Amy 4: Amilotta Delicatessa Windowshade Mackrelmint Ephraim's Daughter Komoristocking free porn video

Amy 4: Amilotta Delicatessa Windowshade Mackrelmint Ephraim's Daughter Komoristocking by Amy Komori The original characters and plot of this story are the property of the author. No infringement of pre-existing copyright is intended. This story is copyright (c) 2010 Amy Komori. All rights reserved. Chapter One: I Love You, Pumpkin No more skating, no more stealing, no more smoking. That was the deal Mrs. Komori and I struck on the way home from the police station. Giving up skating hurt the most, but Mrs. Komori was adamant about keeping an eye on me and we agreed I needed a tight leash and "just being" mostly where she could supervise me was the way for me to go. She would see I got out and did some healthy activities, and if Emily had time?which she seldom did?she could take me places, too. The main thing was to slow me down and ease back into it at a pace where maybe my brain would function in a way less scary for me and those around me. "It" being life. "I'm still concerned because I really think being home stewing in your own juices was so much was part of your problem," Mrs. Komori said. "But I'm also worried about how fragile you seem to be when you take social knocks, so hanging out with those kids? I just don't know about that. For now, anyways." "Yeah. I just really like skating, though. I-I don't wanna give that up." "It's just until you settle down, build up your emotional strength. Get into a routine at school, we'll see how your grades are and you'll be knocking your brains out on the?the rampy thing before you know it. And maybe, just maybe, to sort of sweeten the deal or bribe you a little, I'll help you out with a better pair of skates." "Really? Because that would be sweet!" "Sure." "Lemme have a look at Honey Bunny," Emily said when we came walked in the door. "Hey, could you get Pumpkin to give me back my wallet?" "Which one is it?" I asked, knowing exactly where this was heading, hoping Emily would take it all the way despite her mother's presence in the room. "It's the one that says 'Bad Motherfu?'" "Emily!" Mrs. Komori snapped, shutting Emily up but not wiping the sardonic grin off her face. Mrs. Komori liked that movie, too. "Fuckin' Honey Bunny," Emily said with a snicker after we were alone. "I'm gonna call you that from now on." "And I'm gonna call you Butch, but I'll say it like, 'Bootch.' What ees your name? Bootch. What does eet mean?" "I'm American, honey. Our names don't mean shit," Emily said. Then she started singing the second verse from Jane's A's "Been Caught Stealing:" "My girl, she's one too. She'll go and get her a shirt, stick it under her skirt," and doing a little shoulder-shaking move, her hand clenched near her mouth as if she were holding a mic. I squinted at her, my head tilted as I waited for her to finish entertaining herself. Emily stopped singing and beeped my nose like a button. "You're a little hardcore JD, dude. You're like the only person I know who's been arrested. What was it like?" While I could scarcely believe that info tidbit, I told her all about my arrest and booking while she poured us both some Dr. Pepper in a couple of jelly glasses. I made it out like it was some kind of comedic adventure for her benefit, but inside I was deeply ashamed. Partially for what it said about me, a little bit simply because I got caught and the rest for having put Mrs. Komori through all that public humiliation. When I finished, Emily shook her head. "I feel like it's kinda my fault." "Why's that? You didn't do anything. I'm the dumbass who thought it was a great idea to steal a porn magazine." "I-I slapped you. I am really sorry about that, Honey Bunny. Seriously. I mean, I know I just called you Honey Bunny, and I swear I'm going to keep doing it, but I know I suck for slapping you that time." "Well, you do suck, but it's casual." "It sent you off the deep end, didn't it?" "I was already coming apart." "Well, I really regret it more than I can even say. No one should lay a hand on anyone else. At least unless the other person does it first." "Oh yeah, then it's total retaliatory effort." "To the maximum, yeah. Dude, that's our family motto. If you're going to be a true Komori, you need to learn it. Know it. Live it." "She's the full hot orator. Oh yeah..." "What?" "If you're so set on calling me Honey Bunny, could you at least change it to Yolanda and call me that instead?" Emily smiled, pretended to think it over and said, "No." Mrs. Komori had changed into sweats, and about the time Emily and I finished making up, she came into the kitchen, told me to get my ass in gear and marched me back to my bedroom. She followed me with a big, white garbage bag and made me turn everything out until I uncovered all my contraband, consisting mostly of a big-ass pile of "Playboys," "Penthouses" and whatnot, plus my cigarettes. "Good lord, Amy," Mrs. Komori said when she saw the extent of my special magazine collection. "I know," I replied. Taken individually, each magazine wasn't such a horror. But now that I realized just how many I had, they made me kind of sick. Fake lips, fake boobs, fake people. The disenchantment became complete. Mrs. Komori held the bag, and I loaded it up, razor-edged magazines cutting right through the plastic; we had to double-bag everything and it became almost too heavy for either of us to carry. You'd be surprised how heavy magazines can be. They seem so flimsy and light, but the ounces become pounds pretty quickly, and the pounds add up. Add in the floppy factor and the danger of paper cuts and I started thinking how maybe instead of gun control we needed periodical control. I was doing my part, though. So long, airbrushed goddesses and future "Baywatch" castmembers. Oh yeah, and those informative articles that taught little Amy Komori the best sunglasses to wear in the Caribbean, how to sneak back into her ex-girlfriend's life, win bar bets and make her lady happy in the sack. Together, Mrs. Komori and I dragged it all out to the garbage can. Now I was running clean and light again. Mrs. Komori put her arm around me, and we went back towards the house. I didn't look back, but I guess it was for the best. Those magazines really had lots of information useful to men. Except how to grow your dick and nads back when life suddenly demands you become a Japanese girl-child. "Did you check under her bed, Mom?" Emily asked, on her way to her Bronco with her keys in one hand, a North Face backpack in the other. "Pretty much, yeah." "No, I mean, like thoroughly," Emily said, opening the door, sliding into the driver's seat. "Why?" "'Cause Honey Bunny here probably has like half a dozen unregistered firearms hidden under there. She and her boyfriend have been knocking over liquor stores all summer. Isn't that right?" Keys in the ignition. "I don't really..." "?Honey Bunny?" And then Emily drove away laughing before I could say anything in return. Anyways, that was how I racked up my third nickname that summer and my old name fell out of use in favor of my newly-legalized girl handle. I was starting to be a magnet for nicknames. Maki, Ayumi and Honey Bunny. Mrs. Komori called me Amy all the time, and Emily, good as her word, called me Honey Bunny almost exclusively, made me redden with anger?when we were alone-- or embarrassment?around other people. But not as often as I might have liked, because she was still running around doing older girl stuff, hanging with Darla, Beth the shrinking violet, Hanna the rich bi-chick hippie with herpes and the rest. If they were the cast of a sitcom, it might have been a little like everyone's favorite Thursday night laugh-fest "Friends," but I had no way of knowing. I made it a point never to watch "Friends" because it sucked shit through a straw from a donkey's ass as far as I was concerned, and because Emily's life was blacked out in my viewing area. The person she spent the most time with, though, was Toby. Toby. Before-Martin Toby. Still-has-his-dick Toby. I hated, hated, hated Toby. I was dealing fine with not being Emily's boyfriend anymore, but I couldn't stand that she'd gone back with that fucking asshole instead of finding someone new at least. And I knew he was an asshole, because she was always calling him "That Fucking Asshole" right up until the moment his name became Toby again. God, I had to meet him face to face, too. The first time Emily brought him by the house, she introduced me as Honey Bunny and Toby gave me a wan smile and promptly lost interest. I gave him his own secret nickname: Hair Boy. Now that I'd finally seen him up close, I couldn't help but notice how he was covered with dark black hair, all up and down his arms. His apparent dedication to a life of Sasquatch impersonation made me sick for some reason; I couldn't remember things like that having bothered me before. Hair Boy even ate supper with us almost every night. I don't know if he knew I used to be a guy or not. I don't know if it mattered; it's not as if he spent any of his time on me or trying to win me over as a favor to his girlfriend. I just know what little enjoyment I got out of remembering the time Emily and I left him standing by the curb with a stupid look on his face didn't balance out the fact I knew he, of all people, was doing to her all the things I used to do. It was obvious. They didn't try all that hard to hide it, even from me. I can't tell you how many times I'd come bouncing into the den and catch Toby pushing his tongue down Emily's throat. Way too often. I pictured his tongue as hairy, too. Like a gross, fat, pink leech furred with some kind of ice age mutation. I watched with expectation when Emily and I were together alone while Hair Boy was in the kitchen fixing us all Dr. Peppers, but she never coughed up a hairball or anything, so maybe I was wrong about that. Some nights, Emily called and told her mom she was sleeping over at a friend's house and would be home in the morning. Yeah, right, a friend. Yeah, right, sleeping. And then, just a day or two before school started, something unexpected happened. Emily came home early. Early for her. I was sitting on the couch in some old sweats and a t-shirt, looking as butch as possible, for a preteen with bobbed haircut and 5 earrings. I glanced at Emily, looked away, because I expected her to pretty much walk on through and ignore me. But by the set of her lips, I could tell at once it was over with Hair Boy. Emily flopped down beside me and slouched down with her knees together, her feet apart. Kind of a collapsed rockabilly pose. I chewed my lip, pretended to watch TV and didn't say anything. I could feel her near me, feel her weight pushing down on the couch cushion. She hadn't stayed in the same room alone with me for five consecutive minutes since even before I got arrested. Finally, Emily couldn't stand the silence anymore. "I fucking hate all guys," she growled. Her dark eyes teared up?it was obvious the way the glow from the TV glinted in them, even viewed from the side and slightly below, my angle-- but she was too Emily Komori to let it flow. She blinked and wiped her eyes with the back of her hands and when that didn't work, tried her sleeves. "What happened?" I asked, and turned down the TV. What happened was, Toby flaked in a way that went beyond your everyday, casual level of boyfriend-girlfriend flakery. Not returning a call was normal. So was bailing on a planned date to get shitfaced with friends when the togetherness of young love turned all smothering. Or forgetting a one-month anniversary because, honestly, you just weren't that sentimental about dates. But this was flakery to the extreme... And it actually affected little ol' me. Emily told me the specific events of that night, and the rest I knew from casually eavesdropping on her half of many of the phone conversations leading up to it. And the tale went a little like this: They were supposed to go see the Enemies (in fact, by the time Emily told me this narrative of romantic woe, the Enemies were no doubt packing up their gear after their set, or backstage smoking pot or snorting lines or something). There was some controversy because Darla wanted to go and Emily really wanted some boyfriend-girlfriend time rather than some kind of sick-o triad thing. Emily pulled rank; relationship over friendship. Darla threw some kind a childish fit about never getting any girl time with her best friend and pissed off Emily. For his part, Toby tried to stay out of it. After a day or so, Darla had caved and everything was cool again between the three of them. The night of, Emily drove herself downtown and joined the big crowd standing in line outside the Lava Lamp. When Toby didn't show, Emily found herself slipping from worried to pissed. Finally, she was pissed enough to go stalk the guy; after all, she couldn't even get into the show because he had the tickets. She drove by Toby's apartment, and the lights were out. The shades were up and when she looked in, nose against the window glass and her hands as a shield against the parking lot security light, the living room was completely empty... For some reason, that detail was like a cold fingertip delicately stroking my spine. I broke out in goosebumps and didn't even know why. "You okay?" Emily asked. That's how obvious it was; Emily had noticed it through the veil of her own self-concern. "Yeah..." I said. "Because your eyes went super-wide and you looked kinda like you wanted to hurl for a second there." "I just... I was just thinking of the last time I went to the Lava Lamp when those guys were... hitting on me." "Wow. You're like a total homophobe." "They thought I was a girl. Jeez, you were there and everything." "No, I was just thinking what a homophobe you've always been. It didn't have anything to do with that time at the Lava Lamp. Totally unrelated thought." "Finish your story!" So Emily did. Those bare walls, the dents in the carpet where furniture once stood in a pattern she had practically memorized morphed Emily's scorned anger into girlfriendish concern, so she went to a pay phone and called Toby's parents. Where is he? What's happening? Is he okay? I'm so worried about him. All his stuff is gone. Toby's folks didn't really know. He'd been acting strange for the last couple of days, looking kind of haggard and worried. Then he suddenly told them he and some buddies were moving to Portland, Oregon, of all places. They were just surprised it had been that same day. Now Emily didn't know what to feel. Worried, scared, hurt, a thread of anger running through it all, like the river in that Brad Pitt movie about trout fishing. You know, "12 Monkeys." Deeply confused, troubled. Two boyfriends in one year, one turned into a tiny girl- thing and the other... Who knew? That last question was why I was now riding a queasy, uneasy feeling of impending... What? Impending what? I didn't dare allow my verbal forebrain to voice what my lizard-brain was burbling about in my hypothalamus or something, where whatever atavistic, fear-sensing part of our brain acts as some kind of evolutionary third eye or sixth sense. Emily apparently had no such secret suspicions, or really, just some mundane ones. She was just a jilted lover, like in a song. All hurt and confusion, raw and new like an open wound. But for me, the whole world outside our little Komori house had darkened just a bit, as if a frightened octopus jetted its ink into a deepwater ocean of a night sky, stirring the black, cooling it by degrees despite the residual heat and humidity of the day. I shivered a little and in response, without knowing why I was shaking, my hurt Emily put her arms around me and pulled me close. She squeezed me tightly, those long arms against my chest and tummy, and she gently rocked us both, her chin buried in my hair. I may as well have been a big, warm pillow, but it made me feel a little soft and secure. "Honey Bunny?" "Yeah?" At the moment, I didn't care what she called me; I just wanted to feel her warmth all around me. "I'm still sorry for slapping you that time. I didn't-" I stopped her. "It's casual." We watched TV with the lights out, big sister and little sister. Chapter Two: See Emily Paint For me, school was just a couple of days away. Finally, this whole horrible summer would end and I would start a horrible fall to work on Mrs. Komori's Just Being Program and earn back my skating privileges and independence. The latter filled me with happy anticipation, but the thought of having my scrawny body and damaged psyche tossed back into the volatile sea of hormones and social anxiety we call eighth grade terrified me almost beyond reason. And this was coming from a person who witnessed her Johnson turn into a Virginia. "It's not that bad," Emily told me. "It's really not bad at all." She was painting. With a few weeks left before her first year of college and a hole in her life formerly occupied by Toby (we weren't allowed to talk about him yet), Emily turned to art, which thrilled me. It had been so long since she had done anything more than a sketch or a napkin doodle. She started sweating her ass off in the Venus-like atmosphere of our garage making incredible paintings while I watched perched like a bird on a tall, round kitchen stool. I loved to see her face turn red and her lower lip push out from creative exertion, her arms moving, the tip of the black paint brush stretching out from her fingers nothing more than a colorful smear. She got all shiny, her face and arms gleaming with perspiration. Her shirt stuck to her, so I could tell whether or not she wore a patterned bra underneath. Or nothing at all, which was the case today because she'd been home all morning and hadn't even showered yet. "It's pretty bad," I groused, not feeling it because I was so enthralled in Emily's creative dance. Even her feet seemed artistic as they shuffled. I kind of wanted to be her. "I lied. It's exactly that bad. No, it's worse. I wouldn't do junior high again for all the... many... valuable things in that place where things of value are kept." "The bank." "I was thinking more like a museum. Anyways, good luck at school, dude. Are you ready?" "If by 'ready' you mean I have like pens and pencils and notebooks, yeah." "Clothes?" "Been all set with those." Actually, despite having bought all those girly-girl school outfits and dresses for me during my Princess Phase (as I called it?strictly to myself for fear of what Emily would say in response), Mrs. Komori graciously and patiently allowed me to change my mind once more. Now I had some things I felt more comfortable about wearing. A few pairs of sensible jeans, for example, and slacks. The slacks were from the pre-teen girl's department, but the jeans were boy's jeans because I really didn't want to wear the flares that were so popular. And while I didn't have any dresses I loved as much as I did that sundress?which I was actually wearing at the moment (and barefoot)?I found I wasn't completely opposed to the wearing them. They didn't particularly interest me, but I didn't hate them, and I supposed if I again happened to fall in love with one, I could probably talk Mrs. Komori into buying it. Delacroix Junior High, my school, had a dress code but it wasn't super strict. Mrs. Komori and I read it the night before our final back-to- school shopping trip, just to be on the safe side before shelling out more plastic. The rules mostly dealt with skirt length for girls and prohibited certain hair colors and styles?I couldn't get a Mohawk, for instance, although I kind of wanted one just to see how I'd look with it now that I was a girl and had so much black hair on my head?plus facial piercings other than in the ears. The school also outlawed any t-shirt with alcohol or drug-related imagery and, of course, profanity or obscenities of any kind. Anyways, Mrs. Komori and I decided as long as I dressed neatly, I could get away with quite a lot of unisex mixing-and-matching. In fact, since the code didn't specifically mention anything about it, I further assumed boys were free to wear dresses if they wanted, too. "If you mean am I mentally ready," I said, "I'm not so sure about that." "Good luck," Emily said and put down her plastic palette. "Some people dream of going back and starting over knowing what they know now. But I think that's stupid. I'd fucking hate that. Being all small and whatever. Maybe if I could go back at my same age and size so I could kick everyone's ass--" "I'm doing it. I'm doing it tiny, too. I never wanted to but here we are." "Yeah. Well, I didn't mean you, Honey Bunny." She stepped back from the canvas and walked around in front of it, studying it, planning. The sunlight outside the garage gave her a haloed highlight outlining her body, glinting on her collarbones and the outside edges of her long, slender arms. She made me really miss my guy parts at times like that. When she decided the painting was finished and even one more brushstroke would ruin it, Emily smiled at me, her eyes glittering like black glass, droplets of sweat along her nose and above her mouth glinting. She tore a long sheet of clear plastic wrap from a roll and carefully covered the palette with it, preserving the paint in case she needed it the next day. After that, she helped me off the stool (not that I needed it) and led me into the kitchen. She fixed us both bowls of Ben & Jerry's chocolate ice cream for lunch and sat at the dining table and talked and laughed while we spooned up the frosty deliciousness and fought off brain freeze. "Maybe school won't be so bad," Emily said, a drop of chocolate ice cream on the tip of her nose. I decided not to tell her. "You'll probably have a lot of the same teachers I did, and some of them were cool. Not really. None of them were cool, actually. But not all of them sucked, I guess. And your classes will be super-easy and you should just breeze right through them." "Yeah, you said that one time before." "No, I didn't. You're not only a card cheat and a scoundrel, but also a liar, Honey Bunny, and possibly a cattle rustler and horse thief. But maybe you'll make some friends, too. Try, anyways." That's what I was afraid of. I ate my ice cream and thought about trying to make friends. My attempts at re-socializing myself that summer hadn't gone very well to say the least, and I had no idea how to relate to anyone other than Emily and Mrs. Komori now. And I still wasn't anyone. No longer Martin, not quite Amy. Maybe I really was Honey Bunny after all. I told myself to "just be," that part of the reason for returning to school was to help me become again. Positive self-help mantras have a way of losing their power in the face of all- encompassing terror. While I figuratively messed my undies mulling that over, the phone rang and it was for Emily, a call from Darla. Darla. Lots of curly red hair and freckles, a giant mouth with big, glossy white teeth. Very curvy, womanly body. She had what even Emily called "birthin' hips." By comparison, the proportions of my girl body weren't all that different than they had been when I was a guy; my shoulders might have been narrower, but I barely had any hips at all. Lots of people thought Darla was gorgeous in a pre-Raphaelite sort of way. But I never had. Especially now. Maybe it was Darla's whiny, possessive and completely helpless personality that made me not find her attractive. She was the total opposite of Emily, who usually exuded this crazy, brash confidence, but they shared the same capacity for extreme silliness. Only with Darla, there was this childishness, this helplessness. Like Toby, she usually ignored me when she came over, although she knew full well I'd once been Emily's boyfriend and her own rival for Emily's loving attention. But I couldn't help but notice after she left there'd be boxes of crackers laying on our coffee table and crumbs on the sofa, or bowls of half-eaten cereal in the sink. Anyways, with me doing my house arrest thing and being so much younger and essentially out of the picture for good and Toby mysteriously decamped for places unknown, Darla was calling almost constantly. Shows, parties, hanging out, plans for fall classes, maybe getting an apartment together their sophomore year. Emily hung up the phone. "Darla's coming over to look at my new painting. I think she kinda wants it for her bedroom." "Kinda wants you for her bedroom, you mean," I muttered. Not that I seriously thought that. When Darla showed up, though, she looked off, noticeably more haggard than before the whole Toby Disappearance Weekend. Dark, almost green rings under her eyes. And she looked a little drawn, her cheeks hollow. I couldn't be sure. Fluorescent lights tended to lighten shadows, so I could have been mistaken. Easily, even. "What's up, Darla?" I said, just trying to act friendly around her so Emily wouldn't feel weird about having her over. "You're looking really pretty today." Wrong move. Darla's nostrils flared and her face flashed a dark pink. "I'm not trying to lose weight," she said in a huff. "I mean, if that's what you're thinking." I raised my eyebrows and looked away, pretending to have lost interest in the conversation. Do dee doo, I don't care... But inwardly, I was terrified she was going to pull a knife out of her bag and come at me across the kitchen, with some sort of savage, high-pitched squealing that wasn't quite human. I saw Emily give her a look and then the moment passed and they were bopping out to the garage. I went back to my room and hid under the bed until the fear went away. I felt really dumb, though. What was I afraid of? And how exactly would being underneath my bed protect me from it? I told myself Darla was nothing more than a needy, insecure person whose parents had fucked up raising her and who had absorbed a lot of stupid ideas from books, movies and TV shows. You know, like me. I crawled out from under the bed feeling very young and silly. I knelt on the floor, put my chin on the mattress and stretched out my slim, brown arms; even on my best days, aspects of my body seemed alien to me. How could I ever lift even a tissue with arms like these, much less tote around ten tons of school books all day? Who is going to like me? Who is going to hate me? Why is that girl here? Why couldn't Emily have someone else for a best friend? No, everything was cool. But I didn't feel completely normal?or what passed for it these uncertain days?until after Emily and Darla left together and Mrs. Komori came back from work. Feeling skittish, I crept into the kitchen where she was bumping around, putting away some groceries she'd picked up on the way home. I stood there blinking and looking at her, not knowing what to say. "Amy," Mrs. Komori said. "You look like someone walked over your grave." "Maybe someone did." Mrs. Komori peered at me, no doubt looking for the return of Crazy Amy. I smiled to reassure her, a fake smile I was working on for school. "Worried about school?" "Always." Among other things, increasingly. "Don't sweat it. You'll be fine. A little younger than some of the other kids, yeah, but you'll make up for it with your higher level of maturity. And grades." I thought about how recent events contradicted Mrs. Komori's sunshiny optimism, and wondered if I had even the slightest chance of redeeming myself or proving her right after all. I'm totally petrified, I admitted to myself, blinking back sudden tears. I am so, so scared. Chapter Three: I Don't Wanna Be Learned Unavoidably, mercilessly unconcerned with my feelings of terror and helplessness in the face of it, hungry for my blood, it came. Not Darla. The dreaded first day of school. I barely slept the night before, just tossed and rolled over and over trying to get comfortable and failing. Sometime before first light, I must have fallen asleep because my room went from dark to light without transition and I felt fatigued. My eyes ached. I curled up on my side and just stayed in bed chewing my fingernails and feeling kind of punk. Not as in punk rock. I was sure I had a bit of a fever and a stomach ache, but when Mrs. Komori knocked on my door to get me up and I told her, she pooh- poohed my symptoms as nerves. "I guess so," I said. Out of it, my brain swimming, I padded to the kitchen. Mrs. Komori flipped on the lights, which hurt my eyes and I sat at the counter squinting and hating Thomas Edison. Then Emily came slouching in. "She doesn't feel well," Mrs. Komori told Emily in a baby voice. Emily stopped in her tracks, sort of swayed, turned from her mom towards me and I saw she herself looked like hell, her long black hair in her face and her eyes half-shut, puffy and red. She shuffled around the kitchen in her pajamas and pink fuzzy slippers that used to be bunnies until she cut off their ears after they lost their plastic googly eyes and blinded anthropomorphic footwear reminded her way too much of a documentary she once saw on cave-dwelling monstrosities complete with horror music, an early childhood trauma that still chilled her enough no one was supposed to ever mention it in her presence. "You don't look so well yourself," Mrs. Komori said. "I'm not hungry," she said. "Neither am I," I added. Mrs. Komori shrugged and poured herself some coffee, then padded off with her steaming mug to go shower and get dressed. "What did you do last night?" I asked Emily, my voice nearly a whisper. "If you have to know, I got home pretty early this morning and couldn't sleep. So I've basically been up for a full day. Or more. I dunno... you fuck off." "I didn't hear you come in and I was up all night." "You were asleep when I came in. Don't deny. I saw you. Also, fuck off." "Oh." She'd looked in on me? Why? "Talk later. Coffee now. You school go. Fuck off now." "Amy!" Mrs. Komori called out from her bathroom. "Get ready for school." Then I heard the faint sound of water running and decided I needed to get myself cleaned up, too. All scrubbed and wrapped in a towel inside twenty minutes, I stood at my closet looking for something to wear and Emily knocked. I told her to come in. She still looked ragged, but her eyes were actually open now and there was a little smile on her face. She had something in her hand. Three things, in fact. Three bracelets of large, almost translucent red, purple and pink beads. She held them out in her hand. "Choose one." I bit my lip and thought about it. Pink didn't interest me and red seemed too blood-like. But purple, kind of like pale, ghostly grapes, really appealed to me. I took the bracelet and looked at Emily. "One for you and one for me," she said. She slipped the red one on her wrist, then took back the purple one and, holding my arm, slipped it onto mine. "These are power beads. I know this may sound weird, but lately, I've kinda been thinking of you more and more as my little sister. I want you to wear this bracelet so when you look at it, no matter where you are, you'll know you have a big sister who loves you very much. And you'll know I'm wearing one, too, thinking the exact same thing. Well, not the big sister part." I did this little sniffing laugh from down in my chest and looked down at the floor. Little sister. "And maybe you won't be so scared all the time," she said. There was nothing I could say. I just stood there in my towel, with my wet hair, feeling really happy. And she was right about the not feeling so scared part. Kind of, anyways. As soon as she left the room, while I was putting on my underwear, I found myself shaking all over and wanting to cry. I looked down at my purple beaded bracelet and it calmed me. It was as though Emily herself were holding me by the wrist, or holding me tightly the same way she had the other night on the sofa after the weirdness with Toby. The body trembling went into my stomach before dying out completely and now I was completely famished, much too late for breakfast. Oh well, I'll just go to school starving, I thought. "Amy, hurry up!" Mrs. Komori called. "We need to get there early so I can talk to your principal." I put on some boy's jeans and rolled the cuffs up so I wouldn't walk on them all day and trip myself up. Even though it was still going to be a hot, humid day, I pulled on a t-shirt and topped it off with a new black sweater. As a last-second flourish, I clipped a couple of butterfly barrettes in my hair. I looked in the mirror. Skinny Asian girl power... ACTIVATE! I grabbed my new backpack and ran out of the room only to have Mrs. Komori send me back immediately to put on socks, which I'd forgotten. I had some black oxfords and my Teva sandals in my closet, but I decided to wear my black Vans, which were near the door where Emily had taught me to leave them months before. "Did you leave your wet towel on the floor?" Mrs. Komori asked as we went to her car. "Yesssss!" "Good." Emily waved from the back door. Right after I got into the car, she suddenly ran out and kissed me on the forehead, a wet one. I blushed and suddenly had to pee. "Remember what I told you this morning," she said. I held up my wrist with the bracelet plainly visible. While the drive there was all too short, the walk into the school was excruciating, just like I imagined the walk to the electric chair or gas chamber probably was for condemned women, even with Mrs. Komori by my side. My empty stomach rioted with anticipation, fear, and embarrassment. For the first time as stupid little Amy Komori, I had to run the gauntlet of my fellow kids, all there early to get a jump on the school year. It felt as if all eyes were on me, but I'm sure every other kid was thinking the same thing, too?everyone's staring at me. Not many Asian faces. I chewed the insides of my mouth, gnashed those little nubs on each side just behind the corners of my mouth until they hurt in that pretty sweet way. "Why are you making those faces?" Mrs. Komori asked. I swallowed. No more mouth-biting. Then I saw my skate park boyfriend Patrick and some of the skater guys and girls, who knew me as Little Miss Hell-On-Wheels. Despite the power of sisterly love emanating from my wrist, I had one thought: Please don't let them recognize me like this, please, please, please! "Hey, Ayumi," this one kid drawled. Busted before I even got in the door. I did my best to appear calm and composed. Emily, hear my prayer. "I'm going on in," Mrs. Komori said, and suddenly ditched me. I think she thought she was helping me somehow, but I felt frantic. Don't leave me with these monsters! The first kid's name was Mike, he and Patrick were pretty tight, and he had long hair down in his eyes and this way of looking at you that made you want to slap him. "Look at you! You look weird!" "I do?" I said, and looked down at myself in mock surprise. I caught sight of my purple power beads. I stared at them and said, "Asshole." "What's that in your hair? Like plastic bugs or something?" his midget friend Josh said. This was something new to him, my first girlish flourish as far as the skaters knew; I'd never worn barrettes or hair clips skating because I thought they might snag the helmet lining. Josh had short man syndrome. I knew the feeling well. "You actually look like a girl." "And you look like a boy. Almost," I replied and walked away. "Hey, keep trying. There's always next year." Behind me, I heard some boyish voice shout, "Dude!" and with the scent of blood in the air, the pack turned on their wounded member like the dogs they were. They started completely abusing little Josh, possibly adding to feelings of inadequacy for which he'd spend the rest of his life compensating. The meeting with the principal had something to do with how late I'd enrolled. Mrs. Komori had to talk with the guy, who was this really short fat dude with a baby-smooth face that looked as if he never shaved. He had almost purple cheeks with a few fine veins, little red tracings, showing here and there. He also smelled heavily of cologne. Mrs. Komori smiled politely when he said he was sure, judging from my transcripts, I'd be a fine addition to the Delacroix Junior High student body. "Maybe we can get her to run for class treasurer, huh?" he said. "I'm not sure she's trustworthy enough," Mrs. Komori said, her eyes cutting over at me. Our private joke. They concluded their little business pretty quickly after that and the secretary gave me all the info I needed and told me what homeroom to report to. Then Mrs. Komori was gone; she wisely refrained from giving me a hug, although I sure could have used one and I suspected she felt the same way. I was a student now. I took a deep breath, looked back at the secretary and left the relative security of the main office for the hallway, which was now bustling with confused kids and teachers trying to keep order and direct traffic. It was pretty much your standard- issue madhouse. Homeroom continued the general theme of self-consciousness. The first person I saw was Mike. His eyes went wide when he saw me come in the door slowly and shyly and he mouthed, "Bitch" at me. The other kids just smiled at me, sizing me up. I would've felt just as comfortable completely naked. Ms. Klein, the teacher, made me stand and introduce myself while she smiled with false benevolence, the old sadist. Okay, she wasn't old at all; a bit of a fox, actually. She looked like one of those actors who graduate from playing high school parts directly to playing teachers, but still look inhumanly pretty. Compared to the rest of us, though, she was an ancient old hag. It's funny how easily being back in school made me fall into that mindset again. "Um... my name's Amy," I began. At that point, I'd just about used up my "A" material. Thank you and goodnight, I'll be appearing as the sole Japanese girl in your homeroom for a 180-day stand. Please do your best not to murder me. My big sister's best friend may want to challenge you for that honor. And you won't win if she does. "Ayumi," Mike muttered, to a few snickers. Just my luck to have that jackass in my homeroom. All year, too. I scrunched up my face trying to think of something to say. Mike was murmuring to a boy on his left. More titters and giggles. I took a deep breath through my nostrils, my eyes went narrow and I was just about to wade in with my fists when Ms. Klein gave Mike and his pal their walking papers. They sauntered out of the room, instant legends. First to get sent to the principal's office that year. I'm not sure, but there may have even been a cash award. "Okay, everyone. Settle down, people. This is Amy Komori," Ms. Klein said. Pause to let it sink in, look over the class with a commanding gaze in a modern, New Age, Pop Psychology sort of way. "And those two... gentlemen will apologize in writing when they return. Please continue." Forty-eight eyes on me, starting eighth grade again, already with a couple of enemies. Fingering my power beads, Mike-free, I felt inspired enough to make a whole little speech. Some of it I knew from going over my biography with Mrs. Komori. Some of it I just came up with on the spot because I felt like it. Born in Cali, parents gone, adopted, into inline skating. Ms. Klein seemed to dig it, and finally let me sit down. The only other new kid was a hopeless basket case, blatant bugger-eater and obvious masturbator. After his performance, by comparison, I looked like the Queen of the Known Universe, and a couple of the girls seemed to take to me. As far as the boys went, I stayed Ayumi all through homeroom period, and they just didn't seem to like me at all. But that was fine by me. Then the bell rang. I froze. All the other kids started filing out, chattering and laughing. I sat at my desk as if glued there. "First period, Amy," Ms. Klein said in a friendly voice. I stared at her stupidly. Her pretty smiled broadened. "You?Trust me, I know you're nervous, but you don't want to be late to your first class." I blinked at her, just not feeling right at all. I really wanted to leave. Only I had no idea where I was supposed to go. The way I figured it, I had been doing pretty well just to find my homeroom. Chapter Four: Suck Suck Suck/Suck'n'Roll Junior High School... Mrs. Komori picked me up a little before 4pm. My backpack was full of books now, and course syllabi, notebooks, pencils, pens and a pink rubber eraser already worn and black along one edge. Big yellow school buses were passing, some empty on their way in, some full on their way out. Kids milled around, craning their necks, looking for their rides home. So many cars looked the same, I didn't recognize our car until I saw Mrs. Komori leaning halfway out, waving her hand frantically, her face all bright and excited. I got into the passenger seat, buckled myself in, put the bag on my lap and sank down in the seat. My lower lip was set to pout. I ground into it with my upper teeth. "Was it really that terrible?" Mrs. Komori asked me in a sympathetic voice. Delacroix Junior High fell away behind us among the oak and pine trees. "Pretty much everyone there hates me." "Really? Everyone? What makes you say that?" I took a deep breath, frowned. I didn't want to tell her. The day had gone a little like this, short version: A kid came from the office a few minutes after the homeroom bell, bringing my class schedule which someone, somewhere, had neglected to give me. My first class was something called pre-AP English, but I had no idea where it was, just that it was upstairs somewhere because the room number started with a 2. I found it ten minutes late, but the teacher cut me some slack because I was new, then someone called me a retard and got away with it because the teacher hadn't heard. In third period Science 1, this girl with braces asked me if it was true I'd made out with some skater dude whose name she couldn't remember but knew started with a P. I ate lunch at a table full of kids who were best friends from the previous year and didn't so much as look at me. In Spanish 1, the kid who had called me a retard earlier sat behind me and called me "el retardo," but when the teacher told him not only didn't that mean what he thought but also he had an appointment in the vice-principal's office-- dean of boy students and enforcer of rules-- he gave me a long murderous look that I took as a promise of future retribution. Finally, in Art, someone else repeated the story about P?obviously Patrick?only now they were saying I had given him a handjob behind the vert at the skatepark. When the last bell rang, I threw my things in my backpack and ran as fast as I could to the bus area where parents also came to pick up their kids. Thrown into this seething mosh pit of surging hormones and petty cruelty, of sudden growth spurts and Magic Marker tattoos, where did Amy Komori fit in? I didn't believe she would. When we got home, I put my backpack in my bedroom and was surprised at how relieved I felt. The physical weight from my textbooks was gone, at least. Emily came home around suppertime, and as we ate, I answered questions from Mrs. Komori until the whole shitty tale came out. I felt like shrinking under the table. Mrs. Komori said a few supportive things in a motherly way and, still a little pale and puffy-eyed, Emily held up her wrist where dark red beads glistened. Then she told me I was pretty lucky; she'd had her first period her first day of junior high and had messed up her pants. "It might be worse tomorrow," Emily told me. "So I've been told. But no worries, 'cuz I'm all prepared." I tapped my own power beads on the table and Mrs. Komori looked at us both as if we were talking in code and she was the head of the CIA. They'd already given me about fifty pages of homework, so I went back to my room to start on it. I spread out on the floor, lying on my belly with my knees bent, my sock feet pointing towards the ceiling as I worked. Emily had been right?so far it was all phenomenally easy. It wasn't so much that it came back to me; it had never really left. If the other kids were so determined to hate me, it might as well be for a good reason, like wrecking the grading curve. That is, if teachers at Delacroix Junior High graded on curves. I was almost finished when there came a soft rapping at my door. Emily stuck her head in and surprised me, because I thought she was going out as usual. Unlike me, she didn't have to be up in the morning, at least not yet. And she'd been out so often lately. "Do you need a hug?" she asked. "'Cause I kinda need to hug someone. I've been having a shitty couple of days, too, and I find cuddling my little sister to be therapeutic." I nodded, and she came in, sat down, pulled me onto her lap and wrapped one arm around me. I hugged it to my chest and leaned my head back onto her shoulder while she stroked my hair, her warm breath stirring it faintly. If using me like a stuffed toy was therapeutic for her, it was for me, too. I felt worries ease, and a connectedness, as if our heartbeats had synchronized. God, we'd come so far in such a few short months. I'd accepted the role of little sister gladly that morning, before everything went so wrong. Little sister. Baby sister. I'd accepted it along with-- "Did the beads help you today?" "They kinda did, I guess. I thought about you a lot and tried to think about what you would do," I said. Then I sighed, my eyelashes fluttered. I felt all wrung out, a discarded washcloth. I looked down at my frighteningly thin and bony wrist. There were my sister's beads again, shining. "Well, maybe you should think about what you would do. I mean, Amy Komori. Or maybe just try not to think so much at all. It must be beyond weird for you, living like this. Were the all the kids really that shitty, or were you exaggerating?" "Not all of them. The ones that didn't talk to me were fine." "Fuck 'em." "Yeah, yeah. Fuck 'em all and let Satan sort 'em out. I don't wanna talk about it. Tell me about your shitty couple of days." I could feel her take a deep breath. Her stomach expanded, touching my back. I took her hand in mine and played with her fingers, held my bracelet against hers, compared our wrists. Mine looked a lot more breakable than hers, but then she was a good six or so years older. Would I be as tall as her when I'm eighteen again? Emily just said, "I had a kind of... fight... with someone last night. Not a fight. I don't know. I'm not sure I really want to talk about it right this minute." "Can I guess? Darla." A long silence. "Maybe. We kinda..." Emily took a another deep breath, even deeper, and didn't let it out. Her arms went limp, so I climbed out of her lap. Her face was pale; I wasn't the only one terrified over this. She fought it off as I watched, and then she was just Emily again. She got up, smiling a bit thinly. "Promise me you'll make tomorrow a better day," she said. "I promise I'll try." I felt for her, a mix of complex emotions, water colors dumped in a clear glass and stirred until they were all one color. While I was fighting the battle of Delacroix Junior High, she was undergoing some trial of her own. Would they connect in the end? "Don't let those kids get you down, all right?" I shrugged. "Wear your beads." I held up my arm to show her. The beads weren't going anywhere. "Those are our power beads. Yours and mine. As long as we both wear them, you're safe from any little junior high assholes." Emily bailed, but before she did, she leaped back in my room and said, "I love you, Honey Bunny." I blinked in surprise. Then she was gone, off to her bedroom to keep her own terrible secret a little longer. My mind raced, but any thoughts I had of finishing my first homework assignments were cast aside in favor of other concerns. I put my pencil in my mouth and rolled over on my back, stared at my beads. The ceiling light shone through them, causing them to dimly glow. Power beads? Plastic bracelet. It only had whatever power I assigned it. My eighth grade year was off to a glorious start. Chapter Four: A Moody Blessing I felt a bit better the next day and decided my symptoms had been just nerves after all. I reminded myself to rely on Mrs. Komori's opinions more; after all, she was smarter than I was. I even felt well enough to eat some Lucky Charms cereal for breakfast. I sat hunched over my bowl, spooning the sweet crunchy stars, moons, clovers and diamonds into my mouth, the occasional line of milk dribbling down my chin while Emily sat across from me with her own bowl. She didn't say much but I kept my eye on her for any sign she might suddenly spill all. Just before I went to dress, she did say, "Hang in there, Honey Bunny." "You, too." I did what she told me: I hung in there like a toughie each day. The first month of school was like a fever dream, haunting me in a pre-dawn delirium. Some of the guys in my classes developed little crushes on me, but they didn't know how to act on them because I was already developing a reputation as the strangest girl in school. Some of the girls tried to befriend me but found me off-putting because I didn't have any interest in Britney Spears or the Spice Girls, and they had no clue about the music I did like. At lunch a couple of weeks into it, Ashleigh Bodine?you had to say her last name to differentiate her from the sixteen other Ashleys and Ashleighs at our school-- from my science class invited me to sit with her and some friends at their regular little section of one of the big tables. "Come on, dude," Ashleigh Bodine said. "Everyone's like really curious about you." "That's cool. I guess." "Denise thinks you're like super-scary." "Uh... then maybe I shouldn't?" "Come on. You can prove to her she's wrong." So I sat and listened to this whole confusing conversation mostly about all the other kids in school. Which ones were cool, which ones sucked. Asshole things other kids said, things most people would ignore or chalk up as no big deal, were apparently world-shaking declarations of intent and purpose or else clues to major character flaws barely hidden. The girl introduced to me as Denise seemed a little quiet, but the others were loud and talked without even taking breaths, so at the end of these incredibly long run-on speeches, they'd suddenly gasp in all the oxygen they needed. And they pretty much ignored me until one girl said something about visiting her dad in Los Angeles. Before I could stop myself I was singing Bratmobile to them: "Burn to the fucking ground LA/Whitey's gonna pay/Whitey's gonna pay." Oops. They got really upset about the f-word, and I also had to explain it was just a song and I wasn't racist against white people. I thought I was about two seconds away from having my ass kicked by a bunch of well-dressed girls or being jerked out of my seat by a teacher and marched off for some kind of political re-education or sensitivity class or something. "Amy's kinda into angry girl stuff," the Ashleigh Bodine explained, trying to help me. "Like Alanis Morissette," someone else chimed in, and looked at me for confirmation. I sank lower in my chair, my face clouded. "Yeah. Like Alanis Morissette," I said quietly. The look of sudden understanding brightening their faces made me want to cry. Even Denise suddenly perked up. They all loved Alanis! She was so cool. Usually, they weren't all into like being angry and stuff and they were a little concerned that she had sex and maybe was a lesbian or something but that was okay as long as she wasn't like all in everyone's face about it and didn't I think her boyfriend must have been really freaked out when he heard that song and maybe she like doesn't believe in God or something because she's kinda sacrilegious a little, don't you think? They were killing my soul, bit by bit. I knew they'd be clueless about my more esoteric music loves, so I offered a couple I thought they'd recognize and they could more accurately categorize me from them. "I-I dunno. I like the Pixies... I like Weezer, too." "Oh my God, Weezer! That one song... they played it way too much." "I don't really like punk rock." Would I have to start holding classes? "Well, they're not really p?" "I'll bet she likes Green Day!" "Amy, do you like Jewel?" "Oh, yeah! You gotta love Jewel, right, Amy? I love Jewel, too, dude!" "Joan Osborne. But she's really anti-God, so I dunno. I kinda hate her, but if you like her, that's okay." "Why do you dress kinda like a boy?" "Dude, that was so rude!" "I didn't mean it in a bad way!" "I heard you're like a skater or something. Do you really skate? Do you know that guy Patrick? Is he like your boyfriend? My friend Kathleen, you probably don't know her, she has second lunch, she has him in her Algebra class and she's so in love with him. All she ever talks about is how she wants to rape him. Please don't get mad if he's your boyfriend. She thinks skater guys are?" "She doesn't wanna hear about your stupid friend! We're talking about music." I bit my lip and tried not to slip out of my chair as I looked from face to face, all of them happy and asking me questions I didn't know how to answer in any way that wouldn't just confuse them more. I mean, at least they didn't think I was a racist anymore, so at least that was progress. But I knew for a fact I was sitting at the wrong table. The next day, they taught me how quickly girls could turn on each other. When Ashleigh Bodine asked me to sit with them again and I declined, the entire group got extremely pissed and snotty, then started telling people how stuck up and full of myself I was, that I didn't like good music and that my haircut was weird. Especially Denise. Oh, and that I actually was the slut I was rumored to be. Supposedly, I had tried to impress them by bragging all about the amazing feeling of giving Patrick and the other skater punks handjobs behind the vert, which was apparently the place for those kinds of things. In fact, that was the real reason any of us hung around down there at the skate park, because I was the handjob queen of Delacroix Junior High. Preps, jocks, skaters, nerds, geeks, weirdos, comic book fans, band kids, music fans, video game players, losers, glamour girls, tomboys, rich kids, poor kids, proto-bohemians, future-hippies; it all seemed so confusing. Sometimes I'd get a surprise, like when some girl I'd pegged as a total bitch would show someone an act of kindness, like picking up a dropped book and handing it back. Or when some guy who seemed to do nothing but crack lame jokes would say something really insightful in my first period pre-AP English. And there was some flow between groups, because most of the kids had multiple interests. Like a guy who was always reading sci-fi books before the last late bell rang would also be really in tight with the Playstation kids, or one of the skater punks would be really good at art and sports. As for me, I kept my sharp tongue honed, but I was careful not to use it too much. After all, I had certain advantages over these kids, and it wasn't their fault they were dumb. I'd been just as dumb passing through here the first time; I was just as dumb in other ways now. That was just the social stuff. Classes bored me almost to tears. As we'd assumed at home, I already knew all of this stuff. I blew quizzes away, became the go-to girl for teachers desperate for someone who knew the answers to participate in class discussions. For me, the single most important event happened on the exact last day of the month. I spent that school day cramming my head with a second helping of knowledge and generally trying to hold things together and avoid Ashleigh Bodine and her clique and my long-rumored ass beating from Mike or Josh?who had picked up the nickname Little Josh, blamed me for it, and was seething with resentment at everyone-- with the help of my trusty power beads, and having more of those little aches and pains down in my belly. The night before I'd been very blah, and all through classes, I'd been feeling kind of dumpy, as if I'd eaten too much breakfast. I wondered if I'd actually pulled something getting out of bed. The minute Mrs. Komori got me home, I went to pee and found out why. I hadn't noticed on any of my many trips to the toilet that day?ever since my transformation, I'd proven to have the approximate bladder capacity of a baby sparrow-- but this time for no reason whatsoever, I just happened to look down... And there were a couple of dark, wet drops soaking into the toilet paper I'd used to blot. "Ohhhhh nooooooo," I moaned. I tossed the paper into the toilet, shuffled forward with my jeans falling down around my ankles. I nearly tripped, so I stepped out of them completely and kicked them against the wall. A little freer, I pulled out the waistband of my underwear, already pretty sure of what I'd find there. Sure enough, there were some dried spots of blood, almost rusty brown, right in the center of the thin cotton panel of my undies. Not a shadow, a sign. Yeah, now it hit home fully, the logical outcome of what had happened to me back in the spring?I was no different than millions upon millions of other women on this planet. Potentially fertile. Potentially someone's mom. An egg a month until I dried up and turned into one of the Golden Girls. You know, if I lived that long. I wondered idly if I'd had my first period during first period. Then I wondered how long a flow I was in for. What did I know about menstruation? I went to my room, changed undies, then put the bloody ones in the clothes hamper. I checked my jeans; they were unstained, so I put them back on. Very relieved. I imagined what Ashleigh Bodine might have said if she'd seen me walking around with a dark circle down there. Or Mike. Or Patrick. Then I went and told Mrs. Komori the news. "Today, I am a woman," I said as soberly as I could, like Connie Chung reporting on a flood. Mrs. Komori asked me what I was talking about, but I couldn't tell her at first because I got the giggles the same way someone might in a church or at a funeral and no matter how hard I tried to stop laughing so I could explain I'd achieved the magic of menarche, I couldn't get the words out. It was just too hilarious to think about my having to say this particular statement to an adult woman. The end result? Worst cramps of the day. Mrs. Komori made me write it down on a notepad: "I'm having my period!!!!" "Ohhhh," she said, rolling her eyes. "You seem pretty happy about it." "I'm not really," I said, gasping for breath, holding my side. "It's just been one of those days." "I can imagine. Well, we'd better go to Target." "What for?" "I'll explain on the way." But it came to me before we even got to the car.