Where I End and You Begin

by Preston Norton

  But she didn’t. Instead, she was looking at Imogen.

  Imogen looked shattered.

  If vengeance was measured in how deeply you damage a person—regardless of collateral damage—then I had succeeded. It was the revenge of hurting the ones you love. It was the worst kind.

  Wynonna could drop out of theater, sure. But nothing could undo the damage I had done.

  • •

  We weren’t the only ones upset about the casting. Willow cornered Ziggy after things wrapped up.

  “Malvolio?” said Willow, like it was an STD. “Isn’t he, like, the worst role?”

  “What does that mean: ‘the worst role’?” said Ziggy. “Malvolio’s the fifth largest role, and you’ve got some killer acting chops. Not everyone can pull off a role like Malvolio, Willow, but I think you can.”

  “But doesn’t everyone hate him? Doesn’t the audience hate him?”

  “Malvolio’s a complex character. Yeah, he’s not very likable. But that doesn’t mean he isn’t important. I think we can learn a lot from Malvolio’s behavior and how the other characters treat him.”

  Willow seemed deeply unsatisfied with that answer, but she gave up trying to fight for a different role.

  I waited outside the entrance of the warehouse—arms folded, leaning against the tin wall—in a mild, friendly ambush.

  “Hey!” I said as Willow walked out.

  Willow jumped, placed a hand over her heart, and successfully failed to have a heart attack.

  “Jesus!” said Willow. “What is with you today? You’re acting really”—she hesitated, rummaging for the right word—“different.”

  “Oh, you know…” I said, and shrugged. As if that meant something and wasn’t a total evasion of her question. “Hey, do you need a ride?”

  “Oh. No, I’m good.”

  “You’re good?”

  “I already have a ride.”

  “With who?”

  “Thad Magnino.”

  Here’s what I knew about Thad: It was short for Thaddeus. He was Jayden Hoxsie’s best friend, he was a junior, and he was here—an honorary member of theater, god knows why. Sexual harassment, maybe? He had moppy blond surfer hair, a tan, too many wristbands, and a reputation for being a total player. In the Douchimus maximus family, Thad was an apex predator.

  “Thad?” I said. “You’re kidding, right?”

  The thick black lines of Willow’s eyes narrowed. She shook her head. “I’ve gotta go.”

  She walked past me.

  “Wait!” I said. “What are you doing here? Did you get in trouble? Do Mom and Dad know about it?”

  Willow snapped rigid. She whipped around.

  “Do Mom and Dad know about anything?” she said. “Do they know you’re here?”

  I didn’t know what to say to that.

  “Fuck you, Ezra,” she said, and she stormed off.

  • •

  The drive home was awkward and silent.

  Holden asked if he could be dropped off first. That’s when I knew things were bad.

  After I dropped Holden off, Imogen asked if she could be next.

  “Actually,” said Wynonna, “I was wondering if you wanted to hang out!”

  This was the first thing Wynonna said to Imogen the entire drive. Really, it was the first thing anyone said to anyone.

  “I can’t,” said Imogen, standoffishly. “I have…a thing.”

  “A thing?” said Wynonna.

  Imogen nodded, not even making eye contact with Wynonna.

  “Oh,” said Wynonna. “Okay.”

  By the time we dropped Imogen off, the tension in the car had amplified tenfold. As I drove Wynonna back to the Lakes, I opened my mouth. My hope was that words would come out—miraculously, of their own volition—and somehow mend the state of things.

  “Don’t,” said Wynonna.

  “But—” I said.

  “No.”

  When we arrived at the Lakes, Wynonna stepped out of the car. But she didn’t shut the door. Not right away. Instead, she seethed, allowing her fury to intensify.

  “You won this round,” she said. “But this isn’t over yet.”

  “Wynonna, wait,” I said. “I’m not trying to win any—”

  Wynonna slammed the car door, marched up to the entryway of the Lakes, and vanished behind the glass, reflecting the bleeding colors of the falling sun.

  was a bad sign.

  But then there was the crushing migraine, like my head was pinned beneath the tire of a Ford Super Duty, the churning feeling of everything on my inside wanting to be on my outside, and a half-drained bottle of pinot noir on Wynonna’s nightstand. Sweaty clumps of blue hair were matted across my face, and my breath—if I had to brand it and give it a name—smelled like Eviscerated Decomposing Corpse®.

  I groaned and rolled onto my side. There was Wynonna fucking Jones, staring bleary-eyed back at me through the reflection in her mirror-paneled sliding closet door. Vomit was crusted on my chin, and all over the Echo & the Bunnymen T-shirt I was wearing.

  Great.

  Only twenty-four hours into this nightmare, and I was sooooooo past feeling embarrassed in a girl’s body. I crawled out of bed with all the maneuverability of a tank, marched straight to the bathroom, and stripped naked. I shed Wynonna’s vomit-y clothes like a snake sheds its skin—with purpose, a natural evolution, no looking back. I immediately stepped into the shower and cranked the heat and water pressure to I Don’t Want to Have Skin Anymore. Hot jets rained down on me, washing away the sick and the sweat and the self-destruction of yesterday.

  Finally, after several minutes of physical and spiritual cleansing, I was drawn against my better judgment to glance down.

  Now, I’m no virgin when it comes to nudity. (Only when it comes to sex.) I’ve seen all of Game of Thrones. And after Game of Thrones, what is there possibly left to see?

  The answer is: a lot.

  Wynonna’s body was weird. And I don’t mean that as “unattractive.” More like unexpected. Her tits had a bizarre shape (not as round as I expected), and her nipples had a strange color (brown, very brown), and then there was the so-called va-jim-jam. Except it was kind of hard to get a good look at it because it was covered in hair.

  Again, nothing unattractive about it. It was just…weird. Like I was an astronaut exploring the surface of an alien planet. Unexpected and intriguing.

  Getting dressed was a different experience today. Maybe it was just the cataclysmically rough start to my morning, or the shitstain-of-a-day that was yesterday, but I really felt like not looking like shit.

  I pulled on some plain blue panties that fit comfortably. There was maybe a part of me that thought I had to match Wynonna’s hair and nails. Then I rummaged through Wynonna’s jeans until I found what I thought were the nicest pair. They were the only pair that were solid charcoal, with no fake rips or tears. They were skinny and formfitting, but not thick and stiff—unlike nearly every pair of jeans I had ever owned. The material was flexible and fit like a glove around my ass—an assglove—which sounds horribly invasive, but god, they felt so right!

  Next up: the bra.

  I settled on a blue one that matched my underwear—not that anyone would know, but I would, and matching seemed important to my mental health right now. There seemed to be a lot of straps involved, however, and it took me a solid thirty seconds to figure out which end was the top. It then took me five whole minutes to realize that the only way to clip it together was around my waist. When I solved that mystery, it slid up smoothly, and sliding my arms into the shoulder straps was easy-peasy.

  Picking out a shirt was kind of fun. Wynonna had tons of them, and plenty of cool ones at that. I don’t think I truly appreciated her ’80s obsession until this moment, looking at her shirts. They extended far beyond ’80s bands, although the bands she had were stellar—the Smiths, New Order, Depeche Mode, Siouxsie and the Banshees, Joy Division.

  She had an Akira shirt.

  She had a
FRANKIE SAYS RELAX shirt.

  She had a They Live shirt with alien newscasters and a teleprompter that said WATCH TV.

  Most of the T-shirts were boxy, however, and fit me weird. I assumed they were probably designed for men. (Fucking sexist corporate agenda, as Holden would say.) So I settled for an off-white Rainbow Brite tank top that was, not gonna lie, totally badass in a way that only Wynonna could pull off, and—because I felt a little weird about my bra straps—a cropped red faux-leather biker jacket. It ended in daring red corners at my rib cage—exposing Rainbow Brite atop her trusty, rainbow-maned steed, Starlite, dashing across an actual fucking rainbow, boo-yah.

  I slipped on ankle socks, a pair of checkered Vans, and stepped in front of the mirror.

  Overall, everything checked out—maybe even checked out nicely! Except for the hair. The hair was a great blue disaster.

  Shit. How did Wynonna do her hair?

  Wynonna’s hair ended mostly at her chin, but it was hardly straight. Nothing ended at the same length. Everything about her style felt organic. It swerved off to one side—her right side; left, if you were looking at her—and it just sort of…splayed. She did often wear beanies, but it was hardly like she just showered and threw a hat on her head. She did something with it. But what? Did she use a product?

  I returned to the bathroom and opened the medicine cabinets.

  It was like opening the door to a meth lab.

  There were balms, and clays, and matte texturizers. Root-boosting powder, and dry powder shampoo, and volume paste. Sugar spritz, and sea-salt spray, and light molding cream.

  Okay. Fuck the hair.

  I grabbed a comb, parted my hair on the left, and shoved a beanie on my head.

  • •

  It wasn’t that I didn’t know how to drive a stick. It’s just that—in the spectrum of things I was good at—operating a stick ranked only slightly higher than my ability to do Wynonna’s hair.

  But that was before I was a girl, trapped in a fancy condo, with no means of escape except either a ride from Wynezra…or a stick shift. And since today was all about learning to put on bras and contemplating the possibility of feminine hair product, then what the hell—I’d take my chances with the stick.

  I grabbed Wynonna’s keys, lying atop her dresser, and ventured into the parking garage. I still had no idea what her car looked like, but my beacon of hope was the clicker on her key chain. I mashed the unlock button like I was playing Mortal Kombat. The distant honking echo led me to a green ’93 Saturn.

  Okay, Wynonna Jones. Let’s see what you can do.

  • •

  In normal circumstances, I was only vaguely aware of the vehicles around me. Aware enough to not merge into them. To travel safely from Point A to Point B. But I didn’t, like, take special note of the make, model, and specific shade of color of the vehicles to be compiled in my top secret “morning traffic” dossier.

  I was acutely aware of a Chevy Malibu trailing lazily behind me—

  a clandestine shade of Government Espionage Black. It never attempted to pass me. On the contrary, it seemed eager to see how many full stops I could screw up. I was sure I wasn’t disappointing.

  I stalled at three stop signs and two lights—at one of which I stalled multiple times in a row. I almost stalled all the way through a green light. Everyone behind me moved to the other lane, passing me indignantly, until there was no one left behind me. It was only at the very end, when it started to turn yellow, that I finally made it through. Getting going again after a complete stop was always the hardest part for me—that balance between letting off the clutch and putting on the gas. But that incident successfully got me flipped off by three separate people. The last middle finger came from a truck with two college-age guys. The driver slowed, and the guy in the passenger seat rolled his window down.

  “Fucking bitches,” said the guy in the passenger seat. “I told you. Fucking bitches never know how to drive.”

  He then offered me the finger, and the driver punched the gas.

  I wondered what Wynonna would have said or done in that situation. Even though I knew Wynonna would never stall like that, the potential scenarios made me smile.

  Then I thought: What would Sebastian have done in that situation?

  Probably follow them home from an inconspicuous distance, go to a costume shop, dress up like Freddy Krueger, and let his imagination run wild from there.

  That scenario made me laugh—even if it was just to myself in a car I could barely drive.

  I laughed until I glanced in my rearview mirror.

  The black Malibu was still behind me.

  Every hair follicle on my body spiked in an upward wave—from my toes to the nape of my neck.

  How could he still be behind me? He should have passed me at the last light. Everyone passed me at that light. Was he following me?

  He.

  It was a he—a man in a ball cap, aviators, and rocking a full beard like it was part of the disguise.

  Of course, the moment he seemed to notice me noticing him, he turned. Vanished down an empty neighborhood street.

  I blinked several times, wondering if I had imagined the whole thing.

  I spent the rest of the drive glancing at my rearview mirror, neurotically. The Malibu never reappeared.

  • •

  Now that I knew I was dyslexic—or rather, that the body and mind I inhabited was dyslexic—I saw the signs everywhere. (Aside from the letters of the English alphabet being alive, and moving, and not entirely English anymore.) Several of Wynonna’s classes were smaller than average. They seemed designed to meet the needs of certain students in a low-profile manner. It was difficult to pin down exactly what those needs were, but it was clear they existed. I noticed teachers wander and check in on particular students. Sometimes repeatedly. If something didn’t seem to be working, it wasn’t uncommon for the teacher to squash the lesson like Play-Doh, and then reshape it into something else entirely.

  In the case of Wynonna—who had the social niceties of barbed wire—the attention to her needs was in the structure. Her teachers kept their notes as verbal as possible—hence the lecture-y nature of yesterday. Today, however, was more discussion-oriented. Some teachers also incorporated an abundance of imagery. The one teacher who did lecture used a PowerPoint, and—now that I was paying attention—I couldn’t help but notice each slide was low on words and high on visual stimulation.

  They were the sorts of classes where you didn’t recognize the effort until you looked for it. Suddenly, it was all you could see.

  I sort of became lost in my observations. Before I knew it, the fourth-period bell rang, and I was staring down the barrel of the existential shotgun known as lunch period. Where the high school hierarchy separated like oil and water—the losers from the cool kids, the riffraff from the gods and goddesses, the Weirdos Who Are Not Okay from the People Who Wear Masks of Normalcy and Okayness.

  Considering that I was Wynonna, I figured I ought to wear a particular mask of normalcy and okayness and sit with Imogen.

  Except I couldn’t find her.

  Not at her normal table, not in the lunch line, not anywhere. Amidst the rush of warm bodies, the roar of blurring conversations, and the clatter of trays and silverware, Imogen’s absence was loud. Blaring.

  As if I wasn’t expecting this.

  It was a throbbing scar in my memory. I could still see the shattered look on her face. She lost the role she longed for, and to who? Her best friend who didn’t want it. And yet, here was some facade of Wynonna, auditioning for Duke Orsino out of nowhere, quoting Romeo like it was The Princess Bride.

  Shit! Like, in what universe would Wynonna have memorized lines from Romeo and Juliet? God, what was I thinking?

  I wondered which was worse for Imogen: The betrayal? Or the creeping uncertainty that her best friend was not actually her best friend?

  Imogen’s dizzying absence left me reeling, desperate for stability. It was under those circums
tances that I saw my best friend—Holden Durden—sitting alone, and confused, and kind of helpless.

  Of course, Ezra wasn’t there. Wynonna probably woke up in my body, was upset that she didn’t have a crippling hangover, and set out in search of other mind-altering substances to slosh her consciousness into oblivion.

  I sat down beside Holden.

  “Hey,” I said.

  Holden looked at me like I was wearing a neon-pink ’80s-themed straitjacket with shoulder pads and matching leg warmers.

  “Can I sit here?” I said.

  Holden continued to stare a moment longer. Then he returned his focus to his uneaten meat loaf and shrugged. “You can do whatever you want.”

  He poked his meat loaf with his fork. It didn’t move or screech or anything, so I guess that was good. Finally, he set the fork down and took a swig of chocolate milk.

  “Whoever thought that meat should be cooked in a ‘loaf,’” I said, air-quoting, “should have their procreation privileges revoked.”

  Holden nearly spewed his chocolate milk. He only barely managed to choke it down, and even then, some of it seeped out of the corner of his mouth and dribbled down his chin.

  “I mean, people say the word ‘loaf,’” I continued, “and I can only hear my dad saying ‘pinch a loaf.’ And then I can’t do it. I just can’t do it anymore.”

  Apparently, Holden didn’t choke all of it down. Because the moment I said that, we had an Old Faithful situation. Chocolate milk on his meat loaf, chocolate milk on my meat loaf, and splatters of chocolate milk in between. It was like a really gross Rorschach test.

  “Easy there, buddy,” I said. “You need a napkin?”

  Holden was still laughing, wiping his mouth with his bare hands. “Oh god. I need a towel. Or a shower.” He glanced at my meat loaf with its freshly spewed chocolate milk glaze. “Sorry about that.”

  “Psh! Please. I’d rather eat my own liposuction.”

  “Oh my GOD,” said Holden. He was on the verge of tears. “Stop it. You’re going to make me gag on my own tongue.”

  “I’d like to see that.”

  Holden shook his head as he pulled napkins one by one out of a napkin dispenser. “Whatever. It’s not like you’d ever need liposuction anyway.”