I recalled your cat funerals and birthday celebrations. From what I’d observed of your social sphere, most of your closest companions were girls, but I’d assumed it was by choice.
“Why won’t they let you sit with them?”
“Because theyhateme.”
How anyone could feel that way toward you baffled me, but I supposed I couldn’t be objective in that regard. In light of your admission, deciding to be a cat made perfect sense. As if knowing you needed comfort, your subjects came and arranged themselves around you. Spooky lay sprawled across your waist like a blanket. Or a shield.
“My cats love me,” you said to a chorus of purrs. Their furry bodies overlapped so that it was difficult to tell them apart.
“I love you. And your Papa and Daddy love you.”
“And Mater,” you added, sneaking a furtive glance at me. Perhaps I hadn’t hidden my contempt toward her as well as I’d intended.
“Yes, Mater too.”
“But I want the boys to like me,” you moaned extravagantly. You rolled onto your back and arranged Spooky so that she was stretched lengthwise on your stomach and chest. Her yellow eyes studied you as her whiskers twitched. The animal was so docile in your arms, as if the two of you communicated in your own language.
“I want Carter to like me. He’s the meanest of them all.”
“Is he mean to you?” I asked, careful to keep my displeasure out of my voice.
“Oh, yes,” you said with a trill of excitement. “He pushes me and calls me names and one time, he sat on top of me until I could barely breathe.” Your hands clasped around your throat in mock strangulation.
“Did he really?” My temper flared as blood rushed to my fingertips and thundered in my ears.
“I scratched him.” You made your hand into a claw and pretended to swipe me. “We had to go to the peace chairs for a loooong time.”
I studied your face, but it was difficult to read your emotions with the sunglasses obscuring your eyes.
“Does Papa know about Carter?” Xavier had said nothing of it to me.
“Yeah, he knows,” you said nonchalantly while scratching Spooky behind her ears. “I wanted to bite him so bad.” You bared your teeth again, and the cat mimicked your expression, revealing its pointy little fangs.
“You will not bite him, Vincent.” I was tempted to whisper a seduction to bind it.
“I know that,” you said petulantly and glared at me.
“Have you tried telling Carter how his behavior makes you feel?”
“What?” you asked, scowling. “Boys don’t talk about feelings. We fight.” You balled your little fists. The cat atop your stomach only rolled a little to make room for your reach.
“I’m a boy, and I talk about my feelings.”
“You’re not a boy. You’re a grown-up. Doesn’t count.”
I wasn’t going to win this argument; eight-year-old logic was infallible.
“Does this mean you’re a boy again?” I asked, attempting another line of reasoning.
Your arms collapsed around Spooky, stroking her. She arched her back and stretched her claws but didn’t attach them to your person. “Daddy told me I can’t come back inside until I stop playing cat.”
“Daddy doesn’t speak cat.”
“S’not hard.” You lifted your sunglasses to squint at me. “You understand it, don’t you?”
I didn’t speak cat, but I could read your mood as if it were my own. I assumed that was what you meant. “I understand a little. How about you play boy for Daddy and Papa? But when you’re with me, you can play cat?”
“Ohhh-kaaay, fine,” you said dramatically.
