Kim

by T Cooper

  Then the whole cast hugged, slapped hands, pumped fists, acted out all the various personal celebration styles. Other “support” crew members like me were out there too. But something held me back. I didn’t feel like joining the congratulatory riot. As has become my routine of late, I stayed on the outskirts of the pack, watching everybody’s joy and sense of accomplishment, while trying to figure out my feelings from afar.

  I peeked from behind the curtain to see if I could spot Destiny, who promised she’d come to closing night. I couldn’t immediately find her, but what I did see in that auditorium kind of bowled me over. Something that, come to think of it, I don’t really see very often: a crystalline moment. Before everybody started whipping out their phones to read their e-mails, scan their texts, check their stocks, swipe left or right, scroll through cute “unlikely pals” animal videos, there was a brief, still window, where I saw a group of people who were relaxed and content, no anxiety, distraction, no need to feverishly connect with anything but what just happened in that room. It was as if everybody there felt (just for a flash) that maybe they truly aren’t alone in this world. Like Kris and DJ (as Cinderella and the baker) had just sung: No one is alone. Sometimes people leave you halfway through the wood. Others may deceive you. You decide what’s good . . . Just remember. Someone is on your side. No one is alone . . .

  It made me realize that that’s what good art is capable of. Connection. Making us feel. Reminding us that others feel too. Even if its effects seem to last shorter and shorter times. I mean, back in the day—like way back in the day, in the seventeenth century—if the Globe Theatre presented Hamlet, everybody in town would see the play. It would be all anyone talked about, thought about, for like a year. The play took over everything, because there was nothing else to take it over.

  Nowadays, whole Shakespearean dramas play out across our Twitter feeds and Snapchats in a single instant. How are people supposed to be affected by one amazing thing that’s meant to move us, when everything is trying to move us every second of every day?

  That’s what I was wondering as I stood there, hiding behind the curtain, part of neither audience nor cast, observer of both. Luckily, before I sank too deep into the “I don’t fit in; what’s wrong with me” quicksand, I spotted Destiny by the rear right exit, pointing to the bathroom and gesturing, like, Meet you out in the lobby post-pee.

  A second later, Kris screeched, “AFTEEERRRRR-PARTY!” behind me, yanking my attention back into the microcosm of our theater world, where nobody seemed to want to let the moment die. One of the sound techs passed around a stack of flyers with the address of the wrap party, which was going to be at somebody’s parents’ house about fifteen minutes from school.

  “Yes, yes, yes. By all means, celebrate a show well done. But let’s everybody break it down first,” Mr. Wood called out. “Nobody’s leaving until all the jobs are completed. You can finish up on Monday after school, but do what you agreed to do before you exit, stage left.”

  People complied, and as they did a giant smile broke across Mr. Wood’s face (something I don’t think I’d seen since he first heard Kris’s audition months ago). “Good job, everybody. I mean that,” he added, and it seemed like he was trying not to cry. “I’m—I’m proud of you. And—” here he was getting really choked up “—thank you pets for making my job so easy.”

  * * *

  An hour later, we’re all at this kid who played the wolf, Joey’s house. It’s a medium-sized, historic-looking house in a cool neighborhood, and his parents are present at the party, though they’re giving us space and hanging out in their upstairs bedroom, only checking in downstairs when something crashes (the requisite broken lamp) or to make sure the snack foods are replenished (pigs in a blanket, pizza pockets, hummus, and chips).

  It’s not wholesale chaos, but it’s totally fun. A lot of kids are being loud and performative Broadway babies, but in truth it’s kind of awesome. The Cure’s Greatest Hits album (actually on vinyl) is blasting through two large wood-encased speakers, and sure, a few people are drinking, and a few more are smoking (both tobacco and other stuff) outside, but it’s totally chill: nobody is being a douche, nobody is acting rapey, nobody is being bigoted or otherwise hateful. There are, not uncoincidentally, zero football players present. Which is to say, it is hands down the best party I’ve been to since starting high school at Central.

  Soon enough, though, Chloe sidles through the front door with an air of disdain, as if she were stepping into a crack den, with Audrey and a couple of the Chloettes in tow. “Where’s the keg?” she loudly asks, and when she is greeted with shrugs and general indifference, she announces, “OVER IT,” snaps her fingers, turns on her wedge Skechers, and marches right back out the door they all just came through, having spent a total of twenty seconds at what I can personally guarantee was the best thing going on in town—not to mention way more Audrey’s style than any jock throw-down Chloe was about to drag her to.

  I could tell Audrey wanted to stay by the way her face lit up when she heard the music, not that Audrey is my responsibility anymore. (Was she ever?) I watch the door shut behind them, and then “The Love Cats” comes on, and it actually makes me feel like dancing. I grab Destiny and we shuffle into the TV room, where most of the cast, including Kris and Rooster, are already jumping around in unison to the jazzy Ba, ba, ba, ba, ba, ba, ba ba da, baaa, ba bop bop ba ba chorus.

  As we’re pogoing beside one another (me noting how I seem to be getting more respect across the board since I’ve brought the magical, drop-dead-gorgeous stranger with me), Destiny bounces closer and yells, “So what’s the Baker’s deal?” and juts a thumb toward the corner of the room in DJ’s direction.

  After a brief, inexplicable jealousy jag that dissipates as soon as it materializes, I yell back, “DJ! Senior! Politicized! King of spoken word! Really good guy!”

  Destiny nods her head appraisingly, jokingly pats her hair, smoothes down her eyebrows, and heads in DJ’s direction with an exaggerated hitch in her step.

  “I want a swing like that on my back porch,” Kris jokes, grinding his bony butt against mine as we watch Destiny go. She looks back over her shoulder, and I give an encouraging, jokey wink.

  I watch the encounter unfold, the puzzle pieces fitting into place like a really good indie romance: DJ on an easy chair, one leg slung lazily over an armrest, enjoying the music, completely cool and in his own world. Destiny does a pass, sees if he looks up. He does. (Nobody doesn’t.) But DJ doesn’t lose his cool when it seems like she’s paying him attention. Destiny takes another lap, says something that makes him laugh. Then he says something back that makes her laugh, and he sits up straight (to show more respect), offers her his seat, and when she refuses, he clears a place for her on the hearth beside him.

  And they’re off. Every time I eye-check the two of them, they look like they’re having a blast. A real one. Not fake. One of them is always talking, the other either listening closely or laughing. It’s easy. Makes sense. At least from the outside. Which, let’s be honest here, is all that mattered in the second before either of them opened their mouth.

  By this point I am sweaty and exhausted from dancing and decide to take a break.

  “Five minutes,” Kris yells, “then you’re getting your jelly back on this dance floor!”

  “It’s an area rug,” I say, pointing down, but I don’t think he hears, because Rooster has pulled him closer, now that “Boys Don’t Cry” has started.

  I head to the kitchen, grab some water. I look over the hors d’oeuvres, but am too shy to eat anything because I don’t feel like being stared at with judgey eyes. I feel this way for precisely five seconds before I say (out loud to nobody in particular), “Screw it,” and pop a mini–hot dog into my mouth. It is so oily and salty good. The dough is sweet. I’m contemplating having another when Rapunzel’s prince—a sophomore who actually looks like a prince, hard times for him—saunters in, still wearing his Elizabethan shirt and vest, though both are
unbuttoned, so he is less Rapunzel prince than bachelorette-party-stripper prince.

  “Those are good, huh?” he says, pulling a Coke out of the fridge.

  “Yup,” I mumble, still chewing.

  “I had like a dozen earlier.” He cracks the can open and takes a giant swig, tilting his head back and letting the soda barrel down his throat for a few gulps. So much that he exhales, “Aaaahhhh,” after swallowing, just like in the commercials.

  “Good job tonight!” I yell over the music after a few seconds.

  “Thanks,” he says, a little taken aback. “You too. Good job with the, uh, chicken.”

  Great. So that’s what people think of me. I’m a proficient fake-chicken wrangler. Who gobbles pigs in a blanket. I’m like the farmer in the freaking dell.

  “That probably wasn’t easy to pull off,” he says, bobbing his head.

  “I love this song!” I yell suddenly.

  He listens for a bit, then says, “It’s not really true, though. Boys do cry.” He chuckles to himself.

  “Not as much as girls,” I say.

  “I guess.”

  And at that we’re back to silence for a bit. I stand there convinced I have flaky pastry crumbs all over my cheek.

  “Well—” he says, at the exact time I say, “So—”

  I let him finish: “Well, I’m going to see what my buddy’s doing.”

  “Yeah, totally,” I say. “See you around.”

  And he’s off.

  I exhale, then pour myself some punch and glance into the various rooms off the kitchen. People are still singing like crazy in the den by the record player: “I try to laugh about it. Cover it all up with lies. I try and laugh about it. Hiding the tears in my eyes. ’Cause, boys don’t cry.”

  In the living room, Kris and Rooster are now on the couch, tangled up in one another. I pop my head around the corner and glance over to where I last saw DJ and Destiny, but they’re not there. I look to the deck, then the hallway, and suddenly Destiny catches my eye, waves me over.

  “Deej, you know Kim, right?” she says, putting an arm around me.

  “Yeah, of course,” DJ says, ever the gentleman. “We haven’t gotten the opportunity to talk a lot, but she’s a cool chick, from what I’ve heard.”

  “She’s boss,” Destiny gushes, then mock punches DJ on the shoulder.

  “You seem like a woman who would know,” he says, laughing.

  And . . . they are goners. I’ve never seen either of them like this before. Destiny is usually so chilly with potential suitors. And DJ is usually Mr. Smoove. (Not that DJ would know that I’ve ever seen him like anything before. Hey, dude, I was there when you won the state slam championship last year. We got arrested for Shopping While Black together, remember? Yeah, that was me!)

  “Uh, I’ll leave you two to it, then,” I say, feeling acute third-wheel vibes.

  DJ gently places a hand on my arm. “No, stay. Hang,” he purrs sincerely.

  “Yeah, hang,” Destiny seconds, also seeming to mean it.

  “So what’s up?” DJ asks. “Who’s the real Kim Cruz?”

  “Yeah. No,” I stammer, shutting that shizz down.

  “Yeah, Kim, tell him who you really are,” Destiny says with a devilish smile.

  We both just start cracking up. At first DJ is confused, but then he joins in, snickering through his nose.

  “You guys are too cute,” he says, still laughing. “I see how this is gonna go. BFFs for real. PB&J. Can’t have one without the other.”

  My heart double-beats. Not that I have feelings for him or anything. Or that I’m flattered, not that way. It’s just that I feel suddenly human somehow. I’m not on the outside peering in. I’m in the room where it happens. I’m part of the party.

  ZZZZZZZT—ZZZZZZZT, I’m interrupted. My butt is vibrating.

  “Excuse me,” I say to the two of them, as I pull out my phone and click on my texts. They go back to giving each other 100 percent, cut-the-right-wire-to-disarm-the-bomb focus as the trance-like beat for “Close to Me” surges behind them. I start reading . . .

  Mom: CALL NOW.

  Mom: Where are you?

  Dad: You need to call home right now. Try Mom’s cell.

  I head for the screened porch, Destiny shouting after me, “Everything okay?”

  I wave her off, slide open the glass door, and am assaulted with smoke as I dial Mom’s cell. No answer. I try Dad’s.

  “Where are you?” he answers.

  “At the cast party. Why? What?”

  “I need the exact address so Mom can come get you.”

  “Dad, you’re scaring me. What’s wrong?”

  “It’s Nana. She had a stroke.”

  Change 3–Day 90

  Nana is unconscious. Hooked up to all sorts of beeping contraptions, IV bags, tubes. The machine is breathing for her. We stayed up all night at the hospital, and Mom just dropped me back home so I can walk Snoopy, wash and pack some clothes for Dad, and maybe get a little rest.

  But I don’t want to rest. How could I? I flip open my laptop, check to see who’s on. Destiny’s light is green, but as soon as I notice, she’s already pinging me.

  “Are you okay?” she asks when the video comes on. “I was calling you all night.”

  “It’s my grandma, she had a stroke,” I say, my eyes welling.

  “Oh my God, I’m so sorry.” Pain and concern are visible on her face. “Is she going to be okay?”

  “I don’t know,” I say, trying to hold it together.

  “Can I do anything?”

  “No. I don’t know.”

  “Can I bring you anything, or drive you anywhere, or . . .” She trails off.

  “How was your night?” I ask, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand.

  “Really?” she replies. “You don’t want to hear that noise right now.”

  “No, I do. I want to hear,” I say. “Anything besides intubation, intracranial pressure, angiography, comatose . . . I need a distraction.”

  “I dunno.” But there’s clearly something she wants to share.

  “TELL ME,” I say. “What?”

  After a respectful pause, giving me ample opportunity to change my mind, she announces: “I kissed him.”

  “DJ?”

  “He’s kind of amazing.”

  “I know. He was one of my best friends last year,” I say, feeling the jealousy monster lurking once more. “Was it good?”

  “Beyond good.”

  “I need to know everything.”

  “Ew,” she says. “There was just some kissing and a little moderate-to-heavy groping. And . . .”

  “And?”

  “I saw it. I had the vision.”

  “OMG. What was it?”

  “This feels weird. Should I be telling you this? Is there any rule about that?” she asks, and my mind searches through what I’ve retained of The Changers Bible. “I never had a Changer friend to share this with before.”

  “Who cares,” I say. “What did you see?”

  “Well,” she starts, “it’s good. He’s, like . . . He’s going to be a professor or philosopher or something. I saw him speaking about politics in front of a giant crowd of people. There were reporters there, and TV cameras. I think it was at a giant university, or maybe some venue in Washington? I don’t know. But a lot of people are going to hear what dude’s got to say.”

  “Did you blank out when it was happening?” I ask. “When I had the visions, well, only the two of them, I like, went somewhere else, and it was really hard to stay present and not have the people I was kissing think I was a total weirdo and not into what we were doing.”

  “Uh, I have a lot of practice avoiding that.”

  “Right, of course. What with your being a slut whore,” I say, smiling.

  “Exactly,” she says, smiling back. “This feels wrong to talk about, when your family is in such a bad place.”

  “It’s okay,” I say. Though nothing ever truly feels okay these days.r />
  “Are you sure I can’t help somehow?”

  “No. It’s just nice to talk.”

  “You have to dish about DJ from last year,” she says. “You know, later, when your grandma’s better.”

  “Will do,” I promise, praying there is a later like that.

  Change 3–Day 91

  Nana hasn’t woken up. Skipped school today.

  Change 3–Day 92

  Nana still hasn’t woken up. Mom and Dad made me go to school today.

  Change 3–Day 93

  The doctor said there was minimal activity in Nana’s brain. Somebody even used the word vegetative.

  Mom was going to let me stay home today, but Dad made me go to school.

  Change 3–Day 95

  I don’t even want to Chronicle this. Because if I think it, if I actually put it down in words that get locked away somewhere in the mainframe at Changers Central, then it’ll become history, it’ll be on the record, it’ll make it real. But I don’t want it to be true, so I just won’t think it into being.

  Like that matters.

  Like anything does.

  . . .

  Nana’s dead. Gone.

  This time forever.

  Another person I love is dead. Just like that. Another person who loved me. Knew me. Another black cloud will follow me around forever, because no matter who I become, they won’t be there to see it happen. I am a tree falling in the woods. I am a selfish baby. I am angry and I am alone and I don’t care about anything anymore because it all leads to pain.

  No matter who I was or how I looked or acted, Nana always saw me as a thing of beauty. She believed I was good. And because she believed, I could too. Her faith in me gave me faith in myself.

  Where will I find faith now?

  Change 3–Day 96

  When Changers die, we are all supposed to be flooded with peace. That is the official Changers line. That there is no true death. That our energy travels, merrily flitting along from one life or manifestation to another. No purgatory here. No sad times. Just a passing from this form into that form after a full life of serving the world as the person you chose to be.