SR picked up the center-fold off the ground, neatly folding it again and replacing it in the magazine before jamming both deep into the pile of refuse. He wished he could do the same with the memory that that magazine had brought to the surface. Frowning, he replaced his paws in the pockets in his jacket before turning and walking to the end of the alley. He had only two more blocks to go before he would reach the walking section of the city. This consisted of a twelve-block area that was closed to all but pedestrian traffic. The streets there were lined with all kinds of shops. During festivals and holidays, most of this city's celebrating occurred within this district. SR was sure that on this Christmas Eve there would be plenty of action going on there. As he approached the corner that turned onto the first of the walking streets, he heard an a cappella group singing "Joy to the World." He smiled. Christmas-time was probably his favorite time of the year, and he loved the carols that accompanied the season. When he turned the corner, his smile only grew broader. The choir that was singing it was a hodge-podge collection of SCABS-- about fifteen altogether-- being led by a wildly flailing female red fox morph wearing a yellow dress. SR recognized the conductor. When he'd come to this city less than a year ago, searching for a place to live, he stumbled across a hand-painted street sign that proudly displayed "Gnade Street" to the passing traffic. Amused that he was able to find something so 'close to home,' he went down it to see what there was to offer. He was nearly floored when he saw the sign in front of the church around the corner: Gnade Street Christian Church -- 45 Gnade Street -- Visitors Welcome The coincidence was too uncanny for SR to pass up, and he knew he needed to find an apartment in the area. To his luck, there was an opening in the complex directly across the street. The vixen in her trade-mark garb, who was presently finishing the last notes of the carol, worked at the church across from SR's apartment. On Sunday mornings she could be seen heartily greeting parishioners as they came to worship. SR had had a few conversations with her, and knew that she not only worked there, but had an apartment in the third floor of the building. The pastor, a man who carried the very slight markings of a badger that his bout with the Martian Flu had given him, had been gracious enough to give her a place to stay in return for her services as choir director. She had always enthusiastically invited SR to attend the services-- well, as enthusiastically as one could, using the mechanical voice of a vodor-- but SR had always turned down her invitations. The choir paused now to enjoy the applause of the few people who were standing around, enjoying the show. Of all the clapping, SR's was the loudest. Turning back to her choir, the vixen raised her hands in preparation for the next carol. A calico housecat-morph stepped forward, signifying that she was to sing a solo part. The choir exploded into the resonant sound of "Kling, Gloeckchen, Kling," sung in the original German. As expected, the soloist's voice rang above the rest of her companions'. SR smiled, unconsciously showing his teeth. This wasn't the first time he'd heard a calico cat sing this particular carol.... "Yeeaaaaoooooww!" "Sssh! You kids be quiet!" Mrs. Frederickson literally growled at the two children at the front of the line. "But SR pulled my tail!" whined Tara Nedrow. "Sssh! If I hear anything else from either of you, I'll march both of you straight down to the principal's office this minute!" Tara growled, then turned to punch SR in the shoulder, hard, before crossing her fur-covered arms and pouting. For the next few moments, the only sound was Tara's annoyed rumble, and the Christmas carol being sung by the class of fifth-graders on stage. The line of sixth-graders, in the front of which Tara and SR impatiently stood, waited back stage for their turn to participate in Washington Elementary School's Christmas performance. SR watched, mesmerized, as the tip of Tara's tail involuntarily flicked back and forth. "Psst. Tara," SR leaned close to whisper in her ear, "What's it like to have a tail?" Tara's growling stopped, and she turned to face SR. She looked confused. "What?" came her quiet reply. SR shifted on his feet. "You know. What's it like to have a tail? And claws, and fur, and purring and stuff?" She wrinkled her brow a little bit, and stared with her slitted pupils directly into SR's brown eyes. The audience was clapping now as the fifth-graders filed off the stage. Suddenly Tara's lips turned upward into a smile and her whiskers twitched with excitement. "It's like I get to sing the solo now, and you don't!" Before SR could respond, however, their wolf-morph sixth-grade teacher was ushering them onto the stage. Tara sang beautifully, and, although SR couldn't have known it at the time, actually pronounced most of the words to the difficult German carol correctly. He wasn't annoyed that at the last minute, Mrs. Frederickson had chosen to let Tara sing the carol instead of himself. Even in his limited understanding of others' feelings, SR knew that Tara needed the emotional boost that such an honor would provide. Shortly after her eleventh birthday, Tara had contracted the Martian Flu, and was one of the unlucky one-out-of-twelve for which it developed into SCABS. Despite the SCABS-education classes that all the students were required to take in their fourth- and fifth-grade years-- despite the fact that all the students had been told that when their bodies were changing due to puberty, some of them would change even more because of the Martian Flu, no one, especially not Tara, was quite prepared when she padded into the classroom on December fourth, after a two-month hiatus. A lot of her friends immediately disowned her. She had been told by her parents that SR, because he was the son of that pastor, would do the same. As it was, however, SR had long had a crush on this young lady. (He had even once asked her to marry him during one afternoon's recess of their fifth-grade year!) Their schoolyard games of soccer four-square continued until the snows of the winter made the game impossible. After the sixth-graders had finished singing three more carols, the rest of the grades were filed onto or in front of the stage, and performers and audience joined in a chorus of "Silent Night." Principle Jackson thanked everyone cordially for coming the the show, then all were released to find their ways back to their respective homes. SR's parents had, months previously, made an unchangeable appointment with one of the higher ecclesiastical officers of the church, and therefore weren't there to watch their SR, nor take him home. SR skipped his bus, and ran down the street next to the school in an attempt to catch up with Tara. She heard his approach from a great distance, and upon seeing someone chasing her, took off in a dead run. SR yelled after her, "Wait! Tara! It's just me!" She stopped and turned, tail twitching nervously. SR finally caught up to her, out of breath and panting. Before he could say anything, Tara chided, "Dang it, SR! Don't ever chase me like that! If you'd been any closer, I might have lashed out at you with my claws!" SR smiled weakly, leaning over in an attempt to aid his burning lungs. "Oh... sorry... didn't... know..." Tara smiled. "That's OK. What do you want?" SR paused for a few moments. When he felt that he could talk normally again, he replied, "Oh, nothin'. I just figured I'd walk you home." Tara frowned, then smirked. "Ok. If you want." With that, the two set off for Tara's home, nearly three-fourths of a mile away. After a few minutes of walking to nothing but the sound of their boots crunching the crusted snow on the side of the road, Tara stopped and faced SR. "OK, SR, what is it? What do you want?" SR looked aghast. "What? Nothin'! Honest! I just wanted to walk you home!" Tara's eyes narrowed. "You're lyin'. I can smell it." SR's cheeks flushed. "You want to know what it's like to be a SCAB, don't you?" SR's cheeks turned even redder. "I... uh... well, shoot!" he stammered. Tara's expression lightened, and a smile touched her lips. "That's OK. My mom's a lizard-morph, and I always wondered what it might be like." SR lifted his eyes to meet hers, the flush leaving his face. "So what's it like to have a tail and claws and fur and stuff?" "Well, once you get used to it, it's not all that different than it was before. I mean, I smell a lot more things than I did before, and hear stuff better, and can see real good at night, now, but you get used to it after a while." SR looked somewhat disappointed. "Oh. I figured it would be... well, I guess I don't know what I figured it would be like. But not that." Tara frowned. "Oh-- there's certainly some things that are way different than before. Like last week I heard a mouse in the wall, and when it came out for one of the crackers in the mouse trap in the kitchen, I caught it and ate it!" SR made a face of disgust. "Ugh! Gross!" Tara smiled broadly, "Actually, it wasn't half bad. Come to think of it, I actually liked how it tasted. It was weird and all, with its bones crunching in my mouth and stuff, but it tasted good." SR shook his head, trying to imagine what Tara could have been feeling or thinking at the time. Slowly a smile stretched itself across his lips. Tara continued, "My mom told me that if I catch another one, I should save some of it for her!" Both of them starting laughing. Before he could react, Tara took SR's right hand in her left paw and continued walking down the street. SR had never held a girl's hand before, much less one who had SCABS. It was decidedly strange to feel the soft fur between her fingers offset by the cold hardness of the pads on her palm and fingertips. But it didn't take long for him to decide that he liked the sensation. Really liked it. They walked that way, Tara contemplating something completely outside their situation, and SR dazedly staggering with a googly smile plastered to his face, for several more minutes. At last, Tara stopped, drew in a hard, shaky breath, and spoke. "But what really sucks about being a SCAB is that most people don't like SCABS all that much." SR looked up toward her face, concerned. She didn't look at him. "Last summer, Mom and Dad had a security system put in at our house 'cause some jerk from 'Humans First' sent us a mean letter." She looked into SR's eyes. "And when I got back to class, my best friend Suzy Billows told me that I was gonna go to hell and that she wasn't my friend no more." SR broke eye contact, not wanting to tell her what his father would probably say about that last statement. They began walking again. SR was torn between worlds, and didn't know what he should do. He glanced up at Tara's face, seeing her facial hair wet with tears. In that moment, he made his decision. Stopping, he waited for Tara to look him in the eyes. "Tara," he said, "No matter what happens, I'll always be your friend." She smiled, and to SR's surprise, hugged him tightly, crying. "Thanks, SR." she managed to say after a minute. She wiped her face and grabbed SR's hand again as the two again made their way toward the Nedrow family's residence. Stopping on her porch, Tara gave SR another hug before saying good-bye and walking inside. SR stood there for a minute, then staggered home in emotional and hormonal overload. Inside the Nedrows' house, he could hear someone playing Alphaville's "Forever Young." SR clapped as loudly as he could when the beautiful calico finished her solo. It had been years since he had heard that song. She took a bow and returned to the choir to sing with the rest for their next carol. SR continued to watch her mouth open and close, her voice blending with the others as they sang, "O Little Town of Bethlehem." Of course, Tara was right-- After SR had contracted SCABS, the new sensations of having a tail, fur and claws, and the heightened sense of smell, sight, and hearing were strange for only about the first two weeks. Mostly, it was as routine now as completely human sensations had ever been. But some things still startled him: He had once been walking down a country road when a jack-rabbit jumped out of the bushes next to him. He didn't realize that he was chasing it until he had knocked it down and pinned it under his forepaws, ready to deliver the fatal bite. In that moment, he realized that he was a carnivore and predator-- and that he suddenly had a whole new set of instincts. He stopped growling and let the rabbit go, suppressing the urge to chase it again. Once he could no longer hear it running in the distance, he trotted back to the heap of clothes that lay where he'd been standing and set to work trying to figure out how to morph back into a more humanoid form. That was the same day that he decided he'd always try to wear something made out of wool-- to ease the stress on rodent and avian SCABS by masking part of his vulpine scent. SR didn't think he'd ever get used to the instincts that came with the body. When the choir's carol was over, SR applauded loudly, then continued his journey into the walking part of the city, contemplating the words he had just heard. "...So God imparts to human hearts the blessings of His heav'n..." He sighed. Things had not gone as hoped with Tara.... SR announced his arrival upon entering the front door of the Foxley residence. It had been the second-to-last day of school, and he was eager to start playing. He dropped his backpack behind the stained-glass window of the foyer and turned the corner toward the family room, intent on asking his mother whether he would be allowed to ride his bike to Chad's house before the threatening storm struck. His mother was there, along with his father. They turned to face SR, a look of solemn concern on their faces. "Hey Mom," asked SR, "can I go over to Chad's house today?" She didn't respond, but glanced quickly at SR's father. "SR," he began, "could I have a talk with you?" SR didn't like the sound of that. "Um... sure, Dad. What's up?" "In my office." Uh oh. SR was left wondering what he had done this time as he turned and walked to the warm velvet room. He sat nervously in one of the chairs as George Foxley quietly closed the door and took up his position behind the desk. George didn't wait long. "I drove by your school today. I think it was recess time. You were playing a game with a soccer ball on the pavement." SR nodded, trying to figure out where his dad was going with this. "... with a SCAB." Oh crap! So that was it. SR's mind raced, trying to come up with something to say. George waited patiently for SR's excuse. "Oh... yeah... Tara. She's... um... one of the kids in my class." George inhaled, then exhaled deeply. "I wondered about that, so I called your friend, Chad Beasly. Do you know what he told me?" SR cringed. Chad was a good friend, but was also the sort of person who couldn't keep a secret. And SR's father was just the sort of person who is good at finding out secrets. "Um... No..." Without a pause: "He said that you and Tara have been 'going out' for several months now. He said that she was your girlfriend." SR looked down at his feet, which were just long enough to reach the green carpeting. He didn't say anything, but he could feel the tears beginning to form. He couldn't see any way out of this one. George waited for a minute then asked, "Do you want to tell me about it?" SR spilled his guts. He told his father about everything-- from the glances and notes they'd exchange in class to the games of soccer four-square, to the hand-held walks home, to the one time Tara had kissed SR ("on the cheek-- and it was more like a lick than a kiss. And her tongue was scratchy"). It took about ten minutes for SR to get through it all, and at the end of it, he was crying pitifully, although he wasn't sure why. George took it all in solemnly, nodding his head to indicate comprehension whenever that was needed. When it was over, he waited for SR to get control of himself before responding. "Son," he began, "You know how your mother and I feel about you having SCAB friends." SR nodded. He knew all right: He was to have none. George shifted in his chair. "Well, in the next few years, some of the people you know are going to become SCABS." SR nodded: He knew that, too. George frowned as if contemplating something, then signed deeply. "SR, do you know why it is that your mother and I don't want you to have SCAB friends?" SR shook his head. George reached for the drawer in his desk and pulled out his Bible. He flipped to the middle and began reading: And if thy right eye offend thee, pluck it out, and cast it from thee: for it is profitable for thee that one of thy members should perish, and not that thy whole body should be cast into hell. And if thy right hand offend thee, cut it off, and cast it from thee: for it is profitable for thee that one of thy members should perish, and not that thy whole body should be cast into hell. To say the least, SR was confused by what his father had read. George paused for a moment then asked, "What do you think this scripture has to do with what we're talking about?" SR shook his head. "I don't know... that we should cut ourselves off from bad stuff?" George smiled, "Exactly. Now what does this have to do with those who get SCABS?" SR shook his head again, and emphasized by shrugging his shoulders. George took another deep breath before continuing, "SR, SCABS are like the offending eye or hand in this scripture. They are bad. Now, why do you suppose they're bad?" SR was shocked. "I... I don't know!" "SR," began his father, "SCABS is a disease that God uses to punish wicked people. God makes SCABS out of people who are unhappy with what He has given them-- whether that be their bodies, or their gender, or anything else in their lives that they can't change, or that He didn't want them to try to change. He uses it to show them that they should have been happy with what they had." SR raised his voice in protest, "But Mrs. Frederickson says that SCABS can't do nothin' about gettin'..." George cut off his son in a voice devoid of emotion. "Mrs. Frederickson is a SCAB." SR opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again as the implications of his father's last statement hit home. He looked down at the carpet, blinking his eyes. "You mean, everyone who gets SCABS gets it because they didn't want what God gave 'em?" George nodded solemnly. "They actually want to be SCABS." To say that SR was dumbfounded would have been a gross understatement. He looked up at his father. "Gee... Tara sure doesn't act like it." George nodded again, then said, "I know, it's really surprising, isn't it? With some of them, you'd never suspect it." SR shook his head, trying to contemplate how Tara could want to have her friends leave her, to have mean boys pull her tail and put signs that said, "Scratch me, I'm in heat" on her back, to have them make jokes about whether she'd land on her feet if she fell out of a thirty-story building. Was having fur and claws really worth that much? George interrupted his thoughts, "Now, why is it wrong to associate with SCABS?" SR wrinkled his brow. "I guess it's because if you hang around with them, then they might convince you to want to be a SCAB, too." George smiled. "That's right. So what should you do about Tara and any other SCABS you might meet?" SR felt deflated. Ever since he became known as the one who hung around with 'the Housecat,' some of her curse had rubbed off on him, and a few of his own friends had ungraciously become enemies. But it was perfectly clear what his father was driving at. He began to cry. "I should tell them that I don't want to be their friend." George came around his desk and hugged his son. "Sssh... I know how much you like her. I'm sorry it has to hurt so much." They stood that way for several minutes, rocking slowly back and forth, as SR's tears wetted the front of his father's suit. Still embraced, George asked his son, "Are you going to tell her that?" "Yeah. I'll do it tomorrow," SR croaked. George smiled. "I'm proud of you, son. You're really beginning to become a young man." But SR didn't hear-- he was too busy watching the rain streak down the windows. To him, it was as red as his tears. The next day in school, SR tried his best not to look at or talk with Tara. But a few days previously, he had promised to walk her home that afternoon. He decided that this was when he'd break the news to her. They had made it nearly half way home, in silence, SR's hands conspicuously in his pockets, before Tara finally said something. "SR, you've been acting and smelling weird all day. What's wrong?" SR frowned. He had learned that it was useless to try to conceal anything from her. Yet he really didn't want to do what he needed to do, and therefore tried to delay it as long as possible. "Um... I'll tell you when we get to your house." Tara frowned, then began walking again. When they got there, Tara stopped on the porch, and put her paws on her hips. "Well, are you gonna tell me what's up, or what?" SR stared down at his feet and kicked his shoe. It was D-day: There was no way around this one anymore. "Um... I was talkin' to my dad yesterday, and um... well... we can't be friends no more." Tara looked like she'd just seen both of her parents shot. She let out a small, suppressed squeak, then put her paw on SR's shoulder-- her indication that she wanted a hug. He shrugged it off. And that was it. Since he didn't have anything else to say, he simply turned and sullenly dragged his feet off the porch and down the road towards home. Tara remained sobbing pitifully in front of the house. From the time they'd left the school, SR had never looked at her. When the sound of her crying faded into the distance behind him, SR still hadn't lifted his eyes from the ground. When he arrived home, he went straight to his room and cried himself bitterly to sleep. Downstairs, his mother was playing hymns again. The last one he heard before his eyes closed out of exhaustion was, "Nearer, My God, to Thee." Copyright © 1998 by SR Foxley. All rights reserved. Please contact the author if you have questions regarding the publication of this document.
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