Chapter Twenty-Five

Zac sat on the counter of the front desk. He could suck his thumb again, because Lorna wasn’t here, but Charlene wasn’t back yet. He was leaving soon, anyway. Mr. Jordan was here.

“We’ve found a foster home,” he was telling John, who’d come after Lorna left. John let Zac watch Sesame Street and gave him some cereal. “I think things should work out.”

“Well, that’s good,” John said. “Bye, Zac.”

“Bye.” Zac followed Mr. Jordan down the hall again, and out to the messy car. He didn’t say anything.

“These people are nice,” Mr. Jordan intoned, more to hear the sound of his own voice than for any other reason. “You’ll like them.”

“Is Tay there?” Zac asked.

“You know he’s with your aunt Miranda,” Mr. Jordan told him.

“Is Ike there?” Zac asked.

“Er. . . no.” Mr. Jordan raised his eyebrows. “He’s in the hospital.”

Zac folded his arms across his chest. “I won’t like it.”

Mr. Jordan gritted his teeth. “Try to be open-minded.”

Zac stared up at the lady who opened the door, his mouth slowly sliding open and his eyes widening. The woman who stood in front of him was tall and thin, a turban wound around her wispy blond hair. She was wearing a long robe of silky purple material, and her feet were bare. “Is this the small person?” she asked.

“The small person?” Mr. Jordan repeated.

The woman nodded. “We prefer the term ‘small person’ to ‘child,’” she explained. “After all, age has nothing to do with humanity.” She squinted at Zac. “Welcome to your home. What do you want to be called?”

Zac didn’t take his thumb out of his mouth. He blinked.

“Well, you can decide that later. I’m Djuna.” The lady extended her arm, closing the door behind Zac and Mr. Jordan. “This is Ariadne and Galath.”

Mr. Jordan nodded. “It’s nice to meet you. This is Zac.”

“Zac,” the one called Ariadne repeated. She was shorter than Djuna, with wavy brown hair that reached her waist and thick horn-rimmed glasses. “Is it a spirit name?”

“I can’t say I know.” Mr. Jordan shook his head.

“Is Zac a male or a female?” Galath inquired. He had a nasal, bored sounding voice and wore a brown tunic with orange designs on it over frayed tan pants.

“Ma-” Mr. Jordan began to answer, but Djuna interrupted him. “I thought we’d decided that gender wouldn’t be an issue,” she said. “It doesn’t matter whether Zac is a male or a female.” Her eyes met Zac’s. “It doesn’t matter. Behave however you want.” She waited for a response, turning to Mr. Jordan when she didn’t get one. “Does Zac speak?”

“Zac will speak when he feels comfortable,” Mr. Jordan assured them, hoping it was true.

“Sit!” Ariadne smiled, gesturing to some pillows on the floor. “Would you like some tea?”

“Well, that’s all right,” Mr. Jordan said. “I have to be on my way, once you sign these forms. I’ll be in touch.”

Djuna nodded, reaching for the pen. “I’m sure we’ll be fine.”

Mr. Jordan left, and Zac sat on the pillow on the floor, conscious of the eyes of Djuna, Galath and Ariadne riveted on him.

“Kinda far-out.” Galath observed. “Not much of a talker.”

“Oh, I love little people. I love them!” Ariadne squealed. “Whether they talk or not.”

“We have to let Zac unfold appropriately,” Djuna admonished them. “Let Zac make inroads into conversation.” She paused. “Zac is what you prefer to be called, isn’t it?”

Zac nodded.

“Is there something Freudian about that thumb?” Galath continued.

Zac blinked, stiffening. What did that mean?

“Galath. . .” Djuna warned him.

“What kind of space had you envisioned for yourself?” Ariadne inquired, brightly.

“I don’t know,” Zac whispered.

“What do you eat?” asked Djuna.

“Froot Loops,” Zac told her, remembering this morning.

Galath’s mouth dropped open. Djuna pursed her lips. Ariadne shook her head. “Seven different kinds of toxins,” she said. “And red dye, as well.”

“We eat only natural food,” Djuna explained. “No preservatives, nothing artificial.”

“Froot Loops are unacceptable,” Galath agreed. “It’s as if people want to poison their children.”

“Toxins,” Ariadne clucked.

“And another thing. . . clothes,” Djuna went on. “We understand that clothes are restrictive. Not only do they restrict movement, but they force you into gender roles.” She took note of the fire truck on Zac’s shirt. “Now, the company that designed this shirt not only neglected to use natural materials and exploited foreign workers, but also participated in the plot to force little boys into traditional masculine roles and subjugate little girls into feminine ones. You understand, don’t you?”

Zac shook his head.

Djuna sighed. “Here, little person, you are not required to wear any clothes at all.”

“But people will see me naked,” Zac whispered.

“That’s another thing,” Djuna went on. “you must overcome archaic modesty hang-ups if you aspire toward a truly integrated personality.”

She seemed to want a response, so Zac agreed. “Okay.”

“Good,” said Djuna. “I hope you like it here.”

Chapter Twenty-Six?

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