“That’s some craziness,” she muttered to herself.
“Postman!” chirped Clarissa. Her eyes sparkled and her colour was high. Yeah, bet she’d been off lipping at some “messages” of her own. Lipping. Now there was another weird word. “Postman for Gilla!” said Clarissa.
Gilla’s heart started to thunk like an axe chopping through wood. She stood. “What…?”
Clarissa smirked at her. “Postman for you, hot stuff. You coming, or not?” And then she was off up the stairs and into the depths of Mr. and Mrs. Bright’s house.
Who could it be? Who wanted to kiss her? Gilla felt tiny dots of clammy sweat spring out under her eyes. Maybe Remi? No, no. He liked Kashy. Maybe, please, maybe Foster?
Clarissa was leading her on a winding route. They passed a hallway closet. Muffled chuckles and thumps came from inside. “No, wait,” murmured a male voice. “Let me take it off.” Then they went by the bathroom. The giggles that wriggled out from under the bathroom door came from two female voices.
“There is no time so sap-sweet as the spring bacchanalia,” Gilla heard herself saying.
Clarissa just kept walking. “You are so weird,” she said over her shoulder.
They passed a closed bedroom door. Then came to another bedroom. Its door was closed, too, but Clarissa just slammed it open. “Postman!” she yelled.
The wriggling on the bed resolved itself into Patricia Bright and Haygood, entwined. Gilla didn’t know where to look. At least their clothes were still on, sort of. Patricia looked up from under Haygood’s armpit with a self-satisfied smile. “Jeez, I’m having an intimate birthday moment here.”
“Sorry,” said Clarissa, sounding not the least bit sorry, “but Gilla’s got a date.” She pointed towards the closet door. “Have a gooood time, killa Gilla,” Clarissa told her. Haygood snickered.
Gilla felt cold. “In there?” she asked Clarissa.
“Yup,” Clarissa chirruped. “Your special treat.” She turned on her heel and headed out the bedroom door, yelling, “Who needs the Postman?”
“You gonna be okay, Gilla?” Patricia asked. She looked concerned.
“Yeah, I’ll be fine. Who’s in there?”
Patricia smiled. “That’s half the fun, silly: not knowing.”
Haygood just leered at her. Gilla made a face at him.
“Go on and enjoy yourself, Gilla,” Patricia said. “If you need help, you can always let us know, okay?”
“Okay.” Gilla was rooted where she stood. Patricia and Haygood were kissing again, ignoring her.
She could go back into the living room. She didn’t have to do this. But…who? Remembering the warm cloak of Foster’s arms around her, heavy as a carpet of fall leaves, Gilla found herself walking towards the closet. She pulled the door open, tried to peer in. A hand reached out and yanked her inside.
With the lady inside…
Hangers reached like twigs in the dark to catch in Gilla’s hair. Clothing tangled her in it. A heavy body pushed her back against a wall. Blind, Gilla reached her arms out, tried to feel who it was. Strong hands pushed hers away, started squeezing her breasts, her belly. “Fat girl…” oozed a voice.
Roger. Gilla hissed, fought. He was so strong! His face was on hers now, his lips at her lips. The awful thing was, his breath tasted lovely. Unable to do anything else, she turned her mouth away from his. That put his mouth right at her ear. With warm, damp breath he said, “You know you want it, Gilla. Come on. Just relax.” The words crawled into her ears. His laugh was mocking.
and the smile on the face…
Gilla’s hair bristled at the base of her neck. She pushed at Roger, tried to knee him in the groin, but he just shoved her legs apart and laughed. “Girl, you know this is the only way a thick girl like you is going to get any play. You know it.”
She knew it. She was only good for this. Thighs too heavy—Must not a trunk be strong to bear the weight?—belly too round—Should the fruits of the tree be sere and wasted, then?—hair too nappy—A well-leafed tree is a healthy tree. The words, her own words, whirled around and around in her head. What? What?
Simply this: you must fight those who would make free with you. Win or lose, you must fight.
A taste like summer cherries rose in Gilla’s mouth again. Kashy envied her shape, her strength.
The back of Gilla’s neck tingled. The sensation unfurled down her spine. She gathered power from the core of her, from that muscled, padded belly, and elbowed Roger high in the stomach. “No!” she roared, a fiery breath. The wind whuffed out of Roger. He tumbled back against the opposite wall, slid bonelessly down to the ground. Gilla fell onto her hands and knees, solidly centred on all fours. Her toes, her fingers flexed. She wasn’t surprised to feel her limbs flesh themselves into four knotted appendages, backwards-crooked and strong as wood. She’d sprouted claws, too. She tapped them impatiently.
“Oh, God,” moaned Roger. He tried to pull his feet up against his body, farther away from her. “Gilla, what the hell? Is that you?”
Foster had liked holding her. He found her beautiful. With a tickling ripple, the thought clothed Gilla in scales, head to toe. When she looked down at her new dragon feet, she could see the scales twinkling, cherry-red. She lashed her new tail, sending clothing and hangers flying. Roger whimpered, “I’m sorry.”
Testing out her bunchy, branchy limbs, Gilla took an experimental step closer to Roger. He began to sob.
And you? asked the deep, fruity voice in her mind. What say you of you?
Gilla considered, licking her lips. Roger smelled like meat. I think I’m all those things that Kashy and Foster like about me. I’m a good friend.
Yes.
I’m pretty. No, I’m beautiful.
Yes.
I’m good to hold.
Yes.
I bike hard.
Yes.
I run like the wind.
Yes.
I use my brain—well, sometimes.
(A smile to the voice this time.) Yes.
I use my lungs.
Yes!
Gilla inhaled a deep breath of musty closet and Roger’s fear-sweat. Her sigh made her chest creak like tall trees in a gentle breeze, and she felt her ribs unfurling into batlike wings. They filled the remaining closet space. “Please,” whispered Roger. “Please.”
“Hey, Rog?” called Haygood. “You must be having a real good time in there, if you’re begging for more.”
“Please, what?!” roared Gilla. At the nape of her neck, her hamadryad hood flared open. She exhaled a hot wind. Her breath smelled like cherry pie, which made her giggle. She was having a good time, even if Roger wasn’t.
The giggles erupted as small gouts of flame. One of them lit the hem of Roger’s sweater. “Please don’t!” he yelled, beating out the fire with his hands. “God, Gilla; stop!”
Patricia’s voice came from beyond the door. “That doesn’t sound too good,” she said to Haygood. “Hey, Gil?” she shouted. “You okay in there?”
Roger scrabbled to his feet. “Whaddya mean, is Gilla okay? Get me out of here! She’s turned into some kind of monster!” He started banging on the inside of the closet door.
A polyester dress was beginning to char. No biggie. Gilla flapped it out with a wing. But it was getting close in the closet, and Haygood and Patricia were yanking on the door. Gilla swung her head towards it. Roger cringed. Gilla ignored him. She nosed the door open and stepped outside. Roger pushed past her. “Oh God, Haygood; get her off me!”