Ellen Datlow - The Beastly Bride

If this one is how I’m supposed to be then I’m all wrong. This one looks like Mother, not like me. I have way too much hair. All over. Are they all like this? But I’ve suspected something was wrong with me for a long time, else why did Mother act as she did, always keeping us away from everybody?

I can’t tell if it’s a boy or a girl. I’m not used to how they look here or how they dress. Then I see it’s got to be a girl. She’s wearing this lacy kind of top. I never had anything like that but Mother did. This girl seems to be just my size. At least my size is right.

She’s like Mother, no hair anywhere except a lot on her head. Mother always said it was a disadvantage, not having hair all over. And it was. She was always cold. But I’d rather be like everybody else.

So we’re standing there with our hands over our mouths, staring at each other.

Then she says, “Can you talk?”

And I say, “Of course. Why not?”

What an odd question. What does she think I am? Except I am all wrong. I was afraid of that. But we’re exactly the same height, and both of us are skinny. I’m wearing shorts and a T-shirt. She wearing shorts, too, and this fancy blouse. And I see now she has the beginnings of breasts just like I do. Hairiness looks to be our only difference. I don’t have that much on my face — thank goodness. I guess.

“Am I all wrong?”

It’s the question I’ve been wanting to ask just about all my life but didn’t know it till right now.

I can tell from the way she says “Well. ” that I am and that she wants to be nice about it.

She says, “Come.”

Way back at the end of her yard, there’s a funny little house that we have to lean over to go in. It has two tiny rooms that you couldn’t lie down straight out in unless you put your feet through the door into the other room. It has a little table and chairs, too small for any regular-size person. Are there people I never knew about?

The girl lights a candle, and we squinch into the little chairs next to the little table.

Even in this light I can see her eyes are blue just like mine. We’re an awful lot the same.

“Dad was going to take this house down, but I said, not yet.” She has a dad!

“So what about you? What are you, anyway?”

I can’t answer. I feel like crying. I have to say, “I don’t know.”

“We could look you up online. There’s a lot of choices: Yeti, Abominable Snowman, Sasquatch, Bigfoot. ”

She knows more about me than I do.

“I suppose abominable.”

“I don’t think so. You’re too nice-looking. Are you crying?”

I thought I was holding it back but that makes me feel worse than ever. I really do start to cry. Mother would be saying, “Where’s my forest girl?”

“That’s all right, go ahead and cry. I’ll make you tea, and there’s cookies, too. I don’t have a stove in here, Dad wouldn’t let me, this is just sun tea, but it’s good. I know I’m too old to have a playhouse like this, but I want it, anyway. It comes in handy, like right now.”

The tea is nothing like anything I’ve had before, even though we have lots of teas up there. And the cookies are like nothing I ever had either. I say, “I never had these.”

“Oatmeal with raisins. Mom thinks they’re good for you. She’s a great believer in oatmeal.”

I guess her mother is right. I feel better after the tea and a couple of cookies.

But I’m thinking maybe she has a bad mother. I’ve heard of that. After all, she sneaked out the window.

“Were you escaping? I thought maybe your mother was mean and you were running away.”

“Oh no, my folks are fine. I sneak out lots of times when there’s a moon like this. I’m fourteen. I’m old enough to be on my own.”

“I’m fourteen, too, and I am on my own, but I don’t want to be.”

“I don’t know what Mother would do about you, though. Call the police. or the doctor. Or maybe the zoo.”

“Am I all wrong?”

“You’re probably some sort of mutation.”

How can she be so sure of herself all the time? But she does seem to know a lot.

“I don’t want to be put in the zoo.”

“That wouldn’t be so bad. I wouldn’t mind at all if it were me. I’d come visit you. But I don’t even know your name. Mine is Molly. I picked it out myself two years ago when I started junior high.”

“You named yourself?”

“Lots of people do. You could, too. But do you have one?”

“Of course I do. I’m not. ”

But maybe I am — sort of an animal. “Mother calls me Binny. It’s short for Sabine.”

“Sabine!”

She looks impressed.

“Don’t change it!”

We both get tired at the same time. Molly goes back in through her window and brings me a pillow and a blanket. Tells me to keep quiet and she’ll bring me breakfast after her parents go to work. She says, “Not to worry. Nobody. Nobody would dare go in my playhouse unless invited.”

It feels good to stretch out all the way through the two rooms after hunching over all that time. And I’ve never had such a soft pillow before.

I wake at dawn, as I usually do. Things are pretty much quiet all over the whole town. I hunch myself around the little house. I didn’t get a good look at it last night in the candlelight. There’s a mirror. I see me. Actually Molly and I look kind of alike. Our eyes are blue. Our hair is tawny.

Hair!

On a shelf I find a doll. a very worn-out doll (not hairy), and a worn-out (hairy) dog doll beside it.

The town starts waking up. Doors slam. Cars drive by, but out along the front of the houses, way across the lawn from me. I saw those last night. Some even came right close to me while I was waiting for it to get dark. Trucks, too. I saw everything Mother talked about and drew pictures of. I even went up to a car and looked in. I saw the steering wheel and the pedals. I can’t wait till I get to ride in one. Maybe Molly can get me a ride. A truck would be even more fun than a car, the bigger the better. I’ll ask her.

I wait and wait for Molly to bring breakfast. Finally she does. Stuff I never had before. Toast and sausages. Actually, enough for both of us. She wants to eat with me. First thing she says is, “I hate eggs.”

I’ve had eggs lots of times and I like them but I don’t say it. “I have to go to school. Whatever you do, don’t leave here in the daytime. I’ll take you out tonight. We have to figure out what to do about you.”

I say okay, but I’m not sure I’m going to stay shut up here all day.

“When do you get back?”

She looks at her watch. (I know what that is, too.) She doesn’t notice I don’t have one.

She says, “Three thirty, thereabouts.”

Pretty soon everything gets very quiet. All the cars and all the children are gone. I’m tired of hunching over. I’m not going to stay in here, but I’m a little scared about just walking right out. Then I think about Molly’s back window. I cross the lawn (by now the laundry’s brought in) and climb in Molly’s window.

Here’s a nice place! Pale yellow walls, an all-white, really, really soft bed (I try it), a not-so-worn-out stuffed dog on the pillows (even fuzzier than the one in the little house), and a wonderful lot of books. Must be twenty or so on a nice little shelf. I recognize schoolwork things. There’s a notebook exactly like Mother has for me.