by T Cooper
I slap my shirt down and her hands drop, the bra falling to the carpet between us. And then, the weirdest thing happens out of nowhere and with no warning: I begin to cry.
“Oh, baby,” Mom says, gathering me into her arms again. A heavy drop falls on her shoulder from the rim of my right eye. “I have a jog bra; maybe that’ll be easier your first day.”
She gives me a tight squeeze, then goes back into the top drawer and pulls out a black spandex mini–tank top thing, with pink stripes under each armpit. “Just put your head through here and your arms—”
“I know where it goes!” I say, louder than I’d intended, snatching the bra from her. “I’m not an imbecile.”
She winces. Chews her lip. “I knew it was going to be difficult if you were given a girl for your first V,” she laments, seeming genuinely sad. I look away, feeling like a jerk. The phrase your first V hanging in the air between us.
I turn my back to Mom and pull off the T-shirt myself, then wrestle my way into the too-tight jog bra, which feels like a medieval torture device, not to mention my things are going every which direction in it, but there is no way I’m reaching down there to do anything about the situation. The spandex so tight I swear it’s even changing my breathing pattern. I quickly put my shirt back on, then turn to study myself in the mirror. A too-big men’s vintage thrash metal shirt and Mom’s middle-aged housewife frump shorts. This is my outfit for the first day of high school.
Today is going to suck dog balls.
Oh wait. It already does.
“Maybe we’ll drop by the mall together after school?” Mom offers, gathering my hair into a ponytail on the side of my head. “That will help, yes?”
“Not really.”
“Maybe your Vans with that?” she suggests, working a rubber band around the ponytail. Yanks at my scalp. She steps back and studies me. “A side pony suits you.” And then, “You really are beautiful.”
I shake it off, yank out the rubber band, and my hair falls across my face. Then she reaches into her pocket and comes out with a shiny silver lipstick tube. There is no way I’m letting her paint any of that on my face, I’m thinking.
It’s then I notice in the mirror that both my knees are perfectly intact—no cut, no caterpillar of stitches from the gnarly fall off my skateboard. No more torturous itching. I bend over to inspect, and wowzers, the wound is completely healed! There’s not even a scar—
OWWW!
My left butt cheek is suddenly on fire, and Mom is quickly recapping that lipstick tube. There’s a singeing electrical odor in the puff of smoke hovering between us. As I’d bent over to check out my knee, Mom yanked down the back of my shorts and boxers and branded me (branded me like livestock!) with one end of the “lipstick” tube. Which obviously wasn’t lipstick at all.
“The Council included this,” she says, looking sheepish. “Had to be done before you left the house.”
I twist around and look down. The same little emblem that was on the cover of The Changers Bible is now seared into my flesh:
“Are you freaking kidding me?” This is some BS.
“It’s for your own good,” she insists. “Like a vaccine.”
I stretch to get a better look. The brand is small, dime-sized but detailed. Vaguely creepy. Completely embarrassing.
“You must promise never to reveal this mark to anybody except the Static you’ll one day choose as a partner.”
“Don’t worry,” I say.
My dad comes in then, starts unbuckling his belt.
“Dad, no, please,” I try, but his pants are open, and the elastic waistband of his Jockeys is inching down his butt, and he is displaying a very pale ass cheek where the same emblem is seared into his skin.
“Nobody’s ever seen mine but your mother,” he says, pulling his pants back up and smirking in that PG-13 way he does sometimes. (And I thought I couldn’t feel any more nauseous.)
“Breakfast’s waiting, and you have to be at the registrar’s office in twenty minutes. I can drive you,” Mom offers.
“I think I’ll just take my board.”
“You sure?” she asks doubtfully.
I nod, and then, Thank Lordy above, they leave, and I am alone in the closet.
I peruse Mom’s clothes, most of which have already been unpacked and neatly organized—so many shapes and colors, all with a vague perfumed whiff. My usual “wardrobe” consists of essentially square T-shirts and (depending on weather) shorts or jeans—in blues, blacks, grays, and whites. Maybe a red sweatshirt now and again when I’m feeling reckless. And I own one piece of jewelry, a wristwatch, my big black G-Shock that I’ve had since my tenth birthday, which, I notice for the first time, is practically falling off my wrist, since it was set to size, uh, Ethan. I reach down and cinch it tighter by a couple holes—the smallest it’ll go. It’s still a little loose.
I notice Mom’s necklaces, which are draped over a mirror, rings piled in a small antique saucer on the dresser. It’s all so . . . girlie. I check my whole look in the mirror again: Ridiculous. But I guess I have to get this carnival on the road.
All of Mom’s shoes are a little too small—not to mention ugly—and all of my kicks are now too big. I fish out a couple pairs of Mom’s thicker socks, double them up over my feet, then go with my old checkered Vans that Mom placed outside the closet door for me at some point while I’ve been in here hiding and quietly trying to make a deal with a god I’ve never been acquainted with to please let me wake up from this nightmare so I can start ninth grade and get on with the life I thought I was living.
* * *
At the breakfast table, I quickly study the first few pages of Drew Bohner’s history, so there will be no surprises when I fill out paperwork at school. I feel my parents’ eyes drilling into the top of my head.
“What?”
“Nothing,” they say in tandem, then go back to gawking at me, their child, the Coney Island freak show exhibit.
“I’m not hungry,” I announce, pushing my plate away. And I’m not. My stomach is roiling, and the last thing I want to put in it is two fried eggs over-medium on toast with turkey bacon.
“You should eat something,” Mom pleads with me.
“I think I’m good.” I feed an egg and piece of toast to the dog, who takes them, hesitantly. Great, even Snoops doesn’t recognize me. I wonder what the Dog Whisperer would say about all this.
Then Mom produces a Hostess cupcake with a single candle on top. “Happy Birthday, baby!” she shouts, holding the plate and cupcake in front of her like a waitress. I stare her down. Then shift to Dad, who is shrugging: Wasn’t my idea.
I lick my thumb and snuff out the candle. “Maybe later,” I say, grabbing my backpack and skateboard. I kiss Mom on the cheek and blow by Dad, who reaches up and pats me on the forearm in a way he’s never touched me before. Like I’m made of glass.
“Remember: don’t tell anybody!” he hollers when I’m almost out the door. “It could mean death for all of Changer-kind! Love you!”
I walk as quickly as I can down the hall, trying to outrun what just happened. My shoes slip a little, rubbing the backs of my ankles and bunching up the socks. As I wait for the elevator, I try vainly to fix them, to seem normal, the way I was before my alarm went off and I woke up changed. The elevator dings, and this corporate-looking dude and I ride to the ground floor. The door opens. Neither of us moves. The doors start to close again, and he reaches to hold them back. I realize he was waiting for me to exit.
“Sorry,” I say, even though I’m not really sure why I’m apologizing.
Out in the lobby I glance down at my chest again. Still shocking. I hold my board in front, a shield. The doorman smiles. Andy and I always used to boast that if we were girls, we’d never leave the house because we’d be touching our boobs all the time, but now I’m not so sure about that particular hypothetical. Careful what you wish for. Wait, Andy . . . Can I never be friends with him again?
I walk outside, and the air is
already oppressive. I decide I’ll just keep e-mailing and talking on the phone with Andy, pretending I’m still me, until I can figure a way out of this mess. I mean, I am me, still (right?), but I’ll just be Ethan on the inside and leave out the whole whoever’s-on-the-outside, so then nothing will have changed between us except geography (not to mention topography). Wait, my voice. Frack, I can’t figure this out. I guess I can’t talk to him on the phone. Okay, just e-mail and texts.
Right outside the gates of our building complex, I drop my board on the sidewalk and plant my left foot on it, but before I can get my right foot on the deck, the board goes shooting out from under me, and all of a sudden I’m bouncing on my butt on concrete.
What the hell? When did I get so lame? Oh yeah.
“Here,” a girl appears, offering a hand. I take it, she helps me up.
“Thanks.”
“I’m Tracy,” she says, brushing off the back of my shorts for me. I twist around to get away from her. “And no, you can’t be in touch with an old friend by e-mail and pretend the Change didn’t happen.”
Holy cow, how is this chick reading my mind?
“I can’t read minds,” she says nonchalantly, digging my board out of a bush, “but when I was Change 1–Day 1, right about at this point is where I started scheming to stay in touch with my best friend Maddy from middle school.”
I start looking around suspiciously. It feels like we’re being watched.
“Wait, are you . . .” I whisper.
Tracy nods her head and smiles, smugly putting a finger to her lips in the universal shhh sign. Ten seconds in and she is already the most annoying person I’ve ever met. She’s dressed in a white frilly blouse with a navy sweater-vest over it, a plaid skirt, and knee-high socks—with a matching plaid headband and loafers, and a shiny little leather backpack. She looks like Mormon Barbie.
Dropping my board on the ground, she indicates that I should try again. “I guess you didn’t read your file that closely. You’re left-handed now.”
“I’m not goofy-footed!” I insist.
“I don’t know what that means,” she says, “but if it has something to do with not taking this seriously, yeah, all signs point to that.”
I cannot put a foot on the board, I cannot move. My butt is burning in two places—where my new freaking brand is, and also where it collided with the ground. I start becoming aware of the weight of my body, saddled around my hips, underneath my rear—on my, gag—chest—gag. Even my arms flop differently.
“You really should have spent a little more time with the materials,” Tracy chides, pushing her headband back with her index finger. I shoot her my best eff-you glare. She is unmoved.
“It is in your best interest to read all the paperwork provided by the Council.”
Great, I’m already in trouble with the Council.
“Let me guess. The first rule of Changers is that you never talk about Changers?” I say, kind of loving and hating myself at the same time.
Tracy, ignoring. “Since you didn’t bother, I’ll fill you in. I’ve been assigned to be your Touchstone for the next four years. That’s like your fairy godmother. At least, that’s how I see it.”
“Where’s your wand?”
Tracy sighs, her tolerance waning. “Did you at least read the Day 1 page in your CB?”
“My CB?”
“The Changers Bible. Gawd.” She shakes her head, starts walking.
I pick up my board and follow. “Wait, this isn’t, like, a religious cult or something, is it?” I call from behind.
Tracy laughs, kind of at me, in the way I used to laugh at Andy’s little brother when he tried to pop and lock. Back when my biggest problems were bothersome little punks and worrying about looking fly in the skate videos we filmed. You know, yesterday.
Tracy is saying something that starts with, “Joke all you want,” and ends with yadda yadda “intolerance.” I begin to suspect she loves nothing more than having all the answers. She is that girl. The sitting-in-front-of-the-class, hand-in-the-air girl. My fairy godmother is a Grade-A brownnoser. And she is apparently all mine for four years. Unless I can put in for an exchange—I make a mental note to look that up in The Changers Bible when I get home.
“World religions could benefit from a little more Changer philosophy, IMHO,” she continues, pulling farther ahead. “But that’s perhaps a discussion for a later time.”
“Awesome. Can’t wait.”
Tracy stiffens at the sarcasm. This probably isn’t her best day either. Not that I care. Because I totally don’t.
“Soon you’ll realize that you’ve been put here to serve a much higher purpose,” she says, taking a few more steps before adding, “I know this is scary. I was scared too. But if you just trust me and give it a little time, everything will make sense in a way it never has before.” Her eyes dart around in every direction. “We need to find a private place.” She starts walking even faster.
“Listen,” I say, trailing, “it’s just, it feels like I’ve landed in the middle of Siberia, and everybody’s shouting at me in angry Russian.” As I talk, my eyes well up again. I try to concentrate on the ground and keeping my idiotic floppy shoes on.
“I know,” Tracy sighs, making what seems like a conscious decision to share something personal in return, like it probably says to do in the Touchstone Handbook companion to The Changers Bible. “I remember thinking my parents were acting so strange. My mom, especially, was a robot. She’s the Changer, my dad’s a Static.”
“My dad’s the Changer,” I offer somberly, then quickly add, “apparently,” because I don’t know what’s real anymore.
For the first time since I met her, Tracy lets some silence blossom in the air between us, and I start feeling like I should be a little nicer. Having determined which way we’re headed, she leads me past the Speed Queen Laundromat, a KenJo gas station, and a convenience mart. We cross the parking lot where I’d skated two days before while we were waiting for the moving van to show up. I can feel moisture building up beneath my jog bra, which is starting to itch.
“You’ll want to know about this place,” Tracy says, pointing out ReRunz, a used clothing store at the far corner of the plaza. “You can buy and sell there at the beginning and end of each year, and they always have current fashions for like, less than half of what you’d pay new.”
The two window displays on either side of the door are decorated in a back-to-school theme, and I spot a really nice, worked-in pair of brown Carhartts on the boys’ side of the display. But, I remember with dread, that is not the side of the display I’m supposed to be looking at anymore. There is nothing on the girls’ side that interests me, not a single stitch of clothing, not a belt, a shirt, nothing—except maybe the purple pair of Vans the broken mannequin is sporting. I didn’t even know they made girls’ Vans.
Tracy gets closer, whispers, “A couple of Changers in this region work there after school, it’s kind of an unofficial outfitter, if you will. Anyway, at your first mixer next month, you’ll see who’s there and then you’ll recognize each other from the meeting, and I bet they’ll hook you up with a discount.”
We continue around behind the building, a seemingly popular shortcut to school because there is a well-worn dirt trail snaking through the weeds and strewn with broken glass, crushed and faded Red Bull cans, splintered pens and pencils, a few cigarette butts.
“Over here,” she says, walking with purpose. “Do you have any questions you want to ask me before we get there?”
Any questions doesn’t cover it. “Uh, are you going to be in school with me?” I ask weakly.
“No. I graduated from Central two years ago—valedictorian!” she chirps.
No kidding.
“I could have gone to Yale, but I elected to stay on as a Touchstone. I work for the Council now,” she babbles on.
“Sounds fun.”
“I find it supremely rewarding. So you know, I changed into Tracy in the tenth grade, and let m
e tell you, the minute I opened my eyes on Change 2–Day 1, I knew she was going to be The One.”
“You mean the you that you’re supposed to pick after graduation?”
“Yeah, my Mono, which is the V you’re going to live as forever, after you’ve experienced all four,” she instructs. “I’ve heard other Changers say they felt something like that too, almost like a tingle along your spine or something. But don’t worry if you don’t feel it now, or ever—you’ll figure out your Mono when it’s time.”
I try to take in what she’s saying, but the out-of-control flutter in my chest is somewhat distracting. “So, to recap: you’re telling me I’m actually going to be this Drew person for just a year, and I can’t tell anybody, and can’t make any real friends because I can only know them for a year anyway—well, as far as they know. And then I’m just going to disappear and come back next year as some other random person, and essentially I have no choice in the matter? I’m just stuck here at the corner of Life and Sucks?”
The queasy, gonna-yak feeling in my stomach surges back.
“I guess you could see it that way,” Tracy answers, calmly. “But it’d be great if you in fact did make friends and embrace life to the fullest. Time is relative. You are only just entering the possibility of being.”
“And that means . . . ?”
“Don’t stress so hard. High school is tough for everyone. Just be yourself.”
“How the hell am I supposed to be myself if I don’t even know who myself is?”
“Release the story you are telling yourself,” she insists, sounding like the cult member she keeps insisting she’s not. “You know who you are.”
“No, I don’t,” I argue, stopping in my tracks just as the façade of the high school appears behind an abandoned Quonset hut with a crooked sign on it: Lube, Flush, A/C, Oil Change.
“You need to get enrolled, and you don’t want to be late,” she says, adjusting her tone and the subject. We hear a couple kids coming up the path behind us. “And there’s one last item we need to take care of before I let you go.” She glances toward the Quonset hut, then takes off toward it. When I don’t follow, she turns around and rapid-flaps her hand at me.