Subclasses Ch. 30

Chapter Thirty

I, Yoshi, am about to eat Gabi, Peach, and poop her out in an eggshell to her death when both our phones start buzzing. Gabi pauses half an inch from losing the match.

She picks up her phone. "It's Trixy," she announces. I swivel in my chair and reach for my phone which sits on my desk. We both join the FaceTime call.

"Hey ladies!" Bea says excitedly.

"Hey," I say at the same time Gabi says, "Haii~," verbal tilde and all. "Where are you?" I ask.

"Back home. Good news: you can spend the summer with us."

"Great!" I say, suddenly feeling ten pounds lighter. "That's a huge relief. Thank you so much. And thank your parents for me."

"There's more," Bea says. "Could you come have dinner with my family? We have a lot to discuss about my ability.

"Gabi, you are more than welcome, too, though I don't know if you'd find it all that interesting."

"Are you joking?" she asks. "Me, pass up a free, home-cooked meal? I think not."

"Okay. I'll teleport you two here."

"Wait!" I say, but she's already hung up. I rush to shut the door while I have the chance, but am teleported before I'm able to lock it. That's not a big deal; everyone in the stack is trustworthy.

"Be girly, Sarah."

Gabi and I are in Beatrix's living room along with Beatrix (obviously), Claire, Alfred, and Susan. The last two are a shock. "You told your parents about your ability?" I ask, guessing the only thing that makes any sense.

"Yes. They had only seen you in your feminine body, and since you're going to spend the summer with us, I worried that I wouldn't always have the energy to keep you transformed given the, er, private means by which we recharge my battery."

"I see. So you told them that bit, too? Must have been awkward," I say, a bit embarrassed that her parents now know the kinky nature of our relationship dynamic.

"No, actually," she says. "It turns out I didn't have to."

"They already knew about your ability and how it works?" I ask, confused.

"I can Speak, too," Susan says. The way she says it, it's obvious the 'S' is capitalized.

"Oh," I say. Then the implications of that hit me, my eyes widening. "Ohhhh."

"Yeah," Beatrix says. "It seems we have confirmation that it's hereditary. Claire having it could have been a coincidence, but Mum having it, too...." I nod.

"How has no one noticed before?" Gabi asks. "You said that the people on the forum didn't have any relatives with the ability."

"Please, take a seat, you two," Alfred says kindly. "You're making me tired standing there like that." We take seats to either side of Beatrix; I sit on the end of the sofa, then Bea, Gabi, and Claire. Her parents sit in leather recliners facing us.

"We think," Susan says, "that since we all use screen names on the forum, the odds are that some of them do have relatives with the ability and just don't know it. That's what happened with Beatrix and me." I shake my head. "You have a better theory?" she asks me.

"Not exactly. It just doesn't fit all the data. I suppose it's possible if the people with the ability never lived together, but no one on the forum knows how to share their ability, which I think means th–"

"You know how I came to be able to use Susan's ability?" Alfred asks, sitting up straight. "Susie and I never could figure out how that happened."

"We do," I say cautiously.

Beatrix butts in. "Why didn't you say you had shared your ability on that thread in the forum, Mum?"

"There's a thread about this?" Susan asks. "I set up the forum but I'm rarely on it anymore." She's who set it up? I think. Huh. Small world.

"Yes," Bea says. "No one else has been able to do it. Sarah gained access to my ability by accident the day we found out Claire has the ability, and, together, Sarah and I hypothesized how it happened. Then, last Saturday, Claire helped us experiment and confirm it."

"Well, don't leave us in suspense, Pumpkin," Alfred says.

"When did you first gain access to Susan's ability?" I interject.

"Oh, I don't know," he says. "About fifteen years ago, I would guess."

I nod. "Around the time Beatrix started manifesting hers. And this brings us to why I think your theory, Susan, is unlikely. To share your ability, someone else must be using theirs at the same time nearby, and then you need to target someone without the ability with a command. That someone forms a bond. It seems that the more energy used when making that link—and the more times it happens—the stronger that link becomes.

"That's how I gained access to Bea's: she and Claire were battling with supernaturally thrown pillows and spilt tea, and I got caught in the crossfire.

"Beatrix," I continue, "must have used her ability while you targeted Alfred with yours. I'm guessing it happened several times over the span of her upbringing."

"I ... see," Susan says, sounding troubled. "So, your logic is that if two people with the ability did live together, inevitably more people on the forum would have figured out how to share it."

"More or less. It's possible some have and didn't see the thread, like you. It's also possible that they did see the thread and kept it a secret, like Bea." It then occurs to me that I don't know that for certain; I turn to address her. "Er, did you ever tell anyone on the forum?" She shakes her head, and I nod.

"The number of people," I say, "on the forum is pretty small. Depending on how rare this ability is—and it appears to be exceedingly rare considering the world doesn't know about it–"

"'Cause two can keep a secret if one of them is dead," Gabi chimes in, melodically quoting the chorus of Secret by The Pierces.

"Exactly," I say, nodding. "Even though the number of people on the forum is small, Bea said for most of them, English is a second language; you have a smattering of people from all around the world. I bet it accounts for at least 40% of the population with your ability." I make the stat up on the spot—just like 81% of all statistics—but it seems like a reasonable ballpark figure. "I think the most likely scenario is that the six of us are the only people who know how this works. Maybe one other pair of Speak-abled people and their–" I catch myself before I say 'subs'. "–their partners know it. Given that the three of you have the ability, I agree that it's almost certainly hereditary, but it's still extremely uncommon, and I'd guess it often skips several generations. Random numbers, however, have a tendency to clump up. And with you three, it finally happened in the same household."

Several seconds of silence pass while everyone digests the information. Then Gabi's stomach gurgles, demanding digestion of a different sort and breaking the tension.

Susan smiles. "I suppose we had better eat."

* * *

Bea and I help Susan prepare dinner: tacos. I'm tasked with browning the beef while the other two slice veggies.

"Gabi is a bunny!" I hear Claire Speak with glee from the other room, followed by Alfred's laughter. I guess Gabi agreed to obey Claire for a bit to recharge her battery. That was kind of her.

"So you and Dad...?" Bea says letting the unspoken question hang in the air.

"Yes," Susan says simply.

"But you're constantly serving him," Bea says confused. "Making dinner, bringing him tea...." She trails off.

"We're English. We must keep up appearances," she says with an affectionate, parental smile for Bea. "English culture is, unfortunately, still rather sexist, not unlike American culture; we just go about it differently. Where America sexualizes and objectifies their women a lot and subjugates them some, England does it the other way around. Both countries have a long way to go, but they are improving.

"What you see of your dad and me in public—what we allow you and Claire to see—is very different from what happens in private. I've always found Alfred rather~~"—she draws out the word while searching for a comfortably circumspect adjective—"pliable."

"Eww, Mum," Bea complains.

I have to strain my ears as the meat begins sizzling.

"You brought it up, Trix," she says, "and it's not like you're keeping your dynamic with Sarah, there, private, what with that seamless collar around her neck."

The blood drains from my face. I am too mortified to respond, not that I have the slightest clue what I would say were I not. The best I can do is keep my expression studiously blank during the short, awkward silence that follows.

"I hope Beatrix isn't coercing you to be her sub," Susan says to me, "by holding your body transformation ransom."

"What?" I ask, appalled. Beatrix looks stricken and like she's going to be ill. "Absolutely not. Beatrix would never, ever do that. Not to anyone, much less someone she cares for.

"I fell for Bea ten minutes into our first conversation. I would love her even if she didn't have the ability to transform me." My voice gains momentum with each sentence. "She enticed me with a domineering glance across the cafeteria, and we found that our tastes complement each other perfectly. That she can fix my gender dysphoria is just a bonus, and what gave her the courage to approach me in the first place. I count myself lucky to be trans because it led to our meeting.

"And since we're being frank," I say, my anger having kindled hot enough that I have no need of courage, "I think you owe your daughter an apology for even suggesting she would do something so grossly manipulative. That's not who she is." Both women look at me, then, as if seeing me for the first time. Susan's expression is impressed and considerate. Bea's is of pure adoration and gratitude.

"You're right," she says at last. She turns to Bea. "I am sorry, Beatrix. That was unfair and unkind of me. Please forgive me."

Beatrix nods awkwardly, clearly unaccustomed to having a parent apologize so directly. "I forgive you," she says uncomfortably. Susan hugs her and returns to her food prep. "Thank you," Beatrix mouths at me, eyes glistening.

I smile reassuringly at her. "You got this," I mouth back. I turn back to the pan and curse under my breath finding that a little of it burned during my tirade. "This meat is unburnt," I Speak quietly, startling Beatrix. Then, she smiles at me.

"So," I say to Susan, moving the conversation to safer territory, "you set up the web server?"

"I did," Susan says, nodding. "Been running it for, oh, twenty years now? Since '99, so twenty-four."

"Where's the desk?" Beatrix asks.

"Hmm?"

"The desk where we put the sticky notes to get an account."

"Oh. It's in a shed in your grandmother's backyard. I have a command in place so that as soon as a note appears there, it's sent here to my desk drawer in the study. I feel a small drain on my battery, and I know to check for a note. Mum doesn't even know about it."

"And you didn't recognize Beatrix's email address?" I ask, curious.

"I created a dummy Gmail account," Bea explains. "I didn't know what I was signing up for, so I thought it best to be careful."

"That makes sense," I say.

"Considering how many email addresses have been a jumble of nonsense letters and numbers," Susan says, "I suspect a lot of people on the server had the same idea."

"I'd be scared it was a government trap or something," I say.

"I was at first," Beatrix admits, "but then I thought about the limits of our ability. I don't think someone could use the ability to trick us."

"Huh," I say, thoughtful. "Good point.

"Those limits," I muse, "don't they seem, I don't know, convenient? Immense power that, as far as any of us can tell, is impossible to exploit?"

"That's why I don't think it's genetic," Susan says. "I don't know why it's hereditary, if it even is hereditary, but the rules seem too well-designed to be the result of mutation, especially since the same rules apply to everyone."

"Well, the Cosmic Arbiter of Free Will has my thanks," I say offhandedly.

"The what?" Alfred asks, barking a laugh as he walks into the kitchen. It's the response I was aiming for.

"The Cosmic Arbiter of Free Will," I say as if it's obvious. "Why, what do you call it?"

"I don't know that we," Susan says, "call it anything. You and Bea have obviously done considerably more research and experimentation than either of us have. We mostly use it for fun and the occasional lazy convenience."

"I see," I say, slightly discomfited. "So you just accept it as part of your life and aren't curious about why and how it all works?"

"Of course we're curious," she says with a shrug. "But to us, it's a curiosity, while it seems that to you and Trix it's a field of study, an obsession—and I mean that in the best sense of the word. I admire people like you, people who need to know. It's just not me."

"Or me," Alfred adds, grabbing a bowl of diced tomatoes and another of sliced lettuce and carrying them to the dining room.

"Huh," I say. Their blasé attitude completely baffles me, but then, so does most of the human race. I wonder what it's like not to have that constant itch. Part of me thinks it must be nice, but another pities them that they don't get to feel the sense of sublime accomplishment or discovery—that supreme relief when everything falls neatly into place—when that itch is finally scratched. It's the same feeling I had when I first tried on a dress and realized I was trans.

Though, I consider, other people probably feel accomplished in different ways. Maybe they have different itches.

* * *

"Claire," Susan calls, "dinner's ready." Her daughter walks into the dining room carrying a small, sable rabbit. While I'm still trying to come up with a quip, Susan says, "You know the rules: no pets at the table."

"Muuuummmm," Claire whines playfully. "Beatrix gets to have Sarah at the table." My cheeks heat with embarrassment.

"She's got you there, Mum," Bea teases.

Susan rolls her eyes, then Speaks, "Gabi is human." Claire nearly topples over, suddenly carrying a full-sized—and thankfully clothed—Gabrielle, who characteristically squeals with delight.

"Enjoyed yourself?" I ask her, raising my eyebrows.

"So much fun," she gushes. "Now I just need to trick Trixy into letting me turn her into a bunny," she whispers conspiratorially.

I can't help but chuckle, warm with affection. "You are such a peach." I kiss the side of her head and we take our seats to either side of Beatrix.

* * *

This dinner is far livelier than our last at this table. Having this shared secret—and common experience—loosens our tongues. Considering what we now all know of each other's relationships, and the roles we play therein, everything else seems impersonal by comparison, easy.

"Got any embarrassing stories about young Beatrix?" Gabi asks. Bea shoots her a severe look which Gabi ignores. It's not a question I would ever ask—not while knowing the dirt my family has on me—but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't keen to hear some stories of Bea's childhood, myself.

"What kind of parents would we be if we didn't?" Alfred asks cheerily. "We were at a lake one summer"—Bea sighs loudly—"when Beatrix was, oh, four years old, maybe. She thought it would be nice to feed the geese."

"Uh oh," I say.

"Indeed," Alfred says. "Susan was changing Claire's nappy while I was in the toilets, so neither of us noticed what she was doing at first. I finish my business and am walking out when I see Beatrix toss a chunk of her tuna sandwich to one. At first, things are fine, but then the rest of the gaggle notice and want their share. Seconds later, Beatrix is running away, arms flailing, shouting, 'Bad birds, bad birds, bad birds,' as a full score of geese are chasing her, honking." Alfred is an engaging storyteller and the image he paints while swinging his own arms to illustrate Bea's flight has the table laughing. Even Bea can't help but chuckle. "She tosses the rest of the sandwich behind her while she runs, which stalls a few of them, but only for a second. 'Bad birds, bad birds, bad birds!'"

"Were you hurt?" I ask Bea, trying to rein in my mirth.

Alfred answers for her. "No. Fortunately, our dogs noticed."

Susan picks up the story where Alfred leaves off, as if the two of them have told it dozens of times and each has their favorite part to tell. "I had tied the dogs' leashes to the leg of the wind break while I tended to Claire. So, of course, the dogs take off and pull the whole thing behind them like a kite. I think that, more than anything, was what scared the birds away." She, too, tells the story with her hands as much as her voice, one hand pantomiming two dogs running, the other a flapping tent above them. "Once or twice, a gust of wind catches the tent, and lifts the dogs into the air by their harnesses." The image of two dogs parasailing toward twenty geese has me near to tears.

"Trix," Susan continues as the laughter dies down, wiping a tear from her own face, "refused to play outside for years, after that, if there were geese anywhere nearby unless the dogs could come with her. She'd come running inside the moment she saw them flying overhead, no matter how high up they were, pointing at the 'bad birds'."

"I don't blame her," I say, giving Bea's leg a fond squeeze.

"I'm surprised you didn't Speak them away," Gabi says.

"I was four years old and terrified," Bea replies. "You could hardly expect me to have that presence of mind with twenty geese bearing down on me. And besides, at that age, I was barely starting to understand my ability."

"As embarrassing childhood stories go, it's pretty innocent," Alfred muses, eyes distant, "but I'll never forget the image of her running from the geese, waving her arms around as if that would make her run faster, and yelling, 'Bad birds, bad birds,' over and over, and then the dogs flying in to her rescue like paratroopers with a tent overhead."

"That's really sweet," Gabi says. She plants a kiss on Bea's cheek.

Beatrix, noticing that everyone's plates are empty, quickly says, "I'll help with the dishes," before any more anecdotes can be shared. Gabi and I join her, clearing the plates and leftovers from the table and bringing them to the kitchen.

"Since you girls don't have to drive north," Susan asks from the dining room, "are you free to play some Apples to Apples with us like you promised on Sunday?"

I give Bea a questioning look, and she shrugs. "I'm game," I say.

"Always!" Gabi says.

"Splendid," Alfred says. "Susan, why don't you pour us all some wine while I set it up."

To my surprise, Susan pours five glasses of red wine, handing one each to my girlfriends and me. While Bea and I are underaged, it's legal in Washington with parental supervision. It's the first alcohol I've had since I accidentally took the wrong cup for communion at Ty's church when I was twelve. Over the hour the game takes, I get slightly tipsy for the first time in my life. I like the taste of the wine, but I find I don't particularly enjoy this flavor of intoxication.

Apples to Apples proves as fun and hilarious as always, and I feel like I get to know Bea's family a bit better through it. While my sense of humor doesn't quite align well enough to earn me the most green cards—that honor goes to Alfred—I am still quite proud of winning Touchy-Feely with Hellen Keller to uproarious laughter.

Once the game is over, I thank Bea's parents for letting me stay with them this coming summer.

"Think nothing of it," Alfred says. "We are thrilled we can help. While I can't begin to imagine what you're going through, I do know what it's like to have to live with disapproving parents." I don't know how to respond to that—'disapproving' feels reductive, but I don't know what word I'd have preferred him to use—so I just nod.

"Please," Susan says, "come to us if you ever need parents: for advice, a hug, anything. We'll always be here for you."

This, too, leaves me feeling awkward. While I am grateful for their kindness, it feels, I don't know... Wrong? Artificial? I barely know the couple. And as much as it hurts, I don't want to give up on the hope of restoring my relationships with my parents; accepting Alfred and Susan as my new parents, as chosen family, feels like admitting defeat, admitting that it's over. "Thanks," I finally say, hoping my appreciative tone hides the sour taste in my mouth. "I will."

Since Bea can now teleport us back to school in the morning, the three of us decide to spend the night in her queen-size bed rather than our own bunks back north. Beatrix calls middle spoon, which seems only fair to us given she had to endure the telling of the goose story. The warmth of Beatrix behind me and Gabi's arm draped across mine, holding the three of us close, buoys my somber mood, and I fall asleep grateful to be Home.