Why can’t I be happy? I started this day so high and confident. Dreams can come true. Blah blah blah. A few hours later, the nightmares are setting in every time I doze off. I would do almost anything to get a handle on my brain, to be able to shut it down. I know how lucky I am. I’m not breaking brick in a Scientology work camp. I have amazing friends and parents who love me, and yet, spin spin spin. The what-if thought train barreling down my track.
I guess sex does complicate things.
At least this time I’m not getting postcoitally abducted. Hijacked by my insecurities, maybe.
How early is too early to text Audrey before school?
Kim
Change 3–Day 267
Parking my scooter in the student lot and bending over to lock the wheel, I hear the familiar rumble: Jason’s car screaming into the roundabout in front of school. It screeches to a halt so that everybody notices—the wormhole of insecurity in this dude knows no bottom—and Audrey steps out. She doesn’t really acknowledge or say goodbye to him, just slams the door. I wait until he speeds off (more tire-squealing so every Central student within earshot has to check him out), and then I stay close to the side of the building (okay, lurk) while I consider how to approach Audrey.
After following a safe distance behind her for what any outside observer might consider a creepy amount of time, I get the courage to call out a soft and nonthreatening, “Hey,” which startles her nonetheless.
“Hey,” she echoes.
“What’s up? How are you feeling?” I ask, trying not to be too obvious I’m referencing the whole sex thing.
“I’m okay,” she says. “You?”
I can’t tell which way this is going. She’s staring at me with no expression, the student body floating by on the warm breeze, amped up to be headed into their last full week of the school year. It’s like she’s been shot with a tranquilizer dart.
“Soooo,” I say.
“So.”
“Yeah, so.”
“Soooooo.” She exhales sharply, the breath popping her bangs up over her forehead.
“This chemistry is electric,” I try, cracking a hint of a smile to hopefully break the awkwardness. It doesn’t.
I’m officially freaking out on the inside, but doing everything in my power not to reveal even a flicker of anxiety on the outside. I’m running cool-girl exit lines in my head when all of a sudden Audrey launches toward me. For a split-second I think she’s coming in for a hug, but then I realize that Chloe has blown past, shoving Audrey from behind.
“Chubby chase much?” Chloe hisses as she and her crew strut past.
I put a hand out to catch Audrey before she falls, and we burst out laughing, the postsex tension bubble bursting.
“I guess Chloe didn’t get the message that fat-shaming is so five years ago,” I say, as Audrey rights herself. “Girlfriend is not on trend.”
Audrey smiles wanly. “I can’t believe how much time I wasted with her.”
“I can’t either.”
“Thanks.”
“What did y’all even talk about?” I ask.
“Lot of makeup tutorials. Lot of thirsty posting for Instagram likes.”
“Symbiotic.”
“You know, I once caught her lifting images from this New York party girl’s account and using them on her own.”
“No way. That’s tragic.” (As I’m saying this it occurs to me that hiding within the lives of other people may not be only a Changer imperative.)
“She’s a sad little character. I kind of feel bad for her,” Audrey says.
“You feel bad for the hateful narcissist who wishes us dead?”
Audrey snorts. “Kinda.”
I fight the urge to kiss her on the lips. Behind us, the bell rings.
“We should go,” Audrey says, not moving.
“We totally should,” I say, not moving either.
* * *
When we finally make it to homeroom, Mr. Crowell is still avoiding direct contact with me. Instead, he nervously flits about, fingering his skinny tie, flipping through papers on his cluttered desk, flopping and reflopping his hair. Tracy has told him all about the visibility march and how I was endangering Changer-kind for my own selfish ends, so I’m sure he has no idea what to say to me. (I wonder if Mr. Crowell ever regrets getting involved in this wack alternate universe—or with Tracy for that matter.)
Audrey and I sit next to each other in the back of class—Kris flanking me on the other side, batting his lashes like dragonfly wings.
“Hey there, kitty girl,” he greets Audrey, who blushes and waves. Then to me: “Where’s the brother?”
“Off campus at physical therapy rehabbing his busted knee.”
“Never thought I’d be in favor of police brutality,” Kris snarks; I shoot him a look. “Too far?”
At lunch, four of us (Audrey, Kris, Michelle Hu, and I) perch at the end of the nerd table, Michelle droning on about the upcoming Lego League robotics camp. I’d assured Audrey I hadn’t told Kris much of anything about the s-e-x, but of course it’s obvious Kris knows everything, because Kris has a poker face like Lady Gaga, which is to say, he does not have one at all.
I keep imploring him with my eyes to knock off the U-Haul and Electrelane references, but the more I make faces, the more Kris revels in his contraband knowledge. Meanwhile, I’m praying to the Changer gods that Audrey remembers Kris doesn’t know about me, that she won’t slip and mention the whole changing-into-four-different-people-during-high-school thing.
Watching the two of them converse when each one thinks they know more than the other is a real mind cramp, let me tell you. All the brinkmanship and innuendo flying back and forth makes me want to explode a truth bomb over the entire table like we tried to do at the march. Finally tell all my friends the whole story about me.
But I don’t. I guess the points Tracy made have sunk in more than I realized. I want to be out and proud. But outing myself necessarily means outing others who aren’t ready, or who could be thrust into danger—and that isn’t something I’m so sure I should do anymore.
“Do you have a second?” It’s DJ, unexpectedly sidling up at the table.
“Sure,” I say, nodding at Audrey and Kris to go ahead and bus their trays without me.
“Hey, DJ,” Kris says, lingering.
“Hey, Kris. Dope,
