Where I End and You Begin

by Preston Norton

  “So are we on the same page with this story?”

  Wynezra nodded. Again, enthusiastically.

  “Are you going to freak out on Holden and run off like a crazy person the next time he tries to talk to you?”

  Wynezra blushed. I’d never seen her blush before, but she wasn’t her anymore, she was me. The pasty complexion of Ezra Slevin was the perfect palette for my cardiovascular system to turn my face into a fucking billboard for my embarrassment. It was bizarre witnessing it in the third person.

  “Are you?” I persisted.

  “I had a boner,” she blurted out.

  “What?”

  “Multiple boners. Like, every single time he tried to talk to me—boing! There it was, pitching a tent in my pants. I had no choice. I had to run.”

  I felt it in my gut. Pulling at the corners of my face. It took every fiber of willpower in my entire being not to…

  …not to…

  Nope. The willpower was gone.

  I started giggling.

  “Hey!” said Wynezra. “It’s not funny!”

  I started full-on laughing. And apparently, a facet of Wynonna’s laughter was snorting. I snorted.

  “You suck,” said Wynezra. “I hate you.”

  I started crying.

  • •

  I didn’t leave Wynezra completely high and dry. The dick-owning gender had had millennia to adapt to the great wonders and inconveniences of the dick. And as a dick-owner—well, time-share-owner these days—I had picked up a few tricks.

  “You tuck it under your waistband,” I said.

  “You what?” said Wynezra. “How?”

  “Very sneakily. Like a ninja. You just slip your hand in, grab the rod, and slide it under your belt.”

  Wynezra looked astronomically skeptical. “That sounds complicated.”

  “Not as complicated as explaining to your crush why you have the Tower of Pisa in your pants.”

  Wynezra considered this. Nodded thoughtfully. “Duly noted.”

  “But there are also preventative measures.”

  “Preventative measures? Why didn’t you start with that?”

  “Well, these measures are often frowned upon.”

  “Jesus Christ. Frowned upon by who?”

  “Uh…” I said. I had to pause and think. “For starters, probably Jesus Christ.”

  When Wynezra looked confused, I proceeded to slide my hand up and down an imaginary cock in front of me.

  “Oh my god,” said Wynezra. She shook her head. “No way. I am not choking your chicken.”

  “Hey, currently it’s your chicken,” I said, raising my hands defensively. “I will get no pleasure out of it. Only you. I’m just trying to help.”

  “And how exactly is masturbating supposed to help?”

  “It defuses all the sexual tension in your body,” I said. “Duh. I mean, you might still get a boner, but after you’ve masturbated, it’ll be much easier to look at Holden as a person and not five feet nothing of sexual desire.”

  Wynezra glared at me.

  “I’m just saying,” I said.

  “Okay,” said Wynezra, relenting. “Fine. How do I masturbate?”

  “Ummmmmm…” I said, uncomfortably. “The age-old tools seem to be lotion, tissues, and your porn of preference. But…I would just say, you do you. I’m sure you’ll figure out what feels good.”

  Wynezra gave me a prying look.

  “What?” I said.

  “Are you sure you’re okay with this?” she said. “Me…you know…”

  She mimicked my hand-sliding-on-imaginary-cock gesture.

  “If you get Imogen to like me,” I said, “you can choke that chicken seventeen times a day. You can choke it until I get penis cancer. Or dick-related superpowers.”

  Wynezra gave a feeble smile. It was the smile of someone who was grateful but in a broken sort of way.

  The smile of someone with a secret.

  • •

  Wynonna and I were back in our own bodies by evening. I had driven to the Lakes and was just pulling into the parking garage when—flash—I was lying stomach-down on my bed, with my Xbox controller in my hand, playing Forza Horizon 5. The Lamborghini I was apparently racing smashed into a tree while I was winding around a tight bend.

  The imagery in front of me—coupled with what I had been doing just seconds earlier—caused me to drop the controller.

  Shit.

  I rolled around on the bed and fumbled for my phone. Felt it brush my leg from inside my pocket.

  I whipped it out, fumbled for Wynonna’s number in the recent calls, and pressed the call button. As the tone rang, I made a mental note to add her to my contacts—shit, add her as one of my favorites—for emergencies’ sake.

  The call went to her voice mail:

  “Heeeeeeeeeyyyy, I’m not here right now. So…better luck next time.”

  Beep!

  Oh my god.

  I hung up and tried again.

  This time, Wynonna picked up on the second ring. We both screamed simultaneously into our phones. I said, “OH, THANK GOD,” and she said, “AHHHHHHHHHHHH.”

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  “Yeah, yeah,” she said. “Good thing you were only going twenty miles per hour and your foot was on the brake. I almost went right into a concrete pillar.”

  “Shit. But you’re okay?”

  “Just got my heart racing a bit. But yeah, I’m okay. Prolly didn’t help I was playing that fucking video game.”

  I nodded breathlessly, even though she couldn’t see me.

  “Well…” she said awkwardly. “I should go.”

  “Wynonna?” I said.

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m glad you’re okay.”

  She was silent for a moment.

  “Thanks, Ezra,” she said finally, and hung up.

  I spent the rest of the night memorizing Viola’s lines. I memorized them until 3:14 a.m. when I was suddenly—magically—fast asleep in someone else’s body.

  in a row, I woke up as Wynonna Jones. Even if everything else about our body-swapping situation was random as fuck, at least that was consistent.

  I had just showered and was halfway through getting dressed—a routine I was definitely starting to enjoy—when Wynezra called.

  “Can I pick you up?” she said. “We need to talk.”

  “Uh, sure,” I said. “Is everything o—”

  She hung up.

  As I finished getting dressed, I racked my brain over every possible thing Wynonna had potential to be mad about. On a normal day, this would have been a very long list. Today, however, I honestly couldn’t think of a single thing.

  Resigning myself to whatever fate lay ahead, I took a chance on some ripped jeans (now that I was wearing them, they looked really good on Wynonna; maybe even classy), a pair of high leather boots that reached mid-calf, and a tank top that said WHAT’S YOUR DAMAGE, HEATHER? God, I loved her shirts.

  No jacket. The bra straps and I didn’t give a fuck today. We were feeling good. Confident.

  I was outside and on the curb for about ten minutes before Wynezra arrived. She was driving slower than usual. When she pulled up alongside me, she barely even looked at me.

  Her face—my face—looked tired.

  Oh.

  I suddenly had an idea what this might be about.

  I climbed into the passenger’s-side door, closed it, and we drove, basking in a void of tension.

  “For the past three nights in a row,” said Wynezra, still not looking at me, “I’ve woken up at three fourteen a.m. In your body. And then, I lie awake until the sun comes up and your alarm goes off.”

  I nodded quietly, weighing the pros and cons of telling her that I felt refreshed and great. Surely, the moral reward of self-sacrifice for her fellow man—or woman, currently—would quell her suffering.

  “WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOUR BODY?” she said loudly, like she was deaf to her own voice. “Why can’t I sleep?”

>   “I have a sleeping disorder?” I offered questioningly.

  “So, what? You just lie awake every night until three fourteen a.m., and then bam! You’re nice and cozy and asleep in my body?”

  I hadn’t really thought about it until now. But yeah, that’s exactly what was happening. No wonder I felt so good.

  “You do know what three fourteen is, right?” she said, after I failed to respond.

  “Uh…” I said. “Pi?”

  “What?” Wynezra looked at me like I was the actual disease dumb people were afflicted with that made them stupid. “No! It’s the witching hour, dumbass.”

  “The…witching hour?”

  “Between three and four a.m.,” said Wynezra. “It’s believed to be the hour when supernatural phenomena are most likely to happen. The hour when black magic is most powerful. I read all about it on Wikipedia.”

  “Huh.”

  “When did you say your sleeping disorder started again?”

  I was pretty sure I didn’t say—quite frankly, I didn’t like to talk about it—but since she was suffering with me, I figured she was entitled to the information.

  “It started in fourth grade,” I said. “I was nine years old.”

  I thought about mentioning the car accident. But then I thought: Why do I need to tell her about every freaking facet of my life? So I withheld that tidbit. It’s not like there was anything to tell. I didn’t remember anything!

  Regardless, Wynezra seemed to process what I had given her with great interest.

  “In other words,” she said, “after Romeo and Juliet.”

  I sighed.

  “After the eclipse,” she pressed. “After we swapped for the first time!”

  “Can we not psychoanalyze me today, Dr. Jones? I’m really not in the mood.”

  “But I’m right, though, aren’t I?”

  I shrugged. “Maybe? I don’t know. It was a long time ago. My doctor says my insomnia is trauma-related.”

  “Maybe. Or maybe it’s supernatural-phenomena-related.”

  I rolled my eyed. “I don’t have chronic insomnia because I body-swapped once when I was nine.”

  “No, of course not. You have chronic insomnia because you body-swapped once when you were nine, and it fucked up the one fictional scenario where you and Imogen end up together, not to mention your adorable little acting career.”

  My entire body was sent into premature rigor mortis.

  Oh my god. Did she find out about my YouTube channel?

  Did I leave a costume piece out?

  No. I was too thorough. Every time I finished a video, I boxed the costume. Stowed it away in the darkest reaches of my closet. I would never be so negligent.

  Deep breaths, Ezra. She doesn’t know. She’s just referring to Shakespeare. That’s all. Play it cool. Play it cool like Donnie Brasco.

  “Your YouTube channel is cute,” said Wynezra, cracking a smile that sealed my fate. “Reeeeal cute.”

  Jesus Christ Superstar. Take me now.

  In that moment, I was actively contemplating the best way to throw myself from the vehicle so that it would kill me instantly. We weren’t going fast enough, but perhaps if I just slid out, I would roll under the tires. But that was only sufficient if it crushed my head or maybe several vital organs. If it only ran over an arm or a leg, that would mostly just suck.

  Wynezra laughed. “Relax, man! I liked it. It was really good.”

  Headfirst. I had to go headfirst. Basically, grab the bottom lip and swing myself beneath the car. It was the only way if I was going for maximum chance of fatality—

  Wait, what?

  I looked at Wynezra. Her expression was one of deep amusement, but there was also something else. Sympathy, maybe? Was Wynonna even capable of sympathy?

  “Look, I’m sorry,” said Wynezra. “You left a window open on your computer, and I was bored, and obviously I couldn’t sleep, and…Okay, I’ll just say it: I watched your entire channel.”

  This seemed like an appropriate moment to die. And yet…

  “You liked it?” I said.

  “I’ll be honest,” said Wynezra. “I think Johnny Depp has lost his fucking mind. I think we’re watching his midlife crisis on the big screen. But with that said…you nailed him, man. I mean, your Sweeney Todd? Jesus, it gave me chills! Where did you learn to sing like that?”

  Okay, so if you’re a cultured human being, or perhaps just a disturbed one, you know that Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street is a musical. A gory, horrifying musical about a serial killer barber who murders his victims with a straight razor and then processes their corpses into meat pies that he sells to the public. But a musical nonetheless. So naturally, I had to sing for his video.

  I didn’t “learn to sing” so much as I just watched Sweeney Todd on an endless repeat until his voice was an echo, a rhythm in my head. From there, it was pure mimicry.

  I shrugged. It was all I could do. I was still stuck at: “You liked it?”

  “Man, I can’t wait to show this to Imogen,” said Wynezra. “She’s gonna freak.”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa,” I said. “You can’t show this to Imogen.”

  “What? Why not?”

  “Because you can’t!”

  “Dude. You already have, like, a million subscribers.”

  “Ten thousand,” I corrected nervously.

  “Exactly! Ten thousand subscribers! What does it matter if one more person sees it?”

  “It matters because I know that person.”

  “You know me, and I saw it.”

  “Yeah, well, I didn’t exactly have a choice in the matter. Besides, I listened to your Holden tapes, so…” I glanced at the word “karma” tattooed on my inner forearm. Raised it for Wynezra to see. That made her chuckle.

  “Damn straight,” she said, shoving me playfully. “Karma, bitch.”

  I rolled with the shove, attempted to smile, but the smile was strained.

  “Please don’t show Imogen my videos,” I said. “I’m not ready for her to see them. Not yet. No one knows about them. Not my family, not even Holden.”

  “What? Seriously?”

  “Seriously.”

  Wynezra sighed. “Okay. I’m just saying, they’re impressive. And if you want to impress Imogen, well…But hey, whatever, it’s your life. I won’t show Imogen the videos.”

  “Thanks, Wynonna.”

  Wynezra shifted uncomfortably in the wake of my gratitude. She shrugged it off like an unwanted hand on her shoulder.

  “There’s nothing to thank,” she said. “Don’t thank me. It’s so not necessary.”

  We drove in silence for a long moment.

  “Are you sure you don’t remember anything else about fourth grade?” she said. “Anything about…us?”

  “Us?” I said, confused. “Like, me and you?”

  The way she had said it, it almost sounded like she remembered something. I certainly remembered nothing. Wynonna was nothing but a fear-filled blur in my fourth-grade memory banks.

  “Do you remember anything about us?” I asked.

  Wynezra hesitated. Then shook her head. “It’s nothing.”

  Maybe I was overanalyzing. But it didn’t sound like nothing.

  I relaxed in my seat, as if giving myself permission to disintegrate peacefully. My eyes drifted to my passenger-side mirror.

  A black Chevy Malibu trailed behind us, maintaining a distance—biding its time—like a patient predator.

  I reeled forward in my seat. “Oh shit.”

  “What?” said Wynezra.

  “I think I’m being followed.”

  “WHAT?” Wynezra leaned forward, squinting into the rearview mirror.

  “The black Malibu,” I said. “He was following me yesterday morning.”

  “Oh. My. God.” There was dangerous recognition in her eyes. “That bastard.”

  “You know him?”

  Wynezra leaned back and throttled the steering wheel. �
��Yeah. I know him.”

  I leaned forward and studied the vehicle in my side mirror. It was the same driver: bearded, ball-capped, aviator-ed. The perfect lazy man’s disguise. The moment he realized he had been spotted, he went rigid with panic. Changed course.

  Well, he tried. This time, however, there was a Volvo in his blind spot. He started to merge hastily into the right lane, the Volvo whaled on its horn, and he swerved erratically back into his own lane.

  “Oh no, you don’t, motherfucker,” said Wynezra.

  She spun the steering wheel like Ahab aboard the Pequod, with an utter disregard for human life. Flipped a U-ey. The Subaru tires screamed bloody murder. Suddenly, we were punching it in the opposite direction. The Malibu finally merged and turned right into an empty neighborhood street. Wynezra speared left, hot on his tail.

  Er, wait.

  Past his tail.

  We accelerated past him entirely. Merged in front of him.

  Then Wynezra slammed on the brakes.

  The Malibu braked, too—but he also attempted to swerve around us. Wynezra swerved wider. We came to a dead halt diagonally across both lanes, blocking him off.

  Wynezra jumped out of the car. Stormed toward the Malibu in a great and terrible Oz-like fury.

  The man exited the vehicle, too. He even went so far as to remove his sunglasses. He was big. Real big. Also, he had a Chinese-style dragon snaking across his forearm, disappearing beneath his rolled-up flannel sleeve. The guy could easily kick Wynezra’s ass.

  He also looked scared. But maybe not so scared of Wynezra.

  He looked scared of me.

  Several times, I caught him glancing my way, then to Wynezra, then back to me. All the while, his face was flushing with shame.

  He looked so familiar, but for the life of me, I couldn’t figure out why.

  “Who are you?” said the man.

  “You got a lotta fucking nerve,” said Wynezra.

  “I asked, ‘Who are you?’”

  “Who am I? I’m the guy your daughter told to come out here and tell you to get fucking lost! That’s who! You don’t get to know who I am!”

  Holy shit. Daughter? This was Wynonna’s dad?

  Already, Wynonna’s dad seemed to know he had lost this fight before it even started. He looked lost, flustered, wholly ashamed of himself.

  “Look, I’m sorry,” he said. “You’re right. I shouldn’t be here. Let me just…let me apologize to her.”