Super Badass Cat Girl

Walking home from school with my friends was usually the best part of the day. We laughed, talked about teachers we liked (and didn’t), and tried to plan our weekend like we were free spirits. But one day, things didn’t go as planned.

It all started when Emma, Soo-jin, and I were going home, and the sun was just beginning to set. We heard a low, menacing growl that froze us in place.

"What's that?" Soo-jin asked, her voice trembling.

We turned to see a dog: a massive, snarling beast barreling toward us, its teeth bared, and eyes locked on our little group.

"Oh my god!" Emma screamed, grabbing Soo-jin’s arm. They bolted, leaving me standing in the middle of the sidewalk.

I didn’t have time to think. My body moved on its own, instinct taking over. My vision sharpened, my ears flattened against my head, and I crouched down in anticipation of trouble.

The next thing I remember is Emma shaking my shoulders, her voice frantic.

"Alice! Alice, are you okay?"

I blinked, disoriented. We were standing on someone’s front lawn, and Emma and Soo-jin were staring at me with wide eyes.

"What... what happened?" I asked, my voice hoarse.

Emma glanced at Soo-jin, and then back at me. "You don’t remember?"

I shook my head. My heart was still racing, and my hands were shaking.

"The dog," Soo-jin said quietly. "It came at us, and you… you totally went cat on it."

"I… what?"

Emma nodded. "Your tail was huge, Alice. Like, cartoonishly huge. And you started hissing. You jumped right in front of the dog, and when it lunged at you, you scratched it right across the nose. It yelped and ran off!"

My jaw dropped. "I… I did that?"

"Yeah!" Emma said. "It was insane. You were crouched like a full-on predator. It was freaky, but also kind of amazing."

As we walked the rest of the way home, I tried to process what they were telling me. I didn’t remember a single second of it—it was like my human brain had completely checked out, leaving my cat instincts in full control.

Soo-jin broke the silence. "You really saved us, Alice. If you hadn’t been there…" She trailed off, shivering.

Emma patted my shoulder. "Seriously. You were a total badass. Like a superhero. Super Cat Girl or something."

I tried to laugh, but it came out shaky. "Yeah, uh… I guess. I just wish I could actually remember being a badass." True, my friends needed help, and I stepped in—well, pounced in. I just wish they’d taken a picture of my tail all puffed up.

The dog's owner wasn't happy. He wanted Mom and Dad to pay the vet bill. He also wanted to lock me up, calling me a community danger.

The hearing was nerve-wracking, to say the least. Mom, Dad, and I sat at one table while the dog’s owner sat at the other, glaring at us. His dog wasn’t there, but he’d brought pictures of the scratches across its snout.

“That’s what your daughter did,” the man said, jabbing a finger toward me. “She’s a menace! My dog was terrified!”

I shrank in my seat, my tail coiled tightly around my waist. Mom put a reassuring hand on my knee while Dad leaned forward, his voice calm but firm.

“With all due respect,” Dad said, “your dog came charging at a group of children. My daughter acted in self-defense. She’s not the one who needs to be controlled.”

The man’s face turned red. “That’s ridiculous! My dog’s never hurt anyone. It’s your kid with those—those claws! She’s a danger to the community!”

The arbitrator, a stern-looking woman with glasses, held up her hand. “That’s enough,” she said. “I’ve reviewed the incident, including witness statements and the reports on your dog’s behavior, Mr. Callahan.”

She glanced at her notes and then fixed him with a stare. “This isn’t the first time there’s been a complaint about your dog being aggressive toward others, is it?”

The man’s jaw tightened. “That’s not relevant.”

“It absolutely is,” she said, her tone sharp. “Your dog has a history of aggressive behavior, and you’re responsible for ensuring it doesn’t pose a threat to the community. Instead, you’ve allowed it to break free and intimidate others. In this case, it approached a group of minors in an aggressive manner.

“Mr. Monroe,” she said, turning to my Dad, “your daughter’s actions, while unconventional, were defensive and justified.”

I felt a wave of relief wash over me, but the arbitrator wasn’t done.

“Mr. Callahan,” she continued, “I’m ordering you to cover your own veterinary costs and to ensure your dog is secured at all times. If there’s another incident, you’ll face fines and potentially more serious consequences.”

The man grumbled under his breath, but he didn’t argue.

After the hearing, we walked out of the building, and I finally let out the breath I’d been holding.

“See, Alice?” Dad said, giving my shoulder a squeeze. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

I nodded, but I still felt a little uneasy. “I just don’t want people to think I’m dangerous.”

“They don’t,” Dad said firmly. “The only one who was dangerous was that dog. You did the right thing, and the arbitrator knew it.”

At school, the story spread fast. Some kids thought it was hilarious that I’d taken down a big, scary dog. A few started calling me “Missy Hissy.”

“Don’t let it bother you,” Soo-jin said when I mentioned it at lunch. “You know what actually happened, and so do we.”

Emma nodded. “Yeah, besides, it’s not like you went looking for trouble. That dog came after us, and you protected us. If anything, they should be impressed.”

“Or jealous,” Francine added with a smirk. “I mean, who else gets to say they’ve got superhero claws?”

When I was little, my sisters used to tell me that I was supposed to be a cat. They loved calling me “the family pet.”

"Mom always said she wanted a cat for her last child," they'd tease. They were born with sleek human ears, of course. But mine, a little smaller and higher up on my head, had a subtle point, covered in the same dark, fine fur that covered my tail.

"And here you are," they'd laugh, displaying their ordinary fingernails while I hid my claws under the table, conscious of how they tapered sharply and glistened in the light.

I used to hate being teased, but as I grew, I learned that our Mom hadn't just mentioned the idea of having a daughter like me in passing. She'd loved cats all her life. Our home was filled with books and statues of them, posters with beautiful felines stretching out on rugs.

She grew up on a farm with cats in the house, in the barn, in the fields, in the woods, everywhere she looked there were cats. She told me they put out food every night for at least 15 cats. Strays found their way to her family’s yard, knowing they wouldn’t be turned away.

Once, she told me a story about a cat that had come to her in her dreams, one that could speak. "He told me I’d have a child that would never be fully human or fully feline but would carry the grace and magic of both. ‘She will live between worlds, but she will always have a place here, with you.’ And here you are—my little Alice," she’d say, running her hands over my ears or gently stroking my tail when I curled up on the couch beside her and purred.

And so, I remained her "not-quite-cat" daughter, walking in both worlds.

My mother gave me the gift of freedom to be myself, just as I was. But she had also given me the courage to believe in my own mystery.

By the time I was in kindergarten, I’d grown used to my differences. My claws might have been a bit sharper than fingernails, but with practice, I found I could write and draw just as easily. Cat ears, too, meant I could hear what people were saying from across the room. And a tail? Well, a tail helped me balance on my feet.

I hated P.E. with passion. For most kids, it was just an annoying hour of running laps and playing dodgeball, but for me, it was a complete disaster.

Take the climbing rope, for example. My feet claws would get caught in the fibers, and I’d end up dangling there awkwardly, trying to untangle myself while the rest of the class laughed.

“Come on, Alice!” Coach Morris would yell. “Just let go!”

“Easy for you to say!” I’d shout back, frantically trying to retract my claws without losing my grip entirely. Inwardly I realized I probably should have worn tennis shoes in PE. It would have saved me from the rope climbing embarrassment but that just wasn’t me.

After I wore through several pairs of shoes with my claws as a toddler, Mom and Dad didn’t force me to wear them anymore. I liked the sound and feeling of my claws clicking on various floors and surfaces, and over time my feet got tough enough that I didn’t feel sharp stones or worry about rain. I did wear boots in the snow but that was it.

And then there was gymnastics. Don’t even get me started on gymnastics. My tail was always in the way. Every time I tried a cartwheel or a flip, it would swing out, throwing off my balance or smacking me in the face.

“Watch your form, Alice!” Coach Morris would bark.

“I would if my tail didn’t have a mind of its own!” I’d mutter under my breath.

Even basketball was a nightmare. The constant squeal of tennis shoes on the court sent sharp pangs through my sensitive ears, making me wince with every step. It was like nails on a chalkboard but ten times worse.

“Why are you covering your ears?” one of the kids asked during a scrimmage. “It’s no use passing the ball to you.”

“Because it sounds like a herd of banshees in here!” I snapped, earning a few puzzled stares.

By the time class was over, I was always the first one out of the gym, eager to escape the chaos and noise.

“Why doesn’t your Mom just tell Coach you can’t do it?” Francine asked once as we walked to lunch.

“Because then everyone will think I’m making excuses,” I said, my tail flicking in frustration.

“You’re not,” she pointed out. “You’re literally built differently. It’s not your fault.” I shrugged, kicking at a leaf on the sidewalk.

Still, no matter how much I hated P.E., I survived it—just barely. And at the end of the year, I told myself it didn’t matter if I couldn’t climb ropes or shoot hoops.

I did a lot of things that I couldn’t explain. Like my obsession with empty boxes. I had to crawl inside, just to see how they felt, even if they were too small and I crushed them. And dark places—Mom started locking every cabinet in the house because as I got older and bigger, I kept getting stuck and yelling for help.

And let’s not forget the laser pointer. Mom bought one as a joke once. Big mistake. The first time she flicked the red dot across the ceiling, I dropped everything and lunged after it. Now, my sisters double over watching me scramble after it.

Dad always shook his head, muttering about "that darned cat."

Even my sleeping habits were strange. I’d nap anywhere—on top of bookshelves, curled up in the laundry basket, sprawled across the back of the couch. Once, Mom found me perched on the windowsill, dozing with one leg dangling off the edge, as a gentle breeze swished the curtains.

"How is that even comfortable?" she asked, shaking her head.

"It just is," I mumbled sleepily.

When I was little, kids didn’t know what to make of me. Having mostly human traits meant that I was enrolled in public school. Some classmates thought I was cool. Others treated me like a sideshow attraction.

"Do your ears work like a cat’s? Can you hear better than us?" (Yes.)

“Do you eat mice?” (No.)

"Does your tail hurt if I pull it?" (Don’t you dare.)

“Why don’t you have whiskers?” (I don’t know.)

“Do your eyes glow in the dark?” (No, they don’t. My pupils are round and I’m as blind in the dark as everyone else.)

I met Francine in second grade. She had this bright, fuzzy coat that reminded me of a sheep, and I couldn’t stop staring at it. During recess, she marched right up to me and said, "Do you like my coat or something?"

I blurted out, "It’s fluffy."

She tilted her head and smirked. "Fluffy, huh? Well, you’ve got ears like my neighbor’s cat, so I guess we’re even."

Soo-jin came a year later, joining us for a class project about science. I accidentally clawed the paper we were working on, shredding it. I expected her to freak out, but instead, she said, "Cool claws. Can you scratch my back with those?"

I thought she was joking, but she turned around and pointed to her shoulder. "Right there. I’ve got an itch."

I scratched her back—gently—and she sighed in relief. "That’s it. You’re my new best friend."

When Emma’s family moved in across the street, Mom told me to go over and say hello. I hesitated but then the girl waved and asked me to come see her new house.

From that point on, it was the four of us.

They always found my quirks funny more than anything. "I mean, how many people have a friend who can literally climb a tree in less than five seconds?" Francine said once, watching me scale a pine during a picnic.

Soo-jin added, "And your pouncing skills are unmatched. You’re like… a ninja. A weird, furry ninja."

“Furry?” I snorted. “I’ll have you know there’s not a shred of fur anywhere on me except my ears.”

But for every annoying comment, there were moments of genuine support.

When I felt self-conscious, Emma would remind me, "You’re unique, Alice. That’s why people remember you. And honestly, it’s why we love you."

"Honestly," Francine said one day, "I think it’s kind of cool that you’re so in touch with your instincts. You just… do things. No second-guessing, no hesitation. I wish I could be like that."

“I swear, Alice,” Soo-jin said one afternoon, laughing as I batted a pencil back and forth on the table in study hall. “You’d be perfect for a laser pointer game.”

I gave her a playful look, thinking about how fascinated I was with the one Mom flashed across the ceiling. “Oh, no,” I lied. “You won’t catch me chasing those things. That is beneath me.”