I have a few unread emails, a text from Cat telling me she enjoyed last night and has Friday off from working at Canvas, and nothing else of import. All but one of the emails are easily dismissed—the final one is from the director of Psychology and Health Sciences. She’s asking if she could please speak with me regarding my conduct in my forensic psychology class yesterday.
My “conduct” yesterday was whatever.
This is probably about my eyes.
No, scratch that, pun intended, this is definitely about my eyes.
Come on, man—there’s a girl in that class who comes in with a new hair colour basically every week. There’s a dude that sits at the front and takes his shoes and socks off! I was expecting something to happen because of my eyes, but not this. Maybe the professor asking me who I am, why I’m in his class, or saying something about the girl (that’s me) with the all-green cat’s eyes, but not this.
I’m a little surprised they even knew it was me they needed to send an email to. My face is similar enough to how it used to be, if way more femme, but that’s about the only part of me, sans my hair, that’s recognizable. I barely look like the girl I was four days ago.
Four days.
It’s been four days, and I’ve changed this much. What will I look like in a week? A month?
Will I even be able to talk at that point? Will I still have thumbs?
When will I lose my ability to type on a keyboard? Will it become as unfamiliar to me as kitchen utensils have? What about my phone?
What will I lose? How much will I lose?
Oddly, the thought doesn’t terrify me. It’s a tad unsettling, yeah, but I don’t feel super strongly about it. It isn’t positive or negative, it’s just a thing that might maybe possibly probably happen—and the only thing I might be able to do to stop it is to stop turning into a cat, and… I won’t do that. I’ve never felt better than I have when I’ve been a cat. It’s so freeing, and I won’t give it up—I can’t give it up. 21 years of being human and I already wish I’d been born a cat after spending a single weekend turning into one. It would be easier if I didn’t technically have some manner of agency in the matter—not that I’m planning on using that agency to stop turning into a cat. The physical consequences… no, not consequences, changes—the changes to my once-human form are cool. I feel like I should be more worried about not being able to use a can opener and growling at Gwen of all people, or hissing at that random human who bumped into me yesterday, but I’m not. Why should I be? All it means is that I’m becoming less human, and most humans appreciate cats (and most animals) more than other humans anyway, right?
What’s a few awkward social interactions?
People snap at other people all the time for bumping into them. They raise their voices and make frustrated grumbles during arguments.
…okay, sure, they don’t forget how to operate can openers, but they behave exactly the same as me—they just have different ways of expressing themselves. Or… I now have a different way of expressing myself.
Yeah.
What was I doing again?
I look down at my phone while continuing my walk towards the campus proper. The trees have a lot fewer leaves on them than they did last week, and the air is beginning to smell like pleasant decay. The sky is a wide, open, bright blue expanse and the air feels cool. It isn’t cold enough for me to want to put a jacket on over my—Gwen’s—shirt (I really need to get new clothes), but it’s definitely noticeable.
The email stares back at me, listing available times to meet with the director. It’s worded politely, but I know I’ll get in shit if I avoid it.
Goddamn it.
I sigh as I drag my feet across the sidewalk. I’m walking toward possible impending doom. Or, no, just doom. If it was impending, I’d know about it. It can’t be possibly impending. I think. I don’t know. Thinking is a lot of fucking work this morning (that I wouldn’t have to do if I was a cat), my slides are becoming incredibly fucking annoying, and I am still… grumpy. To phrase it nicely.
I pass some random human on the sidewalk. They smell like something similar to asphalt and leather.
“Whoa! Freaky eyes! Where’d you get—”
“Fuck off,” I growl as I stride past them. My eyes are not freaky. They are cool, if anything.
“Fucking freak!” the human yelps, and I smile when I hear them stumbling away. I scared them. Good. Now they won’t bother me again.
I don’t bother looking back and continue on.
I cross the street, walk across the campus, and make it to the admin building before entering the printing shop—printing area? Printing space? Whatever. It’s beige and boring and empty, save for a few printers against the far left wall, a row of chairs on the right, and a desk in the middle. I enter it, and I internally groan when I see the guy manning the front desk. I’ve dealt with him before. He’s not a fun human to interact with. He’s like a deep-fried Popeye: creepy vibes, greasy, and he… he smells like fast food and dried… eugh. Note to self: do not let this guy touch anything I don’t want to have to throw out. Secondary note to self: forget all the times I’ve printed stuff here in the past.
“I like your eyes,” he says.
I don’t give a fuck.
Wait, shit. I meant to say that out loud. “I—”
…I should probably not say that out loud.
“I am looking to print the file on this,” I say instead, ignoring him and the way he’s staring at me. I inject as much do-your-job-and-leave-me-the-fuck-alone into my voice as possible while I hand over the USB stick.
Unfortunately, it’s not enough.
“Sure,” he says in a way that feels weird. Thankfully, he does take the USB stick (which I will not be touching ever again) and starts working on printing my shit. Losing the USB stick isn’t a big deal—I have a ton that I got from the library’s Lost and Found last year. “Again though, wicked contacts. I haven’t seen you around before, I don’t think. Are you new?”
Are you fucking stupid? Do you know how many students attend this university? Do you know how many new ones enroll every year?
I don’t say any of that. Instead, I say, “Just here to get my assignment printed.” This chapter is updated first at g.com.
“Sure, sure, but I see everyone, y’know, and I think I would’ve noticed you before, y’know?”
No, you idiot, you do not see everyone.
I swear to fuck if he’s working slower on purpose to drag this out I’m going to… I’m going to…
No, I can’t do that—I don’t have claws.
…
Um, I mean… hurting people is bad.
…
Anyway.
I pull out my phone to focus on a quick game of Minesweeper instead of engaging this human (slur, currently) in conversation. I flag five tiles in total before he opens his stupid mouth again.
“Oh, damn, I don’t think I’ve seen anyone playing Minesweeper in years. I used to be pretty good at it, y’know? I—”
Fuck this.
“Dude,” I say firmly, cutting him off. “I have places to be. Please print my file and let me pay for it.” Like, holy shit, is this because of my tits or something? I have talked to this guy before, but for some mysterious reason, he wasn’t this interested in conversing with me at the time.
“You know, I can refuse service to anyone being rude,” he says in a way that makes me want to bite his goddamn face off.
I feel like I’m getting warmer, hotter, too hot. I can smell everything—ink, paper, carpet cleaner, glass cleaner, a lemon-scented chemical, stale ceiling tiles, his odor—and hear everything and I really need to calm the fuck down or I’m going to poof into a cat and go nuts on this creep.
“Just in a rush,” I tell him.
“Well, that’s no excuse to be rude, young lady.” Smarmy. Smug. Condescending. Take your pick for whatever tone makes someone punchable, and this guy is nailing it.
Fucking—
This fucking piece of fucking shit. No. Fuck this.
Part of me, a very small part, knows something is a little off about me right now, and I’m willing to bet it’s the lack of sleep, but I can’t stop myself. It’s too late.
I explode.
“Jesus fucking Christ, dude. It is not hard to do your fucking job and take a hint when a girl is ignoring you, which I figure you should have a lot of practice with—and if you’re still not taking hints, then you’re a fucking creep and shouldn’t be working a public-facing job in the first place. Print my goddamn paper or I’m telling administration that you jack yourself off in the back room.” I’m tempted to tack on a “bitch” at the end of it, but name-calling has never accomplished anything in my experience.
It’s a guess, but the smell coming from him isn’t just coming from him, so I figure it’s a safe assumption.
His reaction tells me I’ve guessed correctly.
“There we go,” I snap at him. “Not fucking hard.”
Two minutes later, I’m walking out of the print shop with my assignment in hand, loose papers threatening to flutter away if my grip falters, but that’s fine—there is no way I was touching the stapler in there, and I am definitely reporting his ass to administration later. I hope he gets fired.
I sigh as I walk through the admin building—people can be so fucking gross.
On my way out, I pass by two dudes who both smell like bubblegum, oil, dust, and pine. And sex, but I’m trying my best to tune out any smells like that. Not knowing what people get up to in their spare time is better than knowing. Was better than knowing, I suppose, even if it came in semi-helpful with Printer Prick just now.
Hey, maybe I can get a part-time job as an infidelity detector.
The thought lends me a measure of humour, and it’s like being splashed with cold water (the thought of which has my skin prickling and the hair on the back of my neck standing up) after the morning I’ve had. I’ve been so… tired. Upset. In need of a nap.
I make it to the building with my ELA class about thirty minutes before it starts. Beige, boring halls. Harsh fluorescent lighting. Hard linoleum. It’s all the same. This university has no soul.
The door isn’t open yet, so I make myself as comfortable as I can against the wall, assignment still loose and held together by my hand and nothing else. I set my backpack on the floor and slink down to join it.
I fall asleep immediately.
I wake up to the sound of the professor unlocking the door and more than a few students staring at me. They piss me off, but I ignore them. I’m the only redhead in class, so I’m wondering if they think it’s me, my sister (who isn’t even a redhead, and who I need to not think about), or someone else. I have my bag—I know it’s recognizable because at least one student in this class—a blonde girl, I forget her name—has complimented it. Maybe that gave me away? Maybe that’s why everyone has decided it’s okay to stare at me?
Except, why am I even thinking about this? I’m me. There’s nothing to give away. Find the original chapter at g.com.
I ignore everyone, even the few who gasp or ask questions about my eyes. Especially those ones.
I am not in the Mood.
This class is smaller than normal university courses, maybe thirty students in total, and we all file in. It’s almost the same as an average high school classroom, except instead of desks, we have cheap tables that sit two students each, and decent chairs with fabric seats to sit on. I set my backpack down at my usual spot and join a line that has formed for people to hand in their essays—which, the professor had stressed after assigning us the essays, were due at the start of class. When it comes time for me to hand mine in, I apologize for not having it stapled.
“Who are you? Is this some kind of Halloween prank?” the professor—Ms. Remo—asks from behind a desk. She’s short, white, has greying hair, smells like oranges and winter spice, and is wearing jeans, a yellow blouse, and a cream knit cardigan. There’s something else, a scent that is wrong, but I can’t tell what it is. Maybe she’s sick? “Are you Alice’s sister or something?”
She pointedly ignores my eyes.
“Um.” I have not prepared for this at all. “No. I’m Alice.” I’m surprised this didn’t happen yesterday, but I wasn’t handing in official schoolwork yesterday… though on second thought, it probably did happen yesterday, away from me, and that’s what the email from the psych director regarding my “conduct” is about. “Sorry again for not having it stapled.”
“Handing in another student’s work isn’t in the spirit of a practical joke, dear.”
Oh, gosh, there’s no way she’s going to believe me.
At least I’m not as angry as I’d been earlier, or I’d be shouting at this bitch to—whoa, Jesus Christ, chill, Alice. Professor Remo is not a bitch. She’s a little old and lets it show in her attitude, but she’s chill with queer people and seems to enjoy her job well enough.
Okay, so the anger definitely isn’t all gone, but my reaction now is better than what it would have been if I hadn’t gotten in that quick nap before class.
“It’s… not a joke.” What else can I do but double down? “I’m Alice.”
“Dear, you are holding up the line—”
Oh, trust me, I know. I can feel everyone’s eyes on me. I can hear their whispers.
“—and this really isn’t the time or place for it. You do realize the girl you’re imitating is almost a foot taller than you and has a completely different voice, yes?” she asks. Thankfully, she doesn’t comment on my boobs or the rest of my body—though she also doesn’t need to. I’ve changed a lot. I certainly wouldn’t believe myself if I was in her position. Probably.
“I… yes, but—”
“Then please leave, and tell Ms. Ekyd to see me when she comes in.”
“I—” I can’t. I am Ms. Ekyd. I am Alice. Fuck, how did I think this was going to be fine in any way?
“Please leave, dear,” she repeats, and her tone is a lot harsher now. It brooks no room for argument.
Why doesn’t she recognize me? If the email I got from the psych director is anything to go by, the professor for my forensic psychology class likely did, or else it wouldn’t have been addressed to me. Or, maybe he also thought I was playing a prank with a lookalike. Maybe he just didn’t care enough to address it and is the type of person to pass the issue off to the next person, a.k.a., the department director.
I sigh, resigning myself. “Okay, I will, but… she can’t come in today. Is it all right if I leave you with her assignment?”
She narrows her eyes at me and ponders this.
“All right, fine,” she says eventually, and I can breathe again. “But still, please tell her to see me on Thursday. I can see the idea for what you two cooked up, but an academic setting such as this really isn’t the place for it. Have a pleasant day.”
I open my mouth to say something else. No words come. I shut my mouth and step out of the line, striding towards my backpack so I can take it and go nap somewhere else.
Everyone is staring at me.
Unlike yesterday, no one recognizes me, or, if they do, they don’t say anything. I don’t need to make up an excuse about my discontinuation of wearing platformed boots (which I’ve never worn once in the first place), because no one thinks I’m Alice. Maybe no one believed me yesterday, either. Maybe they just indulged me—allowed me to think I was getting away with lying when, in reality, not a single person believed I was who I claimed to be.
The questions and attention make me want to puke. Aren’t university students meant to be more chill? Who has the time or energy to talk to strangers?
“Are you Alice’s sister?” No, I have no idea where my sister is.
“You guys look related.”
“I love your hair!” Why didn’t you tell me that before?
“I love your contacts!”
“Wait, before you go—you seem cool. Can I have your number?”
That particular question comes from the person I usually sit beside, a guy named Jeremy. He’s decent enough, and smells like almonds, vanilla, and sweat. He talks a lot, and he’s never been anything but cordial with me.
He’s never asked for my number, though. Full marks in the confidence department, especially since it doesn’t come off as creepy (because he’s just that kind of guy), but he’s a man, so I’m not interested.
Funny how things change when people perceive you the right way.
“No, Jeremy. You may not,” I tell him.
I grab my backpack, declining to talk to anyone else as I walk out, feeling oddly lost.