Fiction
Late Bloomer
by Lucy Zhang
by Lucy Zhang
When you hit puberty, you’re supposed to turn into a human. Because I am the older sibling, I have to take care of Bao’s litter box and change out his feed of gochujang-glazed salmon. Mom gave birth to Bao six years after me, and Bao seems to be a late bloomer because even though I turned human at twelve, he’s still his tabby cat at fourteen. Mom worries Bao will never turn, but she always thinks the worst when things deviate from her expectations. It was because I ate too much crab guts, she despairs. She’s referring to the yellow creamy part of the crab, the hepatopancreas which supposedly contains mercury and PCBs and other cancerous toxins. And because I nearly drowned in the ocean after your dad brought us to the beach. He doesn’t understand that we don't like being submerged in water. But there’s not much we can do about Bao being a cat, and Bao is already ashamed and we don’t want to make him feel worse. We try to treat him the same as we treat each other so he isn’t left out, but it’s hard because we have to keep him indoors so he isn’t struck by the crazy Toyota Camry we see streaking down the road every few weeks. The neighbor’s ragdoll kitty was mowed over last year, and we avoided that road for two months until we were sure the body had been removed and fur washed away. But Bao can still eat most of what we eat, although mom worries he doesn’t get the right macronutrient ratios and prefers cat food that has been through feeding trials and stamped with the approval of some official-sounding pet feed association. Mom works at a pharmaceutical company and knows the whole process of getting a drug FDA approved. She’s a stickler for clinical testing, strict evaluation of protocols, and evidence-based assessments. Which is why every day that Bao remains a cat, mom panics a bit more.
I’m not too worried, though. Bao and I get along, and I figure if Bao never becomes human, I’ll just take care of him. House cats only live for twelve to fifteen years, so I’m more than capable of providing for him for the rest of his life. Bao mostly stays in my room and likes to rub his face against my feet while I’m running simulations for cars handling pedestrians who think it’s ok to cross when the light flashes red. I work on ensuring statistical realism by creating realistic conditions for the self-driving cars, which is to say, I recreate raindrops and solar glares and wind and missing cats, and even though it’s a simulation, I indulge in the power trip of building a world where cats never get run over. Most of the time, Bao lies under my desk near my feet and the heating vent. He’s not too active. Most of us weren’t when we were cats. I like to secretly feed him cold chunks of cantaloupe when I can sneak fruit to my room. Bao loves them, although mom freaks out when Bao has fructose or anything high carb.
Dad is in denial. I can’t blame him. I’m impressed he didn’t run away after I popped out of mom’s vagina as a slimy kitten. Fortunately, he likes animals and pinned his trust on mom’s reassurances that I’d become human eventually. He ended up switching to a job in Taiwan claiming the money was too good to resist. Mom can see his payroll deposits in their shared bank account, so she knows he isn’t funneling money away in plans to disappear, and he comes home twice a year, but he can’t bear to look at Bao. Dad never says it, but he always wanted a son to play badminton with, build AM FM radios, teach to mow the lawn and add tire pressure. I rarely had time growing up—mom had signed me up for dance and singing and Chinese knotting classes, and even after I graduated, she decided it was her duty to ensure I learn to cook and clean properly. Dad avoids Bao, which is easy enough during the two weeks he’s back home from Taiwan, and Bao avoids dad too. Bao can tell when someone doesn’t want him around. Their encounters make the whole atmosphere awkward. I remember dad opening the door to my room to ask for the bag of dried jujube which I had hoarded in my desk, and he discovered Bao at my feet and froze. I tried to diffuse the situation by handing dad the jujubes, but his hand wouldn’t tighten around the bag as I attempted to place it in his arms. He’d become a statue. Bao had stood watching us, not knowing whether he should hide under the bed or stay with me to confront the situation. I had to lightly push dad until he stumbled out of my room.
It’s on a Wednesday that Bao goes missing. I am distracted by coworkers who don’t know how to compute dot products, so I don’t notice immediately. Mom says I get myopic when I’m angry, although I never admit I’m angry. After I send a code snippet which is really the entire algorithm I’ve implemented for them, I realize there’s no heavy mass of fluff warming my feet. I look under the bed first, because sometimes Bao prefers the dark during the day. Then I search in my closet which he rarely frequents, although occasionally if my heavy wool coat falls off the coathanger, he’ll form a bed to snuggle in. I search through the whole house. Mom asks me what I’m doing and I say I can’t find my credit card. I am beginning to think Bao escaped outside.
The last time Bao went outside was when I was fifteen and forgot to close the back door. Bao snuck out and into the yard where mom’s precious garden grew. She was growing bamboo, tomatoes, silk squash and garlic chives, and would tend to them every evening after dinner until late. I was often asleep before she returned to the house, but she didn’t spend the entire time caring for the vegetables. My room overlooked the backyard, and once when I stayed up late finishing calculus homework, I saw her sitting on the steel swivel chair facing the plants, eyes closed and head tilted to the sky. When Bao escaped to the backyard, mom discovered his disappearance first. She yelled at me for not noticing and told me I’ll never be a good wife and mother if I behaved like this. She ordered me to search the entire neighborhood for Bao, clutching a chunk of smoked salmon to lure him out. It was eight at night when I went outside to go searching. I returned at eleven, empty-handed and lightly scratched by tree branches and brambles from hidden corners that made good hiding spots, discovering Bao in mom’s lap as she sat facing the squashes and soaked up the orange glow of the moon.
Our neighborhood is fairly safe because mom and dad care more about the school district than the size of the house. And the places with good school districts tend to attract the richer families who set strict curfews for their children and only allowed their children to eat apple slices for a snack. We live in the smallest house on the street and can’t afford most of the embellishments on the other houses—fancier door trimmings, paneled walls, new shiny vinyl windows, grand entryways with neat porches decorated with cacti and flowers, paved driveways that I have never once seen cracked. Mom is under the delusion that Bao and I will become Nobel Prize winners or national leaders or CEOs of mega-corporations, which is why she tried to put me in the best schools and counted Bao’s macronutrients by the microgram. She thinks that hanging out with powerful people (and their children) will rub off on us and make up for our late start at being human. We rarely see our neighbors: they have the most high-tech security systems installed and plant ginormous trees at the border between lots for privacy. I’ve never seen their kids play outside. I’m also certain Bao could not have snuck into their yards or porches without an alarm going off, which means he must be roaming the streets.
I reach the edge of the neighborhood before I spot Bao playing with two kids, a boy and girl. The kids don’t look like they’re from around here. One of them wears overalls and the other an oversized t-shirt that reaches her knees. The girl dangles a piece of lemongrass and Bao pounces. Normally, Bao doesn’t participate in stupid games. He’s a smart cat who refuses to waste energy on tasks with no self benefits. I watch for several minutes as Bao jumps and pounces as the children laugh and take turns holding the strand of lemongrass. Then I near the kids and as they pause, I pick Bao up. Sorry, I say. This cat is mine. He’s a house cat. He’s not supposed to be outdoors. Bao is motionless in my arms and I feel his heart beating from all the running around. We’re not normally so active before puberty.
On the way back to the house, I hug Bao and nestle my face into his fur. I tell him I’ll sneak him a few pieces of cantaloupe tonight. I whisper sorry.
I’m not too worried, though. Bao and I get along, and I figure if Bao never becomes human, I’ll just take care of him. House cats only live for twelve to fifteen years, so I’m more than capable of providing for him for the rest of his life. Bao mostly stays in my room and likes to rub his face against my feet while I’m running simulations for cars handling pedestrians who think it’s ok to cross when the light flashes red. I work on ensuring statistical realism by creating realistic conditions for the self-driving cars, which is to say, I recreate raindrops and solar glares and wind and missing cats, and even though it’s a simulation, I indulge in the power trip of building a world where cats never get run over. Most of the time, Bao lies under my desk near my feet and the heating vent. He’s not too active. Most of us weren’t when we were cats. I like to secretly feed him cold chunks of cantaloupe when I can sneak fruit to my room. Bao loves them, although mom freaks out when Bao has fructose or anything high carb.
Dad is in denial. I can’t blame him. I’m impressed he didn’t run away after I popped out of mom’s vagina as a slimy kitten. Fortunately, he likes animals and pinned his trust on mom’s reassurances that I’d become human eventually. He ended up switching to a job in Taiwan claiming the money was too good to resist. Mom can see his payroll deposits in their shared bank account, so she knows he isn’t funneling money away in plans to disappear, and he comes home twice a year, but he can’t bear to look at Bao. Dad never says it, but he always wanted a son to play badminton with, build AM FM radios, teach to mow the lawn and add tire pressure. I rarely had time growing up—mom had signed me up for dance and singing and Chinese knotting classes, and even after I graduated, she decided it was her duty to ensure I learn to cook and clean properly. Dad avoids Bao, which is easy enough during the two weeks he’s back home from Taiwan, and Bao avoids dad too. Bao can tell when someone doesn’t want him around. Their encounters make the whole atmosphere awkward. I remember dad opening the door to my room to ask for the bag of dried jujube which I had hoarded in my desk, and he discovered Bao at my feet and froze. I tried to diffuse the situation by handing dad the jujubes, but his hand wouldn’t tighten around the bag as I attempted to place it in his arms. He’d become a statue. Bao had stood watching us, not knowing whether he should hide under the bed or stay with me to confront the situation. I had to lightly push dad until he stumbled out of my room.
It’s on a Wednesday that Bao goes missing. I am distracted by coworkers who don’t know how to compute dot products, so I don’t notice immediately. Mom says I get myopic when I’m angry, although I never admit I’m angry. After I send a code snippet which is really the entire algorithm I’ve implemented for them, I realize there’s no heavy mass of fluff warming my feet. I look under the bed first, because sometimes Bao prefers the dark during the day. Then I search in my closet which he rarely frequents, although occasionally if my heavy wool coat falls off the coathanger, he’ll form a bed to snuggle in. I search through the whole house. Mom asks me what I’m doing and I say I can’t find my credit card. I am beginning to think Bao escaped outside.
The last time Bao went outside was when I was fifteen and forgot to close the back door. Bao snuck out and into the yard where mom’s precious garden grew. She was growing bamboo, tomatoes, silk squash and garlic chives, and would tend to them every evening after dinner until late. I was often asleep before she returned to the house, but she didn’t spend the entire time caring for the vegetables. My room overlooked the backyard, and once when I stayed up late finishing calculus homework, I saw her sitting on the steel swivel chair facing the plants, eyes closed and head tilted to the sky. When Bao escaped to the backyard, mom discovered his disappearance first. She yelled at me for not noticing and told me I’ll never be a good wife and mother if I behaved like this. She ordered me to search the entire neighborhood for Bao, clutching a chunk of smoked salmon to lure him out. It was eight at night when I went outside to go searching. I returned at eleven, empty-handed and lightly scratched by tree branches and brambles from hidden corners that made good hiding spots, discovering Bao in mom’s lap as she sat facing the squashes and soaked up the orange glow of the moon.
Our neighborhood is fairly safe because mom and dad care more about the school district than the size of the house. And the places with good school districts tend to attract the richer families who set strict curfews for their children and only allowed their children to eat apple slices for a snack. We live in the smallest house on the street and can’t afford most of the embellishments on the other houses—fancier door trimmings, paneled walls, new shiny vinyl windows, grand entryways with neat porches decorated with cacti and flowers, paved driveways that I have never once seen cracked. Mom is under the delusion that Bao and I will become Nobel Prize winners or national leaders or CEOs of mega-corporations, which is why she tried to put me in the best schools and counted Bao’s macronutrients by the microgram. She thinks that hanging out with powerful people (and their children) will rub off on us and make up for our late start at being human. We rarely see our neighbors: they have the most high-tech security systems installed and plant ginormous trees at the border between lots for privacy. I’ve never seen their kids play outside. I’m also certain Bao could not have snuck into their yards or porches without an alarm going off, which means he must be roaming the streets.
I reach the edge of the neighborhood before I spot Bao playing with two kids, a boy and girl. The kids don’t look like they’re from around here. One of them wears overalls and the other an oversized t-shirt that reaches her knees. The girl dangles a piece of lemongrass and Bao pounces. Normally, Bao doesn’t participate in stupid games. He’s a smart cat who refuses to waste energy on tasks with no self benefits. I watch for several minutes as Bao jumps and pounces as the children laugh and take turns holding the strand of lemongrass. Then I near the kids and as they pause, I pick Bao up. Sorry, I say. This cat is mine. He’s a house cat. He’s not supposed to be outdoors. Bao is motionless in my arms and I feel his heart beating from all the running around. We’re not normally so active before puberty.
On the way back to the house, I hug Bao and nestle my face into his fur. I tell him I’ll sneak him a few pieces of cantaloupe tonight. I whisper sorry.
