“Sit down.” I’m already sitting. “Take a breath.” I do as I’m told, inhaling and exhaling in a controlled yogic fashion, waiting for the supposed calm to wash over me. It does not.

  “When?” I sputter. “How? Why?”

  Chase bites his lower lip, considering. “Let’s start with why. I guess, after the intervention, I really found myself questioning what the Council is all about. I mean, you have to admit, their message seems a little convoluted.”

  I nod, still breathing, in, out . . .

  “Anyway, I’d met Benedict a couple times at my school. He went there, before he declared, so he had friends, and he could sniff out the Changers there without arousing suspicion.”

  “How could Peaches kiss him like that?” I shudder. “People could die now!”

  “Well. Ain’t nobody dead yet.”

  “You don’t know that,” I argue, furtively skimming the room. “The CB clearly says—”

  “The CB is BS,” Chase says flatly.

  Oh boy.

  “Says who?” I push. “Your new friends?” I drop my voice to a whisper. “Chase, you don’t even know these people.”

  Which prompts a mini-rant about how “these people” have leveled with him far more than any Changers he’s met (ouch), and that unlike the Council, their mission actually makes sense, that living in the shadows, afraid of discovery, is never the way to spark change. That change, real change, only ever comes from action, from taking power, not from waiting for power to be given. He says they are gearing up to launch wearechangers.org, a website that will outline their mandate without putting Changers in jeopardy. Eventually, “Benedict hopes to sit down with Matt Lauer.” I make the Seriously? face.

  “Don’t you get it, Drew? The Council just wants to control us with fear. They lie to keep their authority. No different than it’s always been throughout history.”

  “No. I don’t get it. And I don’t get you. I don’t even recognize you right now. What these people—what you— are doing is going to put Changers in danger. You can’t just out a whole race on the Internet!”

  Chase exhales, regroups. “Don’t you want to embrace who you are?”

  I shrug.

  “Don’t you want some control over your own life?”

  “Of course,” I say peevishly. “Everyone does.”

  “Well, this is how you get it. You grab it.”

  In the center of the floor, Benedict has at last quieted the howlers. He points to Chase, who nods and gives him a thumbs-up. At this, Benedict commands everybody’s attention and begins outlining the evening’s raid on a suspected Abider nest.

  “We have reason to believe two abducted Changers are being held in the basement of the church, where the Abider zealot pinheads are attempting to interrogate and de-program them. We know one of the priests, we’ve clocked him before.”

  Benedict goes on, outlining specific details, then assignments to different RaChas. “Chase, you up for driving?” he asks.

  I whip my head toward him, but Chase is already nodding. “I’m in.”

  “You don’t have a license!” I reproach under my breath. “You could get arrested.”

  “I’ve already been arrested, remember?” he snaps.

  I swallow my breath, notice my hands are shaking.

  “I’m sorry. That was jerky,” he says, softening. “It’s just, you don’t have to worry. I can handle myself. I think this may be where I belong. I feel alive again. Like I know my purpose.” Chase sighs, seems disappointed in me for something he doesn’t say. “There is no drifting back to sleep once you’ve woken from the dream.”

  Good for you, I’m thinking, but keep silent.

  “Come on,” he says. “Let’s get you home.”

  * * *

  Which is where I sit now, frightened for Chase. Feeling like something awful is going to go down. Like he’ll be thrown in jail again. Or abducted. Or worse.

  My computer IM is blinking. It’s Audrey.

  Do you still hate me?

  I ignore it, like I’m supposed to. She persists.

  I don’t blame you.

  . . .

  And then: I’d try calling you for the 500th time, but my rents are taking us to hear some special speaker at a church on the other side of Nash tonight. :/

  I lurch to the keyboard.

  Me: Don’t go. No matter what, do NOT go to the church tonight. Promise me.

  Her: Why? Who even cares? I want to talk to you about what happened, not my weird family.

  Me: Promise me. I’m not joking.

  Her: Okay, okay. If it means we can be friends again, I’ll do anything. I’ll say I have food poisoning. :P

  I breathe a sigh of relief.

  Her: See you for lunch tomorrow. And then: OK?

  OK, I send back. It might not be the truth, but it’s what she wants to hear. And for now, there is nothing else I can tell her.

  CHANGE 1–DAY 239

  “GO DREEEEW!”

  A chorus of encouragement erupts somewhere, maybe up in the stands, possibly from the perimeter of the track. But I have five more hurdles to go, now four, and my head is pounding, now three, my feet are pounding even faster than that, now two, and there is just one chick ahead of me, her braids whipping all over her head, and I suddenly want more than I’ve wanted anything in life to catch this bitch and WIN this race.

  Before I realize it, the race is over, and I’m slowing my pace, heels practically kicking my butt as I wind down around the bend, and I catch a flicker in my peripheral vision of Audrey and a couple of the other JV cheerleaders jumping up and down beside the track. I think they might be cheering for me. One of their own—an ex one of their own, that is.

  Kenya jogs up and swats me on the butt while I’m bent over, trying to catch my breath. “You ran like you were running from something,” she jokes. “You’re a beast—hey, you okay?”

  I cannot breathe, cannot speak. I look up at her and nod while gasping for air.

  “It’s all right, you’re all right,” she says, rubbing my back gently.

  I might vomit. I have never run faster or tried harder at anything than during the seventeen-point-something seconds of that race.

  “Do you even know?” she asks when I stand upright.

  I shake my head, still gasping.

  “You won!” she shouts.

  I bounce up and down a little, slowly realize what she’s telling me, and we hug, jumping and sliding against each other’s sweaty skin. I can’t believe it. I look back at the board. Yep, my number’s up there on top. I beat the girl with the braids by less than half a second.

  “What the hell,” I finally say, completely surprised at myself.

  “Yes!” Kenya hisses, pumping a fist. “Falcons, killin’ it!” She’s real competitive, takes track and field more seriously than most kids take life. She wants an athletic scholarship to Vanderbilt or Florida. She talks about it ceaselessly, says she has pictures of the schools’ mascots next to the Olympic rings on her dream realization board at home. My win put us over the edge, and we’ve spanked our crosstown rivals, the Wolverines—one tiny step closer to Kenya’s goal. “I knew you could do it!”

  Now the coach comes over, also pats me on the back, kind of hard. He is smiling, his mustache for the first time inching up and revealing his teeth—which, I honestly wasn’t sure he even had until just now. He’s always so serious when I see him in practice, though he doesn’t spend as much time with JV as he does with the older girls. “Welcome to varsity,” he announces.

  “Really?” I ask, chugging the cup of Gatorade he’d brought over for me. Kenya is sliding side-to-side in a victory dance, chin up, her glistening skin reflecting the sunlight like a river.

  “You keep posting times like that, and I don’t see why not,” Coach says, checking something on his clipboard, then adding, “You’re a real natural. Good recruit, Kenya.”

  He starts reviewing business with the officials and some other teammates, a few of whom come up and congratulate me before grabbing their duffels and heading off the field. My body is vibrating all over, my muscles are sore, in a good way. Like I can do anything. Which I know will pass, but right now I’m convinced no one can touch me, or ever will. Screw cheerleading. Track is the bomb.

  I head over to the benches, my legs rubber-banding beneath me. Something catches my eye up in the mostly empty stands; it’s Tracy in a Central High T-shirt, giving me a cheesy thumbs-up. She’s the most dressed-down I’ve seen her, obviously making the attempt to “blend in” with the natives. Even so, she’s still wearing a pleated tartan skort with the tee, and navy knee socks straight outta 1972.

  Tracy’s been showing up for everything in my life since she’s been on probation with the Council, putting the “touch” back in Touchstone. And while I can tell she’s conscientiously keeping tabs on me, it’s also clear from the expression on her face that she’s proud too. Which makes me feel good in a way I didn’t expect.

  For a second I remember that Nicole’s broken collarbone in practice Thursday is the only reason I’m here today, but then something from the CB pops into my head—about how each of us on the planet is responsible for running his or her own individual race, and I say a secret wish that Nicole gets better soon, and we’ll just worry about who keeps this spot on the varsity team if and when she comes back at the end of this season. (And if she doesn’t, well then, it’s really not going to be an issue next year, is it? Considering I myself could come back as a 275-pound kid with two left legs and zero hand-eye coordination. Note to the Council: if you’re out there reading this, which you’re supposedly not doing, that wasn’t a dare.)

  Tracy tilts toward the parking lot, like she’s fixing to leave, then taps her fist against her heart twice and points at me, like she’s Drake onstage at Yankee Stadium or something. It makes me smile.

  Kenya comes back, this time with her parents. She introduces me; they are maybe the tallest and best-looking family ever.

  “Would you like to join us for dinner to celebrate?” Kenya’s mom asks me. “We’re going out for hamburgers and milkshakes.”

  “Sure,” I say, looking to Kenya. I kind of can’t believe she wants to hang out with me, a lowly freshman. “Let me call and ask my folks. Thank you so much for inviting me.”

  Kenya and I beeline toward the locker room, and I am so high on the afternoon that I momentarily forget how stressful the prospect of showering at school is. Since track started a few weeks ago, I usually just change back into my school clothes after practice, and then shower when I get home. But now I’ve got no choice.

  “You go ahead and get started,” I say, “I’m gonna call my parents.”

  “It’s cool, I’ll wait,” Kenya offers.

  “I’ve got to talk to them about some other stuff too,” I say, the amazing post-race feeling coursing throughout my body starting to drain away with each new lie I tell.

  * * *

  “Does Tracy know this girl?” Dad asks when I phone and tell him what’s up.

  “Uh, I don’t know. I mean, she probably saw her at the meet, she’s the best runner on the team,” I say.

  “Okay . . .” He doesn’t sound convinced. He is constantly suspicious, like I’m a bad kid all of a sudden. I wish I could introduce him to some of the choice delinquents at Central. Two hours with cut-a-bitch Rhonda might give him a wee bit o’ perspective.

  “She’s just a girl from Central,” I say. “A junior. Her mom and dad are taking us out, and then I’ll have them drop me back at school, and I’ll walk home.”

  Mom gets on the line. “Hey, honey. How’d you do?”

  “I won the 100 hurdles,” I say nonchalantly, though it doesn’t sound as exciting as before.

  “Oh my goodness, baby, I’m so proud of you!” Mom squeals in a high voice.

  Dad is quiet.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “That’s so wonderful,” Mom goes on. “I’m sorry we couldn’t be there, but you know the rules about being seen at school.”

  “I know.”

  “Was everybody impressed with your performance?” she asks.

  “I guess maybe a little.”

  “Drew,” Dad breaks in then. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Because you didn’t ask.”

  The line is silent for a few seconds, then he says, “Of course you can go out with your teammate. Have a wonderful time.”

  “Where’s she going?” Mom asks.

  “Out with a friend and her parents,” I say.

  “With a new girlfriend from the varsity team,” Dad says—at the exact same time.

  “What?” Mom asks. Nothing more exasperating than a three-way conversation on the phone with your parents.

  “Dad, can you just fill her in?” I try not to sound as annoyed as I feel. “I have to go shower. I won’t be home late.”

  “Okay, baby,” Mom says. “Have a good time. Be careful.”

  “Call if you want me to pick you up later,” Dad adds, and I hang up.

  Then, just as I’m headed into the locker room, Audrey appears from behind the concession stand, catching me off guard. “You were sickening out there,” she says kindly, then comes in for a hug.

  It is heartwarming to be this close to her; it seems like it’s been forever. She holds on tight, and so do I.

  “Thanks,” I say, as things begin to get awkward.

  “I was cheering so loud, did you hear?” she asks excitedly. We pull apart, facing each other, close.

  “I don’t know, I was kind of in the zone.”

  “Oh.”

  “I mean, I definitely saw you guys at the finish line,” I try to compensate. Now it’s really awkward.

  “Well, I guess I just wanted to tell you that,” she says.

  “I really appreciate it.” And: I really miss you.

  “Well . . .”

  “Yeah,” I say, because I can’t think of anything else.

  “I—” she begins, but then stops herself.

  “What?” I ask, even though I know I shouldn’t.

  “I’m not, like, on my brother’s side,” she says suddenly.

  That night rushes back. I try never to think about it, but here it is. And with it, a hollowness.

  “I mean, I’m your friend,” she explains. “Or I was, right? I know it’s supposed to be ‘family first’ and all, so that sounds crazy and you probably don’t believe me, but it’s true. I hate what Jason did, it makes me hate him, and I’m really sad—every single day it makes me sad, Drew—what he tried to do to you, and that it came between us. But I’m not him.” Her voice wavers at the end.

  “Aud,” I start. “It’s, it’s . . . not you. It’s not that.” But I am lying. I don’t know how all this lying is supposed to make me a better person. Maybe Chase had a point dropping out of school and joining the RaChas. “I wish I could say more. I just don’t think you’d understand.”

  “Why don’t you try me?” She looks like she’s about to cry. “I might understand way more than you think.”

  For a second I believe her, and want to reveal more, about the Council, about their fear that her family has Abider sympathies. But I can’t open the door to more trouble right now. I just want to go out with Kenya and her family and have a ginormous vanilla milkshake and talk about measurable things like winning or losing, or clearing a hurdle instead of knocking it over, or having a time that qualifies or one that doesn’t.

  “I have to go,” I say. “But I want to talk. Maybe we can figure out a way.”

  Audrey looks wounded. “Up to you, I guess. So. Good job. Again.”

  “Thanks. Again,” I say.

  As she leaves, I notice her cheerleading bloomers are hitched up a little on her left butt cheek. I want to call after her and tell her, but I don’t.

  * * *

  Seeing Audrey threw me a little, but all told, I guess I had a pretty good night. Kenya’s parents were hospitable. Funny, despite a practically visible shroud of sorrow around them, due to the death of Kenya’s older brother a couple years back. He was stabbed for a pair of shoes, the week after he signed to play football at Florida, full ride. A goddamn stupid free pair of orange shoes that some trainer gave him when he visited campus.

  You could tell her parents aren’t going to let Kenya out of their sight, which she doesn’t seem to mind. She values one thing, and one thing only. Being the best at something. She’s the only kid in school I can think of who’s driven like that. I’m certainly not.

  I hated having to be evasive with Kenya and her family about where I live, who I was before coming to Genesis, Tennessee. Who I am now. Especially when they were being so honest with me about their past and present, their hopes for the future. It seems like that’s all they focus on, Kenya’s prospects—I guess because the past is too painful.

  I realized sitting there at the Freezo with them, I cannot project and dream that way. I can’t consider anything but the now. (I guess all Changers are sorta Buddhist by default.) I know maybe one-fourth of my future. Or not even that. I know one-fourth of the choices I’m going to have about my future—whom I’m going to live it out as. It’s straight-up weird is what it is, and it made me feel like a misfit sitting there with them, a perfectly normal loving family who know who they are and what they desire, having perfectly normal responses to life and what’s happened to them, good and terrible.

  But I can’t really speak to my goals, my desires, the drive to get good at something like running fast and clearing hurdles—which they all seem to think I have some exceptional aptitude for. If it all becomes moot in four or five months, why bother?

  Which is the attitude I came in with when I got home a little while ago. My dad was sporting a Central baseball cap (I’ve seen him in a hat like that maybe twice before), and he and Mom greeted me at the door with irritating noisemakers and my favorite dessert: homemade peanut butter pie.

  “Congratulations!” they hollered in unison, surprising me soon as I came through the door. Even Snoopy was dancing around and barking, his nails clicking on the kitchen floor, though he had no idea what all the excitement was about.

 

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