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"Written up in marker on a factory sign: 'I struggle with the feeling that my life isn't mine...'"

~Coldplay, "Hurts Like Heaven"

My human skin has never stayed on very well. The patches of fur around my wrist, ankles, lips, and eyelids have snuck out from time to time. On the other hand, until I was seventeen, I didn't even know I was wearing one, and even after that I went through lengthy periods of denial. I don't know, at this point in my life, whether I was born wearing it or if my parents stuck it on me for every picture, video, and family visit until it was a semi-permanent fixture on my body. All I know is that underneath my face, the only face everyone has ever seen, there's a leaf-nosed bat, and he's starting to suffocate.

I'm sure this sounds far-fetched. You see, persuasive speech was never my gold medal (I typically argue using rebellion and secrecy), so there's no way I'm convincing anyone literalminded against basic biological facts. This is my story the way I understand it. If it bothers you, then simply don't read it.

Accept my apologies for the unfocused time references, but my fifteenth year seems like the best place to start. Until then, I'd lived my entire life in a small campus town in northern Louisiana. I don't know now whether I was attached to my home of fifteen years or I was just angry that Dad's decision to move had been a solo decision, but I was far from excited, and Mom noticed.

We had to pack, Auria, me, and Dez. School transference wasn't a problem, since we'd been homeschooled our entire lives. Even though she's two years older than me, Auria didn't mind moving so much. She hated her Louisiana and everyone who lived there. For all I know, Dez was too young to care. She's the youngest by ten years. Thomas (or "T-Rump," as I've recently dubbed him) didn't have to move by virtue of being a legal adult. Oh, and a supergenius.

I pouted all the way through that ordeal. I pouted at our unofficial "goodbye party" at church, I pouted while spending a "therepuetic" weekend at Grandma's, and I pouted while packing away my clothes. My mom had been watching me drag my feet around and snub people, and she came down the hall in a bit of a tizzy.

"Can't you see you're infuriating Dad?"

"I know, I know. I've seen steam pouring from his ears." I dropped some underpants into a box and sighed. "You sure those aren't excitement fumes?"

"Watch your tone." She wagged her finger. "If you cause either of us any more heartache..."

I'm sure she finished the sentence, but my parents were the kind whose disciplinary threats amounted to nagging on top of nagging once we outgrew corporal punishment. "This'll benefit you in the long run, so long as you show the world the face we've worked so hard for."

This could have meant anything from our dental bills to Dad's reprimands on our facial expressions when we didn't smile for the camera. I just assumed she meant the usual "suck up and survive" sentiment she'd lay on us when we were poor listeners.

Do I seem unkind? I have no intention of defending my attitude. There was a lot I wanted to express, and I couldn't figure out exactly what or to whom. I guess by my remark I meant to say something like, "Look, Mom, Dad's excited, and I'm not. I need you two to give me room to be sad." Instead, I took room to be sarcastic. I masked my feelings. Take a good look at the face you worked so hard for, Mom.

*

Cut to half a year later, and I'd collected about ten minutes worth of cartoon clips. I line them up in some video editing software, and watch them during school breaks. Charlotte's Web: Templeton pigs out on leftover garbage from the fair; "The Big Wash": A rebel elephant waterlogs Goofy's pants; "Sleepy Time Squirrel": a mountain lion sneaks in and launches his vengeful breath into Barney Bear's belly during hibernation season; I think you get the picture.

During these moments, during the sight of some growing, roundening body, I became aware that there was something underneath my skin. I could feel my hidden fur bristling with secret excitement, excitement I would never have to share. What must it be like to grow so round and so vast so quickly? What must it be like at the hands of food? Certainly, no one could reach your heart with so much stomach in the way. What about water? They'd have to sail the Earth to find you, and not even realize that the Earth was you. And air? Well... with your flight and their groundedness, you'd escape their reach. And yet, you'd be so helpless. You couldn't grab a tree branch, your grip would be laughable; the air would have invaded your fingers and made them like wedding cakes.

Just recounting it bristles my fur. But there was something carnal about it, wasn't there? With the lack of social facets I had, it could easily have been my way of avoiding human interaction in this new, strange, Mississippian town. I mean, the fact that I wouldn't readily share this feeling with my parents was a flaming red flag. Dad had already scolded me twice for minimizing the window when he walked in, and he did so now.

"I didn't buy you a hiding place. I bought you a tool for bettering yourself. Remember that."

"I'm just watching cartoons," I explained. "Can't I have a little privacy?"

He took a seat on the bed. "That's not what I came to talk to you about. I want to talk to you about your friends."

"I'm listening (unfortunately)."

"You don't seem to have made any." As he spoke, he rocked back and forth with his hands held together as though he were ready to pray. Maybe he was praying silently. Praying for persuasion, I assume. "I hope you don't expect the same kind of friendships here as we had in Louisiana."

"I don't expect that. What do you mean, 'we'?"

He leaned in and gave me a forlorn smile. "Yeah, your friends were my friends, too." He had the kind of smile that said, "I'm lecturing you, but I think pretending to understand you will make it more effective." He continued, "If you'll just recall, there wasn't a lot of depth to your friendships back home. What were some of the things you talked about? Computer? Gaming? Did you ever talk about your future? Did you ever talk about school?"

Unlike me, he'd had plenty of practice using the persuasive power of words. They made sense to my teenage mind. I genuinely never had any serious conversations with my friends, and that's something I should be ashamed of. Quincy introduced me to insult comedy through Weird Al Yankovic and Dr. Dimento. Jonah and I bonded over our love for Star Wars and Super Mario RPG. Cliff and I had shallow conversations about pop culture at one anothers' houses. If there was anything intellectual about any of those topics, we sure didn't find it.

"Well... did we have to talk about school? We just weren't interested."

"Hey!" Farewell, fake smile. Hello, honest snarl. "Don't you dare say..." But he couldn't come up with a threat. Or he realized something in my unspoken complaint that he could agree with. That didn't stop him from being his wife's spokesperson. "Mom works too hard for you to be bored with school, but that's beside the point. I'd like you to make a little effort in group participation."

"You already won't let me stay home by myself. I don't see what choice I have."

He was referring to our latest church venture. We'd been hopping from church to church looking for God knows what in the congregation. We'd rejected one church because nobody there came up to us and noticed we were newcomers. That's a really big deal to Dad. One church was disqualified because some "very social" woman decided then and there that we were members. My mom befriended her later, though I can only assume out of social obligation. And one intergalactically right-wing church--a description that would normally magnetize my parents--we'd fled because of interactions like this:

"You recognize that tune? It's from the Legend of Zelda." I'd just finished playing the sanctuary piano.

My new friend shrugged. "I've never seen that movie."

Around November, we'd settled on a church with a youth group named "Barf." It looked balanced; half were public schoolers, half were homeschoolers, the sexes were divided evenly. Most of them rode horses, and I guess that made it a sort of rancher/jock community. They did welcome us, the first dinner invitation didn't seem like an obligatory one, and while I can't say our natural interests were well-matched, at least they knew what "The Legend of Zelda" was.

"You'll just have to broaden your interests a little. I don't think that's asking a lot, and not everyone down here is interested in the gaming and computers and the drawings..."

I knew what he meant. Don't sit around and sulk because that makes me look like a bad parent. I didn't agree, but I let him leave with the last word. I was sick of arguing. I just wanted to go back to my private, personal space, read my e-mail and forget we ever moved. Quincy owed me a reply. He owed me almost 10 of them over the past few months. I was awaiting a reply from Kenneth, too, but at least he responded more than once a year. Then there was Simon Hathiscan, a missionary preacher who'd counseled my brother, and who'd been an officianado of anime and video games despite being in his thirties and married.

He was online. I sent him an instant message:

jechoes90: Shouldn't you be in church or something?

shathiscan76: I am in church. I'm in the soundbooth. Why aren't you?

It was a Wednesday night. We weren't going to any youth group because Auria had a fever. Mom insisted on staying home to take care of her, and I think my decision to stay home too might have been what brought Dad into my room.

jechoes90: I also happen to be in church, I've figured out how to access MSN instant messenger with my mind.

shathiscan76: Lol listen to the sermon you heathen.

jechoes90: It's very boring. I just have to make sure none of my brain waves brush by him and make him come over and exorcise me.

And now we've gone past the joke. We're southerners, what do you expect?

jechoes90: Seriously, though. Dad just left the room and he thinks I don't participate in youth group enough.

shathiscan76: Not the coolest kids, huh?

jechoes90: The lack of 'cool kids' isn't the problem. It's the name of the group that bothers me. 'Barf.' Auria and I drew satirical comics about it.

shathiscan76: Oh man, I had to read that a couple of times to see if I got it right.

jechoes90: Yeah, it's an acronym. "Be a real friend" or something. They never explained it.

shathiscan76: You know, comics are a good way of coping with a difficult situation.

jechoes90: It was a comic of the entire congregation barfing. They wanted to obey the examples set by the Christian youth culture.

shathiscan76: Oh. Well, I wouldn't show it to the church though ;-)

jechoes90: Then we drew a bunch of drunk poker-playing smokers with the caption, "what happens when the preacher's not looking."

shathiscan76: Haha! That's funny so long as it's in private. I wouldn't show it to anybody else, though. That could get you in trouble ;-)

I didn't know how to express it at the time, but this conversation began to annoy me. First of all, this guy must have had very little respect for teenagers' intellect. Of course I wasn't going to show the barf comic to the church. Showing it to dad got the both of us a lecture (Auria then blamed me), I shud--strike that. I barf to think of the unholy reaction from Brother Jimmy Sanders, or whatever the Deacon's name was. Second, what was with the typeface wink? Was he trying soften his disapproval? Was he encouraging me ironically? Was he trying to disguise the fact that he was subtly lecturing me?

Speaking of disguises, my own slipped a little as I typed an honest response without sending it. I know this because Auria came in and looked over my shoulder.

"'That's not at all encouraging.' Who's not encouraging you?"

I minimized the window. "You sure aren't." I pointed out my door. "Go stick your beak in Dez's business. I'm already corrupt, but it's not too late to save her."

Auria stared at my hand for a moment. "Is something wrong... does your wrist hurt?"

"What? No, why would it hurt?"

She blinked, tried to refocus, then shook her head. "Carpal tunnel, I guess. You ought to take a break once in a while." Then she left.

I hated following her advice. Being the third youngest child was like having an extra set of parents. Still, I had spent three hours looking for inflation cartoons before Dad came in. I think it was time I called it a night. I told Simon I was hitting the sack, then went to brush my teeth. But when I flicked on the light and rolled up my sleaves, I noticed a faint rim of grey around my wrist. I thought it might be a bruise from... who knows what, but after taking a closer look I saw that it was fur.

My heart sank a little. If I showed it to mom, she'd definitely share it with dad, who might turn it into an excuse to make me eat healthier or exercise more. I know, neither of those things seem directly related to overgrown skin hair. And sharing my then-fear of healthy eating and exercise makes me sound like a slob. For brevity's sake, I was afraid of anything that my dad could use as a reason to tighten his grip on me.

I decided to ignore it unless it got worse. Now, back then, I had a bad case of acne. My mom made me wipe my face with these benzyl peroxide pads that stung like crazy. I went along with it not because I wanted my face to look less like a horror-themed connect-the-dots puzzle, but because she'd throw a pissy fit if I objected. I rubbed my face, feeling as though those whisky pads were burning a thousand tiny holes. Once I was done, I took another look at my wrists, and the fur was gone.

*

With regards to the name "Barf," I'm sure that, like a lot of things that try to be edgy, they came up with the word first and shoehorned a righteous-sounding sentence into it. Their formula was this: something that might disgust your parents but make you laugh + something that sounds wholesome to your parents X a leader who's in his mid- to late- twenties = Cool and Spiritual. And by "spiritual," I mean, "likely to stop you from watching porn."

I hated this edgy youth schtick. I didn't mind the other kids so much, or even the leaders. But the lessons were bland and pathetic. Every night, we'd have a "youth sermon" and a testimony. The sermon amounted to some college guy who lectured us like preschoolers on the importance of sharing, friendship, kindness and other things that could get you killed if you ever stepped outside the Christian bubble of safety. The "testimony" was given by a rotating circus of cranky old geysers criticizing us for how we treat our parents and how in his generation, he'd had it much harder, so we'd better follow his example even though he lived in entirely different circumstances. Blowhard.

I know it sounds like I resent Christianity and its adherents, but let me be clear: I still belong to this group. I've changed denominations a few times, but I haven't rejected every principle, belief, and sentiment I grew up with. What bothers me is this perpetual egocentric attitude that because we belong to the "correct" religion, we are justified in every action we take, every word we say. I know not all churches are like that, and certainly not all Christians are like that. But when I was a teenager, that was all I saw. That's all I remember, anyway.

At least I had Simon to help me through it, I mean, as much as someone can over instant messaging.

shathiscan76: Why don't you just give it a try? You might just find out you liked it more than you thought.

He was trying to talk me into joining the cowboy community. I'd been suffering through our church for about six months now, honing in on conversations concerning somewhat familiar things--like the unpublished drafts of Roald Dahl books, or the anatomy of jellyfish stingers--only to slink away when I realized that nobody had anything meaningful to say.

On the one hand, not even Simon had any right to tell me what I should be doing. On the other, it would be nice to get away from my family. Auria had snuck into my room one day and, with the help of Dez, censored any of my sketchwork she'd considered "unclean." T-Rump was over for a visit, so he could have been in on it, too.

In the end, I gave in. I would be alternating between three different ranchers: Vernon Hogan, Gail Woods, and Paige Canondrew. All three had children or grandchildren in "Barf" youth, whose title and leadership had changed since then. Now we were just a plain, ordinary youth group with no name. The ranching opportunity, on the other hand, had a name. Its name was "escape." For once, I put aside the need to prove my autonomy and took everyone's suggestion. And it paid off.

For a while, anyways.

My training included cattle herding, farming, cultivating, horse driving and dog training. While my performance was mediocre, my horizons were broadened like an inhaling wolf. I'd call over about three times a week asking whether or not they'd need my help, and about nine times out of ten, they would. It certainly got me out of the social muck my family was stuck in. All they'd do was go out to eat or watch TV. I said as much to Simon.

jechoes90: Fast food is slimey and greasy, and walking into a room where the TV is always on irritates me.

shathiscan76: Well, I'm sure it gives your family comfort, and that's the important thing ;-)

The important thing was that my shipwreckedness at home was more illusion than it seemed, and I exploited that fact. I exploited it to the point where I learned that Mr. Hogan, Dr. Woods, and Mrs. Canondrew were all getting sick of my assistance, but they were too polite to say so. Once I was done with my chat with Simon (and I was done very quickly after the condescending wink), I called up Dr. Woods to see if he could use me. "Ah, sure," he said. "I'll pick you up after lunch. I've got an intern I'm training, so I might be a little late."

Try three hours late.

My mom knew that my time at the cattle herd was a daily commitment, and I'd told her that Dr. Woods was supposed to pick me up. After the hours had eroded my hope, I retreated to my private tavern: YouTube. This time, though, I'd had an extra tab open to my e-mail account. I would not be caught with the fact that I had a secret. It wasn't long before Auria came in to borrow a book.

"You wouldn't have 'Men of Science, Men of Faith,' would you?"

"I've never even heard of it."

That didn't stop her from browsing my shelves, which were mostly Lemony Snicket books and logic puzzles. When she found out I wasn't lazy or a liar, she picked out something else that would tickle her hypercritical fancy: An instructional book on drawing Manga characters. Then she sat on my bed.

"Ick. You ought to censor this." She pointed to a naked ass. Actually, it was a rear-view muscle chart. I'll bet she completely made up that "Men of Faith" crap just so she could come in and gripe.

"Auria, don't you have somewhere else you need to be? Or have your austronaut dreams just been crushed?"

"Hey, I take my work very seriously," she snapped. "If I find evidence of real, literal angels in space, then this could lead to more people's salvation. Besides, don't you have somewhere you need to be?"

She mentioned her evangelical intentions. She wanted to save people's faith. I never had any such intentions. I had nowhere to go, nowhere to be. "Not anymore I don't." I couldn't make eye contact for a minute. I faced my computer and let my chin rest on my palms. When I felt my face, I realized I needed to shave.

"Oh," said Auria, in less of a lecturing tone than before. She left, which was a little unexpected considering her character. When she walked out the door, I could have sworn her hair had changed texture. I glimpsed a bit of ruffle in it, as though it had transformed into feathers.

And then Dez ran in spraying fabreeze all over the damn place. "Take that out of my room!" I collared her and dragged her into the hallway, where I ran into Mom. The brat ran crying to her own bedroom, leaving me to take the full brunt of Mom's ire.

"Hey, be nice to your sister, she's only little."

"Only little? That's not what you said when I was seven."

Mom scowled. "You need to set a better example in the way you speak to me. Now, I just got off the phone with Mrs. Canondrew, and she's very sorry she couldn't come and take you to the ranch."

"Wait... Dr. Woods was supposed to pick me up."

Auria opened her own door. "Could you take that somewhere else? I'm trying to study."

Yeah, study how to weasel your way into parenting your own peers. But I'd rather have only one female nagging me at once. We moved into my room, where Mom tried to sweet-talk me into rejoining the family "festivities."

"I'm very sorry Mrs. Canondrew couldn't come and get you. She and Dr. Woods had a little talk, and neither one of them could tear away from work."

I know the argument. Rich renown father gets enslaved by the importance of his work, leaving his wife half-single and his kids half-orphaned. Or... quarter-orphaned, I guess. My Dad's a manager at a recycling plant, and in his quest to save the planet, he has to keep his family time at a minamum. Yay rich families. Yay rich mentors.

"I suppose Mr. Hogan was in on this tied-up-at-work gig?"

"I want you to be patient with them."

Patient? Was three hours just not enough time? Should I be "mature" and wait three years instead?

"Now, I myself have quite a bit of gardening I need to do." She put on this big fake grin. "I could use an extra pair of hands--"

"Get Dez to do it. It'll be a great learning experience for her. Besides, all that patience took a lot out of me. I'm staying indoors."

Take that, fake grin. She didn't shout or throw a fit or have a seizure. She just looked up at me for a moment, turned around and left. She didn't need an extra pair of hands, she just wanted something else to fill my mind in lieu of the crushed commitment conspiracy. I mean, I felt awful, but I sure wasn't going to spend the next few hours digging around some boring-ass plants. Of course, Dad hadn't had his almighty say yet.

*

It was an oddly labeled video clip. "Furball inflation," it said, advertising the titular toon teen tabby appropriating an electric tire pump and sucking its air; his skin stretched to accommodate until the hose gave up, long after he'd grown to a getaway blimp. Why did I find this clip? Not how did I find it, but why? Could it be possible somebody saw this cartoon, noticed the inflation scened and deliberately isolated it because he or she genuinely expected someone like me to find it? Considering the thumbnails in the "related video" column, it was likely. There was Pluto, devouring a half-dozen steaks tossed to him by that cat from Pinnochio until the accumulating flab sickened and slowed him. There was Agumon, nabbing and swallowing Taichi's recently-caught fish until he could barely see over his own bulging paunch. And there was... some dragon trying to breathe fire, but some knight had put the clamp on his muzzle obstructing the fire's escape. Something called "Flight of the Dragons..." I don't know, I'd never heard of it. How odd that this would interest somebody else enough for them to cut it from the rest of the movie and post it online.

Could the one clip I remember from my childhood be on here? The one that traumatized me? The one that taught me that, clean out of the blue, God will kill you if you step one toe out of line? I'd seen something similar on Sesame Street a couple of years ago. Thinking about it gives me chills. That version was definitely on here. Watching it made my fur quite evident, I saw my gray-blue mustache bristle in the screen's reflection.

But perhaps this was taking over my life a little more than it should have. I swore, once someone uploaded my childhood nightmare, the Disney rendition of that cruel fable, I'd be done. I would be satisfied with the inflation clips for the rest of my life.

Dad came in without knocking, and I fought the urge to close my screen. There was nothing explicit on it, nothing that would give away my curious (but not quite anomalous) interest.

"We're not putting up with this crap from you," he said. "You have no idea how hurt Esma is, the way you talk to her. She's in our bedroom, crying."

"Um... that was not my intention. Let me explain--"

"You've explained plenty by your actions. You'll run off to the farm and haul haybells

around all day, but you won't dig a simple hole in our garden. You'll throw tennis balls all day long for dogs that don't even like you that much, but you won't pull out even a few weeds and help your mother make the house look nice."

I sniffed. "Well, we don't have any pets."

"It doesn't matter. We're your family members, and we deserve as much charity and grace from you as Gail and Paige--"

"Yeah, okay, I know, Dad. I'm sorry I hurt mom, now will you please stop nagging me?"

I said that reflexively, and before I could take it back, his hand coiled around my left arm like a starving boa constricter. My fur, which had been bristling so fervently seconds ago, now lay dormant and matted under my skin. Dad's eyes were wide with feral male dominance. Cousin Eddie warned Chevy Chase one Christmas visit about his Rottweiller. "He's got a bit of the Mississippi Leg Hound in him. He ever gets frisky, best thing to do is just let him finish." In my everlasting memory, my Dad is that leg hound. A large wooden spoon fueled his frisk. And the only survival method that worked was to let him finish.

"I swear before God to you, nobody else is as caring as I am," he stated. "You will never have a closer, more intimate friend than the man who gave you life. Your family loves you, they provide for you, and even when you answer every last ounce of their love with cruelty and rebellion, they will answer with care and kindness. Do not ever forget that I spoke these words to you."

He pulled me in for a hug and kissed my neck. I lay limp. I hadn't rejected his affection since I was four, so I certainly wouldn't do so now. He held me, imprisoned me, in an unrelenting embrace. He kissed, he sucked on my neck a few more times. Did he feel anything real? Could he taste on my skin the raw hatred I felt in that moment?

I don't know how long it lasted. Objectively, no longer than six seconds. Subjectively, long enough to affirm my distaste for hugging. When he released me, he said, "Now, will you help Esma garden?"

I didn't look at his face. I looked at his shoes, well-shined dress shoes that he'd worn to work. "Just let me get my shoes on."

*

I seldom returned to the farm after that. I thought that my Mom probably kept a blacklist of things she thought might malinfluence me, and she shared it with Dad on a regular basis. I continued to chat with Simon, and he continued to reply with spiritual-sounding but condescending advice. I didn't tell him about the hug, but I did say, in the most watered down fashion possible, that my parents were control freaks.

shathiscan76: Oh, they're just looking out for ya. My wife's volunteering at a teen rehab center, and a lot of their parents don't want to have anything to do with them. Cheer up, man, it's not that bad.

This was a few months after the incident. Around November of 2006, to be as exact as possible. It was tempting to swear at Simon. In fact, the moment Dad left my bedroom, I said the word "shit" for the first time. I didn't want to scare off my lone confident, though. As condescending as he was, he at least didn't yell at me. But I began to detect a serious cop-out. I knew I needed more than this phony reassurance. I knew he'd be as angry as I was were he in my situation. And I knew that unless I spoke up, our friendship would be over, never to begin anew.

"Hey, you know those kids you just mentioned? They aren't solving my problems. Don't come back at me with some saintly deed your wife's doing. That's completely irrelevant."

But that was a very unspiritual thing to say. I know this because that's what I'd heard from the sermons every week. That's what I'd heard from every Christian Radio Drama I'd ever listened to. That's what I heard right now from the giant invisible wizard standing over my shoulder, weilding a crucifix in one hand, and a giant wooden spoon in the other. I detected a series of unfurling claws under my fingernails as I typed those words, but I didn't hit the return key. To reject Simon's Christian comfort would be to take a step backwards from developing healthy friendships, from ever leaving my parents' gaurd, from entering heaven, looking into God's eyes, and seeing anything other than wrath and disappointment.

So I backspaced everything I'd just typed. As I corrected my message, the claws merged back into my fingers, and I felt a little safer. No less angry, but safer. And then I hit enter, not caring what punitive tempus the sentence I'd typed would beckon:

jechoes90: That pocket knife in my closet is starting to look rather friendly.