Chapter 22 Chapter 21: The escape
The Polli stood one hip cocked, her eyes doing a rapid, appraising scan from Joel’s face to the expensive garment bag on my arm and back again. Her expression was a carefully curated mask of cool amusement, but her eyes were sharp, missing nothing.
“Joel! Fancy meeting you here, I have been pinging you all day. Her voice was light, but there was a subtle edge beneath it.
Joel’s face lit up, though I caught a flicker of nervousness. “Mika! Hey. This is Nanda.”
Mika did not look so happy to meet me; her smile was tight, her gaze lingering a fraction too long on the designer bag. Maybe she was not as cool as Joel had reckoned. The air, which had been so full of easy camaraderie, instantly grew thick with unspoken questions and potential drama. I felt a familiar weariness wash over me. I could not handle a jealous Polli right now. I couldn't handle any more complications.
I thought it would be best for everyone if I made my exit. I offered Mika a small, genuine smile, hoping to disarm her.
“Joel,” I said, turning to him, my voice thick with emotion. “You have been perfect today. The best Polli friend a Polli could have. You are the best. Thank you.” The words were still inadequate, but I hoped he could feel the sincerity behind them as I pecked him on the cheek. I glanced back at Mika. “Nice meeting you, Mika. Hold fast to him,” I said, nodding toward Joel. “He’s one of the good ones.”
Before either could offer more than a surprised goodbye, I turned and melted into the flow of mall traffic, heading for the hopper stop.
The shopping trip with Joel had taken almost all day, but it was just what I needed. The late afternoon sun was warm on my face as I settled into my seat on the hopper, my feet surrounded by bags and bags of new clothes. The physical weight of them was a comfort. It fixed not just my wardrobe problem, but my job interview, or dinner date problem too.
But mostly, it fixed me. It soothed my soul. The simple, uncomplicated act of laughing with a real friend, of being treated with such unhesitating kindness, felt like a small miracle. It had reminded me that amidst the chaos of my changing body; this weird sickness or floor that I had, there were still some things that worked, somethings that were O.K, like a good friendship. As the cityscape blurred past the window, I hugged the bag with the beautiful dress close, and for the first time all day, I felt a sense of calm hope. Maybe just maybe things were going to get better and Silver and me would have a good evening tonight.
It was 17:00 by the time I got home, the low sun casting long, tired shadows across the front steps. A bubble of fragile excitement still clung to me from the day with Joel. I rushed into the dwelling, my arms laden with bags, and took the stairs two at a time, already mentally arranging my new clothes in the wardrobe, wanting to try everything on and solidify this new, confident feeling before it could evaporate.
But my mother’s voice, sharp and precise as a whip crack, caught me as I was halfway up.
“Nanda. You’re home.” The words were simple, but they felt like an accusation, laden with the weight of hours of waiting.
“Yeah, Mum,” I called down, not stopping. “I got things to do.” I tried to inject a breezy finality into my tone, a desperate attempt to escape her prying.
“Well, they can wait.” Her voice shifted, becoming a weapon that was both soft and a sharp command, a tone she’d mastered that brooked no argument. “I want you to come and help me make dinner. We need to talk.”
So much for my calm hope. The bubble popped. The weight of the garment bag, which moments ago felt like a trophy, now felt like evidence of a crime. I descended the stairs slowly, my shoulders slumping, and followed my mother’s stern back into her lair: our kitchen.
We worked in silence for about five precious minutes, the only sounds the chop of her knife on vegetables and the hum of the refrigeration unit. The air was thick with unsaid things, each second stretching tighter than the last. I braced for the impact.
The war began quietly.
“You never came back after your run.” Her voice was low, but I could hear the menacing, controlled anger vibrating beneath the surface.
“I met Joel,” I offered, my own voice small. “You remember Joel from my old school? We went shopping together.” I held up a bag as if it were a white flag.
“You never thought to tell us?” she said, not looking at me, her focus laser-like on the carrots she was dicing. “And after Professor Liza had been… you did not think the family needed to talk? I needed to talk.” She finally glanced up, and I saw the glint of a tear she was stubbornly refusing to shed.
“I’m sorry, Mum,” I squeaked, feeling twelve years old again.
The knife stilled. She turned to face me fully, her expression a mask of anguish and fear. “Are you taking drugs, Nanda? Or something else?” The question was a desperate, horrified whisper.
“Mum,” I gasped, the implication stealing my breath.
“Well, I don’t know where we went wrong!” The words burst from her, the control finally snapping.
“Mum, I’m sorry, you did nothing wrong!” It was a plea for her to understand, to absolve herself so she could maybe absolve me.
“But you had such a good future,” she cried, her voice breaking. “The dieball scholarship, your good grades… and for what?” Her tears were almost flowing now, tracing paths down her cheeks. “Your father and I… we had such hopes.”
“I have a real good chance of an internship with Lord Vincent,” I said, trying to offer a new hope, to replace the one she thought she’d lost.
“But look at you!” she wailed, gesturing at me with a flour-dusted hand, taking in my new Polli shape and new makeover with a devastating mix of pity and disgust. “Who’s going to employ you… a Nate one second and a Polli the next? A… a freak.”
The word hit like a sledgehammer, driving the air from my lungs. It echoed in the sudden silence of the kitchen, ugly and final. I don’t think I heard the rest of her moaning after that. The sound of my own heart pounding in my ears drowned her out. Freak.
The family ate around me later that evening, acting like nothing had happened, the clatter of cutlery against plates a mockery of normalcy. They talked about the weather, about a porty race on the vidbox. But I was not part of it. I pushed the food around my plate, each bite like ash. In my heart, I was already gone. Her word had built a wall around me at that table. I was no longer her child with a confusing condition; I was a freak, and the place I had always called home suddenly felt like the most foreign place in the world.
The moment the last bite was taken, I sprang into action, a silent and efficient ghost at the table. I helped clear the dishes, my movements robotic, my eyes fixed on some distant point beyond the kitchen walls. The clatter of plates was a relief; it was a task, a purpose, a direct path to my eventual escape. I couldn't meet my mother's eyes, couldn't bear to see the lingering disappointment or, worse, the echo of that devastating word in her gaze.
The second the last plate was in the sanitizer, I didn't hesitate. I escaped to my room, shutting the door with a soft but definitive click that felt like drawing a line in the sand. The familiar space, once a sanctuary, now felt tainted, the air still thick with the memory of her condemnation.
There was no time to waste. I couldn't stay here a moment longer. With frantic hands, I tore off the clothes that felt like a costume from my old life. I dressed in the new runts, the fabric sleek and affirming against my skin, a matching underwear set that made me feel put-together and strong, and the slinky, new wool knitwear jumper that fell just so from my shoulders. Each new item was a small act of defiance, a layer of armour against the world.
With the utmost care, I unzipped the garment bag. I hung my magnificent new dress on the outside of my wardrobe where it could breathe, its shifting, worm-thread fabric seeming to catch the faint light in the room. It was a promise for tomorrow, a symbol of the intelligent, capable person I intended to be at that dinner. I ensured it was perfectly straight, that it wouldn't be creased for the morning. It was the one thing I could control.
Then, without a backward glance, I left. I walked out of my room, down the stairs, and out the front door into the cooling evening air. I didn't announce my departure. I simply left the dwelling and the word "freak" hanging in the air behind me, choosing instead to walk toward the promise of the night and the person I was determined to see, Silver.