Changers Book Three - T Cooper Changers

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mirror. Flexing my biceps, leaning in and inspecting the hairs on my chin. It’ll all be gone tomorrow. Or maybe not. Maybe I’ll change into some 1960s-looking dude with a full beard and mutton chops. Or maybe I’ll change into a hipster girl with a bleached pixie cut and a walk like a giraffe. Maybe I’ll change into the hottest dude in class.

      Part of me still wishes I could simply stay Oryon. Oryon was cool enough. And cool enough is way better than gambling on what comes next. You know how people will stay with a boyfriend or girlfriend who’s fine and all, but in the back of their heads they harbor lingering doubts, thinking maybe they could do better? (Memo to humanity: most of us can’t.) Like that hippie song goes, “Love the one you’re with.” Not the worst advice. But I can’t love Oryon enough to make him stay, or love myself enough not to care if he leaves. I’m an identity way station, and the next vessel is about to pull in.

      On the eve of Oryon’s dematerialization, I’m appreciating things about him as though I’m not him, but rather something else entirely, a creature stuck on the inside of the mirror looking out at him. His tightly curled hair, the distance between his eyebrows and hairline. His intense eyes, the warm color and smoothness of his skin. His famous lady-killing smile, which got him so many places. The way he walks through a room, the hint of rasp in his voice. I’m kind of loving it all right now, digging it so much more than I ever did because I know it’ll be gone tomorrow. You don’t miss water till the well runs dry. Or in this case, you don’t miss your corporeal form until it’s reassembled in some cosmic mixing bowl into something else entirely.

      I guess it makes me think about appreciating stuff (well, people) more while you still can. Take Nana. She’s still with us, but barely. I’m really happy Mom and Dad brought her back from Florida so she’s closer, but because she’s kind of out of it most of the time, it makes me feel horrible that I didn’t spend more time with her when she was lucid. She knows so much, has been through so much. I took her for granted. Just like I did with somebody else . . .

      God, I miss him. A part of me refuses to accept he’s really gone. So what if I’m stuck in the denial stage of grief? Not that those stages seem like anything more than BS made up to sell self-help books. Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression. I got them all. No start or finish. No checked-off box. Life’s untidy that way. And I don’t care if I ever get to the “final” Acceptance stage of grieving him. What am I accepting anyway?

      Erggh. Mom just came in to tell me Tracy and Mr. Crowell are here.

      * * *

      Well damn, those two have reinvented the “honeymoon stage.” The minute I saw her in the hallway, Tracy was practically floating a few inches above the ground, beaming so much I thought her head might split horizontally and unhinge at her jaw like a Muppet.

      “You look soooo goood,” she exclaims, letting go of Mr. Crowell’s hand (for two seconds) to give me a hug.

      I notice at once how she smells like cotton candy.

      “You always look good, of course,” she coos. “Not that looks mean anything. I’m just saying, you know, you look rested. Better than the last time I saw you.”

      “When I was bedridden? Good to hear.”

      Tracy continues to ogle me appraisingly as I shake Mr. Crowell’s outstretched hand. He smiles his crooked smile. “How you doing, buddy?”

      “Better, thanks,” I say quickly and quietly, looking down at his suede bucks beside Tracy’s pink espadrilles on the hardwood floor as she climbs up on her tippy-toes and nuzzles Mr. Crowell’s neck.

      “Do you kids want some tea?” Mom calls in from the kitchen.

      “Nah, I should probably—” I start, while at the same time Tracy chirps, “Yes, Connie, that’d be lovely.”

      We stand there awkwardly in the hallway as Mom hollers, “Well, which is it?”

      My neck flushes hot. I try, but I can’t bring myself to make eye contact with Mr. Crowell. It’s like I’m embarrassed by him knowing definitively 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?

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