Where I End and You Begin

by Preston Norton

  “You really don’t remember,” she said, “do you?”

  “Remember what?” I said, exasperated.

  She paused. Seemed to mull it over. “Can you drive a stick?”

  “What?”

  “We should talk about this in person. My car’s a stick. Can you drive it?”

  “Uh…” I said.

  It was kind of a funny story, actually. And I meant “funny” in the ironic, unfunny sense. My dad taught me to drive a stick—or tried to teach me, I should say—last summer. This was the result of the ’63 Corvette Stingray he randomly decided to buy me for my sixteenth birthday. (Seriously, so random. I didn’t even know what a Stingray was before he bought me one!) But alas, now I had one, and boy oh boy, how lucky was I? So now I had to learn how to drive a stick.

  Little did Dad know, we were embarking on an impossible, absurdist quest in the vein of Don Quixote.

  By August, our collective blood pressure was hypertensive at best. When it became obvious that I would learn to accept my own mortality and death before I learned to operate a manual transmission, he silently admitted defeat. Sold the Stingray and got me a Subaru instead.

  I think, deep down, the Stingray was the car he always wanted—probably since he was sixteen years old—but he felt silly or vain buying and/or keeping it for himself. I think, by getting it for me, he thought he was fulfilling all my wildest dreams. And not sending me to an early grave in a cherry-red casket made by Chevrolet.

  So, in answer to Wynonna’s question: No. I could not drive a stick. It was a hard no. Harder than space diamond.

  “Uh, well, I mean,” I said, moronically. “It depends on your definition of ‘drive.’”

  “Oh god, never mind,” said Wynezra. “Do you have a car?”

  “I have a Subaru?” I said, like I wasn’t sure if it was a car or not.

  “In the driveway?”

  “In the garage.”

  “Keys?”

  “Uh, they’re on my dresser upstairs. My bedroom is just past the door with the Adventure Time poster.”

  “Cool,” she said. “Meet me outside.” And then, as an afterthought, “Don’t do anything weird with my body.”

  She hung up.

  I pulled myself out of my bed/nightstand nook, kicked my legs out of the sheets, and staggered to my feet. The entire mechanics of my body felt off. For starters, the hips. They were very much…there. But the subtle differences in the way I moved were only a slight distraction from the fact that I wasn’t wearing any pants.

  Wynonna’s body wasn’t wearing any pants.

  Just a pair of soft black panties that hardly felt like they were there. They hugged the bizarre curves of my body, emphasized the fact that my bulge had been hijacked, and were neatly tucked into my butt.

  Now that I knew they were in my butt, it was hard for me to not notice it. In fact, it was horribly distracting. I considered the possibility of changing underwear—the type that left your butt crack alone—but that involved taking these ones off, and that sounded like a challenge for a different day. Instead, I scoured the bedroom for pants. Clothes were lying everywhere—cluttering the floor, draped over the bed frame, occupying every available flat surface. I searched for the least formfitting thing I could find, which was kind of a Where’s Waldo? situation.

  Just as my resolve was about to crumble, I stumbled upon a pair of baggy gray sweatpants. I pulled them on. I then slid barefoot into a pair of fat DC skater shoes. I returned to the closet door mirror and evaluated myself.

  Oh god. My nipples.

  They were like a pair of twin pistol barrels, locked and loaded and ready.

  A bra. I needed a bra.

  Once again, I faced the moral dilemma of taking something off in order to put something on.

  I was way too virgin to handle this much responsibility. I slid the mirror door open and plundered the closet in search of an alternative.

  The alternative presented itself to me almost immediately—a gigantic baby-blue puffer coat. Very reminiscent of what Adam Sandler wore in Little Nicky. Though it was stuffed in the very back of the closet, there was no hiding this puffy blue monstrosity. I pulled it on, zipped it up, and stepped in front of the mirror door.

  I looked like an idiot. Or Wynonna did, I should say. But any trace of commando tits had been eliminated.

  That was good enough for me.

  I opened Wynonna’s bedroom door and peered outside. The hallway was empty. No sound. I crept out, tiptoeing across the hardwood floor. The hallway walls were littered with picture frames.

  As much as I wanted to get out of this unfamiliar house as soon as possible, my gaze drifted inevitably to the pictures. Most of them were old. I could tell because Wynonna looked under ten—even younger in some. In nearly every photo, her mom and dad were on either side of her, crouching to her level. And every time, Wynonna would reach her arms up to hang around their necks. This pose appeared in a variety of locations—the park, the swimming pool, Disney World.

  Wynonna was an impeccable amalgamation of her parents.

  Despite how old these photos were, Wynonna’s face was unmistakable. Her strong jaw and cheekbones (her dad’s), her regal nose (her mom’s)—all of which Wynonna had now grown into. Most notable was the lopsided way her lips curled when she smiled. I was more used to seeing it as an antagonistic smirk, but still—it was 100 percent, trademark-brand Wynonna.

  Her eyes, however, were different. Her eyes were full of something here. It was visible in every single picture. Something vivid and wondrous and infinite.

  Something I had never seen in Wynonna’s eyes before.

  “And Sleeping Beauty arises,” said an older, weathered female voice. “Off to the arctic tundra, I see.”

  I turned and discovered a woman in the hallway. She had the same prominent nose as Wynonna and her mom. But this woman was not her mom. She was too old—in her sixties, at least. That’s not to say that she wasn’t beautiful. She absolutely was. The woman held herself with a certain elegance, wearing a sweeping gray turtleneck poncho thingy (it looked much more sophisticated than it sounds), and her hair done in some sort of tousled pouf updo. All in all, very Meryl Streep.

  I glanced down at myself and my less-than-elegant Adam Sandler cosplay. My mouth stammered until words came out. “I was…cold.”

  “Oh, I do hope you’re not coming down with something,” she said. She turned and started back out the hallway, into what appeared to be the kitchen. Her voice bellowed down the hall, “The last thing I need is to get sick before my presentation!”

  Slowly, I followed her out into the kitchen. The place was small but classy—stainless steel countertops with matching barstools, dark—almost black—mahogany cabinets, and a wide, third-story window view, slanting outward, overlooking downtown Carbondale.

  The woman grabbed her keys and thermos off the counter, took a sip, and started for the door.

  “Do me a favor, Nona,” said the woman. “If you are sick, please quarantine yourself. I have some NyQuil in my medicine cabinet. Knock yourself out—as literally as you please.”

  With that, she walked out the door. She even went so far as to lock it behind her.

  Well, that was interesting. Wynonna’s grandma, I assumed? If so, she was apparently one of those “classy grandmas”—the sort of grandma who used to be Grace Kelly or Audrey Hepburn.

  I waited sixty seconds. Then exited behind her.

  Wynonna’s house was actually a condo called the Lakes. It was a fancy affair with designer wool carpeting, crystal wall sconces, and a matching chandelier in the lobby. And boy, what a lobby! I shuffled across the black marble floor—past the pillars and art installations and chic-but-uncomfortable-looking chairs—attempting not to gawk.

  “Have a good day, miss,” said the concierge.

  I looked over my shoulder rather stupidly, then realized I was the “miss.” I forced a smile, waved awkwardly, and shuffled even faster toward the glass front doors.

/>   I waited on the curb for about five minutes before my Subaru screeched around the corner on the left. It came to a slow, dramatic halt in front of me—just enough time for the driver’s-side window to roll down. I felt a little speechless as I watched my own face gape at me.

  “What…the hell…are you wearing?” said Wynezra.

  I glanced down at myself, lifted my arms uncertainly, and then flopped them at my sides.

  “Your clothes?” I offered.

  “I hid that coat in the back of my closet for a reason,” said Wynezra. “You look like the Michelin Man mated with a Smurf.”

  “Why do you have it, then?”

  “It was a Christmas present from my grandpa, dummy! When your grandpa gives you clothes for Christmas, you don’t actually wear them. You hide them in your closet, and you lie through your teeth about what a great present it was. That’s how it works. Get in the car.”

  I thought of offering to drive. Wynezra, however, was throttling the steering wheel in the ten-and-two position. She seemed fully ensconced in the driver’s seat and all the powers it entailed, so I quietly climbed in the passenger seat and shut the door. Wynezra punched the gas, and we took off, with no spoken destination. That was okay. We were just here to talk. To figure things out.

  It wasn’t until now—seeing my own body from a third-person perspective, through Wynonna’s eyes—that I realized how much bigger I was than her. Maybe only two or three inches taller, but my jaw was wide and angular, and my shoulders had a lanky broadness to them, and my limbs were long and ropy and powerful-looking—at least compared to the limbs I was currently operating.

  Why didn’t I feel that big when I was myself?

  “Your grandpa?” I said. “Is this the grandpa who’s married to your grandma? I mean…the woman you’re living with?”

  It occurred to me that I was making all sorts of assumptions. I didn’t even know that that was actually her grandma.

  Wynezra’s eyes widened. “Oh god. You met Carol?”

  “So she’s not your grandma?”

  “What? No, she…she is. Just…what did she say?”

  “She thought I was…or you were…she thought we were sick. Or coming down with something.”

  Wynezra looked all sorts of confused. “What?”

  “Because of the coat,” I clarified. “I told her I was cold.”

  “Oh.”

  “So, she told us to go quarantine ourselves.”

  “She told us to what?”

  “Yeah. She told us to lock ourselves in our room and…uh…‘knock ourselves out with NyQuil.’ I think those were her exact words. So I guess we have a free pass from school today!”

  I said this last part optimistically. Wynezra, however, did not share my enthusiasm. Her face—my face—was crumpled into a scowl. She slammed the steering wheel.

  “God, who does she think she is?” said Wynezra. “Queen of the whole goddamn world, that’s who. Ugh! I hate her.”

  “You hate your grandma?” I said.

  In all honesty, I had never met anyone who hated their grandma. This was uncharted territory in my understanding of the universe.

  “Dude, don’t even,” said Wynezra. “You don’t even know.”

  “I mean, she didn’t seem like she meant it in a mean way.”

  “You don’t know her, Ezra. I do. Everything she says, everything she does…it’s like a snide little insult. She pretends to be polite, but deep down, she’s a condescending bitch who thinks she’s better than everyone else—especially me. Or you, for that matter.” Wynezra chuckled bitterly. “Get used to it, Wynonna Jones.”

  “So…where are your parents? Why not live with them?”

  Wynezra grew silent. Every muscle in her face seemed to atrophy.

  Oh shit? Were they…

  Were they what? Divorced? Walked out?

  Dead?

  “Let’s not talk about my parents,” said Wynezra, calmly—calmer than I’d heard her all morning.

  I nodded silently. We drove like that for a while—not saying a thing to each other.

  “What do you remember about Romeo and Juliet?” she said finally.

  “What? Like, in general?”

  “No, not ‘in general.’ You were in the play, right? The one from fourth grade?”

  I responded with a confused look. That just pissed her off.

  “Why am I even asking you?” said Wynezra. “I know you were in it. You were the star of the fucking show! You and Imogen both. Just nod your head and show me that you acknowledge this was a thing that happened.”

  I nodded my head—slowly—like I was acknowledging my way into a trap.

  “Okay,” said Wynezra. “Good. Now tell me what you remember about the night of the performance.”

  It was a trap.

  “Are you making fun of me?” I said.

  “Can you just not be an insecure little bitch?” said Wynezra. “Just for one moment? Tell me, exactly, what do you remember?”

  “I forgot all my lines!” I said, throwing my puffy blue arms in the air for emphasis. “I forgot everything, like a complete dipshit. There. Are you happy?”

  Wynezra did not look happy. Her lips—my lips—were pursed skeptically.

  “You remember forgetting your lines?” she said. “Like, you remember standing there, on the stage, not remembering them?”

  That was a weirdly specific question. All things considered, however, it hardly ranked on the weird-o-meter.

  “I mean, it was weird,” I said. “Like, I knew my lines, but I felt disconnected from myself.”

  “Disconnected?” For once in her life, Wynonna seemed interested in what I had to say.

  “Yeah! Like I was seeing myself forget my lines. Like an out-of-body experience. Like I was sitting in the…”

  I stopped. Choked softly on my words.

  Like I was sitting in the audience.

  I turned. Looked at Wynezra. Now she looked happy. Or, at least, like I had validated her entire existence. She had contorted my face into a maniacal grin—eyes vast, lips coiled, all teeth exposed—like some sort of villain.

  “Oh my god,” I said. “What do you remember?”

  “That was me!” said Wynezra. “You saw me forget all your lines.”

  “Are you saying we—”

  “Swapped! Yes! That is exactly what I am saying!”

  I stared at Wynezra, mouth ajar. She was glowing. Or possibly losing her mind. If there was a blurry gray area between happiness and insanity, that’s where Wynonna was.

  “I was at that show,” said Wynezra. “I came to see Imogen, obviously. But next thing I knew, I was on the stage, and I was you, and Ms. Lopez was trying to shove a script in my face. Like, fuck that shit. I was outta there.”

  “Curled up in the parking lot,” I said, mostly as a revelation to myself. “Crying.”

  Wynezra shot a dangerous glance at me.

  “No, no, no, I’m not making fun of you,” I said, raising my hands backtrackishly. “That’s just what I remember. I didn’t remember running out of school. What I remembered was waking up in the parking lot, curled up in a ball—”

  Wynezra’s eyes narrowed to life-threatening slits, daring me to say “crying” one more time.

  “Anyway…yeah,” I said.

  “You do know what else happened that day,” she said, “don’t you?”

  She looked at me, and I looked at her. Even though we were looking at our own eyes, they met with an unspoken understanding.

  Like celestial spheres overlapping.

  Eclipsing.

  “The eclipse,” I said, breathless.

  Wynezra nodded. “The first one, from seven years ago.”

  What we were experiencing wasn’t random. It was a continuation of something that happened seven years ago.

  But why? What did that mean?

  “So…” said Wynonna. “What do we do?”

  “What do we do?”

  “How do we fix this?”

>   Even though I was in a different body, the physical sensation of how I handled stress translated perfectly. My stomach was set to spin-dry. My chest was being vacuum-sealed against the scaffolding of my rib cage. My brain was an alarm, blaring: Don’t panic don’t panic don’t panic, which was undoubtedly the worst form of panicking.

  So naturally, I played it cool and shrugged.

  “Wait it out?” I said.

  Wynezra cinched her eyebrows (my eyebrows) together and glared at me incredulously. I was discovering a palette of facial expressions I didn’t know I had.

  “Wait it out?” she said. “That’s your plan?”

  “I mean, think about it,” I said. “We only swapped once before. And it only lasted for…what? Ten, fifteen minutes?”

  Wynezra bit her lip.

  “We did only swap once,” I said. “Didn’t we?”

  Wynezra jutted her newfound masculine jaw out. She appeared to be thinking, and not in the most reassuring way.

  “Didn’t we?” I said, more frantically.

  “I don’t know!” said Wynezra. “I’ve spent the past seven years convincing myself that it never really happened. I only remember the play so well because there were, like, two hundred witnesses. I think…I think we swapped maybe one more time?”

  “One more time?”

  “Maybe? Like I said, I went to a psychiatrist for this shit. My grasp of what did or didn’t happen is kind of Jell-O salad.”

  “Okay…” I offered a hollow, lobotomized nod. “Well, whatever the case, whatever this is”—I made an ambiguous gesture between the two of us—“I don’t think it’s permanent.”

  Wynezra nodded in a way that was listening, and hopeful, and probably not believing a single word I said. Who could blame her? I hardly believed a word I said. This was some next-level Twilight Zone shit we were in. But if we were going to survive this ordeal, we needed to keep our cool.

  “With that said,” I continued, “I think the most important thing right now is staying on the same page with each other. We each have our own lives, and there’s a balance that needs to be maintained. The last thing we need is to screw things up for each other.”