It is the morning after.
I’m grateful to Gwen for not screaming my ear off when she woke up to a naked (human) Alice lying on top of her plush bedding and curled around the outline of her legs. Instead, she whispered my name and poked me until I stirred, groggy and feeling surprised (along with something else I can’t quite name) to wake up human. I don’t even feel embarrassed to be seen naked. Maybe a little dysphoric, but the usual tinge of embarrassment is gone. I’m not cold, either, which is almost as surprising as having woken up as my… self…
It’s early October, and the weather is showing it more and more. I should be cold. There’s a reason I have two extra blankets on my bed, after all—the insulation in the dorms sucks, and the heating they do have isn’t enough to chase away all of the chill.
“You’re, uh, naked,” Gwen informs me sleepily.
“I know,” I say, struggling to get the words out as I cough and gag on—hrrrk.
I hack up a hairball on Gwen’s comforter. I think it’s thicker than the last one, made up of the black hair I have when I’m a cat and covered in saliva and bile.
Oops.
“Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh………”
“Alice,” she deadpans. “Alice. What the fuck!”
“Sorry…” I apologize, my cheeks blushing as I stare at Gwen, my hairball, Gwen, and then my hairball again. “I’ll get that and put some clothes on?”
“And?” she prods impatiently.
Oh. Right. “I’ll wash your comforter later. Sorry again.”
“It’s…” Gross? Disgusting? Freaky? “…fine,” she says. “I just was expecting to wake up with a fuzzy kitty. You were purring real loud last night, by the way. Don’t even know if you noticed. I think you passed out as soon as I set you down.”
I didn’t notice. I don’t remember much after her Tinder date left. I don’t think I ever even caught his name.
Whatever. If I was purring, I felt safe and content and relaxed. And why wouldn’t I? I was with Gwen.
She really is the best.
I scoop up the hairball and roll my eyes as Gwen gags. Girl, it’s spit and hair, you have both of those on your hands pretty much every day. I don’t say it out loud, but I want to.
I toss the hairball in the kitchen garbage, wash my hands, and wander into my room to put on… a tank top and gym shorts. I think if I wear any more layers, I’ll overheat. My hair’s a mess though, and I don’t feel like dealing with it this morning, so I meander my way over to my closet, tip-toeing through the piles of clothes and not-clothes on my floor. I reach up to grab a beanie and frown when I find I can’t reach where it is on the top shelf. I guess I put it a little further back than normal…?
Whoever designed the dorm closets needs to be studied.
I don’t really think about what I do next, only that I want my beanie, and then it’s in my hand. I jumped…?
What is going on?
“Alice, we need to—” I hear suddenly from my doorway, and I leap away from it and where I’m standing in front of the closet. I end up on my bed, crouched low and baring my teeth at—
Hissssssssssssssss!
“Whoa, fuck!” Gwen splutters, holding up her hands to show she didn’t mean to surprise me and doesn’t want to hurt me and everything is okay. “Easy,” she says slowly, “easy, easy g—Alice. It’s me. It’s Gwen.”
It is Gwen.
I clap my hands over my mouth.
What the fuck was that?
I let the tension flow out of me and slump backwards on my unmade bed, staring at her numbly.
“I’msorryI’msorryI’msorry,” I tell her desperately. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to I just… I—I—”
She lets out a breath and lowers her arms, speed walking her way over to me and pulling me into a hug. She smells like sweat and sex and lemon and vanilla, and I block out the smells and focus on the hug. It’s okay. She’s letting me know it’s okay.
We stay there for a long, long time. At some point, she gets up on the bed and big spoons me while I sob quietly into my pillow.
When I’m done crying, we talk. We don’t get off the bed, but I do get Gwen a sweater and sit cross-legged at the foot of the bed while she leans against the wall it’s pressed up against. The sweater is, unfortunately, a good segue into something I can tell Gwen wants to pester me about.
“So… you’re changing. Like, in your human body, I mean” she says, and I know I am but it feels weird to have it said out loud. I don’t like it.
“…yeah,” I respond meekly.
“Okay. So… if you’re not sick, and you’re running this hot, I’d say your normal body temp has risen. You’re not cold, but I am. We can find a way to measure it later, but I don’t think it’d be a crazy assumption to say you’re either running the same temp as a cat, or getting there. Fair?”
I shrug and roll my eyes when I realize it won’t be enough for her. “Fair,” I admit, and it feels like I’m undoing something inside of me. Not in a good way or a bad way, just… it’s happening and I don’t really feel any particular way about it.
“Okay, good. I thought this would be you fighting me on everything,” she says, laughing insincerely in a feeble and unsuccessful attempt to disguise how much this is freaking her out. “I’m glad it’s not. I love you, and I want to take care of you.”
“I love you, too. Thanks… for taking care of me.”
“Of course. Now, what about the issue of you shrinking?”
Huh? She’s… well, she’s probably not talking about what estrogen is doing to me, so…
Ah. Yeah, it’s a little obvious in hindsight.
Last night, when Octavia seemed taller. This morning, when I couldn’t reach my beanie. Did I really not notice, or was I blocking it out? Was some part of me that isn’t really me—like the part that hissed at my best friend—blocking it out? Oh yay, this is going to be fun to panic over later.
“How…” I try, but the rest of the words don’t come. I clear my throat. “How obvious is it? Like, how much shorter am I?”
“Want me to lie or be your friend?”
I glare at her.
She laughs mirthlessly. “Yeah, fair. It’s—it’s pretty noticeable if anyone knows you. I think you’re like… stand up for a sec? Okay, thanks, yeah, you’re maybe… two inches shorter? Maybe three? If I had to guess. We can measure you later.” Her tone is more analytical now. Makes sense, given she’s studying biomed. My girl is wicked smart. “Other than that, you look like you always do. I think the rest of you has, well, shrunk sounds dumb, but whatever—I think the rest of you has gotten smaller as well, sort of following along with the height reduction without leaving you with some freaky long limbs or something. And I’m assuming nothing hurts, ‘cause you’d be bitching about it if it was, and that’s good. Probably.”
I don’t know how to feel about that. My height is one of the things I’m pretty dysphoric about, so to have it match more closely with how I wish I was is… I think it’s nice. I sit back down and breathe out shakily. I still have a lot to tell her about, and I know she’ll expect me to once we’re done going over the changes.
“Think I’m gonna turn into a cat? Like, this body I mean. Do you think that’s where this is headed? The physical changes, and me… me hissing at you…” I trail off, not wanting to say it out loud.
“I don’t know,” Gwen says solemnly. “We shouldn’t rule it out, but I do think it’s likely.”
“Why?” I ask, voice hollow.
She shrugs. “I dunno. Vibes? Video games. Movies. TV shows. Books, anime, comics. I know as much as you do, remember. Your reaction to me spooking you is quite…”
“Quite…?”
“Telling,” she finishes. “Now, wanna tell me what happened last night, and whether or not I, a cis white girl, need to go beat up a minority?”
I laugh despite myself, and I know that was her goal, but I don’t care. It makes talking about last night easy—easier—not as difficult as I thought it’d be. “No, you don’t need to violence Octavia. She just… I don’t think she’s a good person? Or, she’s going through shit and having a rough time of it, but she never really let me in, so I don’t care as much about her feelings as I might have otherwise. Like, I don’t feel like giving her a second chance. And! And I still… fuck, I still like her, but I don’t want to see her anymore. She—well, you saw the aftermath.”
“‘Octavia’?” she says, smirking.
I shrug and offer up a sad smile. “Tav was a cute nickname for a girl I liked. Octavia is her real name, and I don’t want to deal with her anymore, and that means no cute nicknames.”
“You never call me ‘Gwennie’ anymore,” she notes slyly.
“You—you threw a shoe at me the last time I did!” I complain, aghast.
“And I’d do it again!” she cackles.
“Maybe you do have something against trans people,” I throw at her.
“Just the ones with maladaptive coping strategies who avoid their problems with sex and alcohol.”
I bite back a retort, because it’s a good lead-in to what I think caused Octavia to act the way she did. Also, if I pursue the bit further, we’ll be here all day.
“I don’t want sex.”
Gwen doesn’t really react. “Okay?”
“No, I mean, that’s why Octavia got upset, I think. I don’t want sex at all. I haven’t since… I guess Thursday night, just before bed,” I say, blushing. She sticks her tongue out at me. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. But I realized it sometime last night, after switching back the first time, I think. I haven’t thought about anything related to sex, just… cuddles and being… pet and getting… getting head scratches,” I force out, my face burning in embarrassment and, I’m sure, turning a very bright red.
I expect Gwen to make a joke, and I can tell she’s holding back laughter, but she manages to swallow it. “That’s okay!” she reassures me. “Lots of people like those things, and they aren’t even cats! Some are also fine with sex, and some aren’t. It’s a spectrum—and you know this. Don’t beat yourself up for wanting things you enjoy. And… I take it you do enjoy the cuddles and petting?”
I nod, resisting the urge to run away and hide forever.
“Then, if it isn’t hurting you or anyone else, it sounds fine to me. Well, almost fine, because you’re you. Buuut, I’m not you, so how does it feel for you?”
“I—it feels weird?” I start, trying to sus out how the words I want to say feel on my tongue. “I’m a lesbian. Or I was. I think I’m ace now because of the cat bullshit. It’s not like I could have a relationship with someone if I’m like that anyway, and there is no way I’m doing anything with… well, you know.”
She nods in understanding, face kind but serious.
“I guess it doesn’t feel bad, per se, but I don’t like that it wasn’t my choice,” I continue. “And like, even if it had been my choice, I’m actually not sure what I would have done anyway, so maybe I’m just bitching to bitch. There’s nothing wrong with being ace, and it sort of feels like I’ve always been this way? Except, we both know I haven’t, and I know it felt good to be with someone in a more intimate way than just cuddling. But now, cuddling is like… it feels just as good, if not better, even if it’s not in the same way… if that makes sense?” I hedge.
“Are you sure you’re ace, then? You know cats usually go through—”
“Nope!” I interrupt hastily. “Not talking about that! I’m not a cat,” I say, though it doesn’t feel entirely honest. I guess that’s fair, considering I’ve spent the better part of the last 24 hours as a cat. “Or at least, I’m not a cat like that.”
“But how do you know?” she presses, and I can feel myself getting frustrated.
“I just do, okay? I don’t want sex. Maybe… maybe kissing, if I’m human, but… no, not sex. It feels gross to even think about.”
“Hey, no, I’m sorry,” she says, reaching a hand out for me to hold. I take it. “I wasn’t trying to upset you. I’m just trying to get a better understanding of all of this.”
I know she is. That’s why she’s a great friend.
“Thanks,” I say slowly, squeezing her hand. She smiles at me.
“‘Course. So… you’re fine with it?”
“I think so, yeah. For the most part.” Damn, that feels good to say. Damn, that feels good to feel. And she’s right. It’s all on a spectrum. I can still be a lesbian without having hot sesbian lex. That’s why I still have feelings for Octavia. Gosh, wait, I could be such a good girlfriend—provided whoever I date is fine with not having sex. Or maybe we could do some poly shit and I could be the group cuddle kitty… ooh. Some part of my brain really likes the idea of that.
“That’s good! I’m happy for you. And now I don’t have to worry about you perving me when I get out of the shower!”
“Fuck off,” I snort. “I do still have another thing to touch on, regarding the cat version of me.”
“What, you like it?” she says.
My eyes narrow and my jaw falls halfway open.
“What?” she says obliviously. “It’s not exactly a surprise, Alice. You haven’t complained about it once, you know. And you usually bitch about almost anything that even slightly inconveniences you.”
“I—I just—I didn’t say anything out loud!” I splutter. “That doesn’t mean I don’t have some issues with it!”
“But you don’t mind it. Overall, you don’t mind it. As your best friend, I am obligated to be happy for you when you’re happy, but I’m also obligated to point out that happiness doesn’t come at a fixed cost, if that makes sense. Different things make different people happy in different ways. I am… I’m rescinding my earlier comment about how I think it’s fine. I don’t. Not anymore. You lose a lot of agency when you’re a cat. After we figured out the laptop thing, I thought you’d throw yourself at like you usually do when shit challenges you. But instead, you barely used it and were even less communicative than normal, which feels wild to me given that you suddenly switched species.”
“Why say all of this?” I ask. I almost snap at her, almost, but manage to bite it down. My tone is still clipped and not entirely friendly, but I don’t like being fucking analyzed. And why did she change her mind so suddenly? Was it the sexuality change? “What, you worried I’m going to wanna be a cat forever?”
“Yes!” she says, exasperated. “You have an addictive personality! You drown all your fucking problems in alcohol and sex and weed and avoid them when you can’t! Oh, and bonus, now you’ve figured out how to swap between being a cat and a human, which lets you avoid your problems even better, and it is doing something to you! And you’re not even paying fucking attention to it!” she almost-yells, her voice hovering just below the line where talking loudly becomes shouting. “You’re changing and you don’t even care! What if you go, like, full cat and lose your ability to speak, forever? I don’t want to lose my best fucking friend! I fucking love you, Alice! And I am so, so happy that you’re not having an existential crisis about all this, but I am, and I need you! I care about you!”
I feel a hiss in the back of my throat, crawling its way up, but I swallow it back down. I get where she’s coming from, I do, but this is my life. If I want to be a cat, I fucking will. I don’t think it’s as easy as I originally thought, the swapping between forms, but that’s fine. I can figure out a way to do it that doesn’t rely on me feeling safe. I probably need to, in case I’m ever in an unsafe situation and need to be human to get out of it. Okay, yeah, adding that to the to-do list.
“You should be fine with me, no matter how I am,” I say quietly, venomously.
“That is not what I meant, and you know it,” she snaps back.
“Isn’t it? If I wanted to be nonverbal for the rest of my life, but I stayed human, would you be making a big deal out of it?”
“I—no, of course not.”
“Then why care if I have something I enjoy?” Oh fuck, I said it. I enjoy being a cat.
I enjoy being a cat.
I still don’t know how to feel about that.
I can’t study, can’t go to class, can’t become a therapist, can’t play video games, can’t cook, can’t do so many things that I enjoy doing.
But maybe I can find new things to enjoy. I already have, kind of. I like the cuddles, and the head scratches, and how refreshed I felt after waking up from my nap yesterday.
“Because I don’t know enough about what’s happening to you to know if I should be concerned or not. You can change now, sure, but you seriously need to think about what happens if you stop being human. I know how much you care about becoming a therapist. Fuck, you have so much passion when you talk about it. You grew up in a hostile environment that treated you like shit. It is a miracle you aren’t dead or a shell of a person. You are so fucking strong because you don’t let it dictate your future—you embrace it because you want to help kids who might be living through what you did. How are you going to do that if you’re a cat?”
I don’t know. I don’t say anything.
“Alice. How?”
I don’t know. What if I don’t want to? I have an essay due that I haven’t even started on. I’m in my second year of uni and I know it’s only gonna get harder from here. My room is a mess. My life is a mess. Wouldn’t it be easier to stop dealing with all of that? Sure, what’s easy isn’t always what’s best, but if I’m genuinely okay with it, what’s the big deal?
“Alice. Please?”
Poof.