Changers Book Four

by T Cooper

  Crap. Destiny is avoiding DJ in advance of her Forever Ceremony. But I thought he might be her one. Or that she’d at least break it off cleanly, face to face.

  “I think she’s been having some drama at home,” I lie.

  “Five seconds ago you said she was fine,” he throws back.

  “She hasn’t been in touch much with me either,” I lie again.

  “Uh-huh.”

  This feels gross. Also, not my job. Destiny should be handling her own business. The tortured, confused expression on DJ’s face reminds me yet again how morally complicated this whole Changer methodology can be in the Static world. I really like DJ. Hell, we went to jail together last year when we were arrested for not being white. If only I could tell him that. Or that Destiny was once three other teenagers and that her attention is probably elsewhere at this moment because she is mulling over what person she’s LITERALLY going to be, though that doesn’t mean she doesn’t love you, because she really, really does.

  “I’ll give her a holler tonight and see what’s up,” I offer.

  “Got it,” DJ says, composing himself. “I shouldn’t have asked. It’s not right putting you in the middle.”

  “Totally not a problem,” I say, I putting a hand on his shoulder. “So. I heard you’re headed to Yale.”

  “Yep. Yale drama.”

  “Is that like regular drama, but smarter? Like, instead of, Suck a dick, douche bag, it’s all, You’ll henceforth rue the day and whatnot?”

  DJ snorts, not quite allowing himself to laugh. “Something like that.”

  I try to be helpful: “Listen, maybe Destiny doesn’t want to hold you back from of any of these great things headed your way. She probably figures you want to fly and be free.”

  “She could never be in the way of anything in my life,” DJ says, as Audrey approaches and respectfully mouths, Ready? because it’s time to go to class.

  “Everything is going to work out,” I lie. Again.

  DJ turns, stuffs headphones into his ears, and shuffles off. It’s crushing to watch, but selfishly I’m glad I’m never going to have to do to Audrey what Destiny is doing to DJ. Audrey knows everything, and will continue to know everything.

  * * *

  Knowledge is power, and I said as much to Destiny as soon as I got home from school, locking myself in my bedroom to Facetime her and fill her in on DJ’s anguish in the cafeteria.

  “What else can I do?” she says.

  “Do you love him?” I ask.

  “Sure . . .”

  “Yes or no? Because DJ’s a good guy. Like, one of the best.”

  “Come on,” she says, getting a little ticked off, “I’m aware. But do you really think I’m supposed to meet my Static while I’m still in high school? What is this, 1920? Nobody knows what will make them happy forever in high school.”

  I don’t speak.

  “Sorry.”

  “I care about you both,” I say, stating the obvious.

  “I’m doing this precisely because I care about him,” she sighs.

  “I know, I know, it’s okay.”

  “It’s not okay, Kim!” she snaps. “I didn’t go rogue and tell my boyfriend like you told Audrey. Did you ever think that maybe doing that places an unfair burden on her? That maybe rules are there for a reason?”

  “I didn’t see you worried about rules during the visibility march.”

  “That was about supporting who we are, showing up for difference. When that video went viral, I told DJ I was marching as an ally to my queer and social activist friends.”

  “So many lies,” I say.

  “White lies that protect us and them!”

  “But he knows the truth about your feelings for him,” I shoot back.

  “Yes. And that’s nowhere near the same as dumping your whole history on one person and then saying, Now love me unconditionally even if the next time you see me I look like the Keebler elf, and by the way, you’re now required to be complicit in this secret society, or else I might get disappeared.” Destiny takes a breath. “If I’m not going to be with DJ for the rest of my life, why saddle him with my baggage, with Changer baggage? Until the whole Changer community is out and integrated, it’ll only screw him up. The kindness is to maintain the lie.”

  Watching Destiny lecture me on the small screen on my bed, I feel a jolt deep in my gut. She’s kind of right. I never thought about the fact that telling Audrey, especially before I’ve completed my Cycle of changing, puts her in a pretty messed-up position. What if she’s not interested in the person I become next? Even if I’m the “same person on the inside,” and she somehow finds a way to let her feelings for Drew and Oryon extend to Kim, it doesn’t mean she’s necessarily always going to be attracted to my outside. I can hope, but I can’t really expect that sort of blind acceptance from her. She shouldn’t have to feel all this pressure to be “down” with something that is, let’s face it, weird. Never mind that her family is Abider-leaning, at best. Active DL Abiders at worst. Why did I think I could push all that aside? Oh right. Sex.

  “Audrey’s different,” I say. “And I couldn’t explain away the bracelet after she saw it.”

  “You wore it so she would see it. You put this in action. It was all for you, not for her.”

  “Whatever, Destiny.”

  “Maybe Audrey is different,” she continues. “I hope she is. But I need to set DJ free. It feels greedy that I kept him this close this long.”

  “He wants to be with you forever,” I point out.

  “He wants to be with Destiny forever.”

  “Well, yeah. I mean, can’t he at least have another year or something? Why rush?”

  Destiny falls quiet.

  And it clicks. Holy batballs! She’s considering not picking Destiny. The notion takes me aback. I guess I’d assumed all year that she’d choose to be Destiny. I mean, I would. Anyone in their right mind would. Look at her. Look at how people treat her. Why not go through life like that if you have the chance?

  “You aren’t declaring Destiny?” I ask, incredulous.

  “I don’t know,” she admits after a breath. “I don’t know what I’m doing. What I do know is that I don’t want to be thinking about a guy while I’m supposed to be thinking about ME, about who I’m trying to be.”

  “You sound like a Mary J. Blige song.”

  “Let me guess, one of your mom’s playlists?” she asks, switching it up, done with the combative part of the conversation, holding up a thick notebook with V1 printed on the front. “These Chronicles, man. They mess with your head.”

  “I can’t even imagine what reading those feels like.”

  “Well, you will soon enough,” she says, dropping the notebook, part one of four years’ worth of Destiny’s every thought and feeling thudding on her desk.

  “What’s the worst stuff to read so far?” I ask.

  “Oh easy, my time with you.”

  “Ha ha.”

  “You’ll be at my Forever Ceremony next week, right?” she asks genuinely.

  “Wouldn’t miss it.”

  “Wait—duh, you have to be there,” she says. “Changers Council rules! All Y-3s have to see what the Forever Ceremony’s all about so you know what to expect next year.”

  “I’d come even if Turner wasn’t taking attendance.”

  “Honest, I’m happy you’ll be there when I declare,” she says, gesturing to the stack of Chronicles on her desk. “I guess I gotta get back to these.”

  “If there’s anything I can do to help, holla. I can point out the pros and cons of your various personality traits—”

  “There is one thing,” she cuts in. “I’m going to write DJ a letter. A real-life old-fashioned paper one with a feather quill and ink and all that—and I want you to give it to him before my ceremony.”

  “Done. Maybe use a regular pen though.”

  “I love you, Kimmie. You feel that, right?”

  “I love you too,” I say, adding, “but only i
f you pick Destiny!”

  At that she made a grotesque face, contorting her lips and nose into unnerving shapes, right up close to the camera on her laptop, before she hung up.

  She was still pretty.

  Kim

  Change 3–Day 275

  Central Graduation was today. I couldn’t sit next to Audrey because she was with her family, her parents shedding copious tears when Jason limped across stage in his thick ankle boot and wooted as he reached center stage. I was there to support DJ and, let’s be real, spend as much time as possible in Audrey’s vicinity before she’s shipped off to orthodox redneck camp.

  Luckily, I sat where I could see Audrey and she could see me—a direct line, in fact. It was so sunny we both wore sunglasses, but a tingle still went up my spine when I sensed her gazing my way, that sweet smile on her face, those glossy pink lips. I swear she was just about to melt my insides to liquid, when I heard DJ’s name announced from the loudspeaker.

  I hopped up from my seat, clapped and whistled as he received his diploma and shook the principal’s hand (even though they announced you’re not supposed to do that for individual students). Whatevs. Give me detention next year; I’ll definitely show up!

  I whistled even louder when DJ turned and waved at his family in the middle rows, the sound startling and loud enough that even DJ heard, grinning and pointing my way before exiting stage left. After graduation, I “met” DJ’s mom Emebet, and by “met” I mean reintroduced myself as Kim, since we of course met when I was Oryon and she drove us to the Youth Poetry Slam finals that DJ dominated last year. As proud as Emebet was then, she was one hundred times prouder today, beaming and telling everyone within a mile radius that her baby boy was going to Yale!

  When she asked me and DJ to get together and pose for a photo, DJ whispered through his smile, “What did Destiny say?”

  To which I answered through an equally clenched smile, “One sec.”

  “Say Yale!” his mom commanded.

  “Yaaaaaaaale!” SNAP.

  DJ and I huddled. I reached into my rear pocket and pulled out an envelope, passing it to him and squeezing his hand when he took it.

  “I’m the proverbial messenger. Don’t shoot!”

  “So, not good news then,” he mumbled.

  “She really loves you,” I said. “Maybe read it later?”

  He nodded and hugged me hard before being dragged away for yet more photos with yet another batch of delighted relatives. At which point I spotted Audrey across the field going through the same family-portrait rigmarole, although in a decidedly less heartwarming environment.

  “Smile, little lady!” I heard her mother demand, as Audrey stood beside Jason, who was pretending to hump his empty diploma holder, because of course he was short the credits needed to graduate. “Jason Beauregard! You stop being so silly,” his mom said, as he struck a Heisman Trophy pose in his robe, then pretended to run and block Audrey on the football field.

  Poor Audrey.

  I got out my cell and texted her: 5 min by my scooter?

  I waited till I saw her check her phone and glance around before typing back: I have to go to brunch at Eat-aly. Then I’m all yours.

  Me: ALL mine?

  Audrey: Stop it.

  Me: I’ll pick you up outside Eat-aly in 2 hours. Bring me a breadstick.

  Audrey: xoxo

  * * *

  Most excruciating two hours of my year as Kim, which was already wall-to-wall excruciating, truth be told. But that’s not important anymore. I won Audrey back, and this time she’s not going away, even if I am.

  I can’t believe it was three years ago that Audrey pressed that Snoopy wrapping paper–covered box with the silver bracelet and the drum kit charm into my hand and told me we’d be best friends forever. In fact, we were supposed to have been adding charms to the bracelet each year of our friendship, which didn’t happen (for obvious reasons).

  But wait, it can! I realize. So I motor over to the jewelry store next to ReRunz to see if they have any charms I can add to the bracelet, and then I can regift it to Audrey as a tangible promise of our future together.

  I park, then push through the jewelry store door, which dings with an antique bell tied to the top. I scan the glass cases, searching for the charm section.

  The saleslady comes over. “Do you need some help, miss?”

  “I’m searching for something to go on this,” I say, pulling the bracelet out.

  She bends down, unlocks the cabinet, and presents a massive display case with at least a hundred velvet cubbies with silver charms in each. Jackpot.

  There are windmills, an open book, a penguin, a horse, a British telephone booth, every letter of the alphabet. A popsicle. I stick my fingers into as many of the compartments as possible, dangle each charm and consider whether it’s right. A tree. Interesting: life, growth, strength in the roots. Maybe. I lay it out on the counter.

  A tire. No.

  A flower. Her beauty. No, cheesy.

  A shovel. Symbolizing my willingness to go deep with her. Or the holes I keep digging for myself. Pass.

  A Scottie dog. Cute, but what does it mean?

  Fishing rod—no. Football—hell naw. Notebook—nope. Pretzel—WTF? Who knew how many types of charms there are in the world? (Who knew people loved pretzels that much?)

  Wait, what’s this? A paddle-wheel riverboat. Boom. The boat we watched slowly putter by from the riverbank when we, uh, reconnected. Perfect. I put it on the glass countertop. “This one for sure,” I say to the clerk, then keep sorting.

  The Eiffel Tower. Nope. The moon. Not quite right. An anchor. Almost, maybe too cliché; lay it out. A music note, because she makes my heart sing . . . and now I’m making myself puke. And then, YES! There it is. An old-fashioned airplane like the one that was circling above when Audrey and Oryon kissed on the blanket by the community airport.

  I ask the saleswoman to add the boat and plane to the bracelet beside the drum kit. But it still feels spare. I open my wallet to see how much cash I have left over from allowance.

  “How much are the letters?”

  “Five apiece,” she says, “but if you buy three, you get one free.”

  “I’ll take an A, D, O, and K.”

  “Most folks get one letter, for their first or their last name.”

  “I’m not most folks.”

  “Seems odd is all,” she pushes, really leaning into her role as the bracelet police. “Unless they’re the initials of your kids. They your kids?”

  “I’m sixteen years old.”

  The saleslady just slow-blinks. “Will that do it for today?” she asks at last.

  “For today,” I nod, thinking about next year, and what initial I’ll be coming back to buy.

  * * *

  After getting the charm bracelet squared away and polished up, I fill up the tank on my scooter and scoop Audrey up from behind Eat-aly, and off we go. No maps on our phones, no plan. I did hear a stern, “Be back by seven thirty!” from Audrey’s father waft from around the corner of the restaurant entrance where I was hiding out. (I still keep my distance from her family, especially after the RaChas march.)

  It’s amazing how soon you can get out of town when you want to. How quickly the buildings get more squat, more sparse, more alike. How the cars change from foreign to American, sedans and coupes to pickups and trucks. How a rebel flag will pop up here and there, sun-faded and whipping in the wind. How the people seem less on the move, more set in their ways. Because they are. If the looks we get at the Quickie Mart are any indication.

  While Audrey goes to the bathroom, I wander the aisles and pick out a couple bottles of water, some spicy chips, corn nuts, a box of Junior Mints. The guy behind the counter in a Don’t Mess with Dixie hat sneers at me, glancing out at my Vespa, our two sparkly helmets perched on the rearview mirrors, then back at me, down at my chest. My chest! Then finally back up at my actual face, though he can’t seem to keep his focus there.

  “Eight
fifty-eight,” he says, with about as much disdain as can be mustered for mere numbers.

  “Hey,” Audrey says, bumping my hips with hers as she joins me at the counter.

  The guy takes my ten-dollar bill, being sure not to touch my fingers, and sneers at Audrey, turns his back to us, muttering.

  “Really?” Audrey whispers, loud enough for him to hear.

  I nudge her to quit.

  “We’re out of pennies,” he spits, turning around to dump the change into my palm, again making sure we have no accidental human-to-human contact, lest he actually touch me and catch, what, feminism?

  “Thank you!” Audrey says brightly (fakely), and we push through the glass door, the squeak of the hinge shy of making enough noise to drown out the “See you next Tuesday” aimed at our backs as we leave.

  “Wait, did he call us—?” Audrey asks outside, seemingly ready to go back in and confront the guy.

  “It’s not worth it,” I say. “Come on.”

  Audrey’s face flares red, like a tomato about to burst. I feel responsible. The reality of me and what I am on the outside slamming full speed and face-first into our otherwise perfect afternoon, even though I know it’s not me, it’s the culture around us that’s the problem.

  “What a creep,” she says. “I mean, why is he even . . .”

  “I’m sure he has some very fine qualities,” I try. “He’s probably really good at Bananagrams.”

  Audrey rolls her eyes. Softening.

  “I bet he makes an incredible tofu stir fry,” I add.

  “I bet he is awesome at recommending poetry,” she joins, relenting.

  “And dance clubs.”

  “And dancing.”

  “I bet he can do the whip like a mofo!”

  And then we’re off again, Audrey’s arms wrapped around my waist as we fly down the street with the hot air blowing in and around our bodies, weaving through the countryside, my Vespa’s throttle all the way open, us pulling almost fifty on a tiny road to wherever. I don’t care. Audrey doesn’t seem to either.