back toCHAPTER 24

Mom is worried about me. She’s talking about how complicated her day has been because of me. I’ve heard this before. It’s one of her favourite topics. Not one of mine.

They say — Mom and Dr. Basinski and my teachers say — that I have trouble paying attention. That’s not true. I can pay attention, but sometimes I don’t want to pay attention to stuff I don’t like. I can make it go away using my imagination, thinking about something else. So that’s what I do.

Wouldn’t you? If you could make a headache go away using your mind, you’d do it. And Mom talking about how hard I make things for her — well, that’s a headache. So I make it go away. I focus on the clicking noise Mom’s jaws make as they snap together.

“And. Click. Another. Click. Thing. Click. You. Click. Did. Click.” I count the clicks. One, two, three, four, five — My eyes blur over. I’m focused on the count. Mom keeps talking.

Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen —

“Augustus!”

I blink and refocus, coming back from blur-ville.

“I’m. Click. Talking. Click. To. Click. You.”

With every click her jaw gets longer and longer. Weeeeird. I watch, fascinated and horrified. At first it looks like she’s sticking her chin out, but no. Her face changes shape. Her jaw isn’t a jaw anymore. It’s a — what do you call those things that insects have, a mandarin? No, that’s an orange. A mandible. Yeah. That’s what Mom has now — a mandible.

It’s like a horror montage in a film. As she talks and talks and talks all about me, and not in a good way, her jaw stretches, her eyes bulge and round over, and her hair disappears.

Mom turns into a bug.

A kind of beetle, I think, though it’s hard to tell since she’s still wearing a dress. Maybe there are wings under there somewhere. She balances on her two skinny back legs, her two skinny pairs of arms crossed in front of her. She’s taller than me.

I gulp and step away. This is not fun. Now I’d rather have a headache. But I can’t get it back. I’m stuck where my imagination has taken me.

Oh no. Gale is a bug too. Like Mom, only smaller and sleeker. That’s hard to take. And what about —

Oh no. Oh no. Oh, Ruby. My sister is a different kind of bug, bigger, bright red, with wings sticking out of her sleeveless top. Her nose and chin are giant pincers. They chomp up and down when she talks.

“Why are you looking like that, Gussie?” she asks.

Oh no.

Oh.

No.

I can’t speak. I can think of lots to say, but I am not able to move my mouth. Inside I’m crying. Outside, I’m gasping, swallowing air.

Ruby!

When folks say “You’ve changed,” they usually mean something small. You’re wearing a new shirt or your hair is different. This is a bigger change. If it’s real.

And that’s the point.

I don’t know how real any of this is. It could be bird poop all over again. But every detail fits. The picture is so convincing that I can’t laugh. The joke about Ruby changing is not funny. When she waves her antennae, I shiver. Oh, Ruby. You understood me better than anyone else. You’re the one I loved most. And now I’m afraid of you. This is the worst moment of the day. Real or not, it is the worst. My heart breaks again, in a bad way this time, like a dinner plate falling on a cement floor.

I want to get out of here. The room is infested. The bugs are between me and the door.

“Help,” I say. Do I say it out loud? Help me. Please help me.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Through the open window I can hear the sounds of the town — the hiss of air brakes and the rumble of a diesel engine getting louder.

I reopen my eyes. Do I get the help I want? Have I escaped? Am in bed at home, waking up on my birthday or the first day of summer holidays?

No.

I go over to the window. There’s a bus. A Number 6, because it stops in front of the college. On a bench beside the bus stop is an ad for the Vancouver Whitecaps. That’s a soccer team, if you don’t know.

The bus rolls away. I wish I was on it. When I turn back, I notice my black dog.

I guess that makes sense. He shows up when I’m in trouble, feeling at my worst. He looks more upset than usual. The what-do-you-call-its on his shoulder and neck — hackets? heckles? hickeys? those things — are higher. He circles around Mom, showing his teeth. He knows something’s wrong with her.

Mom is punching buttons on her phone.

“Gussie?” says Ruby. “What are you staring at? What’s on the floor?”

Of course she can’t see the dog. She scuttles — yes, that’s the word — toward me and I shriek and jump away. I don’t think about it, any more than you think about moving your leg when the doctor taps your knee with the mallet. I do not want my sister’s hard, hairy insect claws touching me.

She stops, keeps her distance. Doesn’t say anything. Out the window, three storeys down, people are walking across the courtyard.

It takes a second for me to realize what this means. People with arms and legs and hair and glasses are outside, and bugs are inside. So my problem is with the people I love, not people in general. Which is probably true for everyone. You’re more likely to get upset with your brother or sister than a random stranger, right?

But has your sister turned into a bug? I hope not.

Mom is on the phone with Dad. “I’m in Ruby’s dorm with him now,” she says, her mandibles clicking. “We all are. He looks okay, but there’s something wrong with him. He was on his way to the hospital, and you wouldn’t believe what happened. He’s had a horrible day. I’m, click, worried about him, Peter.”

That would be me she’s worried about. And she’s not wrong. I’m still having a horrible day.

I wonder if things will go on being horrible? What if I’m stuck in this moment of reality for the rest of my life? What if Ruby is a bug forever? Or what if she’s a person, but I see her as a bug forever? That would be unbearable.

The black dog trots over and sits at my feet.