by T Cooper
“Was there any one person there who inspired it or something?” she asked, clearly at a loss.
“No,” I insisted. Because there wasn’t. “I don’t know why I did it,” I confessed, feeling stupid.
“It’s okay not to know.”
“I guess I just wanted to feel brave for a minute,” I went on. “Like shaving off hair is some brave gesture, anyway.”
Mom sat back, gave me a long once-over. “Well, I like the sentiment. And owning who you are is brave.”
“Maybe. But all it did was make even more kids hate me.”
“Those kids don’t even know you.”
The words made me start crying again. Because she was right. They don’t know me. And they can’t. “Maybe not. But what I am, whatever this is,” I replied, nodding at myself, “isn’t something they seem to want to know.”
“That’s the thing, sweetpea,” Mom said then, bending to give me one last kiss before leaving the room. “Growing up means showing your truth, even when it hurts.”
Change 3–Day 17
I’ve seen High School Musical. I’m not ashamed to admit it. When I was Ethan, I watched the whole cheese-fest trilogy on television one weekend with my babysitter, Deb. She was obsessed with Zac Efron at the time. He was weirdly shirtless and sweaty in a lot of the scenes, which made her clap her hands and say, “Mmmmm,” at the screen over and over. I thought he was gross then, but whatever. Things change. (Boy did they.)
Anyhow, I don’t remember much about the musical part of High School Musical, knowledge I wish I had now that I am officially part of one. I decided after the auditions that I would join the support crew. I mean, why not? Kris had begged desperately to get me to try out for the band, but I wasn’t sure how I felt about auditioning for the drum slot. I miss playing music, especially playing music with other people. But the theater band performs only a handful of pieces, and drumming is a huge responsibility. Besides, who even knows if Kim Cruz can jam? I wasn’t really in a headspace to find out, which is what I told Tracy when she needled me about “getting back out there,” like I was a forty-something divorcée wading into the dating pool for a second chance at finding fulfillment in life.
“At least let Mr. Wood know you can play,” Tracy implored at our weekly check-in (bumped up in priority because of my sudden outburst of violence against Chloe’s weave), this time at Starbucks, where I let her buy me a soy vanilla Frappuccino while she milked me (get it?) for information about my state of mind.
I told her I’d consider it. I mean, I know Audrey was totally attracted to Drew when she played in the Bickersons, and she also grooved on Oryon when he was part of the drumline. So it would seem a logical, Spockian conclusion that if Kim Cruz knew her way around a cymbal, Audrey would at the very least notice her.
“If the right time presents itself, I’ll mention it,” I told Tracy, who let out a yelp of glee that seemed disproportionate to the promise.
* * *
The “right time” turned out not to be the first rehearsal, which, to be completely honest, was a hot mess. No one besides Kris, DJ, and this girl Mia had memorized their lines, and Mr. Wood seemed put out by everything. He stomped around the stage maneuvering the cast here and there like chess pieces, ranting all the while about “losing yourself in the music and the moment,” which made me think about Eminem—“You only get one shot, do not miss your chance to blow. This opportunity comes once in a lifetime, yo”—something I could tell DJ was also thinking because he started bobbing his head and mindlessly mouthing the lyrics under his breath.
Man, I miss DJ. He was easily the coolest friend I ever had. I don’t even know why he wanted to be friends with me. But I was so grateful he did. DJ is the kind of Static who doesn’t even need a Changer hanging around teaching him crap about how to be a good human. If anything, he taught me stuff.
He must have clocked me staring at him because soon enough DJ is flashing me a smile and waving. I wave back, tentatively, trying not to rattle him, the way respectful fans wave to celebrities when the stars are working a rope line.
“Places, pets!” Mr. Wood shouts, and DJ snaps to attention. “Remember, you are in a relationship with everyone here. This is not just about you. Connect! Connect!”
In a back corner, Audrey and Chloe whisper about something. It still shocks me to see Audrey so tight with a girl we used to call Chlo-zilla. The old Audrey saw Chloe for who she was . . . and, oh geez, Chloe’s pointing at her scalp . . . and now she’s . . . POINTING AT ME.
Awesome.
Wow.
I see Audrey’s brow knit when she leans forward, trying to get a better look at me in the dark. She shakes her head as Chloe seethes in my direction. Thankfully, Mr. Wood yanks Audrey by the shoulders and marches her away from Chloe, stepping back to survey the blocking and giving me a short reprieve from whatever revenge the bitch squad is cooking up.
“Are you in love with her or something?” Kris asks me after rehearsal, apropos of nothing, as we’re walking out of the auditorium toward the parking lot. “You go all single white female around her.”
“I’m Asian,” I joke, like I don’t care what he thinks.
“Well, get over it. Audrey is straight as a church pew.”
“How do you know?” I push, now kind of annoyed.
Kris smirks. “How do I know no one looks sexy golfing? Some things are freakin’ obvious, Kimmycakes.”
“Yeah, well, I heard she had a girlfriend freshmen year,” I say. Dying to tell him.
“Yeah? Well, I heard her family is in a fundamentalist cult that likes to drag people like you and me behind four-wheel camouflage ATVs for sport. So maybe find another Betty to crush on.”
I bite my lip, chewing it on the inside.
“For rizzle, Kimbo. She’s a cheerleader! A boner-fied member of the bitch squad. And if she is a lesbian, which she’s not, but let’s say she is . . . she is not in the closet, she’s deep inside a freakin’ Stephen Hawking black hole! And besides, after that weave-ripping incident with her bestie, she’s probably not exactly seeing you as girlfriend material.”
“She’s not like Chloe,” I mutter.
“Mmmmm. Okay.”
“She’s not!”
“Wow girl, you got it bad. But far be it for me to try to talk you out of an obsession that will only lead to pain and stress-plucked brows.”
I don’t answer. I don’t know how. Because maybe he’s right. I don’t know Audrey anymore. Maybe I never did. My walk slows to a shuffle. I feel all my breath trapped beneath my (giant, still annoying) chest.
“And now you have the sads,” Kris says, frowning conspicuously. “Well, ex-squeeze me, but that’s not going to fly. I’m just being real, which, I’m sure you agree, everybody could use a little more of around here.”
“Whatever.”
“No, no, no, no, this will not do,” Kris says, shaking his head wildly as he beep-beeps his car to unlock it for us. “I’m going to take you someplace special this weekend. Guaranteed cure for the sads and the hopeless pursuit of lost kitties. Strap on your wig and cancel your Saturday plans, ’cause we’re going out, baby!”
“I don’t have anything planned on Saturday,” I sigh, lowering myself into the front seat.
“No way, really? I thought you had, like, three dates lined up.”
“Suck it.”
“You suck it,” he says. “Actually, no, I’ll suck it.”
We laugh, and Kris drives me to the bus stop a few blocks away from my house, where I always insist he drop me. I don’t start walking toward my place until I see his little yellow car disappear around the corner.
Change 3–Day 18
I had to lie to my folks. (“Better than lying to yourself,” Kris pointed out—not very helpfully, I might add, since it always feels terrible lying to my parents, particularly after seeing how Mom especially was devastated by the Tribulations.)
“Uh, I’m going to a late movie with Destiny?” I said, tentatively upticking
as I do when I’m nervous.
“A date with Destiny,” Dad joked from the kitchen table, where he was busy cross-referencing some Abiders-related data for the Council.
“Something like that,” I said, trying to sound innocent. I could hear Destiny pulling up out front. “Gotta go!” I yelled, then grabbed a hoodie and ran out the door before Dad could reply.
Mom came out of her bedroom and followed me to the front porch. “Whoa, wait one minute.”
“Sorry,” I said, backtracking. I hugged her impatiently.
“Please be careful,” she implored.
“Hi, Mrs. Miller!” Destiny yelled through the car window.
“Nice to see you again, Destiny. You want to come inside for a juice?” Mom hollered, as I hustled out to Destiny as quickly as possible.
“No thank you,” Destiny answered while I rounded the front of her car. “We’ll be home after the movie. Don’t wait up!”
“You girls have fun!” Mom chimed back, face beaming. Even she was not immune to Destiny’s charms.
As we pulled away, I finally had a second free from worrying about lying to take in Destiny behind the wheel. “Oh my.”
“What? Oh . . .” She giggled. “My ensemble.”
“If by ensemble you mean slutty onesie, then sure, let’s call it your ensemble.”
“I didn’t take you for a slut shamer,” Destiny teased.
“I didn’t take you for a slut,” I teased back.
“What? It’s cute.”
“It’s made entirely of red sequins. And by entirely, I mean the pocket-square portion of fabric that you have somehow managed to stretch over your naughty bits. It looks like an outfit Liberace would dress his baby in, if he had a baby.”
“Amazing, right? Did you check out the heels? Five-inchers!” She took her foot off the accelerator to show me.
I could only laugh.
Destiny plugged in her iPhone and cranked up the music. “Throw-back time!” she bellowed over the sound of Cyndi Lauper’s breathy, childlike voice. “Girls just want to have fun! Am I right?”
“Woo hoo,” I deadpanned.
Forty-five minutes later, we pulled up to the address Kris had given us. The streets were dark, with mostly unlit, cavernous buildings flanking both sides. Destiny parked, double-checked she locked the doors, and we stepped out onto the dark block beside a mountain of about twenty black garbage bags piled chest-high.
“It’s supposed to be called the Carousel,” I said, scanning for a sign that we were in the right location. Hell, scanning for a sign of life.
“More like Scare-ousel,” Destiny said, shivering in her ensemble and teetery heels.
“Maybe we should bail,” I suggested, seized with fresh nervousness. I mean, this was feeling kind of crazy. Like we were “borrowing trouble,” as Mom frequently says.
Just then a door opened to what seemed like an abandoned factory and a bunch of men toppled out, laughing. A closer look revealed one of them was wearing a tutu.
“I’m going to go out on a limb and guess that’s the place,” Destiny said, cheerfully tucking her wallet and phone into her bra and clacking on her heels over toward the men. “Is this the Carousel?” she asked.
“Well, if it isn’t Diana Ross circa 1971!” an older guy in a dress shirt swooned. “You are the most gorgeous thing I’ve seen in centuries!”
“Centuries is right,” another dude chimed in, making everyone else laugh.
“Careful, Randall,” the first guy said. “You’ll be old too one day.”
“Yeah, but unlike you, I won’t look it!”
The men all laughed again, not really paying much attention to the question. Destiny decided to take their indifference as a yes, and flagged me to join her. I walked over slowly, a little nervous but not really knowing why.
“Excuse me, pardon me,” I said, squeezing my way through the clot of bodies blocking the door.
As I passed the guy in the tutu, he grinned broadly at me. “Now those are some tee-tahs!” he remarked.
I was instantly, completely, and utterly embarrassed.
“Girl, you got a body to die for,” he added.
For some reason it didn’t feel like smarmy sexual harassment, but rather genuine appreciation. A first for Kim Cruz. I smiled at the guy and popped through the door, nearly tripping as I emerged into the club. Destiny was already stepping to the dance floor, her head jerking to and fro, absorbing the spectacle. The place was packed like an airport at Christmas. The population was overwhelmingly male, with a few women here and there, most hanging off the shoulders of their guy friends or dancing beside them, twirling in a frenzy. The music was all about that bass, no treble, and when you gazed across the dance floor it was like observing the movement of tall grass on the African plains. Everyone swaying in unison, becoming one giant, undeniably striking, undulating mass.
“Let’s go!” Destiny squealed, coming back to grab my hand and tug me toward the floor.
“I need to find Kris first!” I yelled, as she shrugged and merged into the swarm of bodies, a giant toothy grin on her face.
I did a slow turn, searching everywhere for Kris, but I couldn’t see him, or much of anything, with all the smoke from what smelled like a hundred thousand cigarettes. In one corner I saw a long bar, men standing on top of it at either end, dressed in tight red bikini underwear and what looked like neon-green paint circles on their nipples. They alternated thrusting each hip forward, taking care not to smile, though they did squint their eyes in some approximation of resentment.
In another corner was the deejay booth, which was manned by a very fit, shirtless black dude who had a microphone in front of his turntable. Every few minutes he’d lean into it and say in a sexy voice, “You are all beautiful people. I am drunk on so much gorgeousness. Dance, queens, dance!” After which, the whole crowd would let loose a loud “Whooooo,” before resuming their synchronized undulations, even more feverishly, per his instructions.
“Why aren’t you out there?” a familiar voice yelled in my ear.
“Kris!” I threw my arms around his neck, filled with a relief I hadn’t anticipated.
“What, are we dating now?”
I let go, took a step back, and noticed that he was dressed like he was performing in The Arabian Nights—diaphanous turquoise pants and matching halter, a chintzy gold turban wrapped around his head.
“Where do you even buy something like that?” I asked.
“Barbara Eden’s garage sale,” he quipped. “Don’t I look divine?”
I nodded, because he really did. His eyes were rimmed with liner and covered in deep blue shadow, his lips stained bold red. On anyone else it would have been clownish, but on Kris, the look was pure glamour. “You’re actually really pretty,” I said, and noticed that the honesty threw him off a little.
“Don’t start making me cry with your sweetness,” he replied, shaking off his feelings. Not the time or the place for those. “Can’t have this perfection running down my face and into my chiffon.” He wriggled his shoulders in a quick shimmy. “Let’s you and me go dance our fat asses off!”
I didn’t have a choice. In seconds I was dragged onto the floor, into the masses, where we joined Destiny and her circle of admirers (already, even here), and fell right into the ebb and flow of my first real club dance party.
Initially, I was panicked. I worried about my body, being uncoordinated, looking like a fool. But soon enough I realized 1) no one was even looking at me, and 2) if there were ever a place to dance like no one was watching, it was at a dodgy gay club in a smoke-filled warehouse on a nameless street in downtown Nashville.
“I wanna see you slay, queens!” the deejay commanded, and sure enough, I gradually did. My hands floated into the air as though tied to helium balloons. I pumped my shoulders up and down, I did the bump with strangers, dropped it like it was hot, even gyrated my thick hips like a video vixen on the prowl.
If anyone had been watching me, they’d have suspec
ted I was drunk—or high, and I guess in some ways I was. Not on anything illicit, but on the energy and the freedom in the room, the complete, intoxicating abandon of being literally in the center of a crowd that has zero designs on you, passes zero judgment, and gives zero fracks about whatever superfreakiness you choose to inhabit.
“I need some water,” Destiny leans and shouts into my damp face. I nod, and we dance our way off the floor and over to the bar.
Kris follows, whipping out a collapsing fan from God knows where and waving it in front of his face like a professional geisha. “Sick moves, Kimmycakes,” he says, propping an elbow on the bar dramatically, then ordering a rum and Coke.
“Water, please,” Destiny tells the bartender, who gives her a wink.
“Anything for you, sugar?” he asks me.
“Uh, water?” I say. Then out of nowhere, “And . . . a rum and Coke too. Please. Sugar.”
I brace myself for rejection, but the bartender is already busy shooting soda from a grimy nozzle into two clear plastic cups, clearly not too concerned about the legalities of serving alcohol to minors. Kris slides a twenty-dollar bill across the bar (“Keep the change”), and we get our drinks.
“To us!” Kris yells, hoisting his cup.
“To my second arrest in as many years!” I say, still worried about the underage drink.
“To the best year ever!” Destiny adds, as we tap the lips of our three cups together, the syrupy soda sloshing onto our fingers like an alcoholic sorority blood-bond ritual or something.
“Maybe for you,” I murmur out of Kris’s earshot, as the first sip of liquor burns my throat. I shake my head wildly, and Destiny gives my ear a flick. Over the speakers we hear “Raspberry Beret” come on.
“All you sexy things, get out on the dance-floor!” the deejay growls into the mic.
“That’s my cue!” Destiny announces, strutting back out to the masses, her red sequins catching the light.
“That girl,” Kris says, shaking his head.
“Right?”
He signals the bartender for another round. “I don’t know if I’m jealous of her,” he says, pounding his second rum as soon as the bartender sets it in front of him, “or if I want to be her.” Kris turns his eyes toward the bar, avoiding my gaze.