Kim

by T Cooper

  “It’s okay, Mom. We all say cruel things to the ones we love.”

  “Petunia, if I ever thought you would hear any of it . . .” Here she began weeping. I could hear the snuffling over the phone, the scrap of a Kleenex across the mouthpiece, the loud blowing afterward.

  “Mom, I have to catch the bus.”

  * * *

  On the way to school, I tried ringing Kris. He’s been MIA for days, whiling away the hours conferring with the flower that is Rooster, no doubt.

  “I’m hunting your bony butt down the second I get to class,” I threatened into his voice mail. “Which at the pace of this bus I’m sitting on should be in about seven hours.”

  Turns out Kris wasn’t in homeroom. But Mr. Crowell was, and it was obvious he’d been put on Kim Cruz suicide watch, because he paid more attention to me than Narcissus did to his own reflection. But Chloe was not about having me get any more of the spotlight than her.

  “Have you gained weight?” she snarled when I stood up to leave after the bell rang. “Eating isn’t a hobby, you know.”

  I ignored her, pushing past the clot of kids at the door and into the hall where I finally spied Kris moping near his locker, the door ajar, shredding his previously taped-up photos of shirtless Justin Bieber and Amanda Lepore with giant scissors.

  “Where have you been?” I asked, sidling up beside him. “And what’s with the Mommie Dearest hysteria?”

  I bent to catch his eye, but he wouldn’t meet my gaze. He just turned back into his locker, reached both hands in, and heaved all the contents inside onto the hall floor.

  “Monsters!” he screamed. “All of them!”

  “Who?” I pressed, worried now. “What’s going on with you?”

  At that Kris doubled over and began choking out half-sobs, half-wheezes. I noticed for the first time that his eye was bruised and his forehead had a long scratch that bled into the hairline.

  “Who did this to you?” I shouted, going straight into mama bear mode. “Jason?”

  “If only,” Kris said. “I did this to myself.”

  He then slid to the floor and spilled the whole story. How Rooster cheated on him. And Kris got drunk. And he drove off in his dad’s Jetta to confront Rooster but didn’t get very far because he hit a lamppost at the end of the driveway. And his father saw the whole thing and wanted to kill him.

  So as long as the ish was hitting the fan, Kris decided to confess to his dad that not only was he gay, but he liked to wear dresses and mascara (“I was drunk, remember?”), and that sometimes he wished he’d never been born a boy in the first place. After which his dad informed him that “no son of mine” would end up “an abomination” like that, and until he sorted out his “sick life,” he needed to “get the hell out of my house.”

  “Damn,” I said, sliding down beside him. “I’m so sorry, Kris. You know it isn’t true, right? You’re not sick. You’re not an abomination.”

  “Whatever. What I am is homeless. I didn’t even have a chance to pack my jodhpurs.”

  “And Rooster?”

  “Rooster is dead to me.”

  “You don’t know. Sometimes people just need a breather.”

  “He had sex with my gay conversion therapist.”

  “Okay. Rooster is dead. Got it.” I glanced around. The bell had long since rung and the hall was empty save us and a janitor lazily pushing a broom. “I have a solution,” I said brightly.

  Kris raised his brows half-heartedly, like, You? Mope girl?

  “You can come live with me.”

  “I’m not about to crash at your folks’ place when your grandmother just died—”

  “I’m not there,” I interrupted, to which his brows went into full on whaaaaa position? “I had my own drama. I’ll tell you more later. But I’m shacking up downtown in a warehouse with some really cool anarchist types, and I know they’d welcome you with open arms.”

  “Open stinky arms, no doubt.”

  I smiled. “Oh yeah. It’s a funk fest. But the people are kind. It’s even in the rules: you can’t be mean.”

  “Perfect,” Kris said, rolling his eyes. “I’m never mean.”

  But I could tell he was relieved. “Just make believe you’re in a musical,” I advised.

  “Oh girl, I always do.”

  Change 3–Day 117

  Now that I’ve been back in school almost a week, the friends-and-family plea bargaining has really ramped up. Kris decided he’d rather stay with Lady Chardonnay, one of the queens from the Carousel, whom he calls his “drag mother.” Probably for the best, since I hadn’t really thought through how I would explain Benedict the first time he launched into one of his Changers diatribes, not that he and Kris wouldn’t have tons in common. They do both love an audience. Anyhow, Kris has been reaching out a lot more, loving me in my “queer activist” phase ever since flying the suburban coop.

  In addition to the flurries of Snapchats from Kris (most of him pretending to hump on inanimate objects), there are daily (pointedly not pushy) texts from Mom (Dad less so), and then tonight, I got my first uninvited visitor when Tracy unexpectedly showed up at RaChas HQ after dinner.

  I was scraping burnt brown rice out of our one battered stew pot when Benedict comes up behind me and says, “Kim, you’ve got an admirer.” I swivel around from the sink. And there she is. Pert and put-together Tracy idling in the middle of raggedy RaChas-ville, her arms curved and held slightly aloft like a ballerina’s, trying not to let her skin touch any surface.

  “Hey, stranger,” I call out, plunging my arm elbow-deep into the greasy-sudsy dish water. I feel happy to see her, though part of me wishes I didn’t, I don’t know why. “I’ll be done in a minute.”

  “Would you like a cup of Rooibos tea?” Benedict asks her. “While you wait?”

  “Thank you, that’d be lovely,” Tracy replies.

  “Honey?” Benedict says.

  “Excuse me?” Tracy sounds a little jumpy.

  “Honey, for your tea.” He gestures to the communal dining table, where the last dishes from the night’s meal have just been cleared. “From local urban hives.”

  Tracy nods just as I am drying my hands on a dish towel. I head over to her. “So how the hell did you find me?”

  Tracy smirks, her eyes darting left and right, so as to keep our business private.

  “You can talk freely here,” I say loudly, and she winces. “That’s what I love about it—no rules to constantly have to keep track of and worry whether you’re violating.”

  Benedict comes back over and places a steaming cup of tea in front of Tracy, who recoils when his eagle-feather necklace accidentally brushes her arm. “I don’t bite,” he says, chuckling, real close to her face. “Despite what you might’ve heard.”

  Tracy seems so rattled, I sort of feel bad for her.

  “In fact, I think you’d find that if we sat down and talked, our ultimate goals are more aligned than you think,” Benedict adds. “We just have different ideas about how to achieve them.”

  “How do you presume to know what my goals are?” Tracy asks.

  “Well . . .” Benedict starts, looking to me almost for permission to engage. I keep my face blank, and he continues, “I would assume that as a high-ranking Touchstone in good standing with Southeast Changers Central, your goals are probably pretty aligned with Turner the Lives Coach and The Changers Bible in its most recent iteration.”

  “So you’re speculating about my professional goals. Not my personal ones,” Tracy says tightly.

  “I didn’t realize there was a difference with ‘in the many we are one’ Changers,” Benedict counters, smiling.

  But Tracy doesn’t take the bait. “I do believe we as Changers are slowly and steadily making the human race better with each generation. The mission remains and always has been imperative.”

  “I can’t argue with that. But if you are so sure of your mission and its general rate of success, then why be ashamed of who you are and how you are goi
ng about it?” Benedict asks. “Why not step into the light and shine as brightly as you can?”

  Tracy stiffens. She didn’t come here to debate Changer theory.

  “Is there anywhere we might go to talk?” she asks me. And then to Benedict, “The tea is wonderful, thank you.” (Not that she’s touched it.)

  “I believe it’s wrong for these kids to have to hide and lie for four years of their lives—the most formative years of those lives, by the way,” Benedict says, not getting the hint. “It sets a bad precedent and, from what I’ve witnessed, is ultimately traumatizing to a good number of them. Many of whom end up here at my door, I might add.”

  “Well, when it is safe, we will come out,” Tracy says.

  “It won’t be safe until we do!” Benedict raises his voice, relishing the moment.

  “Guys, come on,” I insert. “Not the time or the place.”

  “She’s right. I didn’t come here to argue,” Tracy concedes. “I just wanted to check up on somebody who is extremely important to me.”

  “Be my guest,” Benedict says. “In the many we are one.”

  Tracy can’t tell if he’s joking. She watches him go, waits until he’s out of earshot, and then whispers, horrified, “How can you live here?”

  “It’s cool,” I say.

  “It’s filthy.”

  “Depression and cleanliness aren’t exactly bosom buddies,” I say wanly.

  Tracy forces a close-lipped smile. “These people are dangerous.”

  “These people are us.”

  Tracy rolls her eyes. “You know what I mean. This is going to end in tears. Or worse. You of all people should know you can’t just go around,” and here she starts imitating Benedict’s voice, “Whatever man, it’s cool whoever finds out whatever, whenever.”

  I laugh. Her impression is fairly spot-on. “It’s not exactly like that,” I say. “More like, RaChas aren’t all freaked out by the idea that people may start finding out what Changers are. We’re not ashamed.”

  “We?”

  “They, me,” I say, annoyed. “You shouldn’t be ashamed either, by the way.”

  “I’m not.”

  I decide to take Tracy over to my bunk so I don’t have to listen to her clipped whisper-talking anymore. I climb onto my bed, and after initial hesitation, she reluctantly follows me up, her patent-leather flats sliding off on every rickety ladder rung.

  “How do you do this every night?” she asks, struggling to hoist herself up.

  “First off, I don’t wear shoes to bed.”

  Tracy scans the room, the piles of unwashed blankets, the festering coffee mugs, the stacks of journals, edges damp and yellowing, the open box of kitty litter. “Maybe you should. Or, possibly, a hazmat suit.”

  She manages to get a knee on the mattress, then dog-crawls to the wall. We sit there for a while in silence, side by side with our backs against the brick, our feet dangling over the side.

  “Well, I’ll admit, you do seem somewhat less down since I last saw you,” Tracy says with a sigh.

  “I am.” Though in truth, I haven’t really considered the notion until now. I haven’t really had the luxury to consider it, what with school, homework, the long commute each way, my new RaChas collective chores. You don’t realize how much parents do for you until they’re not there to do it for you.

  “That’s good, that’s really good,” Tracy says, sniffing the corner of a sheet.

  We tumble into silence again. Not a familiar state where Tracy’s concerned.

  “Soooo,” I say. “Thanks for coming by to check on me, but I—”

  “I’m pissed,” Tracy blurts, cutting me off. Then turns to face me, sitting cross-legged. “I feel I have to tell you that.”

  “Okay,” I say. “Why are you pissed?”

  “Do you know what this is doing to your mother? You are breaking her heart.”

  And . . . what do I say to that? On the one hand, Tracy’s probably right, this has to be hard on Mom, but on the other . . . well, what does Mom always say to me about feelings? Nobody can make you feel anything. It’s your choice how you react to the things people do and say.

  “Does that even register?” Tracy asks.

  “Of course it does.”

  “Well?”

  “Well, what?” I ask, peevish.

  “I just can’t believe how selfish you’ve become. There, I said it.”

  “You did, didn’t you.”

  “Look, she’s just really worried about your health and safety, and this radio silence might feel good to you, but it’s flat-out unkind to her. What did she do to you to make you feel you can treat her this way?”

  “Did she tell you what she said?”

  “Said? About what?”

  “How she wishes she’d married someone normal? You know, as in, not a Changer. As in, someone not like me?”

  Tracy seems stunned, but she recovers quickly. “I’m sure she had her reasons. That can’t be the whole story.”

  “Trace, what reason could there possibly be that makes it okay?”

  “Tempting as it may be, you can’t punish your loved ones for their mistakes. It’s like drinking poison yourself and expecting them to get sick.”

  “Nice bumper-sticker psychology, Tracy. Wait . . . did she send you?”

  “Your Mom? No, I came here on my own.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  She sighs long and heavy. “We both thought it was important to put eyes on you.”

  “Well, you’ve put eyes on me,” I say. “Satisfied? Do I look okay? You can report back, you’ve done your job, I’m fine.”

  “Okay then,” she says, “if this is how you want it.”

  “It is.”

  At that Tracy starts to try to leave, but she doesn’t know how to climb down the ladder—front or backward. She tries front first, and then when that orientation reveals itself as perilous, she maneuvers around and begins backing herself down.

  After considerable struggle, which I try really hard not to enjoy, Tracy’s on the ground looking up at me. Probably expecting me to do the right thing, like I always do: admit I’m wrong, learn some sort of lesson, apologize, and move on, promising to be a better person the next time around. But I do none of that.

  Benedict suddenly appears, holding Tracy’s coat out for her.

  “If you need anything,” she says up to me, “you know where to find me.”

  She punches an arm through the first sleeve, then the second. Smiles brusquely at Benedict, turns to look at me once more. Then she marches toward the door, her flats click-clacking on the cement the whole way out.

  “You did the right thing,” Benedict says, looking up at me approvingly. “You just need to do you.”

  Whatever that is.

  Change 3–Day 117, Part Deux

  It was only an hour after Tracy left that Destiny showed up at RaChas HQ, also completely unexpectedly.

  Benedict led her to my bunk. “You’re quite the popular one tonight,” he said to me, giggling at some inside joke that he and Destiny had somehow managed to formulate between the front door and the bunk room.

  “Girl, look at you!” Destiny sang, hurling herself up onto my bed. (Considerably more nimbly than Tracy.)

  “How the hell did you find me?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “My Touchstone just left.”

  “Cray,” she said, lying next to me on my pillow. At which point we started gabbing like girlfriends, which of course we are. (Well, in these V’s at least.)

  She’s falling harder and harder for DJ. He is the best, he is so smart, he is the kindest, most considerate person she’s ever met. Thanks so much for dragging her to the play after-party that night. There’s a soul connection between them, like she’s never felt before. Plus, he’s good in the sack.

  Ewwwww. Literally the last thing I wanted to hear. Maybe not as bad as thinking about my mother and father “in the sack.” Or Tracy and Mr. Crowell. But definitely a
close third-to-last.

  “Life, man,” Destiny said then, taking a deep pull off her e-cig. “Life is freaking beautiful.”

  “If you say so.”

  “Why you gotta be such a downer all the time?”

  “Well, excuse me,” I said, “if I’m not feeling the ‘life is beautiful’ mythology right now.”

  She sat up, blew the vapor out her nostrils in two skinny white mushroom clouds. “Look. I get it, you miss your grandmother, that was a blow. But she lived incredible lives, for a really long time too. She had a really good run.”

  “I’m just not there yet,” I said.

  “Even your grandma told you herself not to be sad. She knew it was coming; she was ready to go, you know? That’s kind of lovely, if you think about it. We should all go that way.”

  “It’s not just her,” I said petulantly.

  “Well, what is it, then?”

  “It’s everything. Chase, my parents. Goddamn ME.”

  “Oh, we’re back on that again?”

  “Yes, WE are. If by WE you mean I, because even Benedict, King of the RaChas, who’s basically blind to people’s external appearances, was practically slobbering all over you.”

  “Kim, come on. I’m on your side.”

  “Yeah,” I said, regretting the following words before they even came out of my mouth. “Easy for you to say, when you look like you do, and you’re starring in the greatest love story ever told, and your entire world is one giant confetti bomb of fabulousness.”

  Destiny looked a little stunned.

  Great, I was batting 1.000 on hurting people who’d come a long way just to make sure I wasn’t dead.

  “That’s not fair,” she said after recovering her composure. “You know I’m not about that.”

  “Then why does it feel like you are?”

  “Man, you gotta get over yourself. It’s not always going to be this way. You of all people know that. So why don’t you try to figure out what it is you’re supposed to learn from this stage, muddle through it best you can, and then you’ll be ready for the next one when it comes.”

  “Wow, somebody memorized The Changers Bible,” I spat.