Changers Book Four

by T Cooper

  “It’s so horrible,” Audrey says. “I can’t imagine what it was like in that basement, not sure you’d survive.”

  “It wasn’t so bad,” I sigh. But it kind of was.

  “If only I hadn’t run out of the apartment like a crazy person,” Audrey says, anger and guilt in her voice now, “and called my brother to give me a ride home. Maybe we would have been walking your dog together that morning, or . . .”

  “Look at me.” I gently take Audrey’s chin in my hand. “You are the bravest, kindest, most accepting person I know. Thank you for letting me share all of this with you. Anybody else would have melted down and bailed.”

  “But I’m the reason you got abducted.”

  “I got abducted because of who I am, and what people in this world fear about who I am. That has nothing to do with you.” And then, because she seems so inconsolably sad, I add one last thing: “No matter what happens from here on out, I’ll never keep anything from you again.”

  “You swear?” she responds, apparently relieved for the moment. “You’ll tell me the truth, always?”

  “I swear,” I say. And I mean it.

  Kim

  Change 3–Day 265

  You know that nineties song “Dreams Can Come True”?

  If you don’t, you can listen to the inside of my head right now because that jam is on an endless loop:

  Just a question of time I knew we’d be together

  And that you’d be mine, I want you here forever

  Do you hear what I’m saying gotta say how I feel

  I can’t believe you’re here but I know that you’re real . . .

  Dreams can come true

  Look at me babe I’m with you . . .

  I’m officially proclaiming it the “Audrey and me” theme song, because not only does it sum up the past three years of our roller-coaster romance, but it also lays down the unicorn wonder starburst moment that is happening this instant. Because, yeah baby, like the proverbial band, Audrey and I are back together.

  After all my pining and depression and living in a self-dug hole of misery for, oh, a whole freaking year, Audrey has come around, and by come around I mean we had sex.

  Boom.

  It happened yesterday when I picked her up on my Vespa and we drove downtown, hanging out on a blanket by what I now think of as OUR river, watching the old-fashioned tourist paddleboats putter by, listening to playlists she’d made—heavy with songs from the Cure and Tegan and Sara, I might add. She confided she’d made some of the lists weeks ago with me in the back of her mind.

  She’d never really been able to shake me, even though she didn’t know why. That fluke night at the bowling alley when I impressed her with my give-no-effs at karaoke had something to do with it. How much fun she had, despite herself. And now that she did know, meaning KNOW the truth of who I am, all the chips fell into place, and the more time we spent together our last couple months, the easier it became for her to spot Drew and Oryon in me, to see all of me in general, and well, as the sun began to set, and we moved our blanket behind some trees, one song led to a peck on the head, which led to a kiss, which led to a grope, which led to Audrey suddenly climbing on top of me, pulling the second blanket over us and letting herself go wild in a way I’d never seen before.

  It was, all told, a glorious night.

  Even if the ride home was a little strange. Lucky the wind was loud, and we couldn’t hear much through our helmets. I think Audrey was embarrassed. It’s like she surprised herself. Maybe she had some regret. But I didn’t care. I mean, I care about her, which would be obvious to a blind-ass bat from space. But I didn’t care to plumb whatever fears or second thoughts Audrey was wrestling with in her busy brain because I’d just had sex with the woman I love for the second time, and that was a high I was going to ride for as long as possible.

  Bee-Tee-Dubs, I’m still on that high.

  It’s not just the sex. (Okay, it’s a lot about the sex.) Some of my unbridled joy is the unique satisfaction that comes from being right about a person. Audrey is the Audrey I’ve always suspected her to be. Deep and soulful and above trivial concerns like physical appearance. Though I confess I was freaking when she reached under my shirt, her hands settling on my chest with such gentleness and acceptance, I swear my soul flew from my body.

  Audrey found a way to love me as Kim. Not that Kim is unlovable. But Kim is no Oryon. She’s not a Drew. She’s not typical or traditional or conventional or the image anyone sees celebrated in any media ever. Chubby Asian girls aren’t exactly popping up on all the lit feeds. Kim, in modern America, for all its claim to diversity and acceptance, is invisible. But as it turns out, none of that mattered, because Audrey connected with my insides.

  (Boy did she.)

  (Sorry.)

  (Not sorry.)

  Audrey confessed she’d realized she’d let herself get caught up in trying to be “normal” this year in school, because she was sick of fighting so hard to be different in her family, at school, with queen bee Chloe. Different wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. No matter how much they try and sell it in the soda ads.

  “Preaching to the choir,” I said, and she kissed me on the mouth hard, like an apology.

  * * *

  Later, when I Facetimed Kris and told him that Audrey and I slept together, and that SHE initiated it, he of course insisted on hearing every sordid detail, squealing with delight whenever a nipple entered the picture.

  “So now I have two mommies?” he joked.

  “That might be premature. I’m not sure she’s ready to be a card-carrying LGBTQ-club kid.”

  “Um, from what you’ve just shared, she could be president of the club.”

  Kris was still living with his drag mother, channeling every queen he met, wandering through the wilderness of his sexual and gender identity, assuming he was THE expert in the subject, blissfully naïve to the truth that his best buddy Kim was part of a race of people obliterating the very conceits of gender and sexuality to begin with.

  “Vice president,” I say, and Kris laughs.

  “Treasurer, because girlfriend was all about your coin purse,” he cracks.

  “Gross.”

  “Shanté, you stay,” he declares in his best RuPaul voice.

  “You sashay away.”

  “Mopping is stealing.”

  “You really need to stop watching Paris Is Burning on Netflix every day,” I say.

  “And you really need to stop being a boring-ass drag, you big lez.”

  “Who are you calling big?” I joke.

  I watch Kris smiling on the tiny screen in his vintage perforated tank top and high-waisted jeans, and it hits me that in a few weeks, unless I decide to put him in the circle of trust, we won’t be friends anymore.

  Because I won’t be Kim anymore.

  “So when’s your next sex bout?” he asks.

  “I’m having it now.”

  Kris does a full-on fake puke. “Did you read that article in Nat Geo about how there are gay dolphins? Legit same-sex dolphin couples. Put that in your homosexuality-is-unnatural pipe and smoke it, phobic arseholes.” I hear a gravelly voice in the background asking Kris about cigarettes. “I’m happy for you, you stupid bitch,” he says, “but I gotta go.”

  “Me too.”

  “Now find me a freak to love.”

  “Shouldn’t be a problem. I know a lot of freaks.” I point at him, and Kris blows me a kiss as the screen freezes, then goes black.

  I try Facetiming Audrey after that, but she doesn’t pick up. I push down the worry that immediately crowds my thoughts. Worry that she is scouring the dark web for a drug to vanish any trace in her head of our afternoon by the river. Worry that Jason somehow senses a ripple in his Abider-leaning matrix and has cornered Audrey in her bedroom, screaming at her with a megaphone about the dangers of hanging with anyone who doesn’t look like one of those kids from Cabaret who sing “Tomorrow Belongs to Me.” Who am I kidding? That’s every night at
Audrey’s house.

  I try Facetiming Destiny. She texts that she can’t pick up, says to call like it’s 1999 or some crap. So I old-school phone her.

  “Hey, girl,” she says when she picks up. “How’s sweet, sad Andy?”

  “Fine. Sweet. Sad. Still in love with you.”

  “Awwww.”

  “So. I had sex with Audrey.”

  “Hello! Why didn’t you say so?”

  “I just did.”

  “Man. That’s major. Beyond. How do you feel? How was it?”

  “Remember the rain scene in The Notebook?” I say.

  “Yeah.”

  “Like that, only sunny.”

  “So, not the worst.” Destiny laughs.

  “No. Not the worst.” I laugh back. Then proceed to tell her all the gories. And, of course, my irrational fears.

  “Not so irrational, given the history there,” Destiny observes.

  I knew she was right. Making Audrey my Static is like trying to thread a needle with my feet. An uphill battle, at best. Premature, according to every Changers and Static standard since the final decades of the twentieth century. But you can’t choose who you love. Right? Or when you love.

  “Don’t take this the wrong way,” Destiny says, “but my priority is you. Your safety. Your heart. You’re a goddamned jewel, and from what I’ve seen, that family is Shining-level scary.”

  I stay quiet.

  Destiny continues: “I mean, her brother? He’s like a car alarm that never shuts off. And her parents? I don’t know, Kim.”

  “You’re not wrong, but—”

  “But.” I hear her sigh on the other end of phone. “You’re sure this is what you want?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I’m here for it.”

  “Thanks, Destiny.”

  “What are you going to do about the fall? Your last V?” she asks.

  “I promised to tell her.”

  Another long sigh.

  “I’m tired of lying,” I add.

  “I hear you. But . . .”

  “But what?”

  “You have no idea what’s going to happen next year. Can you trust her?”

  “Yes,” I say defensively.

  “Dang, DJ’s texting. Gotta go. Be careful.”

  * * *

  It’s three a.m. I can’t sleep. It’s like I have a big test tomorrow. I check the clock every hour. In a way, I do have a test. School is ending in less than two weeks. Audrey will go to her hidey-hole church camp. I will be stuck here. Odds are we won’t see each other until the first day of my final V. Which could be anything. I could be anyone. Anyone but Kim. Or Oryon. Or Drew. Or Ethan. In the end, Audrey loved all of them in a way. More than I loved them myself.

  When people get married, they’re supposed to stick together through anything. For better or worse. Sickness and health. Hell or high water. That’s what love is supposed to do. But the divorce stats tell a different story. All people change, and the people who love them often hate the change, and then that’s that.

  * * *

  It’s four a.m. And I’m spiraling. I’ve always been a spiraler. I guess Ethan’s overthinking and struggles with anxiety are one of the lovely bonuses that stuck with me through every change. Couldn’t have been his coordination or his thick hair.

  I try to do deep breathing. Simply be. Simply be. In the moment.

  Why can’t I be happy? I started this day so high and confident. Dreams can come true. Blah blah blah. A few hours later, the nightmares are setting in every time I doze off. I would do almost anything to get a handle on my brain, to be able to shut it down. I know how lucky I am. I’m not breaking brick in a Scientology work camp. I have amazing friends and parents who love me, and yet, spin spin spin. The what-if thought train barreling down my track.

  I guess sex does complicate things.

  At least this time I’m not getting postcoitally abducted. Hijacked by my insecurities, maybe.

  How early is too early to text Audrey before school?

  Kim

  Change 3–Day 267

  Parking my scooter in the student lot and bending over to lock the wheel, I hear the familiar rumble: Jason’s car screaming into the roundabout in front of school. It screeches to a halt so that everybody notices—the wormhole of insecurity in this dude knows no bottom—and Audrey steps out. She doesn’t really acknowledge or say goodbye to him, just slams the door. I wait until he speeds off (more tire-squealing so every Central student within earshot has to check him out), and then I stay close to the side of the building (okay, lurk) while I consider how to approach Audrey.

  After following a safe distance behind her for what any outside observer might consider a creepy amount of time, I get the courage to call out a soft and nonthreatening, “Hey,” which startles her nonetheless.

  “Hey,” she echoes.

  “What’s up? How are you feeling?” I ask, trying not to be too obvious I’m referencing the whole sex thing.

  “I’m okay,” she says. “You?”

  I can’t tell which way this is going. She’s staring at me with no expression, the student body floating by on the warm breeze, amped up to be headed into their last full week of the school year. It’s like she’s been shot with a tranquilizer dart.

  “Soooo,” I say.

  “So.”

  “Yeah, so.”

  “Soooooo.” She exhales sharply, the breath popping her bangs up over her forehead.

  “This chemistry is electric,” I try, cracking a hint of a smile to hopefully break the awkwardness. It doesn’t.

  I’m officially freaking out on the inside, but doing everything in my power not to reveal even a flicker of anxiety on the outside. I’m running cool-girl exit lines in my head when all of a sudden Audrey launches toward me. For a split-second I think she’s coming in for a hug, but then I realize that Chloe has blown past, shoving Audrey from behind.

  “Chubby chase much?” Chloe hisses as she and her crew strut past.

  I put a hand out to catch Audrey before she falls, and we burst out laughing, the postsex tension bubble bursting.

  “I guess Chloe didn’t get the message that fat-shaming is so five years ago,” I say, as Audrey rights herself. “Girlfriend is not on trend.”

  Audrey smiles wanly. “I can’t believe how much time I wasted with her.”

  “I can’t either.”

  “Thanks.”

  “What did y’all even talk about?” I ask.

  “Lot of makeup tutorials. Lot of thirsty posting for Instagram likes.”

  “Symbiotic.”

  “You know, I once caught her lifting images from this New York party girl’s account and using them on her own.”

  “No way. That’s tragic.” (As I’m saying this it occurs to me that hiding within the lives of other people may not be only a Changer imperative.)

  “She’s a sad little character. I kind of feel bad for her,” Audrey says.

  “You feel bad for the hateful narcissist who wishes us dead?”

  Audrey snorts. “Kinda.”

  I fight the urge to kiss her on the lips. Behind us, the bell rings.

  “We should go,” Audrey says, not moving.

  “We totally should,” I say, not moving either.

  * * *

  When we finally make it to homeroom, Mr. Crowell is still avoiding direct contact with me. Instead, he nervously flits about, fingering his skinny tie, flipping through papers on his cluttered desk, flopping and reflopping his hair. Tracy has told him all about the visibility march and how I was endangering Changer-kind for my own selfish ends, so I’m sure he has no idea what to say to me. (I wonder if Mr. Crowell ever regrets getting involved in this wack alternate universe—or with Tracy for that matter.)

  Audrey and I sit next to each other in the back of class—Kris flanking me on the other side, batting his lashes like dragonfly wings.

  “Hey there, kitty girl,” he greets Audrey, who blushes and waves. Then to me: “Wher
e’s the brother?”

  “Off campus at physical therapy rehabbing his busted knee.”

  “Never thought I’d be in favor of police brutality,” Kris snarks; I shoot him a look. “Too far?”

  At lunch, four of us (Audrey, Kris, Michelle Hu, and I) perch at the end of the nerd table, Michelle droning on about the upcoming Lego League robotics camp. I’d assured Audrey I hadn’t told Kris much of anything about the s-e-x, but of course it’s obvious Kris knows everything, because Kris has a poker face like Lady Gaga, which is to say, he does not have one at all.

  I keep imploring him with my eyes to knock off the U-Haul and Electrelane references, but the more I make faces, the more Kris revels in his contraband knowledge. Meanwhile, I’m praying to the Changer gods that Audrey remembers Kris doesn’t know about me, that she won’t slip and mention the whole changing-into-four-different-people-during-high-school thing.

  Watching the two of them converse when each one thinks they know more than the other is a real mind cramp, let me tell you. All the brinkmanship and innuendo flying back and forth makes me want to explode a truth bomb over the entire table like we tried to do at the march. Finally tell all my friends the whole story about me.

  But I don’t. I guess the points Tracy made have sunk in more than I realized. I want to be out and proud. But outing myself necessarily means outing others who aren’t ready, or who could be thrust into danger—and that isn’t something I’m so sure I should do anymore.

  “Do you have a second?” It’s DJ, unexpectedly sidling up at the table.

  “Sure,” I say, nodding at Audrey and Kris to go ahead and bus their trays without me.

  “Hey, DJ,” Kris says, lingering.

  “Hey, Kris. Dope, uh, blouse.”

  Kris practically swoons as I nudge him along and away.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask DJ, who has the air of a guy whose cat has gone missing.

  “Is everything okay with Destiny?” he asks.

  “Yeah, why?”

  He shifts on his feet, lips pinched tight. “Uh, she’s, uh,” he begins, his voice quieting. “She’s not answering any of my calls or texts. I was thinking maybe her phone is broken or . . .”