Becoming the Story Read Free Page A

and swung it as hard as he could at the stage hand,
knocking him backward and into the gasping nurse. The stage hand
did not cry out but, struggling to regain balance, he stared at Max
in amazement.
    Before the stage hand could fully recover
his senses, Max gathered the bundle of baby from the bassinet, her
weight warm and soft. He pulled her close against his chest as her
fists latched onto his shirt.
    “Come on,” he whispered as he headed toward
the door. “No more needles.” The down of her hair felt soft against
his chin.
    The baby babbled as he moved behind the
curtain toward the doors in the dressing room that led outside. As
he made his way into the alien streets he could hear, behind him, a
terrified cry, “The atavist is gone!”
    In the darkness Max hurried as fast as he
could without dropping Josie. There were no streetlights to guide
him, but the full moon cast a silvery haze into the mist. The
white, luminous particles reminded him of falling snow.
    As he ran, he remembered the day he lost his
trail and could imagine that his new life had picked up where his
old one left off. Once more, he had to find a way to safety. But
this time he would not fail. Before, he had no purpose. Before, he
had no path.
    But he was on a road this time, and roads
led places, even dark ones.
    He knew there would be many more to cross.
But he would cross them, all of them, no matter how dark or
treacherous, to keep Josie safe, the hopeful, squirming weight of
her, the whole of humanity vibrant, warm inside his arms.

    Be
Human
They called him “Alf the Calf.” 
    But not for long, he hoped. Alf set his
palms flat on his desk, careful not to touch the test until ordered
to begin. The guidance counselor, standing in a cloud of perfume
near the whiteboard, gave him a tight smile.
    He tried to smile
back, but smiling was hard for Alf. He always
worried that his mouth would make the wrong expression. But he had
always wanted this, to be  someone . It was about time,
too. He was eight, and so far his life had been unpromising. There
was the matter of his sunken nose, a hollow, a dip, where the
defining line of bone should be.
    He was bow-legged, too, and his jeans never
fit quite right, always baggy in places, and too tight in others.
Hence, the nickname.
    When he was around, frowns appeared, the
kinds of scowls you would expect of someone who has just eaten a
whole lemon in one bite.
    But he was unable to tell himself that
the rejections were due only to his looks. A boy in his class named
Mack must have weighed 200 pounds, but he was always joking and
everyone loved him.
    But Alf was afraid to tell jokes. Afraid he
would shut down, lose his train of thought mid-way. He was too
conscious of his flaws, and always confused, especially by the
doe-eyed girls with silken hair who seemed too pretty not to be
nice, unless they had a good reason.
    But now he had hope that he was not just a
lemon. He had written a story that was, the teacher said, beyond
his years.
    He read a lot, books that were beyond the
grasp of most kids his age. He lived in the library, seeking to
escape into other worlds. Alf thought of books that way: like
planets, each inhabited by a separate mind. The teachers said his
use of metaphors indicated a talent for abstract thinking that
eluded many seventh graders; and that his depth of emotional
maturity was highly unusual for an eight-year-old.
    There was talk of promoting him two grades
ahead, where maybe his nose and legs would not matter anymore. The
other kids would know he was smart and would like him. Best of all,
he would have a reason now to snub those who had snubbed him.
    But the rule was that, for him to be moved
ahead, he had to score exceptionally high on the test. No one
said the word “genius,” but Alf knew. Knew that
everything pivoted on the number that went with that word.
    He sat at the round table in the office of
the guidance counselor, just her, him, and his dad. The best thing
about his