Larque on the Wing by Nancy Springer Page A

passed his hands lightly over Larque’s body, and she felt a change, a compactness, ripple along behind his hands like poetry folding in and in on itself, like a snake coiling. Watching, she could see her flesh gathering itself like a thought, her jeans shrinking to fit her. She was smaller now, but not less. She was packed tight, all made of potential.
    â€œWow,” she breathed.
    â€œBreasts?” Shadow asked.
    â€œNo,” Sky said.
    Larque turned and protested, “Wait, what are you saying? Of course I want breasts.”
    â€œBut they show through your clothes, they’re embarrassing,” Sky objected. “And you hate bras. The straps slide down your shoulders all the time, and the stupid cups cave in.”
    Lord, yes, Larque remembered training bras, how they had made her life wretched, and bras in general still drove her nuts, though she filled them now. The elastic always hurt before the day was half over. She wished she didn’t have to wear them.
    â€œMaybe smaller breasts,” she suggested. It would be nice to jump up and down and have breasts that stopped when she did.
    â€œYou don’t want breasts at all ever!” Sky shrilled. “They’ll get in the way of everything .”
    Such as what? Well, such as … everything. Working in a dildo factory. Flagging traffic. Running away and being a cowboy. It would be hard to bust broncs when part of you bounced worse than the horse.
    Shadow said smoothly, “May I suggest detachable breasts? They feel and react just the same as any breast when they’re on.”
    It certainly seemed like the thing to do at the time. Far better than the compromise she had suggested. “That sounds great,” she agreed. He made another careful gesture, and her chest lay smooth, flat and hard.
    â€œGet yourself fitted with detachables at the Lace Place once we’re finished,” Shadow told her. “Hands?”
    â€œStronger,” Larque said. She wanted to be able to get the lids off pickle jars. “Sexual dexterity,” she added. She had some aspirations about Hoot’s pickle too.
    â€œAble to do things,” Sky said with scornful emphasis. “Fix cars. Shoot guns. Fight.”
    Larque looked at her. “You mean, hit people? Punch them?”
    â€œOf course, hit people. Bad guys. Punch them in the face and knock them silly.”
    What a great idea. Larque wondered why she hadn’t thought of it herself.
    â€œThat will take black polish,” Shadow said.
    â€œFine.” Since she had come into this place Larque had felt steadily rising excitement, a sense that her whole life could be different. She was ready to go along with almost anything. “Take the ridges out of my fingernails?” she added.
    â€œCertainly.”
    He massaged her hands section by section from her wrists to her fingertips, pressing them somewhat wider, pulling them a little longer, packing the muscle more firmly around the bones. He smoothed her stubby nails as he had said he would, then painted crescent moons of black on their tips.
    Then he got up and turned a handle on her chair so that it tipped and elevated her feet. He pulled her boots off, and she lay there and let him, not even embarrassed by the humid smell as he peeled off her socks as well. “Besides dancing,” he asked her, “what dreams do you have for your feet?”
    â€œMake them able to run,” Sky said. “Fast.”
    â€œAdventure,” Larque said. “Exploring.”
    â€œJust make them good for running away.”
    â€œNo,” Larque contradicted softly. “Make them good for standing up for things I believe in.”
    â€œStronger,” summarized Shadow in a neutral tone, and he set to work, stroking his way from the ankle down, bone by bone. “Nail polish?” he asked as he worked.
    â€œSure,” said Larque.
    â€œNo,” said Sky.
    He applied some, electric blue, in