Oryon

by T Cooper

  She just stands there, arms folded over herself, staring at me approvingly. Dad puts his hands on her shoulders from behind.

  Then it hits me: “You mean you guys have known this could happen to me all along and chose not to tell me?”

  My parents look at each other for a beat, before Mom says, “You’re meant to have as normal a life as possible.”

  “Normal? Really?” I look at Cousin Brittney, I mean myself, in the mirror again.

  “And,” she continues, “there’s always the possibility a Changer-Static union won’t be permitted Changer offspring.”

  “I don’t know, seems like something you might want to share, you know, like, Your dad’s a FUll-ON MUTATING FREAK. And you might be one too!”

  I run to the bathroom and slam the door behind me. Look at myself in the mirror. Everything I do, this damn girl does. Raising an eyebrow, blinking alternating eyes, making kissy-fish face, sticking out my tongue. I’m the girl in the Slayer shirt. No way around it. I feel dizzy. I pull up my long hair and let it drop over my ears. I yank my toothbrush out of its holder and squeeze some toothpaste on it. I jam the brush into my mouth, looking at this girl, at myself? I listen at the door, but my folks aren’t saying anything. I finish up, spit, rinse. Swish some Listerine. Spit again.

  “I didn’t mean to call you a freak,” I say to my dad as soon as I crack the door.

  “We know how weird this is,” Dad says, “and it’s going to be hard at first, but trust me, you’ll get the hang of it.”

  “I just wish somebody had told me.”

  “They don’t like us to say anything until we’re certain,” Dad says.

  “They? Who are they?” I ask.

  “The Changers Council,” he replies, as Mom picks up a thick envelope.

  “The what?”

  “The Council moderates and governs the Changer race. They guide and protect us. Without them it would be chaos,” Dad explains.

  “This just arrived by courier.” Mom hands over the package, and I open it. Inside: The Changers Bible, a thick book with densely packed, opaque white pages and a symbol on the front, like Leonardo da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man, but with four bodies instead of two. Also a birth certificate, which I pull out immediately.

  “Drew Bohner?”

  “It’ll be your name for the year,” Mom says.

  “Really. Drew Boner? Great.”

  “Well, I’m sure you’ll rise to the occasion,” Dad tries. I’m not laughing.

  In the package are middle school and elementary transcripts, medical records, a Social Security card, birth certificate, passport—all in Drew Bohner’s name. Old photographs of this made-up girl, of me, at different stages of life over the last fourteen years. Mom and Dad are droning on about how the Council has pre-enrolled me in school, how I’ll eventually, when it’s safe, get to meet other Changer kids like me, how I should spend the first few days studying The Changers Bible, and things will start making sense. That they’re always there for support and to answer questions, blah blah blah.

  I’m just flipping through the photos of this little girl: tap dancing in a red top hat and leotard, winning a bronze medal in the freestyle swimming relay, standing in the first row, second from the left in Mrs. Johnson’s fourth grade class picture. Who the hell is Mrs. Johnson?

  “So I have no say in any of this? Like, what if I don’t want to be a girl?” I ask.

  “I think you’ll find that what you are transcends gender,” Mom says.

  Barf.

  “And Drew,” Dad adds. I don’t know who he’s talking to. “Ethan!” he says louder, and I snap to. “That’s the last time I’ll call you that, by the way. Listen to me: you cannot tell anybody who or what you are.”

  But I don’t even know what I am, I think. Dad’s tone is serious as nut cancer. So I don’t say anything.

  “This is why we moved so suddenly, left everything behind,” he goes on. “Later we’ll receive alibis for your future V’s—those are the four different versions of yourself—but for now, we’re new enough here that Ethan never existed. You just moved to town with your folks from outside New York City for your dad’s new job in Nashville. Got it?”

  “I guess.” But I am leveled by a rush of sadness like when Pappy died as we all held him in the hospice; except it’s me, Ethan, who’s gone, and I never even got to squeeze a hand or say goodbye.

  * * *

  Minutes later in Mom’s closet, my mind is racing, totally unfocused, but she keeps pulling out clothes, expecting me to make some sort of decision. I can’t envision myself in anything she suggests. A silky green blouse (“It’ll complement your eyes”). A blue cotton tank top (“High in the mid-nineties today”). Something called a “romper.” I am paralyzed. As she closes the closet door, I notice the full-length mirror on the back of it. She stands there looking at me in it. Again with the tears. The woman is going to convert to dust if she keeps losing liquid at this rate.

  “Maybe those,” I say, pointing to some stained khaki shorts she does yard work in.

  “Honey, it’s your first day.”

  “And?” I stare at her.

  She exhales, hands me the shorts, which feel so wrong I can barely stomach touching the fabric. I unbutton them (they even button the wrong way) and step in. They are pleated and bulgy, while at the same time entirely too tight. And they ride too high up on my waist. Nothing about any of this fits. And then . . . “I’m so sorry, but,” Mom begins shakily, “it wouldn’t be right to send you out of the house without—”

  “What?” I cut my eyes at her as she starts fishing through her top drawer. My heart is pounding. After a few seconds she pulls it out . . . a bra. A white silky strappy thing that looks like two yarmulkes sewn together.

  “No,” I say. “Nuh-uh, not doing it.” I shake my head.

  “It’s part of the deal, sweetie. Let me show you,” she says, trying to lift up my Slayer shirt. “It’s easy once you get it adjusted right.”

  I slap my shirt down and her hands drop, the bra falling to the carpet between us. And then, the weirdest thing happens out of nowhere and with no warning: I begin to cry.

  “Oh, baby,” Mom says, gathering me into her arms again. A heavy drop falls on her shoulder from the rim of my right eye. “I have a jog bra; maybe that’ll be easier your first day.”

  She gives me a tight squeeze, then goes back into the top drawer and pulls out a black spandex mini–tank top thing, with pink stripes under each armpit. “Just put your head through here and your arms—”

  “I know where it goes!” I say, louder than I’d intended, snatching the bra from her. “I’m not an imbecile.”

  She winces. Chews her lip. “I knew it was going to be difficult if you were given a girl for your first V,” she laments, seeming genuinely sad. I look away, feeling like a jerk. The phrase your first V hanging in the air between us.

  I turn my back to Mom and pull off the T-shirt myself, then wrestle my way into the too-tight jog bra, which feels like a medieval torture device, not to mention my things are going every which direction in it, but there is no way I’m reaching down there to do anything about the situation. The spandex so tight I swear it’s even changing my breathing pattern. I quickly put my shirt back on, then turn to study myself in the mirror. A too-big men’s vintage thrash metal shirt and Mom’s middle-aged housewife frump shorts. This is my outfit for the first day of high school.

  Today is going to suck dog balls.

  Oh wait. It already does.

  “Maybe we’ll drop by the mall together after school?” Mom offers, gathering my hair into a ponytail on the side of my head. “That will help, yes?”

  “Not really.”

  “Maybe your Vans with that?” she suggests, working a rubber band around the ponytail. Yanks at my scalp. She steps back and studies me. “A side pony suits you.” And then, “You really are beautiful.”

  I shake it off, yank out the rubber band, and my hair falls across my face. Then she reaches
into her pocket and comes out with a shiny silver lipstick tube. There is no way I’m letting her paint any of that on my face, I’m thinking.

  It’s then I notice in the mirror that both my knees are perfectly intact—no cut, no caterpillar of stitches from the gnarly fall off my skateboard. No more torturous itching. I bend over to inspect, and wowzers, the wound is completely healed! There’s not even a scar—

  OWWW!

  My left butt cheek is suddenly on fire, and Mom is quickly recapping that lipstick tube. There’s a singeing electrical odor in the puff of smoke hovering between us. As I’d bent over to check out my knee, Mom yanked down the back of my shorts and boxers and branded me (branded me like livestock!) with one end of the “lipstick” tube. Which obviously wasn’t lipstick at all.

  “The Council included this,” she says, looking sheepish. “Had to be done before you left the house.”

  I twist around and look down. The same little emblem that was on the cover of The Changers Bible is now seared into my flesh:

  “Are you freaking kidding me?” This is some BS.

  “It’s for your own good,” she insists. “Like a vaccine.”

  I stretch to get a better look. The brand is small, dime-sized but detailed. Vaguely creepy. Completely embarrassing.

  “You must promise never to reveal this mark to anybody except the Static you’ll one day choose as a partner.”

  “Don’t worry,” I say.

  My dad comes in then, starts unbuckling his belt.

  “Dad, no, please,” I try, but his pants are open, and the elastic waistband of his Jockeys is inching down his butt, and he is displaying a very pale ass cheek where the same emblem is seared into his skin.

  “Nobody’s ever seen mine but your mother,” he says, pulling his pants back up and smirking in that PG-13 way he does sometimes. (And I thought I couldn’t feel any more nauseous.)

  “Breakfast’s waiting, and you have to be at the registrar’s office in twenty minutes. I can drive you,” Mom offers.

  “I think I’ll just take my board.”

  “You sure?” she asks doubtfully.

  I nod, and then, Thank Lordy above, they leave, and I am alone in the closet.

  I peruse Mom’s clothes, most of which have already been unpacked and neatly organized—so many shapes and colors, all with a vague perfumed whiff. My usual “wardrobe” consists of essentially square T-shirts and (depending on weather) shorts or jeans—in blues, blacks, grays, and whites. Maybe a red sweatshirt now and again when I’m feeling reckless. And I own one piece of jewelry, a wristwatch, my big black G-Shock that I’ve had since my tenth birthday, which, I notice for the first time, is practically falling off my wrist, since it was set to size, uh, Ethan. I reach down and cinch it tighter by a couple holes—the smallest it’ll go. It’s still a little loose.

  I notice Mom’s necklaces, which are draped over a mirror, rings piled in a small antique saucer on the dresser. It’s all so . . . girlie. I check my whole look in the mirror again: Ridiculous. But I guess I have to get this carnival on the road.

  All of Mom’s shoes are a little too small—not to mention ugly—and all of my kicks are now too big. I fish out a couple pairs of Mom’s thicker socks, double them up over my feet, then go with my old checkered Vans that Mom placed outside the closet door for me at some point while I’ve been in here hiding and quietly trying to make a deal with a god I’ve never been acquainted with to please let me wake up from this nightmare so I can start ninth grade and get on with the life I thought I was living.

  * * *

  At the breakfast table, I quickly study the first few pages of Drew Bohner’s history, so there will be no surprises when I fill out paperwork at school. I feel my parents’ eyes drilling into the top of my head.

  “What?”

  “Nothing,” they say in tandem, then go back to gawking at me, their child, the Coney Island freak show exhibit.

  “I’m not hungry,” I announce, pushing my plate away. And I’m not. My stomach is roiling, and the last thing I want to put in it is two fried eggs over-medium on toast with turkey bacon.

  “You should eat something,” Mom pleads with me.

  “I think I’m good.” I feed an egg and piece of toast to the dog, who takes them, hesitantly. Great, even Snoops doesn’t recognize me. I wonder what the Dog Whisperer would say about all this.

  Then Mom produces a Hostess cupcake with a single candle on top. “Happy Birthday, baby!” she shouts, holding the plate and cupcake in front of her like a waitress. I stare her down. Then shift to Dad, who is shrugging: Wasn’t my idea.

  I lick my thumb and snuff out the candle. “Maybe later,” I say, grabbing my backpack and skateboard. I kiss Mom on the cheek and blow by Dad, who reaches up and pats me on the forearm in a way he’s never touched me before. Like I’m made of glass.

  “Remember: don’t tell anybody!” he hollers when I’m almost out the door. “It could mean death for all of Changer-kind! Love you!”

  I walk as quickly as I can down the hall, trying to outrun what just happened. My shoes slip a little, rubbing the backs of my ankles and bunching up the socks. As I wait for the elevator, I try vainly to fix them, to seem normal, the way I was before my alarm went off and I woke up changed. The elevator dings, and this corporate-looking dude and I ride to the ground floor. The door opens. Neither of us moves. The doors start to close again, and he reaches to hold them back. I realize he was waiting for me to exit.

  “Sorry,” I say, even though I’m not really sure why I’m apologizing.

  Out in the lobby I glance down at my chest again. Still shocking. I hold my board in front, a shield. The doorman smiles. Andy and I always used to boast that if we were girls, we’d never leave the house because we’d be touching our boobs all the time, but now I’m not so sure about that particular hypothetical. Careful what you wish for. Wait, Andy . . . Can I never be friends with him again?

  I walk outside, and the air is already oppressive. I decide I’ll just keep e-mailing and talking on the phone with Andy, pretending I’m still me, until I can figure a way out of this mess. I mean, I am me, still (right?), but I’ll just be Ethan on the inside and leave out the whole whoever’s-on-the-outside, so then nothing will have changed between us except geography (not to mention topography). Wait, my voice. Frack, I can’t figure this out. I guess I can’t talk to him on the phone. Okay, just e-mail and texts.

  Right outside the gates of our building complex, I drop my board on the sidewalk and plant my left foot on it, but before I can get my right foot on the deck, the board goes shooting out from under me, and all of a sudden I’m bouncing on my butt on concrete.

  What the hell? When did I get so lame? Oh yeah.

  “Here,” a girl appears, offering a hand. I take it, she helps me up.

  “Thanks.”

  “I’m Tracy,” she says, brushing off the back of my shorts for me. I twist around to get away from her. “And no, you can’t be in touch with an old friend by e-mail and pretend the Change didn’t happen.”

  Holy cow, how is this chick reading my mind?

  “I can’t read minds,” she says nonchalantly, digging my board out of a bush, “but when I was Change 1–Day 1, right about at this point is where I started scheming to stay in touch with my best friend Maddy from middle school.”

  I start looking around suspiciously. It feels like we’re being watched.

  “Wait, are you . . .” I whisper.

  Tracy nods her head and smiles, smugly putting a finger to her lips in the universal shhh sign. Ten seconds in and she is already the most annoying person I’ve ever met. She’s dressed in a white frilly blouse with a navy sweater-vest over it, a plaid skirt, and knee-high socks—with a matching plaid headband and loafers, and a shiny little leather backpack. She looks like Mormon Barbie.

  Dropping my board on the ground, she indicates that I should try again. “I guess you didn’t read your file that closely. You’re left-handed now.”

&nb
sp; “I’m not goofy-footed!” I insist.

  “I don’t know what that means,” she says, “but if it has something to do with not taking this seriously, yeah, all signs point to that.”

  I cannot put a foot on the board, I cannot move. My butt is burning in two places—where my new freaking brand is, and also where it collided with the ground. I start becoming aware of the weight of my body, saddled around my hips, underneath my rear—on my, gag—chest—gag. Even my arms flop differently.

  “You really should have spent a little more time with the materials,” Tracy chides, pushing her headband back with her index finger. I shoot her my best eff-you glare. She is unmoved.

  “It is in your best interest to read all the paperwork provided by the Council.”

  Great, I’m already in trouble with the Council.

  “Let me guess. The first rule of Changers is that you never talk about Changers?” I say, kind of loving and hating myself at the same time.

  Tracy, ignoring. “Since you didn’t bother, I’ll fill you in. I’ve been assigned to be your Touchstone for the next four years. That’s like your fairy godmother. At least, that’s how I see it.”

  “Where’s your wand?”

  Tracy sighs, her tolerance waning. “Did you at least read the Day 1 page in your CB?”

  “My CB?”

  “The Changers Bible. Gawd.” She shakes her head, starts walking.

  I pick up my board and follow. “Wait, this isn’t, like, a religious cult or something, is it?” I call from behind.

  Tracy laughs, kind of at me, in the way I used to laugh at Andy’s little brother when he tried to pop and lock. Back when my biggest problems were bothersome little punks and worrying about looking fly in the skate videos we filmed. You know, yesterday.

  Tracy is saying something that starts with, “Joke all you want,” and ends with yadda yadda “intolerance.” I begin to suspect she loves nothing more than having all the answers. She is that girl. The sitting-in-front-of-the-class, hand-in-the-air girl. My fairy godmother is a Grade-A brownnoser. And she is apparently all mine for four years. Unless I can put in for an exchange—I make a mental note to look that up in The Changers Bible when I get home.