“It’s disgusting, keep it away,” Marci said, shrinking away from his hand in mock horror. He held his proto-thumb under her nose and waggled it.“No joking, okay? I just want to know what itmeans. I’mgrowing a new thumb.”“Maybe you’re part salamander. They regrow their legs and tails. Or a worm—cut a worm in half and you get two worms. It’s in one of my Da’s books.”He stared at his thumb. It had grown perceptibly, just on the journey into town to Marci’s place. They were holed up in her room, surrounded by watercolors of horses in motion that her mother had painted. She’d raided the fridge for cold pork pies and cheese and fizzy lemonade that her father had shipped from the Marks & Spencer in Toronto. It was the strangest food he’d ever eaten but he’d developed a taste for it.“Wiggle it again,” she said.He did, and the thumbtip bent down like a scale model of a thumbtip, cracking the scab around it.“We should go to a doctor,” she said.“I don’t go to doctors,” he said flatly.“Youhaven’tgone to a doctor—doesn’t mean you can’t.”“I don’t go to doctors.” X-ray machines and stethoscopes, blood tests and clever little flashlights in your ears—who knew what they’d reveal? He wanted to be the first to discover it, he didn’t want to have to try to explain it to a doctor before he understood it himself.“Not even when you’re sick?”“The golems take care of it,” he said.She shook her head. “You’re a weirdo, you know that?”“I know it,” he said.“I thought my family was strange,” she said, stretching out on her tummy on the bed. “But they’re not a patch on you.”“I know it.”He finished his fizzy lemonade and lay down beside her, belching.“We could ask my Da. He knows a lot of strange things.”He put his face down in her duvet and smelled the cotton covers and her nighttime sweat, like a spice, like cinnamon. “I don’t want to do that. Please don’t tell anyone, all right?”She took hold of his wrist and looked again at the teensy thumb. “Wiggle it again,” she said. He did. She giggled. “Imagine if you were like a worm. Imagine if your thumbtip was out there growing anotheryou.”He sat bolt upright. “Do you think that’s possible?” he said. His heart was thudding. “Do you think so?”She rolled on her side and stared at him. “No, don’t be daft. How could your thumb grow anotheryou?”“Why wouldn’t it?”She had no answer for him.“I need to go home,” he said. “I need to know.”“I’m coming with,” she said. He opened his mouth to tell her no, but she made a fierce face at him, her foxy features wrinkled into a mock snarl.“Come along then,” he said. “You can help me do up my coat.”
“It’s disgusting, keep it away,” Marci said, shrinking away from his hand in mock horror. He held his proto-thumb under her nose and waggled it.
“No joking, okay? I just want to know what itmeans. I’mgrowing a new thumb.”
“Maybe you’re part salamander. They regrow their legs and tails. Or a worm—cut a worm in half and you get two worms. It’s in one of my Da’s books.”
He stared at his thumb. It had grown perceptibly, just on the journey into town to Marci’s place. They were holed up in her room, surrounded by watercolors of horses in motion that her mother had painted. She’d raided the fridge for cold pork pies and cheese and fizzy lemonade that her father had shipped from the Marks & Spencer in Toronto. It was the strangest food he’d ever eaten but he’d developed a taste for it.
“Wiggle it again,” she said.
He did, and the thumbtip bent down like a scale model of a thumbtip, cracking the scab around it.
“We should go to a doctor,” she said.
“I don’t go to doctors,” he said flatly.
“Youhaven’tgone to a doctor—doesn’t mean you can’t.”
“I don’t go to doctors.” X-ray machines and stethoscopes, blood tests and clever little flashlights in your ears—who knew what they’d reveal? He wanted to be the first to discover it, he didn’t want to have to try to explain it to a doctor before he understood it himself.
“Not even when you’re sick?”
“The golems take care of it,” he said.
She shook her head. “You’re a weirdo, you know that?”
“I know it,” he said.
“I thought my family was strange,” she said, stretching out on her tummy on the bed. “But they’re not a patch on you.”
“I know it.”
He finished his fizzy lemonade and lay down beside her, belching.
“We could ask my Da. He knows a lot of strange things.”
He put his face down in her duvet and smelled the cotton covers and her nighttime sweat, like a spice, like cinnamon. “I don’t want to do that. Please don’t tell anyone, all right?”
She took hold of his wrist and looked again at the teensy thumb. “Wiggle it again,” she said. He did. She giggled. “Imagine if you were like a worm. Imagine if your thumbtip was out there growing anotheryou.”
He sat bolt upright. “Do you think that’s possible?” he said. His heart was thudding. “Do you think so?”
She rolled on her side and stared at him. “No, don’t be daft. How could your thumb grow anotheryou?”
“Why wouldn’t it?”
She had no answer for him.
“I need to go home,” he said. “I need to know.”
“I’m coming with,” she said. He opened his mouth to tell her no, but she made a fierce face at him, her foxy features wrinkled into a mock snarl.
“Come along then,” he said. “You can help me do up my coat.”