Changers Book Three - T Cooper Changers

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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 mom’s sweating me,” she says quietly. “Can we catch up tomorrow after school?”

      “Totes,” I say, the finality of the moment clocking me like a line drive to the skull. This will be the last time we’ll see each other as Elyse and Oryon. Externally anyhow.

      “Good luck with the whole Audrey thing,” Elyse adds, being supportive, if not totally approving.

      “Yeah, we’ll see how that turns out.”

      “If she’s as great as you say she is, then it’ll be cool.”

      “I guess,” I reply, wondering if anyone on any planet could be that cool.

      “And if she’s not, whatever. You are too awesome for drama. Remember that.”

      “I’m full up on drama for a long time,” I sigh.

      “Word to your mother.”

      Then a click, and she is gone. Forever.

      Me too, come to think of it.

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      KIM

       Change 3–Day 1

      Yeah, so.

      Uhhhhmmmn . . .

      Is this supposed to be some sort of morbid joke, Changers Council? I guess I sort of thought that since I just went through the Tribulations, had to be sequestered at Changers Central for the remainder of my sophomore year and on through summer . . . you know, that you might’ve considered taking pity on me and given me an “easier” V this year of school. Make me a Hemsworth. Or even one of the lesser Wahlbergs.

      But no. I am not a Hemsworth. Or a Wahlberg.

      Nor am I a Latino goth girl with heavy eyeliner, in faux-dalmatian-fur creepers. Or a Southeast Asian–looking athletic girl with French braids and lululemon capris. Or a white guy with big tanned muscles and a loose, striped surfer tank top. Or a black girl with tiny ankles, in a giant sweatshirt she’s wearing as a dress. Or a lanky, pale white dude with acne and red hair that matches his checked flannel shirt.

      These are just the first five people who come to mind.

      Why? Oh, only because they are just the first five people I ran into today. No, I mean actually RAN INTO, as in collided with in the hallways at school—and this was before I even made it to homeroom. Why did I run into five people before the first bell? Because gravity. More precisely, because my center of gravity is so different from Oryon’s, from Drew’s, from Ethan’s, from anything I’ve ever known, that I actually lost my balance and/or tripped five different times while rushing through the hallways trying to make it to class on time, like a rogue bowling ball with shoes. That are tied together at the laces. And made of solid lead.

      I’ll just come out with it: I’m fat.

      I know you’re not supposed to say that sort of thing. Microaggressions! Body shaming! Even the word fat is verboten. And sure, it should be when you’re talking about other people. But I’m talking to myself, about myself, so I can say whatever the hell I want to say about my fatness. Which is not inconsiderable. I’m beyond chubby or big-boned or husky. I’m a full-on plus-sized, ample, rotund, zaftig lady. Gravitationally challenged. My thighs touch when I walk. Their whole surface. I suppose they would chafe if I were able to walk long enough without toppling like a stoned toddler. Something to look forward to.

      I know as a Y-3 Changer I’m ostensibly meant to have evolved beyond all superficial thoughts and temporal concerns, but nobody else around me seems to have, so why should I? That’s the thing about being fat. People feel like they have the right—the moral imperative—to remind you of your fatness. As if you’d forget. (If this is my Y-3 lesson, I knew it already, Council. Every kid knows it.) At any rate, my fatness is all I can seem to think about right now, on the afternoon of my first day of being Kim Cruz. The five-foot-two, 170-pound Filipino-looking girl with the “pretty eyes” and “sweet smile,” as determined by Miss Jeannie while snapping my photo for my student ID this morning.

      “Now be a doll and say cheese for the camera,” she cajoled in response to what had to be a “suck-it” frown sprawled defiantly across my face during registration. “Show me your sweet smile.”

      “I’m okay,” I say.

      “Come on, you gotta work what ya got,” Miss Jeannie prompts (subtle fat-shaming dig number 1), tapping the old eyeball camera atop her computer with a long fake nail with an American flag painted on the tip.

      I shake my head. (Even shaking my head feels different now, like I could feel it in the rest of my body, an echo or something.) A few beads of nervous sweat creep down my spine as I press my back closer against the white backdrop.

      “Awww, so pretty in the face.” (Subtle fat-shaming

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