Changers Book Four

by T Cooper

  He took another long drink.

  “It’s ironic. In my obsession to elevate Changerkind, I lost sight of what being a Changer actually means. How every V holds advantages and liabilities. How every V teaches the world something valuable. How little the outside shell means in the end.”

  I swallowed a small swig then too.

  “I’m sorry, Kyle. I’m sorry, Kim. Oryon. Drew. I’m so sorry. I don’t know how I could have lost my way.” Dad threw his head on the table, folded his arms over the top. He was getting a little drunk, of course. But I chose to believe he meant what he said nonetheless.

  “We all lose our way, Dad,” I said, unsure if I should touch him. “That’s why we have a family. To show us the way home.” I patted him a couple times on the back.

  He lifted his head, shot me a bleary eye. “You know you and Mom are always home to me, right?”

  Change 4–Day 261

  Reading these Chronicles induces that same gut punch you get when you hear your own recorded voice for the first time. Except the Chronicles make you a million times more uncomfortable and self-conscious. Revisiting every boneheaded decision I’ve made in the last four years. Seeing my wants and needs splashed all over the page like so much teenage ooze.

  I’ve spent the last six days with these journals, and I’m only up to the day before I became Kim. I’m trying to get them read before I need to turn the minimum of attention to finals, which start in two days.

  It dawns on me that I might benefit from some external perspective. No Changers Bible rule against that. So I head out to the living room, where Andy’s sitting cross-legged in the middle of his pullout bed, split-open books and papers spread out in a circle around him.

  “Hey, man, what are you up to?” I ask.

  “What does it look like I’m up to? Trying not to fail chemistry and having to repeat a third junior year. What about you?”

  “Not studying. Got this Forever Ceremony coming up after graduation,” I say, and plop on the love seat across from him. He’s a tad irked that I’m taking time away from his cramming. Which I am. But I need a friend. One who’s been there since the beginning, even if he wasn’t here for all of the in-between.

  “Yeah, your mom told me a little about that. That is some sci-fi realness, dude.”

  “I’m paralyzed,” I say. “I mean, there’s this whole part of me that wants to stay like this, because then I won’t have to go through a whole change again, and it’s not like this is the worst person to be in the world.”

  “What about Audrey?” he asks, putting down his pencil.

  “Yeah, that’s the other part,” I admit. “A big part.”

  “What are you gonna do about her?”

  “I don’t know,” I say, rubbing my eyes really hard with my knuckles. When I stop, there are four blurry Andys in front of me. “I really love her, but if I don’t pick Kyle, then I can’t be with her. Because she doesn’t remember any of my other V’s.”

  “Quite a pickle,” Andy says.

  “I’m serious, it’s about to kill me.”

  “I get how serious it is. I’ve been ghosted by a Changer before, remember?”

  “I think Audrey’s my One,” I say, the only time I’ve spoken it aloud to anybody but her. “But what if Kyle isn’t who I’m supposed to be?”

  Andy nods his head quietly, pondering.

  “Do I seem like Kyle to you?” I ask him.

  “What does that mean?”

  “Like, does this person seem like me?” I’m not even really sure what I’m asking.

  “I guess,” he says.

  “So not really?”

  He thinks about it for a few seconds while I pet Snoopy, who’d waggled over for a scratch. “I guess if I’m honest, you still seem like Ethan to me, or at least that’s how I think of you.”

  “Okay.”

  He goes on, “But you’re Ethan who’s lived through a lot over the last four years, regardless of who you lived those years as. Does that make any sense?”

  “So I’m aging like a president.”

  He starts laughing. “It almost doesn’t matter who you pick for your exterior, because you’re still the same person I’ve always known . . . a loser.” Andy is amused as hell at himself.

  “Sick burn,” I say flatly. “Really. The sickest.”

  “One serious question, though, if I may,” Andy adds, as I get up to head back to my room. “Was Drew hot? Like someone I’d want to smash? Because if so, definitely pick one of the other three.”

  I hurl a pillow at him, then go back to the journals to take a little trip down Kim Cruz lane.

  Change 4–Day 268

  It didn’t rain on graduation like they were calling for. In fact, it was clear skies for miles.

  Mom and Dad were seated eleven rows back from the stage, Andy next to Dad, and Tracy next to Mom, the two of them passing baby Ethan (in a ginormous sun hat) back and forth between them every time he fussed. Mr. Crowell was up on the dais, there to hand out the humanities awards.

  I’m seated with the S row of grads donned in plain blue caps and gowns, no extra accoutrements. Audrey is, of course, with Michelle in the crushing-it-in-high-school section in the front rows, for students graduating with a 3.9–4.0 GPA. Which means they have fancy gold sashes around their necks and over their gowns, like the intellectual elites they are.

  Luckily, I’m not all alone back here, as Kris is in the T section, which ended up being one row and two seats behind me. He (or I should say she now) has a striped maxi-dress on under her gown, barely peeking out from the hem. And chunky Fluevog wedges that look like something a stripper on Venus might wear.

  “I’m coming out, I want the world to know, got to let it show,” Kris whisper-sings Diana Ross from behind me.

  “Shhh,” the kid next to her hisses.

  “Really?” I say, pulling a tough-guy face at the kid—me the star quarterback with a full ride to play at a D-1 school—and he instantly snaps back to minding his own business, sweating there in his too-tight and way-too-wide necktie.

  As valedictorian, Michelle is called up to speak. She nails it. Hits all the notes: social justice, responsibility to our environment, hope for the future. Her moms go nuts when she crumples up her speech and grins at the audience with that crooked, adorable, pursed-lip smirk that she works.

  The academic awards are announced after that (Michelle collects two), and then us plebes receive our diplomas, marching one by one in alphabetical order like every high school graduation everywhere ever, as the principal repeatedly leans into the mic and reminds everybody not to yell out or clap after each graduate, or we’ll be here all day.

  Which it already feels like we have, what with the sun and a last name that begins with S. But then I see Audrey’s row released, her inching her way up the stairs, her little gold sash flapping in the breeze behind her. She’s still using the wrist-support cane for her left side, and as soon as her name is called, the crowd erupts like she has just risen from the dead.

  My heart swells with pride. Admiration. She made it. She graduated. Screw you, coma! I check back on Kris over my shoulder. Her eyes are brimming, and she’s manically fanning them, trying to prevent her lashes from sailing away.

  Then I look at my mom and dad, and Tracy, who forms a Taylor Swift heart with her hands when she catches my eye. I’ll bet she’s happy I’m her first and last Changer, so she won’t have to sit through another interminable high school graduation ceremony until it’s Ethan’s turn (in whatever V he gets for his senior year).

  We sit and wait for what seems like another decade, and then my row is finally asked to approach the stage. My walk happens in a flash. As in, there’s all this nervous anticipation, hours of baking in the sun, and poof! I find myself accepting my diploma with my left hand, and shaking hands with the row of administrators and teachers with my right—and then it’s over. Just like that.

  When I reach the edge of the stage, Mr. Crowell stands awkwardly and pulls m
e into a hug, and the audience erupts with some audible “Awws” and claps.

  “I’m so proud of everything you’ve accomplished,” he whispers during the embrace. When he lets go, I see his hands are trembling.

  I’m on my way back to my seat when Kris goes up to the stage; the only reason I realize she’s headed up is because of the uncomfortable titters and giggles in the crowd, especially among students, as though there’s been a disturbance in the gender force field.

  I stop in time to see her sashay up those stairs and work that runway, like it’s grad-RU-ation day (shout out to Mama RuPaul). Never one to take the easy route, Kris decided she wanted to start socially transitioning before graduation. Her folks refused to attend if she insisted on wearing that dress, thinking Kris would back down. Which was the dumbest bet in the history of dumb.

  After the ceremony wraps, I’m strolling to the field to meet my family, but Coach Tyler intercepts and congratulates me. He doesn’t seem to want to stop pumping my hand, but then my mom and dad come up, with Andy and Tracy in tow, so Coach gives me a nod and says, “Good luck next year. We’ll be watching you,” then heads off to find his other graduating players.

  Mom and Dad are already full-snot crying. Tracy is full-snot crying. Ethan is crying because it’s so goddamn hot out here and he hates that giant hat. Andy is not crying. Good golly gumdrops for that. (Lord only knows what tomorrow at the Forever Ceremony is going to be like with this sensitive lot.)

  I see Audrey making her way toward me with the hitch in her step, her family staying a few paces behind. I run to her, pick her up like she’s the new girl on Bachelor in Paradise. We kiss right there in front of everybody—her family, my family, and the whole graduating class—and then I let her slide down my body and make sure she’s steady on her feet before I let go.

  “Well, we did it!” I say.

  “I couldn’t have done it without you,” she says.

  “Are you kidding me? Wasn’t me who pulled a 3.95 GPA.”

  Kris comes up to us squealing, kisses Audrey, then me.

  “Hang with us,” I say, knowing Kris doesn’t have any family to support her today.

  “Third wheel as ever,” she laments.

  “Well, you look beautiful,” I tell her.

  “Well, well, what have we here?” And . . . it’s Jason. Slithering up right on cue.

  “Jason, you remember my friend Kris,” Audrey says firmly, praying he’ll act right for once in his redneck life.

  Kris extends her hand. “Charmed, I’m sure.”

  “Don’t touch me, freak show,” Jason snaps.

  “What’s your problem, man?” I say, stepping to him in my flowing gown.

  “My problem is, if you’re a Y, you’re a guy. Pretty simple.”

  “Shut up, Jason,” Audrey says.

  “Ex-queer me?” he snipes.

  At that, I crowd even closer to him, so tight he can feel my breath. “I’ve been meaning to tell you this for a long time,” I start then, low and quiet so only he can hear. “I don’t know if you actually are an Abider, or you just play one on weekends. Either way, I don’t care. Because you and your gang of phobic assholes? You’re all suckers. You’re dim and you’re ignorant and you can’t even sense yourself sliding into an oblivion where your every thought and opinion is irrelevant, and you along with it. No matter how much hate you spew or how many people you shame with your backward, primordial, lizard-brain theories, in a few years, maybe less, you won’t matter at all. That train, my friend, has already left the station.”

  Jason tries to step back, but I grab his elbow, squeeze it tourniquet-tight.

  “Oh, and one more thing. I see you, Jason. And for the rest of your sad life on this planet, I will be watching you. Know that. If you so much as take a single baby step out of line, I will expose you to every college football recruiter, every potential employer, everyone you even think you care about—as a sexual predator, a racist, a liar, an abusive thug. I will set your life on fire and I will warm my hands on the flame. Hear me?”

  Jason just stands there dumbfounded, so Kris, Audrey, and I all turn and sashay away—and I mean that literally. We wiggle our butts and werk that imaginary catwalk, and I can just imagine Jason’s bug eyes popping out of their sockets and bouncing into the grass.

  Change 4–Day 268, Part Two

  I finished reading all my Chronicles. Up to this place right here, where these words are being recorded as I watch on the last empty pages. (That’ll never not be astonishing.)

  In less than twenty-four hours I will be declaring my Mono for the whole universe to see, from here on out. How many times have I longed for this control? Whined and moaned, all Why can’t I be in charge of my own fortune?

  And now that I have it? No thank you, sir. Swipe. Left.

  The no-brainer choice is Kyle, man of everyone’s dreams. My dad would be stoked (even if he’s singing a more evolved tune these days). Life would be easy. And, of course, there’s Audrey. Who only knows Kyle. And who adores him.

  Facetime buzzes; it’s Elyse.

  “Happy night before Halloween!” she yells as soon as I connect. She’s flashing two cheesy thumbs-up as the picture snaps into view.

  “Hey.”

  “Dang, you seem less than psyched. What you got cooking over there? Making your pro and con lists? I know you dig those decision charts.”

  “They aren’t working,” I moan.

  “They never work. How don’t people realize that?”

  I catch my face in the square above Elyse’s. I look tired. “How does anyone do this?”

  “I threw a dart at a wall,” she says.

  “Not helping.”

  “Listen, it’s tough. I won’t lie. But the good news is that by this time tomorrow, it’ll all be over. ALL of it! And you’ll get to settle into whatever horribly bad choice you made that will haunt you forever for the rest of time.”

  I snort begrudgingly. “Well, thanks for calling, E. You’ve been a tremendous help.”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow, boo bear. Been a long road. But the fun is just getting started. Trust me,” she says, throwing up deuces. “Peace out!”

  I close my laptop and walk into the TV room, where Mom’s watching that unbelievably dull British countryside real estate show that’s like her crack.

  “Do you have a minute?”

  “Of course I do,” she says, clicking off the TV. “Everything okay?”

  “Yeah.” I plop down on the couch next to her. “No, not really.”

  “Tomorrow,” she says, in that perfect tone that lets you know she cares, but not too much. (She’s good at what she does.)

  “It’s a big decision.”

  “I don’t envy you it,” she says, brushing a lint ball off my T-shirt sleeve.

  “Can I ask you something? You have to be honest.”

  “Always.”

  “Which me did you like best?”

  She takes a deep breath. “That’s a tough one.”

  “Truthfully.”

  “Truthfully? It doesn’t matter who I like best. It matters who you like best, right?”

  “Come on,” I say. “Not a therapist or mom answer. A real answer, like adult to almost-adult.”

  “Petunia, I can’t answer that sort of question,” she says. “You’re my kid. All of you are my kid. And I love you all the same—because you are the same.”

  Danke for nada.

  I’m not sure what I was expecting. I guess some straightforward answer: I liked Oryon best! Pick Oryon! Somewhere, I still want someone to tell me what to do. Which isn’t going to happen, at least not with Mom.

  “Have you ever tried to change who you were so that somebody would love you?” I ask then.

  “You’ve been a girl twice—you tell me,” she says, ending with one of those high-pitched laughs that happen when you realize how effed society is and how if you don’t laugh, you’ll explode with impotent rage.

  “Yeah,” I say. “I guess.”


  “But to answer your question, yes, I have. And it never works out, because whatever you think you need to be for someone, it’s never what they really want. You can’t reverse-engineer a relationship, so why even try?”

  “Yeah, I guess I know what you mean,” I say.

  “In my opinion, I’d suggest you decide which you you love the most. And once you do, the right partner will find you and love that you. But you can’t do that if you’re worried about what someone else might want you to be.”

  At that, we hear Andy get home from working a dinner shift. He pops his head into the living room. “Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

  “It’s okay, we were just finishing up,” I say, then lean over and hug Mom. “Thanks.”

  “I love you. You’re a thoroughly lovely human being, and I’m honored to know you.”

  I smile. “I love you too.”

  Back in my room, I dig out the container of Nana’s things I’d been too emo to sort through before. Inside are some hankies that smell like her floral perfume, some petite vintage flower vases, an apron printed with the words This ain’t your ordinary housewife, and more crackled black-and-white photographs fraying at the edges. Pictures of Nana posing over the decades—wow, women spent a lot of time on their hair back then. There is also a stack of more modern pictures from the seventies, the colors yellowed and oranged, Nana wearing a pantsuit with a turtle pattern, matching shorts and halter top in another loud pattern, cha cha heels. Nana was fly. And happy, if these photos are any indication, which in this case unlike so many others, I believe they are.

  Seeing Nana again reminds me of the letter she wrote me right before she died. I root around in my closet, find my memory box, the note resting there right on top as if somewhere, she sensed I’d need to read it.

  Sweet Angel,

  I don’t know how much time I have left here with you. I really wanted to see you through your Cycles and to be there at your Forever Ceremony, but it’s looking like that isn’t going to be possible. I can feel the days slipping away and while I don’t love it, there is nothing to be done, so I may as well enjoy what I can while I’m still here.