by T Cooper
After about fifteen more miles, I spot a small wooden sign for a nature preserve and pull off the road, Audrey’s grip around me tightening. I glance down and see the bracelet making a bump in my jeans pocket. I roll under the shade of a big willow tree, the tips of its branches overhanging a creek in this quiet little cove. There’s a wooden bench facing the water. Nobody else around, save for a tiny lone figure on the other side of the river, walking away from us, a black-and-white dog bounding through the reeds.
We take off our helmets and prop them on the mirrors, and Audrey scrunches down her pants which had ridden up during the ride.
“Are you okay?” I ask, already sensing the answer.
“Mostly,” she responds.
“Want to sit?” I gesture toward the weathered bench, names and initials carved into its entire surface, on every side of every slat.
She nods and sits, gazing out over the water.
“I’m really sorry that happened,” I say, about being lesbian-profiled at the gas station.
“Why are you apologizing?”
“I don’t know.”
“It’s not your fault,” she says.
“Not in the meta sense. But I doubt he would have called you a name or acted so bothered if I’d been some white dude.”
Silence. After a while, the person and dog across the river disappear around the bend.
“The world sucks,” she says after a minute. “It shouldn’t matter what you are or not. If you were some Abercrombie model–looking dude, that hate would still exist—if not directed at us, then at somebody else. The next couple to pull into that gas station. It’s like there is a hate set point, like the water table, and there will always be a certain amount on hand, sloshing around and spilling all over certain people. I mean, history is rife with hate.”
“It’s also rife with grace and kindness,” I counter, half-believing myself. “And not for nothing, that’s why we Changers exist. To lower the levels. To reduce the slosh.”
“Really worked out at the Quickie Mart.”
“Yeah, well. That guy may be beyond my reach.”
“I’m sorry, I’m just dreading going back to camp tomorrow. Most of the people there think like that guy at the station.”
“Is there any way you can get out of it?” I ask, fingers crossed.
“I’ve tried. Like the last two summers—well, I mean, Drew knew. I mean . . . You know what I mean.”
She laughs, but then staunches it self-consciously. “My parents made a deal with me: if I go to camp every summer, they’ll help me pay for college. And I don’t want to mess with that. Because I am getting the hell out of here.”
I feel the bracelet pushing against my leg in my pocket.
“What’s that?” Audrey asks, clued in to my distraction.
“What?” I stall.
“In your pocket. I’ve been wondering all day.”
“Oh, this?” I say, lifting my hips and reaching into my pants, digging out a red velvety bag cinched shut with a drawstring. I place it on her thigh. “Open it.”
When Audrey pulls the bracelet out of the bag, she immediately starts weeping. Says it’s the most romantic thing anybody has ever done for her. How she’ll wear it every day until it disintegrates around her wrist. She asks me to help her put it on, then kisses me unself-consciously, as if the gas station incident never happened.
“It’s the story of us,” she says, getting it instantly.
“After school starts,” I say, my voice warbly, “I’ll bring you the last initial to add to make it complete.”
Audrey’s smile is so big, so genuine, so hopeful and trusting and certain—I never want it to dissipate. She cocks her head at me. “Are you nervous?”
“About?”
“About the change.”
“Should I be?”
She doesn’t hesitate: “No. I’ll love you no matter what.”
Kim
Change 3–Day 276
A Changer Council Forever Ceremony is basically an American Idol finale, if American Idol had 1/100th the budget and was produced by a well-meaning cult. It’s as if Turner the Lives Coach got a memo that to stay hip with the kids there needed to be flashing lights, booming bass, and outfits like you’d see at Epcot Center. (No doubt Tracy’s influence there.)
Held in the large warehouse auditorium at Changers Central, the ceremony opens with the Parade of the Undeclared, all the Y-4 Changers-in-waiting wearing only black except for a white sash knotted at the hip. Turner is, of course, dressed in flowing scarlet robes and a bejeweled headdress like he’s a geisha from Big Trouble in Little China (Mom’s favorite movie that she makes me watch every year for her birthday. That Kurt Russell has a hold on her I don’t care to dwell on).
I’d love nothing more than to snap a picture of this whole variety show to send to Kris, but of course cameras are forbidden at the Forever Ceremony, and Kris knows nothing of Changers, nor how he essentially is one without actually being one, so sharing this particular absurdity will have to wait until Changers are completely out in the open, and a hundred-year-old Ryan Seacrest wheels out onstage to host the televised version of Forever Ceremonies for the whole world to tune in and TEXT THEIR VOTE! for which V each Y-4 Changer should pick.
After a few introductory videos about how great the hopefully-not-too-distant future will one day be, Turner slinks up to center stage and starts speaking. It’s the usual In the many, we are one groupthink, a version of what we hear every year at the first Changers Mixer of whatever V you’ve changed into, but with a few added flourishes for the special occasion of all these Y-4 Changers on the brink of completing their Cycles and selecting their Forever V’s. Macaroni-and-cheesy though it is, it can’t help but feel monumental.
“When you become the image of your own imagination, it’s the most powerful thing you could ever do,” Turner thunders, after which I reflexively tune out; I strain my head and squint to see if I can spot where Destiny is sitting in the front row. As Turner carries on (various words and phrases manage to penetrate my consciousness—“chosen,” “mission,” “gift you’ve been given,” “model for your people,” “exponential growth”—a few parents begin to snuffle and root tissues from their pockets. And then, finally, the first of half a dozen or so Y-4 Changers from the Southeastern region walks up to announce who he will be for the rest of his life.
Immediately I’m consumed with the sheer terror of recognition that I’ll have to do this myself in a year’s time. I guess all Turner’s blather is kind of astute: we are watching nothing less than the birth of a generation. And the heaviness of choosing one iteration, at the expense of three others, is powerful, but also heartbreaking. How do you say goodbye forever to yourselves?
The first Y-4 stands nervously beside the podium, like he is unsure where to go, even though I know there had to be at least three rehearsals for the ceremony prior to this moment. Turner sidles over, grips the kid’s shoulder, and nods for him to step forward and speak. Photos of all four of his V’s flash theatrically on the screen behind him, one after the other, as he searches the crowd and lands on his parents, who clap sparsely for a few rounds before the whole audience joins in applauding encouragement to spur the kid to embrace his moment.
“Always hardest to go first,” Turner says performatively into the flesh-colored microphone headset pressed to his cheek.
The kid anxiously low-talks a few words about his four-year journey, then, fast as he can, presses one of four buttons atop the podium, as a soft, ancient-sounding drumbeat begins to pulse through the room. The lights dim, a cone of spotlight on him while he slowly turns his back to the audience and peers up at the four photos on the screens above; in the last he is his current V, of course, a skinny white kid who looks like the fifth Beatle. He bows his head, and the lights cut out suddenly and entirely, where all we can see are the images of the four V’s projected on one giant screen.
One by one they go dark. Until the only one left illuminated is his V from junior year
, Vincent, a handsome black guy with Colin Kaepernick hair and wearing a bright-red T-shirt. The lights come back, and the graduate spins around, but now he’s that guy. The whole room cheers, a few people shouting his chosen name. Vincent embraces Turner and a few other berobed Changers Council members, before shakily returning to his seat in the first row.
It’s intimate and emotional and more than a little mind-blowing that the Y-4s are changing onstage like a Criss Angel mindfreak magic trick, but I’m holding it down.
A few more graduates go, then finally it’s Destiny’s turn. We watch the montage of her V’s populate the screens, and I have to say, it’s trippy as hell to see her as Tapia and Colton, her first two V’s I never knew, nor heard much about. It dawns on me right then that not everybody gets two girls and two boys as their V’s; Elyse got three girls and one boy (and was a boy before she turned into Tapia).
Then a photo of Elyse comes up on the screens—my cellmate and recovery buddy, and the kind of badass chick we all aspire to be, no matter what our outside gender. Before I can get too misty missing Elyse, a photo of Destiny pops up, and I swear you can hear a collective gasp from the audience, like Beyoncé burst into the room in a sparkle leotard or something. The photo of Destiny lingers, eating up the screen with so much organic glamour and charm it makes your head spin, and it’s obvious to everybody in the joint what Destiny’s destiny is.
Real-life Destiny approaches the podium, bumping the mic with her chin as she leans in, causing a jolt of feedback, and it’s probably the only time I’ve seen her seem outwardly nervous in a year. She apologizes for the disturbance, clears her throat in a sweet little hiccup, and bends the stem of the mic toward her perfect lips. The room is silent, rapt.
“Voltaire wrote, Minds differ still more than faces,” she begins. “One thing I’ve realized over my short lives is that no matter who we are or who we become, our time is limited. So there’s no use wasting even a minute of it living someone else’s life. As I’ve inhabited these four bodies, and especially while rereading my Chronicles, it’s become clearer that of those four lives you see onscreen, only one of them has made me truly feel like I was alive, like I was myself.”
Destiny is calm while she speaks these words, but I can tell she’s choking down a sizable lump in her throat. I scooch forward in my seat, as if that half-inch will make a difference and I’ll hear the news quicker.
“One of the hardest lessons I’ve struggled to learn over the last four years is not to let others’ opinions drown out my inner voice and intuition. But in this instance, the biggest one we’ll face as Changers, I have decided to follow my heart.”
And at that, Destiny reaches to press her button on the podium, the drumbeat commencing, the spotlight on her while she turns her back, bows her head. Again, the lights cut, and one by one her photos go dark. First Tapia, then Colton . . . and then the last . . .
Destiny.
Leaving only my friend, my dear, special friend: Elyse.
The lights snap back up, and Elyse turns around to face us, the audience erupting in celebration as they have for each new Mono. I am straight-up bawling, so thrilled to see Elyse again. I wasn’t sure I ever would.
It’s not that I didn’t adore Destiny. Destiny was an undeniable force of wonder and beauty. But she wasn’t Elyse. Or more, as Destiny’s speech made clear, Elyse wasn’t Destiny.
I guess Destiny was sort of like a boss cocktail dress that you wear out on special occasions, pose for the cat-calling paparazzi, then go home and peel off because the straps are cutting into your shoulder blades. Whereas Elyse was goofy pajamas and prescription eyeglasses and fly-away hair. And the kind of confidence that doesn’t come from the outside. Elyse was . . . Elyse. And Elyse choosing Elyse says more about her essential Elyse-ness than anything else. She picked the awkward weirdo, the tougher row. She opted to be seen by the few, not worshipped by the many. She made a choice I’m not sure many people would, Changers or Statics, if they had the chance.
I mean, damn, who doesn’t want to be Beyoncé?
Elyse. That’s who. God, I love that girl.
In the seat next to me, my mom sees the tears streaming down my face and pulls me tight under her arm, kissing me lightly on the head. I feel exposed, but I can’t seem to stop. The naked emotion of Elyse declaring herself overriding all my cynicism and the silliness of the ceremony and Turner’s stupid, drapey robes.
The lights come up on the whole room. Elyse accepts Turner’s embrace, shaking a few more Changers Council hands, gingerly stepping offstage. I can see she is also crying, but smiling too, grinning ear to ear, unburdened, flooded with the palpable joy that comes from finally seeing yourself the way you always imagined you would be.
* * *
Turner wrapped up the ceremony with a few words aimed especially at the Y-3s in the house, advising us to live our last approaching V’s to the fullest and Chronicle our hearts out, because we will be called up to this stage to declare before we know it. Noted.
Afterward, I made my way to Elyse and we hugged for a brief moment, held on tight—but it was her Forever Ceremony, and all the Monos were swept up with family and Touchstones, and one-on-one powwows with Turner about their new, refocused responsibilities as they enter the world, I’m sure referencing the eventual goal (no rush though!) to find Static mates, and be a vessel to help spread the gospel of empathy and change. (A message that never stops feeling a tad Big Brother-y to me, but hey, not the time or the place for resistance.)
Elyse promised she’d get in touch as soon as she could, but I knew there was going to be tons for her to do in the next months. Orientation sessions and meetings at Changers Central, the arranging of college admissions, potential relocations, beginning the process of blending past lives with this new/old forever one.
As my dad said goodbye to a few of the Council members, my mom put her arm around my waist and we headed toward the bright sunlight streaming through the glass in the lobby. I turned and gave Elyse one last wave and a big thumbs-up, like everything was aca-awesome. But of course it wasn’t. Not entirely. The Forever Ceremony is uplifting and inspiring and full-circley and all that, but it is also a stark reminder that the great big final unknown is coming for me yet again.
In a mere two and a half months, Kim (like Ethan, Drew, and Oryon before her) will be chucked to the curb with last week’s recycling, and I will awake as someone new. And unlike Elyse, I don’t even have a gut feeling as to where I’m leaning as far as declaring my Mono. It seems like I should have a sense of growing conviction like she did, or a tingling like Tracy always describes it, that someone I’ve lived as either IS or ISN’T who I “essentially” am.
But I don’t.
Drew, Oryon, Kim, they all kind of feel like me—but also don’t feel like me. I’m sure that’s some fundamental failing on my part. I mean, that was the message hammered home in so many different ways at the ceremony, by Council leadership, by every Y-4 Changer who stepped up on that stage and spoke their truth: Don’t worry what others think; worry what you think.
Destiny made the choice for her to be Elyse, despite the fact that DJ of course would (obviously) prefer Destiny. I mean, had she given him a chance, maybe he would choose otherwise, but she let go entirely of what he might or might not do, and made the decision that was right for her. Me? I can’t stop agonizing over how Audrey will feel about the next me. Whether she’ll be able to live with him/her/them for a year, whether she’ll be able to love them like she promises she will, like she loved Drew and Oryon before.
I want to believe her. But deep down, it’s impossible to truly predict how you will feel about something that hasn’t even happened yet. Trust me on that. I’m kind of an expert.
Kim
Change 3–Day 348
Herewith: the sum of my summer, conveniently bullet-pointed for (my own) future reference . . .
• Working six days a week at ReRunz, sometimes seven when this skuzzy yet still appealing Changer guy named Tiq b
ails on account of staying out too late drinking and smoking with his equally skuzzy (less appealing) buddies, then calls me last minute to fill in for him because he’s “way too hungover to fold clothes.”
• Paying for gas, insurance, and significant mechanical and cosmetic repairs on my Vespa, in preparation for all the places I plan to take Audrey with me once school starts.
• Walking Andy through Destiny’s decision not to be Destiny, at least once and sometimes twice a day.
• Balancing on the friendship tightrope with Kris, who I want to confide in, but thanks to then-Destiny’s lecture about burdening your loved ones with the truth, I have decided I probably can’t. So trying to enjoy what little time I have left with him as Kim and hoping he gets sidetracked by his own mini-dramas, of which there are plenty.
• Going vegetarian (in Audrey’s honor), then going back to eating turkey and chicken, then going vegetarian again—before finally going back to eating everything because at the end of every shift at Sweet Melissa’s Chicken Shack where Andy works, we can cop as much free food as we can stuff our faces with.
• Seeing Tracy for an awkward afternoon tea, during which she apologized for letting me down by seemingly giving up on me after the RaChas march, and insisting that no matter what I do, or how frustrated she gets, she will never actually give up on me. And let’s not forget her making me promise not to tell Audrey who I am next year, so that it limits the exposure I brought on ALL OF US by participating in the RaChas action and tipping off Audrey to the fact that Changers might exist (if she only knew half of what I actually shared with Audrey).
• Going on a quick beach weekend in Florida with my mom, dad, and Andy, during which it rained the whole time, and some kid got a superficial shark bite on the shin where we were staying, so rain or shine you were not going to find my chubby butt bobbing out in that water like so much Jaws bait. We did connect with one of Nana’s friends from her old apartment complex, who gave me a box of Nana’s things that had been left behind when Mom and Dad moved her in with us earlier this year. They still smelled like Nana.
