Larque on the Wing by Nancy Springer Page B

stray cats cloned kittens on the spot. Once, lucky enough to be out walking the town with a hunky soccer jock, she had looked at him with a lewd thought and accidentally produced beside him an instant naked replica in complete genital detail. This startled her, because it was the first time she had seen a human penis, let alone an erection. However, it startled him even more, and he had forthwith abandoned her, which left her with a very attractive naked date but without a ride home. Not that the naked date was of much use to her. Being without substance, he could neither talk with her nor enter into physical converse. He was good only for looking at, and even that was causing problems. She held her sweater in front of him as a modesty shield, but people were screaming anyway, and then the police arrived to take him into custody. They tried to put cuffs on him, but the things went right through his wrists. This upset them, and though they gave her a ride home, they talked angrily with her mother when they got there. The year was 1968; already there was enough rebellious flower child in Larque so that when she grew annoyed at the cops she thought, “Pigs,” and that was a mistake. Not that they made trouble. They left right away and did not come back, but she felt bad. Altogether it was a depressing day, and the hunky boy avoided her ever afterward, so she never did find out what had happened to the naked doppelganger.
    And this sort of disaster was what she had to look forward to by way of a love life.
    â€œLearn some self-control, dear,” her mother had advised her.
    â€œI can’t! Who’s going to teach me? Are you going to teach me how not to make doppelgangers?”
    â€œNo, honey, of course not. I meant the other thing.” Florrie’s Chiclet-shaped face flushed pink, and she made small push-away gestures with her plump square hands. Sex seemed to be something else that Florrie had blinked out of her existence. There was no man in her life—Larque would have known if there was—nor did she show any signs of wanting one. Her world revolved around some other sun. This was as close as she ever came to discussing “it” with her daughter.
    Nevertheless, when Larque persisted in talking about her dismal social life and future prospects, her mother had taken her to a Circle meeting. “Skylark wants a sweetheart,” she had announced to the women of her coven, her tone martyred.
    â€œNow, Florence,” said another woman gently, “they’re good for making babies. Don’t you want a granddaughter?”
    â€œEvery sister is entitled to find her own way to truth,” said a sleek gray-haired woman exquisitely dressed in expensive woolens. “Skylark needs what Skylark needs.”
    This was the attitude taken by most of them. They devoted more than one evening’s Circle to Skylark’s problem. The Ouija board would not perform for her, and tea leaves were inconclusive, but a poodle-haired matron consulted numerology charts and came up with 186403201. A black woman in a turban went into a trance and told Larque to be on the lookout for a Scottish man. A redhead with a physics degree had Larque lay hands on her computer, which then randomly generated an image resembling fireworks, or a fountain, or possibly a dandelion. The sleek wealthy woman tried scrying for Larque in a crystal ball and said, “I see an owl.”
    More damn bird jokes. But Larque kept her dignity. “What kind of owl?”
    â€œI don’t know precisely. What sorts of owls are there?”
    â€œUm, barn, screech, great horny?”
    â€œYes, of course. One of those. Perhaps screech. Or great horny.”
    Larque spent the next several months looking up everything she could find on the symbolism, mythology, and folklore of owls, as well as Scottish history and literary references to fireworks. Her enjoyment of the research made her decide to go into library science,