by Raziel Reid
Tommy zips up the suitcase and rolls it to the door.
“Okay,” he says, hitting the light switch. “I’m ready.”
The old model gets left behind.
THE FACTORY
Shiny happy people come out of Dr. Hilton’s clinic. Taut, smooth skin. Stretched sin. Pointed tips, blown-up lips, American-youth tits. Tommy pretty-people watches over the pages of People magazine as he sits in the waiting room next to Tutti.
Allan had refused to take him to his appointment, so Tommy called Tutti. He knows this whole thing is crazy, but it’s like contemplating infinity…he can’t really grasp what he’s about to do. The idea of being a Ken still seems so remote, just another one of his fantasies. He doesn’t really believe it’s about to happen. It’s just playtime.
Ken Hilton started an Instagram account for him: @KenRawlins. It already has thousands of followers. Ken Hilton texted him the password: bihimken. Tommy’s first post is going to be a post-surgery selfie. And it’s going to make him a star.
“Why is Allan acting so mutilated?” Tommy asks Tutti.
“He just likes you the way you are,” Tutti says. “But I totally get it. Not that I think you need plastic surgery, but the Kens are lit. Are we going to lose you as a friend once you’re sitting at the center table?”
“ ’Zif! The Kens all have their niche. Ken Roberts has the cheerleaders, Ken Carson has the jocks, and I’ll have the misfits! You, Allan and…Blaine.”
They’re interrupted by Dr. Hilton bursting out of his office. He wears a white lab coat and has thin, wispy blond hair standing up on his head.
“Ah, hello Tommy.” He air-kisses him. “Ken has told me so much about you.”
“He has?”
“Well, all I need to know, at least. Cut deep!”
Dr. Hilton’s eyes land on Tutti.
“But first, you must introduce me to your friend.”
“This is Tutti. She’s just here for moral support.”
“She’s here because Baphomet sent her,” Dr. Hilton says, pulling up a waiting-room chair and taking Tutti’s hands in his own. “Young lady, the good Lord has sent you to me. It just so happens I’m looking for a pro-bono charity case, you know, for my image. So very hard to find in Willows. But I’ve been on the lookout. I want to see a headline saying I’m paying it forward.”
“You want to give me money?” Tutti asks.
Dr. Hilton throws his head back with laughter. “No, you silly fat girl! I want to give you something much more valuable: a thin waist.”
Tutti pulls her hands away.
“I was made this way,” she says. “We have a responsibility to girls to reflect a broader view of beauty.”
“Oh, I see.” Dr. Hilton’s forehead would totally be crinkled if it could move. “I didn’t realize you were mentally ill. That’s a little too philanthropic for my agenda.” He turns to Tommy. “Do you have any other fat friends?”
Dr. Hilton doesn’t wait for an answer. He claps his hands together and jumps to a stand.
“Come, Ken,” he says, pulling Tommy into the surgery room. “That’s what you’re going to be doing every time you look in the mirror when I’m through with you!”
Tommy looks back at Tutti from the doorway.
“Good luck,” she mouths.
The door closes and Dr. Hilton leads Tommy to a surgical chair surrounded by an anesthesiologist and nurses wearing pink face masks.
“So, what exactly are you going to do to me?” Tommy asks Dr. Hilton, who is snapping on his latex gloves.
“You have to do everything to be everything.” The doctor motions to the anesthesiologist. “Now just lie back and relax,” he says.
Tommy drifts off to Dr. Hilton singing, “A spoonful of propofol helps the ugly go down, the ugly go down, the ugly go down…”
STORAGE WAREHOUSE
The night after the surgery is spent at Dr. Hilton’s clinic, and the next morning Tommy is released. Tutti picks him up in her Volkswagen Beetle and brings him to Allan’s to recover.
“How do I look?” Tommy murmurs as Tutti leads him into the pool house.
“You look like a mummy,” she says.
Tommy’s whole body is bandaged. Tutti helps him into bed.
“Bring me a mirror,” Tommy says.
Allan is standing in the corner of the room, horrified. He puts his hands in his pockets and then runs them through his hair, unsure of what to do with himself. Finally, he gets a bottle of water and a straw and brings it to Tommy’s mouth.
“Drink. And don’t try to talk. You need to rest.”
“A mirror!” Tommy insists. He’s lucid enough to know that he won’t be able to see the changes yet, that he’s swollen and bruised and covered in bandages. But he wants to look into his glazed, out-of-focus eyes to see if they’ve become slits.
Allan sighs and goes to the bathroom. He comes back out with a handheld mirror. Tommy tries to take it, but he can’t lift his hand. Allan holds it up for him.
“It’s so Joan Rivers,” he jokes.
Tutti laughs, and so does Tommy, which is painful.
“The pills,” he cries, giving up on his reflection. He can’t keep his eyes open long enough to see himself.
“Sounding like a Ken already.”
Tutti opens one of the several bottles of pain meds Dr. Hilton prescribed for Tommy. He went a little prescription happy. He’s used to writing prescriptions by the dozen for his wife.
The drugs take effect swiftly. Tommy drifts into a sweet dream.
All week, Allan takes care of Tommy, skipping school for the first time in his life. Allan feeds him and even helps him to the bathroom. He keeps him stoned and pain free. Tommy sleeps most of the time, but Allan is right there every time he wakes up.
When he is conscious, Tommy begs Allan to help him remove the bandages—just for a peek. But Allan refuses.
“You have an appointment to have them removed next week,” he says. “But it won’t exactly be a revelation. You already know you’re going to look like a Ken.”
Tommy picks up his phone from his nightstand and logs onto his Instagram account. He’s gotten a thousand new followers since going in for surgery.
He takes a selfie of his bandaged head.
“Well,” Allan says, “if you’re well enough to take a selfie I guess that means I don’t have to be your around-the-clock nurse anymore.”
He picks up the remote and motions to the TV.
“I downloaded some of your favorite movies to keep you occupied while I’m at school. Death Becomes Her, Bedazzled—1967 and 2000 versions—and, of course, Clueless.”
“Have I told you lately I love you?” Tommy risks the pain by stretching his face into a smile. Allan just stares at the TV.
Tommy wonders if Blaine is one of his followers, but when he searches for him he doesn’t come up. Blaine is off the grid.
“Have you seen Blaine?” Tommy asks. “At school?”
“I haven’t been at school,” Allan says. “I’ve been taking care of you…But I did go in yesterday for a test. You were zonked out anyway. He was there. He asked how you’re recovering.”
“He did?” Tommy brings his hands to his bandaged cheeks.
“Yeah.” Allan drops the remote next to Tommy. “Any other movies you want me to download?”
“Look at the sky, Tommy,” Allan says. It’s the middle of the night and they’re sitting out by the pool. Tommy’s sleep patterns are wonky because of the painkillers. Allan’s hyped up on coffee to get through studying for the classes he’s been missing. “Do you see that?” he asks. “It’s Sirius B!”
Tommy lifts his head and tries to focus his eyes, peering through the space in his bandages. “What am I supposed to be looking at?”
Allan turns off the pool lights so they can get a better view.
“It’s one of eight known degenerate dwarfs in our solar system,” he says. “It’s very rare to be able to see it without a telescope.”
“A degenerate dwarf? Did you take some of my meds?”
“Also known as a white dwarf. See it?”
Tommy’s so fucked up he can barely see two inches in front of him.
“It’s referred to as the ‘Pup’ star to Sirius’s dog.” Allan helps Tommy lean back in his pool lounger and lies beside him. They stare up at the sky. “It’s the smaller star next to Sirius—the brightest star in our solar system,” Allan explains. “It wasn’t discovered until the ’70s. It’s usually whited out by Sirius’s light.”
Tommy’s wobbly head lands on Allan’s shoulder.
“ ‘Sirius rises late in the dark, liquid sky,’ ” Allan says. “ ‘On summer nights, star of stars / Orion’s Dog they call it, brightest / Of all, but an evil portent, bringing heat / And fevers to suffering humanity.’ ”
“Did you just make that up?” Tommy asks.
“Homer, The Iliad.”
“Are those elements? You know I’m failing biology, Allan.”
Allan sighs, his cheek against Tommy’s hair. Still brown. The last semblance of him. It’s greasy. He hasn’t been able to shower in his bandages. Allan doesn’t mind.
“We learn the periodic table in chemistry. Oh, Tommy. Never change.”
“You reek like tacos,” Tommy says.
“Job hazard.” Allan laughs. “The Pup star packs mass comparable to the Sun’s into a volume that is significantly smaller than the Sun. That’s what makes it so special. It might not be as bright and shiny as Sirius A, with its overpowering glow, but”—Allan glances down at Tommy, snoozing on his shoulder—“but it doesn’t need to be as flashy to be as powerful,” he whispers.
DIP-A-DEE-DOO-DAH
When the bandages are removed, Dr. Hilton shows no reaction. He takes a step back, staring at Tommy’s freshly molded naked body.
Dr. Hilton stares for so long that Tommy starts to worry. Is something wrong? Shouldn’t Dr. Hilton be foaming at the mouth? What if he’s horribly disfigured from the surgery? Deformed Ken! He’ll definitely be sent back to the manufacturer.
Tommy looks down at his own body, trying to see what’s wrong. His chest is huge. And his abs. He has eight of them. Tommy’s neck squeaks as he strains it to try to get a look at his new ass.
“Careful.” Dr. Hilton gently turns his head forward. “Don’t want to break you! You’re a masterpiece.”
Dr. Hilton gets a misty look in his eyes. A strand of his wispy hair sticks up and gently sways on the top of his head.
“Doctor, what’s wrong?” Tommy picks up a scalpel to try to see his reflection. “Is something the matter with my face?” He’s sure Dr. Hilton wasn’t able to smooth out his scar, that he’ll never be perfect.
The doctor’s eyes grow so wide he looks absolutely crazed.
“No, my sweet boy! I just injected a little too much Dilaudid into my ankle this morning.”
Tutti doesn’t say anything when Tommy steps out of Dr. Hilton’s office. She just stares up at him with her mouth gaping. If he gets this kind of reaction wearing pajama bottoms and a loose-fitted shirt, he can only image the reaction once he’s all dolled up.
They walk out of the clinic to Tutti’s Bug in silence. She puts the key in the ignition and turns to look at Tommy, then back out the front windshield, then back at him, struggling to find the right words. They drive down the street.
“How do you feel?” she finally asks.
“Sore,” Tommy says. “And a bit awkward. I’m not used to moving in this body. I feel like my skin is a costume.”
Tommy lowers the passenger-seat visor and looks at his reflection in the mirror. The scar on his cheek is barely visible thanks to all of the filler. It’s like Dr. Hilton took sandpaper to his skin. He’s so smooth! Every inch of him looks like a poster of a real thing on a wall in a bedroom of a house in another house and so on and so on for all of eternity.
“You look just like them,” Tutti says with wonder in her voice.
“I can’t wait to show Allan!” Tommy says. “Is he at home?”
“Working. Want to stop for a taco?”
“No.” Tommy traces his tongue over his sparkling white veneers. “I want to go back to the pool house and look in the full-length mirror!”
Tutti squeezes his bicep implant as they stop at a red light.
“It’s so eerie,” she says. “The only thing that’s missing is the hair. I can bleach it for you, if you want. I have the perfect toner. Remember when I was blonde? You even said you were jealous because it was exactly the Kens’ shade.”
“Yes!” Tommy exclaims. “I can’t exactly afford to go to Ken Hilton’s salon. I may have the Kens’ face, but I don’t have their wallet. At least not yet. Ken Hilton has been such a fairy godmother, I wouldn’t be surprised if he somehow found a way to make me rich. Can there be a poor Ken?”
“You don’t need money.” Tutti laughs. “Kens get everything for free. Usually people give it to them willingly, but if they don’t, the Kens just take it. No one would dare put a Ken in cuffs. Unless they were pink and fluffy and a Ken absolutely begged them to.”
Tommy’s life is never going to be the same!
“Just remember, if Ken Hilton is your fairy godmother, that means he can take everything away as quickly as he gave it.”
“The clock doesn’t strike twelve in Ken World,” Tommy says. “It’s always eleven eleven.”
Tutti stops at her house to pick up the dye, and then they go back to Allan’s pool house for the treatment. Tommy imagines that the bleach burning his scalp is seeping into his brain, matching his interior with his exterior, whiting out his fears and feelings and pesky morals…
“All you need is some gel,” Tutti says after rinsing his hair in the sink. She digs through the bathroom drawers but comes up empty. “Do you think Allan has any in his room?”
“Are you kidding? He doesn’t even comb that ginge.”
“I’ll run to the drugstore,” Tutti says. “You’re not complete without it!”
“Dippity-Do,” Tommy calls after her.
“Of course!” she yells back.
Tommy almost tells Tutti to pick up a pair of blue contacts while she’s out, but the Kens have their contacts specially made. Perfectly Possessed™.
PILL BOMB
Until the swelling goes down and he’s ready to make his debut as a Ken, Tommy stays locked up in the pool house. He practices posing for selfies from every angle, searching the pool house for the best light, but he doesn’t post any of them. There’s only one chance to post like a Ken, and like everything else from this point forward in Tommy’s life, it has to be flawless.
When Allan saw Tommy’s unbandaged face for the first time he made no expression. He didn’t utter a peep. But Tommy has caught him stealing little glances ever since.
A few days after Tommy’s bandages are removed, Allan gets home from a shift at Taco Accessory. He flops down on the couch in his uniform.
“I brought you a burrito,” he says, turning on the TV.
“I can’t get cellulite on my new ass!” Tommy blocks the screen with his twerking butt. “What do you think?” he asks.
“It’s so big.” Allan laughs. He can’t look away. Tommy starts laughing too, so hard he falls over and doesn’t even feel it; his ass implants protect him. He just sort of bounces a little, which makes him laugh even harder.
He gets off the floor and sits on the couch next to Allan.
“I have to make sure the first selfie I post is on point,” he says, scrolling through the photos he’s taken of himself. “You heard what Ken Hilton said: if his court doesn’t approve, I won’t be made a Ken.”
“Yeah, and if you miss any more classes you won’t be a made a graduate. You really want to flunk junior year?”
“The Kens always get a 100 emoji.”
“I bring assignments home for you and they just sit in a pile while you stain the pool house mirrors with your jiz. Have you even looked at the math sheet I brought today?”
“Math class is tough.”
“I’m not doing it for you,” Allan says.
Tommy gives him puppy-dog eyes.
“No way.” Allan jumps up from the couch. “I’m not a Ken’s bitch.”
“Please, Allan,” Tommy begs. “I have so much to do. I need to pick a filter!”
There’s a knock on the pool house door.
“Tell your mother to have her affair at his house,” Tommy tells Allan as he goes to open it.
Allan gives him a look. “Not every housewife who lives in The Hills is like Ken Hilton’s mother, Tommy.” He opens the door. “What are you doing here?” he asks.
When Blaine steps inside, Tommy’s heart starts beating so hard he almost expects his left pec implant to pop out.
“Blaine.” He flutters his new eyelashes. “What a surprise.”
“I wanted a sneak preview,” Blaine says. “The whole school is talking about you.”
Tommy covers his face with his hands. “I probably look terrifying! I’m not wearing any foundation, and I’m still all swollen.”
“Let me see.” Blaine pulls Tommy’s hands away. Tommy doesn’t really resist. He’s not that swollen anymore, and Ken-skin looks permanently airbrushed anyway. “So is this what you were asking for in the cemetery?” Blaine asks.
They hold eye contact and Tommy feels a shiver run up his spine.
“When did you meet in the cemetery?” Allan says behind them.
Blaine points at items on the coffee table.
“What’s all this?” he asks. There are plastic bowls and spoons, a measuring scale, a safety fuse, a drill, one of Tommy’s empty pill bottles, a bottle of potassium perchlorate and aluminum powder.
“Allan’s making a pill-bottle bomb with one of my bottles of meds,” Tommy says. “Dr. Hilton kind of over-prescribed.”
“A bomb?” Blaine looks at Allan with a newfound appreciation.
“For his channel,” Tommy explains.
“How does it work?” Blaine asks.
“Simple.” Allan picks up the empty pill bottle. “You drill a hole through the cap for the fuse, then cut a good length of safety fuse and stick it through the hole, tying one end to secure it. Measure the chemicals, and then—”