When Pinocchio Became Human, Part Two
Only absentmindedly listening to the gaudy and tasteless horror film flickering from the front of the TV, I smile lightly as I hear one of the girls giggling from upstairs. It must be Buttercup. I do love to hear the dear let out a natural laugh-not just a series of nervous giggles or brunt scoffs and sneers.
The latter is her common front, and her most basic defense for her character. I shake my head once, sigh, and use the remote to flip the so-called scary movie to a pause (The only thing remotely scary about this piece of junk is how much these terrible actors are being paid) and reach for the popcorn bowl beside me. It's a shame I can't share this with the girls, but this movie is rated C for Corn, and, in any case, they need their sleep. Tomorrow was Sunday-the one day off the schools in Japan had during the week, excluding holidays.
My brow furrows as I help myself to yet another yummy bit of popcorn, and I glance back at the nearby calendar that's on the Fridge. Hmmm...nothing planned. Excellent. I remember looking at the calendar at the Professor's home-where it was so littered with dates that it was almost impossible to see the small number in the square corner completely surrounded by words and times in ink black pen...
Monday: Blossom has a soccer game from three to five.
Blossom hated soccer. But she'd been signed up for it in any case, and so, was expected to play.
Buttercup: Football practice, then attending boxing tournament with Mitch.
My recently manicured nails begin to sink into my palms. Buttercup was good at it, alright-but found playing with the horde of jeering, mocking, and sweaty high school boys rather daunting. Nonetheless, the professor was always sure to drop her off every Monday, Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday evening.
Bubbles-piano recital.
The professor had never even attended one of these performances, nor had he noted that the piano lid had accidentally fallen from its stopper...and had landed on Bubbles' fingertips. I had attended that day, and had noted just how awkwardly the girl had to play the notes with bandaged fingertips.
As if to add insult to injury, while I had sat wincing in the audience, I remembered when Bubbles had told me that she had always wanted to play not piano, but violin.
That day, after I had met the professor on the street (He had arrived to pick Bubbles up) I "mistakenly high-fived" him.
Only...it had been a high "zero", considering that all of my fingers were twisted into a fist.
And I had 'high-zeroed' him directly in the face.
Concentrating on my breathing exercises, I stared back at the clean, innocent calendar-swept clean of the strenuous amounts of dates that had forced the girls to keep hopping from one place to another. Whether it was Science Fair or Ballet or Hockey, it just never ended. Between that, fighting villains that the police force was either far too stupid or just far too lazy to actually keep in custody longer then three seconds, and...meeting public expectation, it was hardly a wonder why the girls had created their "imperfect" sister Bunny.
My eyes flicker in sadness. I would have very much have liked to meet the poor girl. Blossom had come down here just three nights ago while I was finishing up my taxes at the kitchen counter (I had to apply the fact that I now had three co-dependents with me-wearily rubbing a pink orb, and complaining of another nightmare she'd had of their deceased "sibling."
I'd held the tired, sniffling girl for as long as necessary that night.
I scooped up another handful of popcorn, relishing in its salty/buttery/so bad goodness. I nibbled each piece thoughtfully while turning my head towards the TV again-which was now set to static. Huh. Personally, I believe it beats the movie I'd rented by a long-shot.
What would we do tomorrow? The house was clean enough. The weather forecast for tomorrow sounded lovely, too. Spring was finally breaking free of the cold confines of winter, and the residents of this little household are taking full notice. Time to put away heavy winter scarves, boots, and coats-I was ready to bring out one of my nice summer dresses-white, free, and cool. I sigh peacefully at the thought, then wonder if I could make the dress pattern for the little girls. I know Bubbles would look beautiful in white-that little boy at school, Sora would certainly take notice.
...then again, knowing Sora, seeing as how he probably noticed when Bubbles tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, that wasn't saying too much. Amused, I allow myself a bout of silent laughter on behalf of the little boy who had crept to our mailbox on March 14th (White Day in Japan) and sheepishly left a small, brand new, pencil case with Bubbles' name on it before darting away with a red face. That was just too cute.
I lean back in my seat, halfheartedly pressing 'play' for the movie once again. The heroine (Or the girl constantly giving gooey, sultry glances and fluttery eyelids to the hero of the plot every ten seconds he wasn't busy rescuing her from some dire peril, anyway) is now yelling at the villain, who's clearly just as maniacal as those amoeba with fez hats back in Townsville:
"I hate fighting and violence!"
Now disgusted, I flick the movie to a pause, feeling sickened. Boy, what a waste of two dollars. Bleech. Getting into silk pajamas and eating popcorn was a far more enjoyable pastime. Next time, I'd just save myself the trouble by eating ice cream in my pajamas in front of the TV while it was set to "static" mode.
"I hate fighting and violence..."
Ecch. What a redundant statement. You might as well say, "I hate jello and pudding," or, "I hate bad sequels." I've come to find that a good 99.99% of sequels are revolting in any case.
Giving up on the movie, I stretch, yawn, and blink blearily, figuring that I might as well go and check on each of the girls before I brush my teeth, and retire for the evening. Before I can flick the lights off, a small flash of light catches my eye. Curious, I turn in its direction-and understanding flutters through me when I realize its just the metallic corner of our old scrapbook.
With a smile and a shrug, I move over to the coffee table, and scoop up the small book before settling down on the opposite sofa to peruse it.
There are no baby pictures of the girls to be found-not at all. But here's one where I'm bending over with a bandage over a wincing Blossom, her knee badly scratched, her skates and helmet askew. She could have perfectly well have stopped that fall had she employed her powers...
But had chosen to make the attempt with her own strength. She'd failed, but done her best, and I had never been more proud of her-excluding the time she had finally broke down, and had come to me.
A salty pearl finds the clear, laminated photo of Blossom, and I'm forced to wipe it away, quickly before moving on.
A young foreign exchange student from England is inching closer to Blossom in a class picture, looking nervous. Ah...it was Peter. The child had chestnut hair, blue eyes, and a large smile. The boy was brilliant for his age, but he was also insightful and sweet. Considering how old the girls actually are in their preschool bodies-how many years of aging they've missed-Blossom IS old enough for a relationship, but I hardly believe that grade-school is a good place to start one.
I wonder if Peter was going to continue to chase her until then. Doubtful, but que sera, sera. Whatever will be, will be.
The spell of Neverland broke just a few weeks ago on the girls. I wiped away a fresh line of tears streaming down my eyes as I remembered the fateful afternoon Buttercup had dully measured herself, knowing that her precise measurements have not changed, nor would they ever...
...and, to her shock, had discovered that she had grown a half-inch.
Dumbfounded, she had screamed for us, and we came sprinting. Breathless, I measured again, using tape, a ruler...a different spot, made sure that Buttercup was not hovering off the ground (again)...
I had called a friend of mine living in Japan who had two elements a girl will often find she loves in a man: One, a phD, and two, knew how to keep hush-hush on the situation of the girls. The latter was just as useful as component one, mainly because the last thing I needed was for the public to discover the girls' secret...and it wouldn't be long before regional officials insisted that the girls owed the world their power-protection.
And it wouldn't be long before I'd be socking people upside the face with my handbag, or the girls helplessly giving in after being traumatized by guilt. No. I was not having that. Ever again. So long as I'm alive, I want to help them.
...what happens after that is their choice.
I flick to another picture-one with me sitting on a bench, cradling a sleeping Buttercup in my arms after I had finished speaking to my friend, Professor Fujitaka of Kyoto Takehashi University. The man was a specialist in Children Maladies, and was a molecularity scientist at that, so he'd been the only one I could turn to after the girls had begun to grow-after all of these years of remaining dormant little girls.
He had gently examined each one of the girls after I'd finished telling my story before giving me his theory: The girls had forever been charging and discharging excess power in their bodies by alleviating the people of Townsville of some woe. Every day, they had used every single token of their energy, their strength-exhausted almost every reserve they'd had-before their power returned with a brief night's respite. And thus began the cycle all over again.
But there wasn't any more of that since they had started living with me. The energy-with nothing left to do, nor anywhere else to go, had become restless; unstable. Thus, it had grudgingly allowed the process of actual growth to occur to the girls for the first time. The energy had no choice but to fuel the cycle of aging and advancement-of developing and growing.
Just like any small child. If this continued, and the girls only very scantily used their powers-instead of having to whip them out for every last single thing-he had promised that the girls would indeed grow as they aged. They would become teenagers. They would become adults.
They would grow old.
And...pass away, when the time came.
I had cried for such a long time after that day. I took the girls out of the office and cried. I helped each bewildered girl into my car and cried. I'd sat at the wheel for a good long time and cried. Finally, I drove us to the ice-cream parlor (Everyone was so shaken up, I thought we could all use a little treat) and cried as we settled into our booth. I'd even cried while I was eating my hot fudge sundae.
Bubbles had murmured, "there, there" to me as I cried, and had even offered me her small Usagi-Momotaro handkerchief to me. I started crying again.
But how could I not cry? I loved the girls. I loved them more then I could stand. But if they lived the existence of a "normal girl," (If such a creature can be found)...
...they would die someday. I didn't know whether to be happy or miserable at the occurrence as I'd wept, and Buttercup ambled over to me, her own green eyes wet.
Perhaps I was just...mixed. The same way I am with a lot of issues.
But happy with just the way things were, at the end of the day, I guessed. I eventually stopped the waterworks long enough to buy ourselves another round of sodas. Thank heavens I exercise every day...
I turn the page to a scene where I've fallen asleep beside Bubbles on the couch, with said girl giggling lightly in her dreams. She looks happy. I wonder what she was dreaming about?
Here is a picture with me rubbing suntan lotion on a grudging Buttercup's face at the beach. Here's Bubbles singing lightly on the swings. Here's Blossom looking up at a star strewn sky. Here's us at a picnic.
I quietly close the book, feeling a chiaroscuro of emotion fluttering through my heart. On one hand, just seeing the little girls off to bed at night was enough reason to kneel in prayers of thanksgiving. My life was complete with them. I loved to live with them. I loved to help them-watch them realize their potential. I loved that they need not fight anymore.
Like that shrill bimbo on the screen...I hate fighting and violence, too.
On the other hand, if you had to choose between one life and the lives of thousands...would you really be the one you picks three lives over twenty three-thousand people? Would you risk everything for those three lives-disregarding the fact that, once you took away the tenshi of Townsville-the place would immediately be struck with corruption from every angle? Political insecurity, rising gang activity, near anarchy and chaos in the streets-
Fire, fire everywhere?
Guilt and doubt darkly bloom in my mind. I HAD to take the girls away. I had tried to speak to the professor-tried to plead that the girls be able to live, and not have to dance across the stage like some perfect, simpering marionettes-
But the girls were his property. As they did not fall under the categorization of 'human' children, they were less then PETS to the professor and the officials. The man experimented on the girls regularly, in an attempt to bolster their abilities in combat. He brought the girls with them to seminars, where people oohed and awed at them-and took pictures while they wrote down notes on a clipboard, occasionally asking the professor a question regarding them. One student blandly asked when and how the girls were going to die if the Chemical X solution caused massive destabilization, and overran their bodies with chemical poisoning.
In the meantime, the girls had to live for him. With their youth and vigor, he received awards. Funding. And he exploited it to the max by appearing with the girls in glaring press conferences as a concerned and loving father...
...who, behind the scenes, once the reporters had gone away, had gone to the local bar to drink three shots of some rubbish before stumbling back to his room-where the girls had been watching TV...
...at two in the morning.
They hadn't been able to know what it was like to have a heart. Buttercup regularly questioned whether or not she'd had one.
Blossom had been so irreparably damaged by the constant strain of having perfect academics, that the girl had silenced her own needs and wants. She'd been left almost blank. A 'me with a nothing.' The girl had occasional panic attacks in the dead of night that STILL haven't quite left yet. I suppose it will take awhile for any true healing to come-the girls had damaged. The professor had turned his own anger and frustration at times-and, with them being completely unable to fight back...had resulted in a few bruises and a split lip.
I had almost killed the professor when the girls arrived at the mayor's office one day, bearing injuries that certainly hadn't been garnished by battle...
And Bubbles had been left behind in the Puffs. Termed as 'kawaii,' a sweet little girl who had no power in contrast to a courageous Buttercup and genius Blossom-
Imagine living with someone who told you every day-and told their friends while you were in earshot-on what a dull child you were.
But you were never to mind, as perfect angels are to remain so...
SLAM!
I sent my fist flying down into the center of the coffee table, swallowing heavily.
Yes. Maybe I did take the girls away, maybe Townsville is no more then a vacant ghost hovel because of it. Considering that it desperately relied on the powers of three little girls to keep it afloat, it hardly had to make much difference in any case. Townsville would have fallen one day, and the girls with it. They deserved so much more then that. I didn't want them to throw their lives for the sake of a town that was trembling to burst at the seams.
They deserved to challenge. To live. To grow. To live-for themselves, not merely for the sake of others. They deserved to be whole-by being imperfect. By messing things up. By trying.
Utonium will have to live with his err, because I sure as heck wouldn't let the girls do so.
I make a beeline for the stairs, humming slightly.
After all, even Pinocchio can become a real boy, hmm?
Buttercup had been unable to sleep, so she'd beat Bubbles to the punch by seeking sanctuary with Blossom. Looking weary, Blossom patted the corner to the right of her, smiling slightly.
"Always room for one more," she remarked, as Bubbles wriggles in beside the girls on the bed, sighing as the soft coverlet is pulled around her shoulders.
Sleepy, Bubbles was about to issue a good night, but her eyes traveled over to Buttercup, who is now staring at the cover of a small, leather bound book.
Blossom extended a curious glance at her sister, too. Whatever book Buttercup has tugged in here, she hasn't read the sparkling title. Buttercup just shrugs sheepishly before tucking it underneath her pillow. After a brief pause, Bubbles clears her throat.
"What book is that?"
Buttercup just shrugs as the girls silently withdraw into their bed, and Bubbles flicks off the lights.
"Just...something really dumb, actually. The Adventures of Pinocchio."
Blossom blinks.
"Really? Aw. I've never read the book. I've only seen the movie."
Buttercup laughed.
"The book is better-though Pinocchio doesn't step on Jiminy Cricket the way he does in the book in the movie."
Bubbles blanches as the three stare up at a ceiling of glowing, fluorescent stars.
"...um...ah..."
She struggled for a moment, before sighing, and resuming.
"What happens in it again?"
Buttercup fancied that a shooting star raced across Blossom's bedroom, twinkling as it did so. She shrugged again.
"Dunno. The red fai-um, blue fairy brings Pinocchio to life to grant the old toymaker's wish...kinda. He's not really...real. Just a blockhead of wood."
Blossom shifted lightly.
"I wonder why he wants to become human so badly?"
Buttercup pressed her face into the pillow.
"Dunno. The book says that he wanted an 'immortal soul,' but I'm not sure if that's all. I guess he wanted to prove that he could."
Blossom frowned in the dark.
"What was so bad about being made of wood?"
"Dunno. Guess it was because he was termite food."
Bubbles giggled.
"I think he wanted to make the red...um, blue fairy happy. And his Papa, too. They wanted to see him win-even if he messed up a few times to get there."
Blossom's eyes glittered, but she said nothing. Bubbles curiously leans over to Buttercup.
"It doesn't seem like much to ask for-being...'real,'" she noted softly, leaning her head into her own soft pillow. "But I guess everything that doesn't seem like much to ask for is already in YOUR grasp, or can be reached. Didn't Pino have to get in a lot of trouble just so that he could find his Papa again after they were separated? And didn't his nose sprout an inch every time he lied?"
Blossom didn't move, Buttercup laughed; the sound was rather muffled.
"...yeah. It looked like a bread stick, around the end. Pinocchio was thrown into the world as an innocent-just like everyone else. But he wasn't LIKE everyone else. He was a quick study when it came to corruption, and, because he rarely understood the concept of what 'bad' or 'evil' was, he was still innocent, and people still took advantage of him. It's why he got tossed and turned around everywhere, trying to discover the right person to please-which would make him happy."
Buttercup seemed to think she had said too much, for she withdrew her head underneath the covers. Blossom spoke again.
"...maybe. But he found the person who loved him most was the person that wanted him on the right path-and who wanted to see him happy," she said quietly, smiling as Bubbles squeezed her hand. "Even if it WAS inside of a whale-he finally got a clue, and rescued the toymaker."
Bubbles swallowed.
"Pinocchio drowned-though I'm not sure how, seeing as how he's made of wood...and can't breathe...but the re...blue fairy came for him, and gave him a heart and soul, because he'd earned one. Pinocchio came back to life, and Geppetto danced."
Buttercup scoffed halfheartedly.
"Sap city. Pinocchio becomes human, the re...blue fairy parties-the end."
Bubbles turned lightly in the darkness, blue eyes glimmering.
"So, Pino-chan can be make mistakes. And...it'll be okay for him to do that, right?"
A pause. Blossom spoke.
"...yes."
Bubbles smiled.
"And compared to people that used him-and m-made him know that he was only special because he was made out of wood...the puppet knows the one who loves you is the one that will hold you-or want you safe?"
Silence. Buttercup gruffly spoke.
"Yeah. Blockhead may have been born a different way, but he's still a dumb human. A dumb, good, bad human. He might have come from...parts, 'stead of a body, but he's still good. Better then some."
Bubbles twitched lightly, her eyelids flickering past the overwhelming wave of drowsiness gently beckoning her, tugging at her with cool, gentle fingertips that promise sleep.
"...but that isn't the end."
For once, Blossom sounds surprised as she sleepily turns to Bubbles, yawning slightly.
"...it is...isn't?"
Bubbles just nods, eyes already closing.
"...nope. There's always just a little bit more after that, in a story. Buttercup, what happened when the heartless puppet found a home?"
"...he always had a home."
Bubbles shook her head.
"...no. Pino-san went on a journey to become real. He needed to find a heart, first." She opened her eyes sleepily to peer at Buttercup, who stared back.
"And isn't your heart where your home is?"
Blossom smiled.
"...yeah. He found it. But we already know it. But what's left after that? What happens after Gepetto begins to dance around his shop with the child?"
Bubbles' eyes twinkled.
"Buttercup knows."
The dark haired girl started, then let out a sigh.
"...do I gotta?"
She turned in the dark, to find two sets of wide orbs peering interestedly at her. Buttercup sighed, rolled her eyes to the ceiling in defeat, and rolled underneath the comforters.
"...they lived happily ever after."
Bubbles sighed in content.
"But it isn't 'the end' though, is it?"
Something tightened in Buttercup's throat, and her words were slightly distorted upon coming out.
"...nah. It isn't. Not really. It's just the book's way of saying things are just getting started."
The Ever Loving...Beginning