Chapter 11: The Catfish

"What about this one, Shell?"

I look at my cat like she has an answer, but her forehead wrinkles in an unamused way, not quite enjoying our Tuesday morning bonding session like I had hoped.

Granted, she always looks unamused. And her whole body is covered in wrinkles.

Pity, considering I was so excited about this look when I bought it. Thrift-shopping online is really the only way I get to shop for cool things, and the package got delayed, and then I forgot the thing was even coming-

But this morning, Beck put the box in front of my door.

I like when he does that. It's like I actually get my own mail.

From there, I thought the only hurdle would be making sure that everything fits, but apparently, I had one hell of a harsh critic for a fashion buddy. Shell's unimpressed look is really bringing down the joy of my little summer dress. It has old marine history book pages printed on it. Who doesn't like reading the genus definition of a starfish on their skirt?

Just when I'm about to chastise her for being a bad sport, a voice interrupts me, saying, "Looks good."

I've gotten so used to Shell's silence that I almost squeak.

I didn't hear the door open, but there he is, James, leaning against the doorframe and smiling. When my cheeks go red, so do his. Averting his gaze, he amends his statement, "I mean, fashionable. Objectively."

Of course, he noticed us. I thought the door was closed enough, or I was quiet enough. The plan was just to make the morning better before the doom and gloom of the afternoon, but of course, I couldn't even get that right.

Staring down at my feet, I apologize. "Sorry. I didn't mean to disturb you."

"Is that why you had the door shut? And you were trying to whisper?" He shakes his head, incredulous. "It's your room. Feel free to fashion show all you want. Clearly, you like an audience." James gestures to Shell, like that doesn't make my flustered face situation worse.

Desperate for an explanation, I nervously tap my leg and say, "I normally do this all by myself. Beck and Mom aren't really into-"

"Well, I'm here. If you want to share, do it." He cocks his head over to the half-opened box that Shell is sitting in. "Is that the rest of your haul?"

I don't know what I should say. It's obvious that I'm not done, but every bone in my body wants to wave him off, tell him that nothing's there, sneak back into the closet at 2 am, and finish up when I know he won't notice.

All of a sudden, though, the whole convoluted idea just makes me feel so, so tired.

Reluctantly, I say, "Yes."

James looks between me, Shell, and my clothes and steps back out of my closet. "I get it; I make it weird. That's fair. I'll go now so you can enjoy all this."

But for some reason, I don't feel better once he's gone. When Mom leaves a room, it feels like this knot unfurls in my chest, and I can take a full breath. That's what I thought was going on with James. There's still a knot, just a... a different one.

Maybe it has to do with the fact that he doesn't look so relieved, knowing I'm fine doing things on my own.

Pulling off my dress, I hike up my favorite pair of jeans and grab my new sweater, with historic type covering the sleeves and the word "anthropology" over the center.

I never planned on wearing it outside of my room; no one was ever really going to see it. While I'd still meet the first condition, the second was about to be ruined. But I think I'm okay with that.

With a deep breath, I walk out of my closet. He's sitting at my desk and swivels around the second he realizes I'm there, but I still can't look him in the eyes.

I ask, "How do I look?"

"I like typewriter-style there. Very subtle that you like old things, history nerd." I feel like anything I want to say is caught in my throat, but the smile in his voice fills in the gaps. "What else you got?"

And then I show him the rest of my little thrift shop haul, like it's that easy. I've never really met someone that makes things feel easy. The more I know James, though, the more I think some people might just be like that.

Or, at the very least, he's just like that.

Whatever the truth is, I definitely need the distraction. After all, the rest of the day fills me will a lot more dread than a cute boy being interested in my dorky clothes.

Today is one of the worst days of the year. Yes, sure, turtle day always broke my heart, but they didn't give me the sheer anxiety like this: Shell's vet appointment.

When the clock hits 2 pm, I can't play dress-up pretend anymore and instead have to bring Shell down along with her stupid cat carrier. Maybe we'd both hate it less if its only use wasn't for this one, awful purpose.

Holding her sweet, small body against my chest as she does her nigh-magical scowling purr, I start rambling, "Okay. Don't forget to ask the vet about the little rash she gets on her elbows. Also, to check on her claws, I'm always really concerned about them since she catches them on everything."

Beck chuckles, but not really in a fun way. He does it in that "I feel woefully unprepared and I'm avoiding panicking" way.

Safe to say, that didn't make me feel better about the situation.

He says, "It'd be easier if you were doing this."

"I know. But this is what we're dealing with."

Much to my surprise, he looks more startled than confident. "Yeah. Right. I should write this stuff down." Grabbing a piece of paper, he starts frantically note-taking in his flunked-out-of-med-school scrawl. Halfway through writing, he peers up at me. "Have you been doing anything different lately?"

Sunshine smiles and hardcover books flash across my mind's eye, and I almost vomit.

"N-no, why would you say that?"

Looking sufficiently confused, Beck raises his hands innocently and backs off. "Calm down there, Sea Monkey. I just mean you seem... chill. Normally when vet day hits, you sulk and push a note under my door."

I don't know how his observation makes me feel, I just know there's this sickening feeling in the back of my throat that started when he mentioned me "changing" that hasn't left. Everything he says keeps making it worse.

It's easier to pet Shell instead of saying anything about it. I say, "Maybe I'm just feeling particularly attached to my sweet girl this week."

Very unlike him, Beck doesn't respond at all. I start panicking about if he's figured everything out. Or worse, he's known all along and has just been pulling a long-con ruse to convince me to stop causing trouble for him and Mom. Tell me I have to find ways to be happy in between the lines, like he manages. Rebelling in secret, but being a perfect son for parents. If he's really playing the really long con, though, perhaps he's been pretending to be my friend this whole time just waiting for me to screw up so bad that I-

Just then, I feel Beck's large, but gentle, hand on my shoulder.

Only once I look up at him, he says, "You're right, I'm being silly. Shell is clearly a benevolent and powerful deity, and you've just won her favor." Beck extends his arms out to me and gives a weak smile. "Time to hand over the goddess."

His smile makes me feel a little better, but I can't make my breathing calm down. Not just yet.

At least the friendship part can't be a lie, right?

I hand Shell over, scratch her forehead, and say, "See you both soon."

"We'll be back before you know it, Kai."

Beck slams the garage door on his way out, but it doesn't feel like the weird nausea is going anywhere. If anything, it feels like it's starting to burn. I could curl up on the floor and melt in it, if I really want to.

There's also that lab door only a few feet away, though.

The thought of Mom catching me like this, all toxic, makes me feel sicker. I toss myself up the stairs quicker than she could ever come out and catch me.

Back in my room, I see James scrolling through my computer. I'd shown him a couple of cool websites for online museums, information repositories, the like, and he'd absolutely lost his mind. When he's not pouring over a book, he's there. Though, I do think he's convinced my Reddit account that I'm a Regency Era romance fanatic who likes to debate which Bronte sister is the better writer. Apparently, he's a mad lad who likes to argue for Anne.

But I digress.

When I open the door, James does that swivel thing again. I could get used to that if I didn't feel like my stomach might choose death at any moment.

Reassuringly, he says, "Your cat's a sweetheart. She'll be fine."

"I know. I'm half convinced each time that Beck might not bring her back because he'll kidnap her." The words all come out in a rush, and I laugh afterward, but it sounds so much more like a man at gunpoint than anything else. James starts looking at me bizarrely, so I try my best to recover with some sentimental truth: "I just don't like her going to the vet without me. I've never liked it."

"I can understand that. So, planning on taking her with you when you-" His mouth shuts suddenly, and he winces at his own question. He forgot we weren't the same, didn't he? Guess it's hard when we both seem trapped.

James apologizes, saying, "Right. Sorry."

"Don't worry; it's nice to forget about it sometimes," I admit, sitting on the edge of my bed.

"If you left, where would you want to live?"

"I dunno."

He leans on the arm of the chair and pushes me for an answer. "Anywhere."

I think about it for a few seconds. Where would I want to go? I planned on California back in the day, but if it wasn't for college plans, the fictional, hypothetical options were wide open.

I bit the inside of my cheek before saying, "Somewhere on a coast. A cozy apartment with Shell. Kinda like my room, but with a full kitchen, y'know?"

James cocks his head to the side. "No home lab?"

"Absolutely not." I'm even startled with how sure I sound. But I try to cover it up. "I'd just want somewhere to go."

Sensing the awkwardness, James points towards the balcony and asks, "Wanna get back to reading?"

"Yes, please."

I don't stare at him awkwardly this time while he reads. Luckily, over the past week or so, I've managed to scrape together a bit of decorum around James. But it doesn't change the float-y feeling I get whenever he says anything, or the fact I keep saying things I'd never said before.

Well, outside of my head, at least. Or not to my very uninterested cat, though she does seem somewhat intrigued when I talk about fisheries.

Since the gravy incident and the corresponding panic attack, we've spent a lot of time reading together. The Little Prince, Emma, Rebecca, The Illiad, The Hobbit (there were a lot of single-character titles going on)... I've read more this week than I have in... well, maybe ever.

With James, books are simple. To him, every word is poetry and he makes it all sound so enchanting.

And then I slip into showing him my museums or my nerdy fashion choices or the imaginary apartment I'd have with Shell out in the real world, like a helpless idiot.

But today, we're continuing Lathe of Heaven outside. James seems to enjoy the fact I have a soft spot for weird books with maritime creatures, even if the creatures don't really have anything to do with the plot. Joke's on him, though; I actually kind of like George and his insane psychotherapist building the end of the world.

Just as he finishes the 4th chapter, though, there's a surprise knock on the door.

I tell James to stay put and I'll deal with it. It's probably Mom asking for my take-out order for dinner, but she could shove off because George just met the lady lawyer and-

There's another knock. Right. I can't just wish my real life could disappear because I'm holed up in my room. I groan and trundle over to my door and James waits on the balcony, all patient.

When I open it, a scientist stands there, looking pretty frazzled for a man who always takes Sundays off. I ask, "Beck? What are you doing back so early?"

"Shell is in perfect health, so I brought some celebratory pastries. Now, let me in, and we can check-in. I mean, we haven't spent as much time together the last few weeks. Sorry if I felt distant after the turtle situation." Somehow, his checking in also includes him shooing Shell inside and using her cat carrier as a sort of wedge into my room. For some reason, he's trying to peer in through the slight door crack. My heart starts to race. He couldn't know, could he-?

"Beck, thanks for Shell, but you don't have to-"

Beck rolls his eyes and pushes into the door, saying, "Fine, but at least give me my copy of The Abyss back-" Unfortunately, despite Beck's insistence on being too clumsy to do anything, he easily slides by me and has this wide grin on his face when he points at the pile of blankets in the corner of my room. James' blankets.

With an alarming jump and waving arms, Beck says, "I knew it! I knew you had something. You found another cat, didn't you? It was so obvious. You don't even like bacon."

A monsoon is going through my head, and I have no fake cat to distract him with, no way to move fast enough to get in between him and the balcony door he's bounding towards like a vindicated madman. I just have to brace myself for the heavy waves ready to crash onto the shore.

"Why didn't you tell me? I totally would've helped you hide a pet. It's on the balcony right now, right-?"

Slamming the balcony door open, Beck's smile fades while James just awkwardly waves. "Holy shit. That is not a cat."