Changers Book Four. T Cooper
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, uh, blouse.”
Kris practically swoons as I nudge him along and away.
“What’s wrong?” I ask DJ, who has the air of a guy whose cat has gone missing.
“Is everything okay with Destiny?” he asks.
“Yeah, why?”
He shifts on his feet, lips pinched tight. “Uh, she’s, uh,” he begins, his voice quieting. “She’s not answering any of my calls or texts. I was thinking maybe her phone is broken or . . .”
Crap. Destiny is avoiding DJ in advance of her Forever Ceremony. But I thought he might be her one. Or that she’d at least break it off cleanly, face to face.
“I think she’s been having some drama at home,” I lie.
“Five seconds ago you said she was fine,” he throws back.
“She hasn’t been in touch much with me either,” I lie again.
“Uh-huh.”
This feels gross. Also, not my job. Destiny should be handling her own business. The tortured, confused expression on DJ’s face reminds me yet again how morally complicated this whole Changer methodology can be in the Static world. I really like DJ. Hell, we went to jail together last year when we were arrested for not being white. If only I could tell him that. Or that Destiny was once three other teenagers and that her attention is probably elsewhere at this moment because she is mulling over what person she’s LITERALLY going to be, though that doesn’t mean she doesn’t love you, because she really, really does.
“I’ll give her a holler tonight and see what’s up,” I offer.
“Got it,” DJ says, composing himself. “I shouldn’t have asked. It’s not right putting you in the middle.”
“Totally not a problem,” I say, I putting a hand on his shoulder. “So. I heard you’re headed to Yale.”
“Yep. Yale drama.”
“Is that like regular drama, but smarter? Like, instead of, Suck a dick, douche bag, it’s all, You’ll henceforth rue the day and whatnot?”
DJ snorts, not quite allowing himself to laugh. “Something like that.”
I try to be helpful: “Listen, maybe Destiny doesn’t want to hold you back from of any of these great things headed your way. She probably figures you want to fly and be free.”
“She could never be in the way of anything in my life,” DJ says, as Audrey approaches and respectfully mouths, Ready? because it’s time to go to class.
“Everything is going to work out,” I lie. Again.
DJ turns, stuffs headphones into his ears, and shuffles off. It’s crushing to watch, but selfishly I’m glad I’m never going to have to do to Audrey what Destiny is doing to DJ. Audrey knows everything, and will continue to know everything.
* * *
Knowledge is power, and I said as much to Destiny as soon as I got home from school, locking myself in my bedroom to Facetime her and fill her in on DJ’s anguish in the cafeteria.
“What else can I do?” she