graduation. Wanna guess? Kimberly Cruz. Yes, even though I’ve been her less than twenty-four hours, I know deep in my “big” bones that this is not the life I intend to choose for myself. Why would I? The world is cruel enough. I’m going to pick a Mono that basically turns me into a walking Kick me! sign for all eternity? A short, minority female who struggles with her weight? Oh yeah, sign me up. Why not give me a stutter and a limp while you’re at it?
Not that there’s anything wrong with being “of size.” Of course not. But I mean, my breasts are ginormous. Heavy. In the freaking way. And, after a few hours in Mom’s joke of a bra, painful. Like two sacks of flour stitched to my pectoral skin. Talk about too much of a good thing. There is no way I’m surviving 364 more days of bearing the weight and weirdness of these things. I can’t believe millions of ladies spend hard-earned coin to get surgery to make their boobs as big as these. Willingly. Why? So dudes will look at you? Here’s a tip ladies: dudes look anyway. Been on both sides of the mammary lens, and I can vouch for that essential truth.
Dang, my spine is killing me . . .
What else? Okay, back to this morning. Oryon’s boxers were practically cutting off my circulation the moment I came to. I had to sprint into the bathroom to tear them off me, but on the way I guess I lost my balance (preview of coming humiliations) and smashed into the doorframe, jamming my middle finger knuckle, which popped loudly and is now purple and swollen. So everywhere I went today, I was subtly giving people the finger (preview of coming worldview?) because I couldn’t fully bend it down into a relaxed position.
Right after the finger pop, Mom and Dad raced into my bedroom, Mom trilling, “Let’s see you!” I could hear Snoopy’s jingling collar in all the hysteria and crazy energy going on around him.
“No!” I screamed through the bathroom door.
“Okay, in a minute then.”
“Go away!”
“Kimberly Cruz. Sixteen years old—ooh, that’s right! You can get your driver’s license this year!” Mom read through the door from the Changers Council packet.
“Kim Cruz?” I whined, looking at her, at myself, in the mirror.
“Come on,” Dad said agitatedly, “I’ve got to get out of here, and I want to meet this new V.”
“I’ll just see you after school,” I tried.
“Well, I can tell you’re a girl,” he said. “So, that’s—”
I burst through the bathroom door with a bath towel wrapped under my arms, covering most of my body.
“Whoa, hello there,” Dad said, masking shock.
“I know,” I said, and collapsed onto the bed, where Mom immediately crossed to me, draped her arms around my neck, and squeezed tight.
“You’re beautiful,” Dad soothed, but I could tell even he was alarmed by what had developed overnight under his roof.
I started crying. Desperate, no-way-out sobs. With a bucket of estrogen mixed in (again). God, I hate estrogen.
“Why don’t you try your breathing exercises?” Mom said calmly, slowly rubbing my back and exchanging a knowing look with Dad that neither of them thought I could see through my wall of tears.
“What’s the problem?” Dad asked stupidly.
“Really?” I shot back, looking up at him like, You did this to me.
“This is going to be a really educational year,” he said reflexively, sounding like Turner the Lives Coach during a Changers Mixer keynote address. “You’re going to grow by leaps and bounds.”
“Oh, I think I’ve already grown by leaps and bounds.”
“I don’t want to hear any of that smart-aleck attitude,” Dad said, now tipping into full disappointment in me.
I turned to Mom. “Why aren’t you saying anything?”
“What’s to say?” she asked.
“Seriously?”
“Ory—Kim! That’s enough,” Dad said. “Don’t—”
“Speak to your mother that way,” I interrupted, finishing his sentence. “Yeah yeah yeah. But you have to admit this is a rough card I just got dealt.”
“Why? Because you’re a little heavier than you’re used to?” Mom asked.
“A little?”
“You’re actually quite lovely to look at. Empirically. Your lips are perfection and your skin is beautiful. You’re not exactly a walking horror show, Kim. Much as you may feel like one now.” She pushed the hair out of my left eye and tucked it behind my ear. It fell out and went back over my eye, a black curtain I was more than happy to duck behind. “In any event, you have to get ready for school,” she added, standing up and slapping her thighs. “Let’s see what we can come up with to get you out the door. And we’ll head to the mall later.”
“Oh yay. The mall.”
Mom chuckled despite herself, and Dad came over and awkwardly mussed my hair, sort of like he would when Ethan was around, then leaned down and planted a kiss on my forehead. “I have to get on the road. But you’re going to do great. No different than last year. Or the year before. You got this.”
I didn’t bother arguing.
In Mom and Dad’s closet were three garbage bags full of clothes from ReRunz. Tracy had dropped them off this time around to make my transition less stressful, what with the Tribulations lurking in the back of my psyche. There were boys’ clothes in various sizes, girls’ clothes in the same range. A pile of more gender-neutral offerings, and because it was Tracy, a whole shopping bag of accessories including scarves that smelled like the Civil War. I’d yet to inhabit an identity where I wanted to wear accessories, but I guess a Touchtone can dream.
I riffled through the options, but nothing felt right. The stuff that fit was boxy and itchy, made me look like the whale in Moby-Dick. Or wait, is Moby-Dick the name of the whale? I can never remember. Anyway, all the clothes I liked were too tight in the middle, or choked my arms like fabric boa constrictors. I found a big, off-the-shoulder knit sweatshirt with an old-fashioned motorcycle on it. It was cool enough and it didn’t make me feel like a ham. I put on one of Dad’s gym shirts underneath, and a pair of his sweats, which were not made for any woman’s body, let alone mine. It was shaping up to be my best high school fashion debut yet.
I pushed my boobs into Mom’s largest, most stretched-out jog-bra (now I know how sausage gets made), then jammed my feet into a pair of Drew’s old Converse. As I stood to appraise myself in the mirror, I heard a buoyant, “Helloooo! Guess whooo?” wafting in from the hallway.
“In here!” Mom yelled to Tracy, while I mouthed Noooo! As if I could stop her.
“Where’s my favorite Changer-in-waiting?” Tracy said, as her head popped in, followed by two giant mocha Frappuccinos from Starbucks, with extra whipped cream on top.
“Well hello, gorgeous,” she said casually, acting as if seeing Kim Cruz in the
