Body of Stars Laura Walter (chrome ebook reader .txt) 📖

knew right away that he was her future husband. She said her markings pointed to him as her match. My father, meanwhile, was skeptical. He thought her markings could be interpreted in more than one way, and he worried about making a mistake. But my mother was certain. She wooed him, determined, until my father gave up. “I did love her, right from the start,” he always said when telling this story. “I just didn’t know how to trust it.”

“Please, Dad,” I told him. “I’d like to be alone.”

He hesitated. His eyes flicked to his watch and then back to me. He wouldn’t risk being late for work.

“We’ll discuss this later.” He hovered in my doorway for another moment, staring at me like I was a problem he could solve. Finally, he gave up and left.

After he’d gone, my mother brought me a dry bagel and some orange juice. The bagel kept me busy for a while. I ruminated on every crumb in my mouth, considering the dense texture of the dough, the slick crust of egg wash, the yeast and the salt. Some girls couldn’t stand to eat the first day they’d changed, but I finished the whole bagel, letting each ingredient become a part of me. I followed it with a swig of orange juice. That first sip was like a slap, the liquid thick and vivid in my mouth. Too sweet, too bright—it was like swallowing the sun. I waited for the sugars to dissolve on my tongue before taking a second, more tentative sip. If I focused, I could dull my senses enough to handle it.

After I ate, I tried to read. I wanted to distract myself, to pretend I hadn’t seen those markings on my left side. But I saw the prediction every time I turned a page, my mind drawing connections between the letters of each word and the constellations on my body. This form of apophenia was why some changelings struggled in school: the hyperfocus that came from high lucidity could mislead, could make us see things that weren’t as meaningful as our brains believed they were. Maybe that was what happened with the prediction on my ribs—I’d overthought it, drawn too many connections.

I got up, slipped out of my clothes, and went to the full-length mirror. While my body had been maturing for months, all the developments came into sharper focus at the onset of the changeling period. There was my new body: the fuller breasts, the curve of hip, the soft hair between my legs. I was a woman.

Downstairs, the front door slammed shut. I felt it more than heard it, a physical blow that echoed through my body. It was still ringing inside me when I heard Miles’s voice. I dove for my clothes and covered myself as quickly as possible, wondering how he’d found out. I was barely dressed by the time he’d bounded up the stairs and rattled the doorknob to my room.

“Celeste, it’s me.”

I said nothing.

“Celeste!” He was desperate, not himself. I was not myself, either. I put my hand to the doorknob but did not move. I was afraid that once I came face-to-face with Miles, he’d look different to me. I couldn’t imagine him being my same brother, not anymore.

“Please show me,” he said. “I need to know.”

“Miles, stop. Give her time.” My mother’s voice, soft and low. I listened as she pulled him away from my room.

Not long ago, my brother had confessed he worried something terrible would come to pass. I couldn’t bear to tell him he was right.

*   *   *

My mother reported my change through the official channels by calling a local outpost for the Office of the Future, where she was told that due to a backlog, it would take nearly ten days for a government inspector to visit our home to complete my changeling reading. While I was relieved to be gifted this extra time, gossip at school moved more efficiently than the government ever could, so news of my change spread rapidly. By the time the school day had ended, Cassandra and Marie called to check on me, a bit bemused that I insisted on a phone call instead of an in-person visit. This was not an easy choice. I wanted to show my friends my new markings—I wanted to show them so much I felt shaky inside—but the prediction on my left ribs held me back.

I passed the afternoon in my room, gazing out the window. I couldn’t read, couldn’t study, couldn’t think. At last, the sun tracked across the sky and my mother knocked on my door and told me it was time for dinner. I asked if I could eat in my room instead.

“You can’t hide forever,” she said. “Come downstairs.”

I dragged myself from my desk and added a cardigan to my layers of clothing. I pulled my hair from its ponytail and brushed it, willing the fine strands to expand and conceal every inch of my neck. Finally, I took a breath and went downstairs.

My mother had lowered the lights in the kitchen and placed a candle in the middle of the table. Dim lighting, a relief from the newly bright world. Still, my eyes went right to the candle. The flame glittered, whole worlds and reflections contained in its teardrop shape. I fixated on it until my eyes hurt, and then I looked away, blinking.

Through my spotted vision, through the light trails and inky blots, my brother appeared. He sat at the table, next to my father. I took my usual seat across from him.

“Stop staring,” I told him.

“You’re not yourself.” His gaze remained rooted. “You’re different.”

“Some would say Celeste is more herself now than ever,” our father added. He was smiling. “My daughter, all grown up—it doesn’t feel real.”

I wouldn’t turn sixteen until the next day, but that didn’t matter. By virtue of passing to my adult markings, age was inconsequential. I was a woman.

My mother brought a pitcher of water to the