can be, I do.”

  Morris faced Twyla squarely. “It’s been hard to come back. Not every time. But sometimes. There’s so much joy as a dog. You can’t be depressed and be a dog. Not for long. There’s always something new to smell, a new adventure to go on. Human life is—” Morris paused and sighed. “Complicated. Harder, sometimes.”

  “Yeah, but you don’t have these as a dog,” Franklin added, holding up one hand and wiggling his thumb. “And no matter how smart you are, this opposing digit makes life worth living. Can’t really pick up anything without it. Can’t open a door and get inside, out of the cold. Can’t hold your girlfriend’s hand.”

  Morris snorted. “You wish.”

  “Not only did Cyndy hold hands with me at the student center, she sat in my lap and kissed me.”

  “We would have smelled it,” Twyla told him dryly.

  “Dad would have smelled it,” Morris added.

  “Not if I ate a burrito afterward and changed clothes,” Franklin said. He leaned over in his chair—tipping dangerously to the side—then snagged a shirt and threw it to Morris.

  “You dog,” Morris said after one whiff.

  Franklin smiled slyly, then looked back at Twyla. “Another reason to come back.”

  “What, to hear you lie about your supposed girlfriend?” Twyla teased.

  “Your friends,” Franklin said.

  “And us,” Morris added.

  “Not ’cause we’d miss you.”

  “But we’d be stuck doing all your chores.”

  “And that would suck.”

  “Maybe I could move into her room, though,” Morris said with a grin. “You know? Being a dog is great. You should try it.”