Change 4–Day 9

Obviously I couldn’t leave.

Can’t stay. Can’t leave. Can’t kill myself. Can’t build an Alien sleeping capsule and seal the door for nine months.

So here I am, back at school, and Audrey is helpfully walking me to class after homeroom again, and this time she leans close, up on her tippy-toes, and says, “I feel like we’ve met before.”

This is of course my cue to come out. It’s like she intuits me, or thinks she does, and all I have to do is say it. Two little words: It’s me. Even a nod or wink would suffice, and all would be well. At least in this moment.

But I can’t do it.

So I take the fraidy-cat route and ask, “Sorry, what was that?”

It’s obvious I heard what she said. She seems humiliated, regroups: “I asked if you wanted to sit together at lunch today.”

“Yep,” I say. “Catch you later.” It’s official: I’m the yep guy. Maybe that alone will put her off.

In American civilization, the teacher starts lecturing about the Baron de Montesquieu and the ambition of man. Separation of governmental powers into executive, legislative, and judicial branches. Which I guess was pretty forward-thinking for the middle of the eighteenth century. And yet this guy who wrote all about liberty and how government should be set up so no man should be afraid of another man wasn’t in support of American independence? Convenient inconsistencies. Akin to The Changers Bible.

The teacher segues into the theory of environmental determinism, how some people believe where we live makes us who we are. Hitler was into that BS, used it as proof that white Nordic cultures were superior to others. And Thomas Jefferson used it to rationalize African colonization, because tropical climates supposedly make people who live in them “lazy,” “promiscuous,” and “uncivilized.” Whereas people from northern climates are “hard-working,” “rational,” and thus completely “civilized.” Gross. I wonder how the climate explains Jefferson fathering six kids with his slave Sally Hemings?

The theory seems so stupid now, insidious even. But people still believe equally dangerous things, about who should be allowed to marry, or pee in a public bathroom, or not have children, or have sex with each other, or serve in the military, or live in safety. And these days, they aren’t even bothering with the fancy dressing of a phony science excuse. Change may be coming, but it isn’t coming fast enough. Look at the Abiders. The more difference is sewn into the fabric of humanity, the more a certain segment is going to feel threatened and try to extinguish it. Makes me want to bail on this whole Changers mission and live a tiny life in isolation. Me and Audrey in a cottage, in a seaside village with a post office and a coffee shop. Maybe a used bookstore. No responsibility to change anybody’s mind, ever. About anything.

* * *

Over lunch I keep it to small talk with Audrey. She’s still wearing the charm bracelet, letting it creep out of her shirt cuff as she moves her arms to speak or eat. She keeps asking searching questions, and I volley every single one back in a way that proves I’m a newbie here at Central, fresh off the boat from the Pacific Northwest, moving here because my mother got a professorship at Vanderbilt, like the packet from the Changers Council instructed. It’s scary how easy it can be to lie once you get going.

As lunch progresses, and it becomes clearer Kim is not going to join the party, I can tell Aud is losing heart. Which breaks mine. Afterward we walk toward the one class we have together: environmental science. On the way, I notice Kris taping something to the lockers at the end of the hall. When we get closer, I see what it is: a stack of purple flyers with Kim’s face on them. Underneath: Have you seen me?

“Any luck?” Audrey asks Kris, while I barely manage to stand by, my face flushing hot and purple as those flyers, I’m sure.

“Nothing,” Kris mumbles, sticking the last piece of tape to the bottom of another flyer, near a number to call with any information about the disappearance of Kim Cruz. “The police still won’t treat it as a missing persons case.”

Audrey leans into Kris, and then they embrace for a long time, while I continue to panic inside.

“Kris, this is Kyle. Kyle, Kris,” Audrey says.

I reach out my hand to shake Kris’s, and he turns away.

“Nice to meet you,” I say.

“Is it?” Kris asks.

“Sorry,” Audrey interrupts. “We both lost somebody we care deeply about.”

“That’s terrible,” I say.

“You wouldn’t understand,” Kris snots back, his face red, like he’s been crying.

“Well, I’m really sorry about your friend,” I say, and I can tell Audrey’s eyes are boring into mine from the side, searching for ANY clue that I recognize who or what Kim Cruz is. I go on: “I once lost somebody close to me, and it was the hardest thing imaginable.”

Which is true. Chase. Nana. Audrey. Myself.

Kris mumbles a reluctant, “Thanks,” and wipes his nose with the back of his hand.

“If there’s anything I can do—”

“Can you bring my friend back?” he snaps.

Yeah, in fact, I can.

“Come on,” Audrey whispers, and squeezes Kris on the shoulder as we pass by.

I wonder how Aud must be dealing with seeing Kim’s face all milk-cartoned around, knowing full well that Kim ain’t exactly “missing,” and she sure as heck ain’t ever coming back.

Tracy and Destiny were right. I’d made her complicit in my deceptions. I’d put Audrey in a position where she had to lie to someone she cared for too. All to protect someone who was presently dicking her over.

* * *

The day ends in PE. We’re running a mini, modified parkour course, and the teacher disappears for a minute, then returns with Coach Tyler. They’re both staring at me from across the gym. Pointing.

Moi? I gesture. Coach Tyler waves me over. I run up to him, like old times on the football field when I was Oryon.

“Where’d you play ball before?”

“Someplace,” I start, trying to remember the dossier.

“Speak up, son.”

“Seattle. Northeastern High.” (I think.)

“What position?”

“QB.”

“Why aren’t you playing here?” Coach demands, while the PE teacher returns to the rest of class.

“I don’t know,” I reply. “There’s a lot going on, with the move.”

“Yeah, I heard about some family matters, from Mr. Crowell. I’m sorry to hear about your father’s illness.”

“Thank you, sir,” I say, falling right back in line.

“Is his health improved?”

“Yessss,” I respond, anxious about where this is headed.

“Good. I want you to play for us, then. We start ten minutes after the final bell. Today. I’ll leave some practice gear in the locker room for you.”

And BAM, I’m on the football team, taking snaps at practice after school and being given pointers by—of all people—Jason, who takes a special interest in me, because, as he says, “Something about you reminds me of me.”

Shudder.

The new QB-1 this year, Darryl, who had been in Jason’s shadow for the past three seasons, apparently sucked at last week’s game. Central got spanked by thirty-one points, with Darryl throwing five interceptions on the night, before (mercifully) spraining his thumb. The second I throw my first twenty-yard spiral and hit the receiver smack in the middle of his numbers at practice, it is clear there’s going to be a new QB-1 in town.

I have to say, there was something supernatural about how my body moved on the field. It was like the pads were sewn to my muscles, the helmet an extension of my skull, nothing like when Oryon was bouncing like a bobble-head doll all over the field in the same equipment. As Kyle, the harder I ran, the more I wanted to run. The more snaps I took, the more accurate my passes. It was like I didn’t even have to think; the ball went where I wanted whenever I released it. I had no idea where the skill was coming from, but it wasn’t the worst to have dominion over my body in a way I’d never had, not even as Ethan.

Coach Tyler and Jason kept eyeballing each other like, This boy’s a ringer. In fact, I think the offensive coach might’ve uttered that exact phrase, right before he told me to get some rest and come back tomorrow, that my new jersey number (8, Jason’s old number) was going to be waiting for me, and that my first game was Friday.