what I am now. Every time he looks at me I can see him doing the math. What part was Drewy? What part was Oryony?
Ha, Oryony! How am I just now thinking of that? If Oryon were writing an autobiography, that would definitely be the title: The Oryony of It All.
The Oryony here being Mr. Crowell is, like, “normal,” and didn’t know this giant thing about me for the first almost two years of teaching me, and now he’s suddenly been let in on the whole situation—and while it’s rainbows and kittens that Tracy has found her Static mate, and Mr. Crowell is all cool with everything, I guess now I’ll always feel sort of “less than” in his eyes ever since I was outed. Like I’ve been diminished in some way because he knows this “secret” about me, about my past lives. That I’m never truly who I seem to be.
I know it’s probably psychological residue from the Tribulations, but it still feels wrong to have been unmasked in front of Mr. Crowell, who yeah, has been Changers Council–trained and vetted and approved before marrying Tracy, but is nevertheless, through no fault of his own, going to be new to all this alternate universe body-swapping chaos for a while. I mean, it’s got to blow his mind on occasion. It still blows mine, and it’s my everyday reality.
And while in theory I should be comforted by his knowing—the truth should set me free!—I’m not. Instead, I feel like an impostor. Or a freak. Or some cruel deceiver. With him I’ll always be the other. I’ll never just be the person(s) he knew before.
“What’s the verdict, buddy?” he asks. About the tea, presumably.
Please. Stop. With. The. Buddy. Buddy.
Tracy catches my expression, which likely reads as terrified with a hint of rage. She exchanges one of those couples’ predecided looks with Mr. Crowell, then drags me into the living room for a private chat, somehow managing to cleave herself from her new husband and be alone with me for a minute. (I swear I heard a suctioning sound when they separated.)
“How are you, really?” she pries, soon as we plop on the couch, her knee touching mine.
“Fine. Totally fine. Mostly.”
“I want to believe that,” she says, tilting her head like a dog hearing a distant whistle.
“You should,” I reply, pulling my knee away, faking an itch that needed to be scratched under my thigh.
“Don’t underestimate the level of trauma you experienced,” she intones, dead serious. “I’ve spoken with Turner and a couple of the counselors, and if you feel like you need a little more time to recover, we can always do the homeschool thing until you’re—”
“NO!” I shout.
Tracy flinches, her spine jacking straight.
“I mean, no,” I say, “no thank you,” making sure to sound calm and totally not hysterical. “Getting into a routine is probably the best thing for me.”
I stare into Tracy’s eyes, trying to be flat and emotionless so she doesn’t smell my desperation. She does the dog-whistle head tilt again. Maybe she’s receiving signals from outer space. Maybe the Council has her wearing a wire and she’s double-agenting me as we speak, getting feedback through some invisible earpiece on what to say, like a hostage negotiator trying to convince some desperate schmuck with a shotgun to release more victims from the bank vault. I practice relaxing my face muscles. See? Not crazy. Not a killer.
“What?” I ask, super-duper chill.
“What, what?” she counters, eyes squinting now.
“I feel strongly that it’ll be good to be back out in the world again,” I say matter-of-factly. “The Council counselors told me that reengagement with others can be a huge aid to healing.”
“It can also be avoidance behavior. A way to bury and distract from the pain instead of moving through it.”
And? I think. Is that so wrong? Whole empires have been built on the sturdy back of mass cultural denial. In fact, one might argue “burying it” is a necessity for progress. You stop and consider anything for too long and you’ll never want to leave the couch again.
“Trace, I’m going to make it,” I say, smiling and praying I don’t look like a cornered ferret.
For a moment, Tracy turns her chin toward the kitchen, where Mr. Crowell has obviously said something witty and charming to make my mom laugh really hard. Turning back to me, she is softer: “I was just . . . well . . . I really couldn’t live with myself if anything happened to you again.” She starts to tear up, reaching inside a pocket for a pink monogrammed handkerchief.
“It’ll be okay,” I say, patting her shoulder as she blots her eyes, taking care not to smudge her perfect liquid line.
“I should be telling you that,” she snuffles, wiping away the tears, taking a deep breath, recomposing herself. “I am here for you. Know that. As your Touchstone. And your friend.”
“I know that, Trace. You’re a bad bitch when you need to be.”
“Is that a good thing?”
“It’s everything.”
Soon enough it’s quick hugs and kisses all around. Mr. Crowell pulls me into an awkward half-handshake/man-hug and mumbles, “Uh, guess I’ll be seeing, uh, you in the a.m. . . .” and trails off into a nervous cough-cough. Tracy makes a plan with Mom to come and do the whole Y-3 initiation thing at our house the next morning, and I leave to return to my bedroom as Oryon for the last night.
I hear them chitchatting about me as I slink down the hall, but I don’t really care what they’re saying. I’ve had it up to my eyelashes with all the concerned, hushed whispers about my well-being. Bring back the contemptuous, free-floating neglect of high school already!
After deliberately skipping brushing my teeth—I mean, I’m getting a new body in the morning, why bother?—I log into Skype to see if I can catch Elyse before she goes to bed. It rings for a while before she picks up.
“You ready for this?” she asks, as soon as our video chat connects, busting out an old-school hip-hop move with her shoulders. She’s wearing her PJs, the same flannels with punk rock fish on them that she wore when we roomed at the retreat.
“One thousand percent.”
“Yeah, me neither.”
“Well, that’s settled,” I pronounce.
“I like Elyse,” she sighs.
“Well, you can always pick her at your Forever Ceremony when the day comes.”
“I most likely will.”
“I wish we were in the same school,” I say. It’s probably the hundredth time I’ve had that thought. I like Elyse too.
“Can’t have too many of us in one place. Be, like, an infestation.”
“In the many we are . . . problematic,” I snark. Elyse laughs, and it makes me feel good inside for a second.
“My
