Born That Way Read Free Page A

it’s a big thing, and I think about it every single day.
    It happened when I was five. I can still remember it crystal clear even though I’m now fourteen. I was in the kitchen at Auntie Sally’s house, the one she rented before the one that she’s in now. I was so short, the countertops were level with my eyeballs. Grandpa was with me, he was visiting from Saskatchewan and I was talking to him about getting a horse because Auntie Sally had acreage.
    â€œHalf an acre isn’t really acreage, Pipsqueak,” he told me.
    â€œThey’ve already got it mostly fenced, we could close in that one bit below the compost pile and there’d be a paddock.”
    â€œWell you’ve got a good point there. Too bad the city bylaws won’t allow livestock in this neighborhood.”
    â€œWe’d have to tell them?”
    â€œHow long do you think you could hide a horse?”
    The countertop was a sunny yellow colour with pale flecks and black seams at the edges. When I leaned against the lower cupboards the door handles dug into my back. I remember thinking that maybe I’d never have a pony. It was all I wanted, even then.
    â€œI’ll make you a deal,” said Grandpa. “When you grow up to be as tall as my shoulder, if you’re still interested in horses, I’ll buy you one.”
    I checked his face and he was serious, he wasn’t kidding around. Then I looked at his shoulder. It was a long way up there. A really, really long way. But still.
    â€œOkay,” I said.
    I didn’t tell Mom or Dad. Any time I hint around about having a horse one day, Dad says where would you keep it, then talks about how expensive horses are and how equestrian sports are elitist, which I thought sounded pretty good until I looked up elitist in the dictionary and saw it meant a “socially superior group” which reminded me of Amber and Topaz. And Mom always makes the same comment about me being in a “horse-crazy stage”, as though it’s another developmental stage and I’ll grow out of it. But I know I won’t. Not in a million years.
    *
    After dinner I try a couple of math problems then work on my pulley diagram for science class, which gives me an idea. I figure I probably won’t be going back to gymnastics, but it has inspired me to investigate new stretching techniques. So I tie my two skipping ropes together, put a loop around my ankles, feed the line around the base of my bureau, across the room and around one of the feet of my bed. Then I lie in the middle of the floor, stretch my hands over my head, grab the loose end of the rope and pull. At first I’m afraid the bureau might topple over and crush me, which would be devastating for my parents, but it moves half an inch, then sticks. I feel the pull on my ankles at one end and a pull on my shoulders at the other and I am trying to figure out how to get the stretch down my back when Mom knocks and immediately pops her head into the room.
    â€œOh, hi, Mom,” I say, trying to sound natural.
    For once Mom is stuck for words.
    â€œI’m doing a science project,” I say. “About pulleys.”
    â€œOkay,” says Mom. She doesn’t look convinced. “But don’t wrap anything around your neck.”
    My neck! Of course, I should have thought of that, it would be a much better way of stretching my spine without dislocating my shoulders. My neck is pretty short to begin with. Maybe if I put a scarf around it for protection and then the skipping rope on top . . .
    â€œSylvia.” She uses her special tone. “Nothing around your neck.”
    â€œSure, Mom.”
    Later that night, after I’ve gone to bed, I have to get up to use the bathroom and I see that lights are still on in the kitchen. I figure I might as well get a glass of water while I’m up but then I stop in the hallway when I hear Mom’s and Dad’s voices. They are talking very quietly so