Cycler

"I am all girl." It's my own voice I hear as I lie in bed half-awake, half asleep. In my dream, I'm walking barefoot through the woods behind my house. It's fall, and the flame-colored leaves float softly downward. Out of nowhere, a Ferris wheel appears and I get on without a ticket. "I am all girl." I say it because my body is betraying me. In my dream, the colorful autumn day becomes night. The Ferris wheel speeds up, breaks free of its foundation and rolls through the darkened woods. Shearing tree branches with loud splintery crunches, it rolls toward the black lake at the edge of the tree line. From deep within me, behind organs, beneath muscles, a jagged pain is born. "I am all girl!" I open my eyes to the real night, the thick molasses darkness of it. But it's only when I spot the red numbers of my clock that I'm sure I'm awake: 4:27 a.m. The pain is building to a sure and steady climax and I don't know who I am. Jack or Jill. "I am all girl!" I squeeze through clenched teeth. There's a land mine exploding outward from my stomach and lower spine. I'm not supposed to wake up in the middle of things. All of this is supposed to happen while I sleep. I shove my hand beneath the sheets, praying, hoping the transformation is nearly complete, but when I reach lower, there it islimp, smooth and insistent. Jack. He's supposed to fade in the night and I'm supposed to wake up fully constructed. Instead, I have histhingto contend with and a deep ache that, now that I think of it, is not exploding outward but sucking inward like a vortex. "I am all girl." That's my mantra. I use it to forget. But it does nothing to ease the pain. The muscles of my abdomen spasm and I squeeze Jack's thing in response, as if he were doing this to methe sadistic jerk. I know that's not true. Grabbing the pillow with my other hand, I press it to my face. "I am all girl," I growl. I don't want to scream, but I can't stop myself. "I . . . !" I'm lost now, a rudderless ship on a wild and cruel ocean. "Mom!" I know she can't help. No one can. "Mom!" The bedroom door opens; then the bed sags with Mom's weight. Her perfect brown bob is sleep-mussed and her pale face bears deep pillow wrinkles. "Shhh," she says. "It's okay, honey. 'I am all girl.' Say it." "I am all girl." I want to absorb relief from these words or from the forced calm of my mother's face, but relief never comes. Looking past her, I spot Dad hovering in the doorway, disheveled as always and chewing on his thumbnail. No relief there either. Then the split begins. At the base of Jack's thing, the pain gathers to a diamond point. I grab Mom's cool hand and squeeze. My flesh punctures from within. Then, zipperlike, it tears itself open. I throw my head from side to side. "I." Gasp. "Am." Gasp. "All." Gasp. "Girl!" "It's okay," Mom says. But I hear the strain in her voice. She's starting to panic too. The split now complete beneath Jack's quivering thing, I try to pull my legs together. I don't know why. Protective instinct, I guess. But I can't control my legs or anything else. My body is in control, orchestrating its mal proceedings from the angry vortex aMcLaughlin, Lauren is the author of 'Cycler' with ISBN 9780375851919 and ISBN 0375851917.