Body of Stars

by Laura Maylene Walter

  My right hip, the place for career. I scrutinized those markings for a long time. The juvenile pattern indicating I’d work with Miles, along with the lone outlier marking, had disappeared. My career cluster still slanted downward to suggest an intricate, detail-oriented profession, but that could point to so many careers: dentist, horticulturalist, bead artist. Or a psychologist, I decided, since nothing was more intricate than the workings of the mind.

  For the lower back I had to use the mirror, which resulted in many jumbled predictions about my future love life—an eventual marriage, perhaps preceded by two failed loves. Finally, I checked my sides. The skin of my right rib cage remained blank, but when I crossed over to the left side of my body, the prediction there stopped me short. It showed a diagonal, an arc, a pattern of stars.

  A sound like static foamed in my mind, which fizzled into a faint ringing in my ears. I almost cried out. I almost burst into tears. Mapping the Future couldn’t have been clearer about this arrangement of markings: two diagonal moles for brother, a starlike pattern for death, and an arc of three moles descending in size to indicate three years.

  According to the markings on my ribs, Miles only had three years left to live.

  I drifted across the room as if underwater. For a second I pictured my brother’s face, just a flash of it, like a haunting. But I refused to give in to panic. I was going to dress myself, cover those markings, and from that moment on keep them concealed—from Miles, from my family. Maybe even from myself.

  The clothes hanging in my closet seemed unfamiliar. I ran my hand over a row of shirts and considered the cloth, the distinction between each type of fabric. Every detail now was a distraction. I pulled down a turtleneck. From the shelf I selected a pair of gray corduroys, the ribbed cloth like a protective covering of tree bark against my legs. As a final touch, I wound a scarf around my neck. The knit was loose and soft, the color of blood.

  A time would come in the future when I’d see changeling girls wearing knee-length skirts, short sleeves, even blouses cut to reveal a sliver of midriff. Unthinkable during my days as a changeling, when we were advised to cover our bodies for our own safety. I’d want to tell those girls what it was like for me: how I relied on layers, spreads of cotton and wool I pulled harshly across my skin. These were natural fibers, breathable but heavy when wet, and it was only when I piled them on that I felt safe. As a new changeling, I dressed without imagining the lightness girls might one day experience, or how their likeliest threat of exposure was skin growing hot from the pounding force of the sun.

  * * *

  * * *

  My mother came to my room to make sure I was ready for school. She was still wearing her nightgown, and her feet were bare.

  “Celeste.” Her voice sounded sharp at first, but then she looked closer and understood. A fleeting range of emotions crossed her face—sorrow, fear, love—and I saw her for all she was, every part of her. She wasn’t just my mother standing in my doorway but a whole woman with a past and future. When I thought of her losing Miles in only a few years, I was so grief-stricken that I got up and hugged her.

  Once we pulled back, my mother touched my cheek. I thought she might cry.

  “I don’t know why I’m so emotional. I knew this would happen soon enough.” She forced a smile and sank into the desk chair. Her nightgown, patterned with tiny bluebirds, bunched around her hips.

  I got into bed and pulled my knees against my chest.

  “I’m supposed to look now,” she told me, but neither of us moved.

  “What would happen,” I said, “if I didn’t show you?”

  She laughed gently. “I suppose the longer I wait, the longer you’re still a little girl.”

  “I mean, what if I didn’t show anyone at all.” I paused. “Ever.”

  She didn’t laugh this time. “That’s not possible.”

  “I don’t see why not. They’re my markings.”

  “They are, but they aren’t.” She sounded weary. “It’s odd—I don’t even wonder what your markings say about me. It seems unnatural, to not be curious. Maybe I’ve lived too long with the weight of a future I ultimately can’t control. Not as a woman, anyway.” She paused, as if startled by her own words, and I seized my chance.

  “It’s possible for you to not know. Just don’t look.”

  “But there’s Miles, and your father. And the government check. You’ll only have a week or so before they get to your changeling inspection.”

  I sat up a little straighter. “I’m sure Miles and Dad will accept it eventually. And I can sign the conscientious objector paperwork at school.”

  “You’d only damage your own future. You won’t get into university without transcripts.”

  She was right. If I decided to hide myself forever, I would amount to nothing. Still, I refused to give in.

  “Maybe I can at least keep things private here at home.”

  She shook her head. “I might be willing to go without knowing, but not your father or Miles. Men are different, you know that. They’re greedy for it. It’s biological.”

  I was close to tears. My body had changed overnight, my senses were prickling, and I had no control over what was to come. “I want to keep my future to myself.”

  She peered at me. “Are you hiding something, Celeste?”

  “I just want privacy. It’s exhausting, being on display all the time.”

  My mother met my eyes. She not only believed me, but she agreed with me, too—I could read it right there in the worried set of her mouth, the tiny wrinkles sprouting near her eyes. With a sigh, she moved to the edge of my bed and put her hand on the back of my neck.

  “I’ll do my best with your father and brother.” Her voice was low. Everything we did from that moment on was secret. “But we will fail in the end. We’ll try, but we’ll fail.”

  She drew me closer and kissed my temple.

  “We should get you the birth control shot,” she added. “Just in case.”

  “I can’t believe it’s time for that already.”

  “Me, either. But we’re fortunate to have access to birth control, and we need to take advantage of it.” I knew she was right, that unrestricted access to the shot was a luxury that women in rural areas didn’t have.

  I waited for my mother to say more, to reassure me or express hope for the future. Anything. But her face remained impassive. I felt I was watching my mother at a funeral, or in the aftermath of some spectacular accident. The light of the tragedy casting shadows across her face.

  * * *

  * * *

  I stayed home from school that first day. Miles woke up late, as usual, our mother pressing him to hurry. I could hear their conversation from behind my closed bedroom door, just as I could hear Miles rustling the covers, stumbling out of bed, and getting dressed. His motions were heavy, as though part of him was still asleep. I imagined all the ways he might die: Car crash. Leukemia. An accidental fall from a great height. Undiagnosed heart defect. Aneurysm. Random act of violence.

  Any option was too terrible to contemplate, so I wondered instead how Miles would react if he learned the truth. To know your life would be cut short before the age of twenty-one—it was too much. I knew all about fate, how it could not be changed or escaped, and how we exercised free will as a thin layer atop a larger destiny. All I could do was wait for his future to unfurl. If I kept the prediction from Miles, at least he wouldn’t have to bear the weight, too.

  By the time Miles headed down the stairs, he was too rushed to notice I was still in my room, that I had transformed overnight. He must have assumed I’d already left. When I heard the front door close behind him, I let out a breath and nestled deeper in bed.

  I’d forgotten about my father. It was his first week back at work following the suspension, but he hadn’t left for the office yet. When he passed my room in the hall a few minutes l
ater, he paused. I sensed him standing there, breathing, before he knocked.

  “Yes?” I worked to keep my voice steady.

  My father eased the door open. He was ready for work: dress shirt, striped tie, his hair damp and combed back. I smelled a jab of aftershave.

  “Celeste?” he asked, a note of surprise in his voice.

  “Hi, Dad. I’m sick.”

  Then I burst into tears.

  He came over to my bed and sat down, reaching out to stroke my hair. He’d barely made contact when he pulled back sharply, like I was electric.

  My mother appeared in the doorway, and he turned to face her. “What do they say?” he asked.

  She didn’t answer him.

  “Paulette?” He looked bewildered. “All right. If you don’t want to tell me, that’s fine. I need to look for myself anyway.”

  “Not now.” My mother came inside and took his arm, gently pulling him toward the door. “Give Celeste some space.”

  My father glanced over his shoulder at me. Flustered, flailing. I reminded myself that he had no sisters. This was new to him, too. When he met my mother in university, the story went, she knew right away that he was her future husband. She said her markings pointed to him as her match. My father, meanwhile, was skeptical. He thought her markings could be interpreted in more than one way, and he worried about making a mistake. But my mother was certain. She wooed him, determined, until my father gave up. “I did love her, right from the start,” he always said when telling this story. “I just didn’t know how to trust it.”

  “Please, Dad,” I told him. “I’d like to be alone.”

  He hesitated. His eyes flicked to his watch and then back to me. He wouldn’t risk being late for work.

  “We’ll discuss this later.” He hovered in my doorway for another moment, staring at me like I was a problem he could solve. Finally, he gave up and left.

  After he’d gone, my mother brought me a dry bagel and some orange juice. The bagel kept me busy for a while. I ruminated on every crumb in my mouth, considering the dense texture of the dough, the slick crust of egg wash, the yeast and the salt. Some girls couldn’t stand to eat the first day they’d changed, but I finished the whole bagel, letting each ingredient become a part of me. I followed it with a swig of orange juice. That first sip was like a slap, the liquid thick and vivid in my mouth. Too sweet, too bright—it was like swallowing the sun. I waited for the sugars to dissolve on my tongue before taking a second, more tentative sip. If I focused, I could dull my senses enough to handle it.

  After I ate, I tried to read. I wanted to distract myself, to pretend I hadn’t seen those markings on my left side. But I saw the prediction every time I turned a page, my mind drawing connections between the letters of each word and the constellations on my body. This form of apophenia was why some changelings struggled in school: the hyperfocus that came from high lucidity could mislead, could make us see things that weren’t as meaningful as our brains believed they were. Maybe that was what happened with the prediction on my ribs—I’d overthought it, drawn too many connections.

  I got up, slipped out of my clothes, and went to the full-length mirror. While my body had been maturing for months, all the developments came into sharper focus at the onset of the changeling period. There was my new body: the fuller breasts, the curve of hip, the soft hair between my legs. I was a woman.

  Downstairs, the front door slammed shut. I felt it more than heard it, a physical blow that echoed through my body. It was still ringing inside me when I heard Miles’s voice. I dove for my clothes and covered myself as quickly as possible, wondering how he’d found out. I was barely dressed by the time he’d bounded up the stairs and rattled the doorknob to my room.

  “Celeste, it’s me.”

  I said nothing.

  “Celeste!” He was desperate, not himself. I was not myself, either. I put my hand to the doorknob but did not move. I was afraid that once I came face-to-face with Miles, he’d look different to me. I couldn’t imagine him being my same brother, not anymore.

  “Please show me,” he said. “I need to know.”

  “Miles, stop. Give her time.” My mother’s voice, soft and low. I listened as she pulled him away from my room.

  Not long ago, my brother had confessed he worried something terrible would come to pass. I couldn’t bear to tell him he was right.

  * * *

  * * *

  My mother reported my change through the official channels by calling a local outpost for the Office of the Future, where she was told that due to a backlog, it would take nearly ten days for a government inspector to visit our home to complete my changeling reading. While I was relieved to be gifted this extra time, gossip at school moved more efficiently than the government ever could, so news of my change spread rapidly. By the time the school day had ended, Cassandra and Marie called to check on me, a bit bemused that I insisted on a phone call instead of an in-person visit. This was not an easy choice. I wanted to show my friends my new markings—I wanted to show them so much I felt shaky inside—but the prediction on my left ribs held me back.

  I passed the afternoon in my room, gazing out the window. I couldn’t read, couldn’t study, couldn’t think. At last, the sun tracked across the sky and my mother knocked on my door and told me it was time for dinner. I asked if I could eat in my room instead.

  “You can’t hide forever,” she said. “Come downstairs.”

  I dragged myself from my desk and added a cardigan to my layers of clothing. I pulled my hair from its ponytail and brushed it, willing the fine strands to expand and conceal every inch of my neck. Finally, I took a breath and went downstairs.

  My mother had lowered the lights in the kitchen and placed a candle in the middle of the table. Dim lighting, a relief from the newly bright world. Still, my eyes went right to the candle. The flame glittered, whole worlds and reflections contained in its teardrop shape. I fixated on it until my eyes hurt, and then I looked away, blinking.

  Through my spotted vision, through the light trails and inky blots, my brother appeared. He sat at the table, next to my father. I took my usual seat across from him.

  “Stop staring,” I told him.

  “You’re not yourself.” His gaze remained rooted. “You’re different.”

  “Some would say Celeste is more herself now than ever,” our father added. He was smiling. “My daughter, all grown up—it doesn’t feel real.”

  I wouldn’t turn sixteen until the next day, but that didn’t matter. By virtue of passing to my adult markings, age was inconsequential. I was a woman.

  My mother brought a pitcher of water to the table along with a loaf of my father’s homemade bread. “Homemade” meant he dumped the ingredients into our automatic breadmaker and hit start. He didn’t mix them first as the recipe recommended, so the loaves usually came out uneven. Whenever any of us complained, he laughed and said he clearly wasn’t fated to be a great cook. But on that night, none of us said much of anything. We ate in heavy silence.

  Boiled peas popped against my teeth like starbursts, the butter an oil slick on my tongue. The water had a chemical tinge to it, a pungent bite from the treatment plant. This would take some getting used to—and once I did, my changeling period would end and my senses would dull again. I didn’t see the point.

  After the meal, my mother stacked our dirty plates. Each clatter felt like a drill bit held against my skull.

  “Miles, why don’t you get your sister’s present?” she said. “Every girl should have a gift on the day she changes.” Her voice sounded falsely formal, as though she were reading aloud from an old etiquette book.

  Miles gave her a mildly annoyed look but pushed back from the table and left the room. When he returned, he held a package wrapped in plain brown paper that he’d decorated by drawing a scene reminiscent of a fairy tale. Two children—a boy and a girl
—stood next to an intricate house, the shadowed tops of trees towering over them. I wondered if the house was made of gingerbread, if the children were lost or in danger. About to be devoured.

  I ripped off the paper to reveal an astrology book with Orion on its cover. I knew the story of Orion, how he chased the Pleiades sisters through the sky. I traced his stars with my finger—the bright Betelgeuse, the astonishing Rigel—and imagined other worlds in the unbearable expanse of space.

  There was comfort to be found in that book, a nostalgia that Miles clearly valued as much as I did, despite his current disdain for false fortune-telling. When we were kids, he and I read the horoscopes together, laughing at their foolishness. Horoscopes, prophetic dreams, the movement of the stars: what strange fantasies some people entertained about the workings of the future. And not just men, either. Women were susceptible to fantasy, too, though I supposed that made sense. What better way to escape your reality than to imagine your way out of it? Back then Miles and I could afford to pretend the future was no more than another game, something we could create and change at will.

  After opening my birthday gift, I thought it only fair that I gave Miles his. I was proud of the present—a set of watercolor pencils, which I bought after months of saving the modest bit of chore money our parents could afford—but when Miles opened it, he fell silent. Only later did I see the implication of my gift. Those pencils, when used in his new, blank notebook, would be perfect for mapping my markings.

  “Thanks, Celeste,” he finally said. He looked at me, and I tried to imagine what he might be seeing. Surely not a sister capable of both bearing and concealing his ruin.

  Mapping the Future: An Interpretive Guide to Women and Girls

  On Fate and Certainty

  The future is not a heavy, settled thing like a stone, but rather more like a riverbank: carved by the weight of moving water.