Continuing to work on my story is one way that I can feel some control over the situation, to show the people who did this to me that if they were trying to kill the story, it didn't work. Unfortunately, I only had a small window of opportunity.
As I worked through the first day of my transformation, I told my source that I wasn't feeling well and in-person meetings weren't going to work. She didn't like that but I told her I would come up with something. Once I felt marginally more stable, I offered to meet her for lunch in hopes that she would finally give me the material I needed. The only problem was that she was expecting to meet with Tom, a Japanese-American guy she's known for months, not some white girl with zits on her chin. I went back clothes-shopping for something decent, some slacks and a fitted white button-up top that made me look semi-professional (despite being snug enough that I had to leave the top few buttons undone) and contemplated my cover story. After a midday pump and the best job I could do pulling my hair back into something semi-professional, it was time to go.
A thought occurred to me: what if she had something to do with this, would she recognize me in this form? Had she betrayed me? If so, what would be her response to seeing me in the flesh like this?
It didn't seem so. When I sat down across from her she just seemed confused. I explained that I was Tom's intern, a co-op student he was working with. Job-shadowing and whatnot. She seemed to buy it, reluctantly, which suggested to me that she wasn't in on this whole body-swapping scheme. That was good news.
Considering how skittish she already was, I was prepared for the worst, but after winning her trust, she handed me the folder and said "I'm done. Tell Tom not to talk to me again. This is it."
Talk about a lucky break, which I needed after all this misery. With that, she was gone, and I sat there wondering where to begin with this giant packet of info. As I began to thumb through it, noting places that had been redacted and others highlighted by my source, I felt a tap on the shoulder that made me jump. I turned to see a tall young guy in a loose-fitting tank top and cargo shorts.
"Kiara? I thought that was you. I've been calling your name."
I hadn't noticed -- it will probably be a while before I remember to respond to my new name. His presence gave me an eerie feeling in my gut and I realized I was not yet used to being around men in the form of a woman. They tend to give off... a different energy.
"Hey, sorry, I... had something going on," I said vaguely, trying to keep myself from cringing. Who was this guy, how did he know Kiara? Did I want to know?
"I thought you were gone," he said.
"No, I had, um, a bit more stuff to do here."
"Well, I'm glad I ran into you, I've got your phone."
I looked, confused, in the satchel I had brought with me -- sure enough, there was a phone in a sparkly pink case with a picture of Kiara's baby as the background.
"Um. no, I don't think you do," I said, hoping this would dismiss him.
"Nah, your other phone. It's got a pic of you as the background, and you were glued to it all night."
I froze. Two phones. Maybe this one has info about the people who stole my body? If Kiara was somehow in on the scheme...
"Yeah, oh, yeah, that one," I feigned remembering, "I was wondering..."
"Well, you could come to the beach tonight," he said suggestively, "Pick it up from me then."
I gritted my teeth and sized him up. If I applied myself, I could probably get out of this without having to meet a bunch of debauched teenagers or college kids. But there was the off chance -- no matter how remote -- one of them might know something.
"Sounds good," I said with totally fake enthusiasm, "I'll see you then."
Seems like I've got my next assignment, tonight at 10.
(Starting a party at 10?? Ah, to be young.)
-Tom/Kiara
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