Kim
Page 22
Ack! Gag. “No.”
“What then? It’s like you were possessed the second he showed up.”
Because he’s the ghost of Changer lives past, Destiny.
I can’t tell her. I want to. But not yet. I need time to think. To figure things out, to run some scenarios in my head. To freaking breathe. Past, present, and future are colliding. Here I am, about to “come out” with the truth, or at least one truth, about myself, and yet I can’t tell Andy who I am. Nor Benedict who Andy is.
It’s like, somewhere Ethan still exists now, as long as Andy thinks he does and is still looking for him. And that somehow feels . . . good? I guess you can’t erase fourteen years of a life. Just like I’ll never be able to erase a year as Drew, a year as Oryon, a year as Kim. People will always remember who they knew and loved. So long as everyone has their memory boxes, no one ever really goes away.
I notice the troops have started to rally, and hear Benedict yell from atop the dining table, “It’s twelve hundred hours,” as everybody gathers around him, and he starts to go over the schedule down to the minute (in military time, no less). Andy seems to have nuzzled right in at HQ in the week since I left, sitting beneath Benedict and assisting with whatever he needs handed up to him—maps, pens, schedules, and so on.
And then Benedict yells, “Let’s roll!” and . . .
RACHAS ACTION FINAL SCHED.
1230: Depart HQ (bring signs, whistles, water, cell phones)
1300: Convene in parking lot on 11th Avenue (west of train tracks)
1315-1345: Review schedule (Benedict), map & communication (Wylie)
1345-1400: Partner up, exchange phone numbers (if you haven’t already done so)
1400-1415: Final preparation, sunscreen, hydration, etc.
1420: Group affirmation hug
1421: Walk as group to Union Station Hotel (bathroom break, all encouraged to go)
1445: Convene on SE corner of Rosa L. Parks Blvd. & Broadway (meet on steps of Customs House)
1500: Display signs, BEGIN MARCH East down Broadway (do NOT block business entrances or traffic)
~1600: Convene at circle at end of Broadway/1st Ave. at river side*
*Note: Please keep moving around circle at all times while demo continues in this location: police can still make arrests, but moving helps.
* * *
We reach the river at 1553 hours—a hair earlier than Benedict had planned. We did it. About a dozen RaChas strolled down the sidewalk on Broadway, making noise, handing out brochures, answering questions—and we are now gathered on the appointed little oval of grass, wondering what comes next.
A local news van has set up at the curb opposite, its satellite dish pointing to the sky. A crowd of about fifty tourists are just standing and gawking at us, also seeming to wonder what’s next.
“Change isn’t strange!” Benedict yells. “Change isn’t strange!”
And we all start chanting along, blowing our whistles, a couple dudes banging bongo drums slung around their necks.
“Change isn’t strange! Change isn’t strange! Change isn’t strange!”
A few policemen on bikes circle, making sure things remain safe. Some of the older folks in the crowd begin to whisper in each other’s ears. A toddler with a Mylar balloon shaped like a cowboy boot runs up and dances beside us like we’re singing the most beautiful song ever. Just then, a news reporter sidles up to the group, calling, “Who’s in charge here?”
Benedict comes forward. “I can speak with you,” he says, stepping off the grass island and right in front of the camera.
Watching him get ready for his close-up, I can’t believe we just walked down the street like we did, proclaiming who and what we are to any and everybody who was interested. Of course, most people weren’t. Not really. I imagine they assumed it was just a bunch of kids acting up. Or a political rally for general, run-of-the-mill “change.” Which is okay. Because the march isn’t for them. It’s for us.
“The world you think you know is not the world that is!” I hear Benedict shout into the microphone over our chanting, as the reporter fixes her hair, which has flopped across her face in a balmy gust of wind.
Way beyond them, a clot of white tourists has just emerged from the Hard Rock Café on the corner and moves en masse the way tourists do, in the direction of our gathering, presumably to see what all the commotion’s about.
“I’m talking about an entirely different type of diversity,” Benedict is saying now, “mind-blowing levels of difference that society is only beginning to comprehend!”
I squint and notice a family inching closer toward us, one member breaking from the pack and pulling ahead, followed by another larger shadow.
I keep chanting, holding Destiny’s hand, bouncing my sign above us, staying in constant motion. It’s loud, we’re proud, and everybody seems to be getting used to it.
Maybe this could actually work in the world. We can all be who and what we are, and it ain’t nobody’s business if we do . . .
And then it registers. Who’s headed my way. The face at last snapping into focus. The most familiar face in the world.
Audrey.
A corner of her lip is curled up in some sort of profound bewilderment. She’s coming right for me, her brother Jason ten steps behind. Her entire extended family trailing after them.
As she approaches, I drop Destiny’s hand. I also drop the sign I’ve been holding (which reads, I am what I am. And am, and am, and am). I’m frozen.
Destiny veers around me and keeps step with the group.
“Kim?” Audrey shouts, loud, over the chanting, as I stoop down to pick up my sign, pretending I can’t hear her. Audrey rushes over and bends down at the same time, reaching for the wooden handle in the exact instant I do.
“What are you doing? What’s all this about?” she asks, then recoils, retracting her hand as though she’d been about to dunk it in a vat of acid. She jolts upright, wobbling as she stands. Her face is pale.
I can tell she’s seen it.
The bracelet.
In fact, she can’t take her eyes off it.
I would do anything to throw my arms around her.
“Audrey,” I say.
She finally looks at me, looks right into my eyes.
“Drew?”
(NOT) THE END
COMING SOON:
BOOK FOUR
wearechangers.org
Abridged Glossary of terms
(Excerpted from the Changers Bible)
Abider. A non-Changer (see Static, below) belonging to an underground syndicate of anti-Changers, whose ultimate goal is the extermination of the Changer race. The Abider philosophy is characterized by a steadfast desire for genetic purity, for human blood to remain unmingled with Changer blood. Abider leaders operate by instilling fear in humans, for when people fear one another, they are easier to control. Abiders sometimes have an identifying tattoo depicting an ancient symbol of a Roman numeral I (Figure 1), the emblem symbolizing homogeneity and the single identity Abiders desire each human to inhabit.
Changer. A member of an ancient race of humans imbued with the gift of changing into a different person four times between the ages of approximately fourteen and eighteen. (In more modern times, one change occurs at the commencement of each of the four years of high school; see Cycle, below.) Changers may not reveal themselves to non-Changers (see Static, below). After living as all four versions of themselves (see V, below), Changers must choose one version in which to live out the rest of their lives (see Mono, below). Changer doctrine holds that the Changer race is the last hope for the human race on the whole to reverse the moral devolution that has overcome it. Changers believe more Changers equals more empathy on planet Earth. And that only through empathy will the human race survive. After their Cycles (see Cycle, below), Changers eventually partner with Statics. When approved by the Council (see Changers Council, below), Changer-Static unions produce a single Changer offspring.
Changers
Council. The official Changer authority. The Changers Council is divided into regional units spread out across the globe. Each Council is responsible for all basic decisions regarding the population of Changers in its specific region.
Changers Emblem. A variation on Leonardo da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man drawing, dating to approximately 1490 CE (Figure 2). The Changers Emblem contains four bodies superimposed in motion, instead of two (as portrayed in da Vinci’s composition), and appears to the eye as both four bodies and one body at the same time—though all sharing one head and heart. An emblem of the Changer mantra: In the many we are one.
Changers Mixer. Required events for all Changers to attend, during each of the four years of high school. Council rules and regulations are emphasized at mixers (see Changers Council, above). Mixers sometimes require classwork and formal discussions, but mixers are primarily designed to offer more informal camaraderie and problem-solving techniques, both of which help Changers address some of the difficulties that frequently arise during their Cycles (see Cycle, below).
Cycle. The four-year period of different iterations, or versions (see V, below) that a Changer goes through between the approximate ages of fourteen and eighteen. One V per each of the four years of high school.
Feints. The story a Changer family tells the non-Changers (see Static, below) in their lives, to explain each V’s (see V, below) absence during the following year of school. The specific details for Feints are provided by the Council (see Changers Council, above), unless a Changer and her/his parents submit a formal request for an alternative Feint, which is necessary under certain circumstances (i.e., when Statics are especially integrated into a particular V’s life, or when a particular Feint will better protect the identity of the Changer and her/his family).
Forever Ceremony. Regional “graduation” events held on the day after high school graduation for every Changer within a designated region. A joyous though private (from Statics—except parental Statics; see Static, below) occasion, as each year of ceremonies initiates more and more Changers to migrate into the world and eventually find a Static mate, with whom they will start a family and raise Changer offspring of their own. At the Forever Ceremony, Changers are introduced one by one, and each speaks a little about each of her/his V’s (see V, below) before declaring in front of both the Council (see Changers Council, above) and their community whom they will live as for the rest of their lives (see Mono, below).
Mono. A Changer’s “forever identity,” a.k.a. the V (see V, below) a Changer ultimately selects for her/himself after living as each of the four different assigned V’s. A Mono cannot be the individual a Changer lived as during the approximately fourteen years before her/his Cycle (see Cycle, above) began.
RaChas. Abbreviation of “Radical Changers,” a small but growing splinter group of young Changers who seek not to live in secret, as the Council (see Changers Council, above) dictates. RaChas are freegans, anarchist free spirits, living in the margins, surviving on what human society at large throws away. RaChas philosophy calls for living openly as Changers and agitating for liberation and acceptance for all, Changers and Statics alike. RaChas have replaced their former emblem (an ancient Roman numeral IV rotated on its side) with a new image, a modified Changers emblem, (see Changers Emblem above) with multiple limbs (Figure 3), symbolizing the RaChas’ desire to shake up traditional Changers philosophy and call attention to the limitations of the four-V Cycle (See V, below; see Cycle, above). RaChas have also been known to battle Abiders (see Abider, above) and even stage missions to rescue Changers who have been abducted by Abiders and held in Abider deprogramming camps. [Nota bene: while the Changers Council is at odds with the RaChas movement, it can also no longer deny its existence.]
Static. A non-Changer (i.e., the vast majority of the world’s population). Particularly sympathetic Statics are ideal mates for Changers later in life. Once a Changer has completed his or her Cycle (see Cycle, above), s/he will be fully prepared to assess various Statics’ openness and acceptance of difference. When a Changer feels certain that s/he has found an ideal potential Static mate, s/he may, with permission of the Council (see Changers Council, above), reveal her/himself to the Static. [Nota bene: This revelation can occur only after a Changer’s full Cycle (see Cycle, above) is complete, and s/he has declared his or her Mono (see Mono, above).]
Touchstone. A Changer’s official mentor, assigned immediately upon a Changer’s transformation into her/his first V (see V, below). The same Touchstone is assigned for a Changer’s entire Cycle (see Cycle, above).
V. Any one of a Changer’s four versions of her/himself into which s/he changes during each of the four years of high school. Changers walk in the shoes of one V for each year of school (between the approximate ages of fourteen and eighteen).
Acknowledgments
Thanks are due to several individuals who helped Changers evolve from a lightning-bolt idea in the park to an actual book series we are proud to have our children (and others) read. The love, kindness, and support of the following friends, family, colleagues, and representatives can be felt on every page of Book Three (and beyond): Johnny Temple, Johanna Ingalls, Aaron Petrovich, Ibrahim Ahmad, and Susannah Lawrence at Akashic Books; Kate Bornstein; Deborah Choi; Consortium Book Sales and Distribution; Tim Daly; Dixie and Matilda; Betsy Brown Eagle; Theo Brown Eagle; our families; Mary Gonzalez; John Green; Ryan LeVine, Karl Austen, and Danielle Josephs at Jackoway, Tyerman, Wertheimer, et al.; Tom Kelly; Téa Leoni and family; A.J. Morewitz and Chris Selak at Lionsgate; Jennifer Mencken and Ben Pivar; Gina Mingacci; Langley Perer and Dawn Saltzman at Mosaic; Alex Petrowsky; Spencer Presler; Amy Ray; Scott Turner Schofield; Zac Simmons at Paradigm; Michael Redwine; Scott Silver; Doug Stewart at Sterling Lord Literistic; Meryl Poster and Tesha Crawford at Superb; Tommy Wallach; Sarah Chalfant at the Wylie Agency.
And to the seventh grader at Middle School 378 in New York City who asked, “Are there Changers in the real world?” We believe so!
Changers Book One: Drew
Please enjoy these opening pages
from the first installment in the Changers Series
Before he became the one he was meant to be, before he lived through those four years called high school, those four years where everything he ever knew evaporated into air, where the ground dropped away, and he fell in love, and he saw people die terrible pointless deaths, and he saved lives without even knowing how, and he did everything wrong until he got a few important things right, before he understood that he wasn’t any more chosen than anyone else (even though they told him otherwise), and harnessed his power, the power he never wanted, never believed he could comprehend, before any of that and a hundred other awful, wondrous, ruinous, magical things happened, he was just a kid in Tennessee named Ethan.
PROLOGUE
ETHAN
“Goodnight,” I say, and then “Geesh,” under my breath. It’s about the twentieth time Mom and Dad have come into my bedroom and wished me goodnight. Like they don’t want me go to sleep or something. It’s not like I’m enlisting, or getting married; it’s just high school. Every kid has a first day of high school. I know, I know, except for the ones who have to spend their days carrying water on their heads for twenty miles roundtrip to their families for survival, so they aren’t afforded the luxury of education. I just mean most regular American kids like me.
“We want you to know—” Dad starts, but then Mom interrupts.
“We love you, Ethan,” she blurts. There are tears in her eyes. Again. “You’ve been so great about this move, and your father and I . . . I guess we just want you to know how much we appreciate who you are.”
I hug and pat her (I admit, a little condescendingly) on the back. Hit the light switch over her shoulder. Then my dad gets in on the hugging, and now we’re man-hugging with me standing in nothing but my skull-and-crossbones boxers, and it’s getting a little too Lifetime Original Movies up in here, and suddenly I can’t remember whether I washed my favorite jeans or
not, the skinny ones with the rip in the left knee from when I busted on my skateboard, attempting a simple kickflip off some stairs the day before we moved to Genesis, Arkantuckasee. Okay. It’s Genesis, Tennessee, but what’s the diff, really? There’s no art house theater here. No skate park. No cereal bar. It may as well be the moon. The moon with about a thousand fried chicken restaurants on it. Not that I have anything against chickens. Or frying them. But would it kill anyone to, I don’t know, open a decent taco joint?
They close the door, finally, and I jump into bed, pushing over our pit bull Snoopy, who stands and circles, then curls up at my feet, letting out a giant doggy-sigh, like I’ve really put him out by making him move over three whole inches. It’s only my second night in this room; I don’t even know the patterns the light plays against the walls yet. (I’d had it memorized in my old room in New York, where headlights moving left to right on my closet doors meant they were actually going right to left on the street.) The stitches in my knee are itching like mad. As in, I know I’m not supposed to scratch them, but not doing so is quite possibly going to send me to the loony bin. Come to think of it, I wonder where I’m going to get the stitches taken out, now that I can’t go to Dr. Reese anymore. “I delivered you into this world,” he says every time I’m in his office, “so don’t forget I can take you right out of it if you give your folks trouble.” (And then he sticks me with a needle.)
There are tons of boxes that still need unpacking—my drum kit all broken down and stored in the building’s basement. Weird how my entire old life is literally contained within four or five stacks of beat-up cardboard. My soccer participation trophies, my first broken board, even Lamby-cakes (the stuffed animal who apparently accompanied me home from the hospital the day I was born). Something makes me want to leave the boxes packed and just start over. You can, you know, I’m thinking to myself, lying on my back in the dark, cradling my head in my palms. Damn, my pits stink. I guess sex ed was no joke: Unsettling changes that are nonetheless completely natural. Nothing “natural” about the swamp funk swathing my entire body. Not enough deodorant in the world. I’ll shower in the morning.