by T Cooper
“Well, either way, it’s mandatory, so . . .” Tracy takes another deep gulp of her shake.
Mandatory why? I wonder.
“I know you weren’t pleased when you received this iteration of your selves,” she goes on, easily downshifting into Touchstone-speak. “But I think you’re going to fall in love with Kim. And I’d venture once you do, other people will too.”
“If you say so.” I push my maraschino cherry into its whipped cream dome.
“It’s what’s inside that counts,” Tracy adds.
I make a fake vomit noise. “I don’t see you occupying a V that is marginalized and shunned by 99 percent of the population,” I challenge.
“Because I knew Tracy was my best me! The outside that matched the inside. I mean, can you really see this personality in a six-foot-two Ukrainian-looking basketball player? Or a petite Latina?”
She has a point.
“Were you a six-two Ukrainian? Please say yes,” I ask hopefully.
“No. But I was many other things that felt . . . wrong. And this felt right. Even more right than the me I was born with. And when your insides line up with your outsides, there is no better feeling in the world.”
As I let that sink in, my eyes drift around the Freezo. I land on the booth I was in that day with Chase, as Drew, remembering how we were arguing even then. And I think, maybe for the first time, that I’m starting to maybe know what Tracy is talking about.
Change 3–Day 7
You know what feels worse than being a person of size and innate klutziness wandering alone through the world? Being a person of size and innate klutziness wandering through the world next to the most desirable girl in the universe. As I learned today when I went from Kim Cruz, loser loner, to Kim Cruz the DUFF.
Yep, I was that girl. The Designated Ugly Fat Friend. Not that it was Destiny’s fault. (Desteeni’s . . . maybe). She did what she could to integrate me into her glamorous orbit of unbridled, unearned praise and attention, but as Michelle Hu might helpfully point out in this particular situation, there is no getting around physics. Not even at Ground Hero, a new fair trade coffee shop in Genesis with its clientele of bored hipsters and alternagirls, all of whom took particular notice of Destiny (and me) when we dropped in for lattes. It was like I was traveling with the pope. A pope everybody wanted to . . . date.
The usually sleepy joint went from zero to manic frenetic energy in under five seconds, just because Destiny deigned to walk in. She was magnetic, magical, captivating without having to try, her beauty so complete and unabashed that people didn’t even pretend they weren’t staring.
I would have wanted to kill myself if it weren’t so fascinating.
“Can you believe this cray-cray?” Destiny whispered as we waited for our order, the barista hardly able to keep his eyes off her, burning his finger on the milk steamer for his trouble.
“Is this, like, your life now?” I marveled, slack-jawed.
“Pretty much.”
“Dang,” I sighed. Though I kind of understood what she meant before, about the downside. All that unsolicited attention, 24-7. It had to be exhausting. And numbing too. When everyone loves you because of something that has nothing to do with you, that must mess with your psyche quite a bit. And I knew Destiny wasn’t the sort of person to let that wave of adulation corrupt her. At least, I hoped she wasn’t.
“Here you go, extra shot free, just for you,” the barista cooed, handing Destiny her latte, with, no joke, a heart in the foam.
“Is mine ready?” I asked, standing on my tippy toes, trying to see over the counter.
“Sorry?” he said, eyes still on Destiny.
“Medium soy latte?”
“Oh yeah, in a sec.”
“My friend would love an extra shot too,” Destiny suggested, not even having to tilt her head or uptalk or anything. Flirting for her would have been gilding the lily. Hell, for her, breathing was gilding the lily.
“Of course, totally,” the barista swooned back, flexing his old-school tattooed bicep as he expertly ground the beans.
When we sat down at a sofa in the rear of the café—Destiny facing inward the way celebrities do, so they won’t get eyeballed—I asked how she was handling being the North Star for every human who crossed her path.
“It’s taking some getting used to,” she chirped. “But. Not that much.” An impish smile spread across her face, and for a minute I saw only Elyse, my cynical, genius, brave compatriot from the Tribulations.
“This is messed up, right?” I said.
“I know,” she replied, not quite catching on.
“No,” I leaned in, whispering, “I mean being a Changer—”
“Word,” she interrupted, softly so only I could hear. “It’s twisted, how easily people are manipulated by outside appearances.”
“Yeah, people are basically awful,” I said, just as the barista strolled by, jingling his keys in a likely attempt to get Destiny to turn around and look at him.
“Most people are massive disappointments,” she agreed.
But then, I wasn’t acting much better. “I know we’re supposed to be learning empathy, but what I feel is mostly rage,” I said. “I imagine shoving everyone I see down the stairs. I’m a monster.”
“Don’t be a dope. What you are dealing with is the weight, ha, of other people’s judgment,” Destiny chided.
“So are you,” I pushed.
“Maybe. But with me, people are giving me the benefit of every doubt. It’s like I’m speaking with an English accent and everyone is assuming I’m oh-so-clever. Only what they’re assuming is that I’m worthy of special treatment. Because of genetics. They’re drawn to me the way humans are drawn to a glittering tranquil pond—to see how gorgeous they might look in the reflection.”
“It’s the inverse of why they are repelled by me. Any association with someone like me is like tar they can’t get off.”
“Can’t really deny the Changers Council is on to something . . .”
I knew what Destiny meant. Maybe this mission wasn’t so worthless after all. I mean, look around. Empathy isn’t exactly growing on trees these days. Maybe we did need to infiltrate the human race with all versions of our otherness and teach these fools what it really means to love and be loved for the right reasons.
After a bit of silence, I asked, “Do you miss Elyse?”
“I do,” she said, thinking for a few seconds. “But I suspect that wasn’t the last we’ll be seeing of her.”
“Really? You’d give up your throne? I’m not sure I’d be that strong.”
Destiny shook her head. “I know who I am already. And you? You’re way stronger than you realize.”
But I’m not so sure I believe her. On either count.
Change 3–Day 11
Today was Drama Club audition day. Also known as “the best day in Kris’s public school life.” He showed up at homeroom dressed in a crimson muumuu with tropical flowers printed on the fabric, tight jeans underneath, and black-and-red-checked high tops. He said he also wanted to wear a head scarf and mules, but ultimately decided less was more. (And that he didn’t want to get bashed and thrown into a Dumpster before call-time.)
The Central High Drama Club had picked Into the Woods for this year’s musical, and Kris was certain he was going to play the baker—though he added, “I’d consider the witch if needed, because I love me some drama in a wig.”
“Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeze,” Kris whined across the lunch table. “Pleeeeze come with.”
“Fine!” I said, just to shut him up.
“Yayzers,” he said, rapid-clapping his palms in front of his nose. “So you’ll audition?”
“Hell to the no,” I screeched, nudging a limp crinkle-cut french fry to the other side of the tray with my spork. “I’ll tag along for moral support, but there is NO way I’m singing and dancing in front of the whole school looking like . . . like . . . this.”
Kris eyed me funny, bent his head to one side, then the ot
her. I know this is crazy, but it was almost as though he sensed something from the way I said what I said . . . sensed that who and what I am is not immutable. That somewhere I knew I wouldn’t always be “this way,” and that that was a possibility for him too.
“Well, that’s a mistake,” he said after a beat. “You obviously need a serious Broadway education, stat, because big girls rule the stage.”
I grunted.
“How glamorous does my hair look?” he asked. “Does it scream Tony nomination?”
The actual tryouts for Into the Woods were held after school in the main auditorium. The instant we walked in, I clocked Chloe down in the front row, doing some sort of annoying, unnecessarily loud vocal exercises with her eyes closed. You know, like she was really getting into it: “Me me me me me me meeeeeee. Me me me me me me meeeeeee!”
(That sounds about right.)
A few rows behind her, I was kind of startled to see DJ, though I guess I shouldn’t have been. Before I processed it, my hand shot up to wave at him, but I covered by transitioning the wave into a stretch and quickly collapsing into the nearest seat.
“You go on, I’ll be here,” I whispered to Kris.
I’m sure I looked like a spaz, but I don’t think anyone noticed, not even DJ. It’s a running theme in my life now. I was grateful for all the budding thespians flitting about, too nervous to take note of anything but themselves, pacing around the stage, the rows of seating, behind the curtains, murmuring lines or humming, and curling and arching their backs in and out like cats on crack.
Kris climbed the stairs, found a spot stage left, bent at the waist, and shook his arms loose like a waterfall of noodles. He breathed in and out, master yogi style. After a few more minutes of all of this pre-drama, the theater teacher burst in, and all the kids shot up stock-straight like they were in the military and he was fixing to inspect their bunks.
“Good afternoon, pets,” he announced in a voice that both filled the room and sounded like someone’s ninety-year-old granny, if she smoked five packs a day. “Some of you may know me from Drama Club, but for those who don’t, I’m Mr. Wood, your DIE-rector for this musical, and the person upon whom your dramatic fates rest. For many of you, this may be just another tick on your college application extracurriculars, but I assure you that while this is amateur theater, it is not a theater for amateurs. Cast, you will be committed to this production, to your fellow cast mates, and to your performance. Tardiness, absences, and general flakiness or lack of professionalism will not be tolerated. Nor will any ego that deigns itself larger than mine. You have to take the journey into the woods and down the dell in vain, perhaps, but who can tell? Are we clear?”
A collective, anxious, “Yes, Mr. Wood,” arose from the seats and stage.
“Lovely. Now pets, let’s all line up onstage so I can get a good look at you.”
Kris hopped to, finding his place center stage. He squinted into the lights and clocked me, mouthing, I’m in love! as about twenty-five other students in various levels of flop sweat lined up on either side of him. It was only then that I spied Audrey, who was nervously shifting her weight from foot to foot stage right, while Chloe stood beside her, fingers S-locked together in front of her belly button and teeth bared in an aggressive pageant grin.
Audrey? Since when did she have thespian aspirations? Oh right, since she became Chloe’s born-again toady.
“Nobody else?” Mr. Wood asked, surveying the few of us scattered in the seats behind him. I slouched down in my chair even further, while one other kid hesitantly side-stepped out of his row and padded up to the stage.
Mr. Wood continued: “You should all have your songbooks in front of you, and you should all, since you are here, have deep familiarity with the actual compositions of Mr. Lapine and Mr. Sondheim. Page 104, let’s begin. And one, two . . .”
Everybody started singing: “Into the woods, where nothing’s clear. Where witches, ghosts, and wolves appear. Into the woods and through the fear. You have to take the journey . . .”
(Did the Changers Council write this stuff?)
I strained to try to hear Audrey’s voice amidst the chorus, but I couldn’t. I did hear Kris, who didn’t even need his songbook and was leaning into the number as if his dog’s life depended on it. DJ was also killing it from the rear, his voice deep and smooth with that emcee cadence that made the lyrics even more powerful somehow. Not that they needed the assist. The words and music were kind of devastating, once I let them seep in. I can’t believe I ever teared up listening to Katy Perry. (Well, just that once.)
“Okay, let’s stop there!” Mr. Wood hollered, signaling the accompanist on piano and clapping his hands as everybody quieted. “Promising, promising. Yes, yes. Now, let’s hear some solos, please. You in the red, you first. Name?”
“Me? I’m Kris. Kris Arnold. I’ll be singing the scene four witch’s solo to her daughter Rapunzel.”
“Let’s hear it,” Mr. Wood said.
Kris cleared his throat, and several of the other students gave him some space. Chloe looked positively destroyed that she wasn’t selected to sing first, while Audrey sucked at her cheek and gave Kris her full attention center stage. As Kris gazed up into the lights and inhaled, I was seized with nerves on his behalf. You can do this, I whispered under my breath. He let it out, coughed again, took another deep breath, and then started, slowly . . .
“Don’t you know what’s out there in the world? Someone has to shield you from the world. Stay with me.”
His voice was imploring, tinged with desperation. He wasn’t just singing, he was defining the moment.
“Princes wait there in the world, it’s true. Princes yes, but wolves and humans too.”
He was standing on a dingy high school stage in an absurd muumuu surrounded by strangers, many of whom didn’t understand him and thus were afraid of him or of what he might mean in this life, and he was somehow, miraculously managing not only to tune that out but also to break through all of that noise and fear and disdain and insecurity and sing with such clarity and purpose that he exposed the humanity not only in himself, but in anyone who was listening. Mr. Wood inched closer to the stage, his chin raised, head moving slightly with the lyrics.
Kris’s voice hitched a notch, but stayed intimate, heartbreaking. Mr. Wood placed a hand on his own chest. When Kris wrapped up, Mr. Wood literally rushed the stage and embraced him, likely thinking, This kid is a ringer, and we are going to blow the roof off this auditorium come opening night.
Kris was panting and his cheeks were afire, bookending a wide-open grin. It was clear he had any part in the play he wanted. I was thrilled for him. But as he basked in the glory of his undeniable talent, I couldn’t help it. My eyes wandered down the row of hopefuls and landed on Audrey. And I saw immediately that she was crying, but trying to hide it.
God, I wanted so much to run to her.
To confess who I was, what I was.
To tell her I was home. Home for her. Or I could be again.
But I could do nothing.
So I did nothing.
I just sat in the dark and watched the girl I loved cry. I had to take the journey.
Change 3–Day 13
I’m walking on sunshine. And no, not because Audrey finally did the Changer math and figured out who I am and stood below my bedroom window with a boom box hoisted above her head playing our favorite song. I’m proud (and surprised) to admit my joy has nothing to do with a certain unknown/unrequited love, and everything to do with spending the day in the company of people who I guess, for lack of a better assessment, really like themselves.
You’d think this wouldn’t be such a revolutionary concept. I mean, we’re all indoctrinated into the self-esteem club hella early in America. Ribbons for participation, anybody? But for all the talk about self-love (that particular term never won’t sound gross) and self-acceptance, I have to say I haven’t met that many folks who succeed on either front. I sure don’t. We all just stumble around in t
he same old clouds of insecurity and fear, which, if you think about it, means that all the hoopla about self-esteem is just another thing we all fail at when we realize we don’t have any. (Which is why I’m starting to be in favor of going back to the days of unabashed, unedited self-hatred if you feel it—but that wasn’t on the agenda today, so perhaps I’ll have to take it up another time. I’m sure there’ll be plenty of occasions during this year as Kim Cruz, so stay tuned, Chronicles.)
On those rare occasions when you do find yourself in the presence of people who accept themselves and aren’t trying with every fiber of their inchoate beings to improve or edit or deny something essential about their makeup, the vibe is flat-out righteous. As it was this afternoon at Michelle Hu’s parents’ barbecue.
First off, because Michelle has two mommies, the crowd at the party was heavy on the estrogen tip, with women of all shapes and sizes and colors—and very, very little hairspray. (Or bras, for that matter. Something I noticed, then tried not to notice, then couldn’t help but notice.) Floppy boobs aside, it was the first time since changing into this V that I didn’t feel like an outsider. In fact, nobody seemed to even register that I was heavy or Asian or short or even that I was dressed like an angry pilgrim. Nor did anybody whip their head around and stare when Kris let loose one of his “stereotypically queeny” laughs (his words, not mine—but an accurate descriptor nonetheless).
Amy and Carrie, Michelle’s parents, were hosting the shindig, but not in the way I’d seen my mom do it, where she is tense and constantly flitting about, making sure every drink is filled and every spent wooden satay skewer thrown in the trash a.s.a.p., lest someone have a tragic skewer-impaling incident and ruin the entire fiesta. Instead, Carrie and Amy basically kicked back in canvas lawn chairs, barefooted in the grass, and pointed at coolers when people wanted drinks or toward the house when guests needed to pee. They actually seemed to be having fun alongside their guests! I know, crazy concept.