Chapter #29Inside Chelsea Cooper by: Seuzz   You wanna know what I think? Then take me to my house.
Those were very nearly the last words that Chelsea had spoken to you. The last really meaningful words, except for that warning not to tell Joe and Frank about your swap. This is about you and me, not them.
"Oh, Chelsea," you groan, and look up at yourself sharply in the mirror again, for the voice sounds strange in your ears. Golden curls tumble over your face.
The first thought that comes is banal: God, I'm a mess. Tentatively, as though you're walking on broken glass, you try picking through more. But it's a glittering mess, and you can't take them all in at once. The thing to do is to get comfortable in your new skin.
You pull your hair back and tie it with a scrunchie, which leaves your face looking pinched and exposed. It's still lovely, though, and you suck on your lower lip. Your upper teeth are very straight and very white. You try a smile. It's blinding, but insincere. You scrunch up your eyes, trying to look beautiful and winning and happy. The effect is of an adorable little sociopath. A tear springs into the corner of your eye. No wonder everyone thinks you're a brat. You totally look like a brat.
With a sigh you pad back out into the bedroom. Scanties are in the top drawer. You draw loose, silk panties up over your hips and let them snap into place. They are so soft and light it's like you're not wearing anything, and you stroke at their front. You gasp at the hard twinge. It's been so long since you've felt anything there. Not since Gordon's accident. The golem is such a turn-off.
You wrench hands and thoughts back to clothes. You want something comfortable, so you pull out clean flannel pajama bottoms. Bra. The tips of your breasts tingle and harden as you lift them gently and nestle them softly into the cups. It's a grotesque mismatch with the flannel bottoms, but you're still looking for comfort, so you pull on a silken top.
But though your ensemble is comfortable, you still feel tense. A bath would be good. You suck in your breath. Yes, you--Chelsea Cooper--would enjoy a bath. Will Prescott would enjoy it too, but not in the same way. Well, he would, but it would be weird and--
"Oh, fuck it," you mutter to yourself, and stomp downstairs.
Jordan--Chelsea's older brother--looks up from the sofa, where he's lounging with his cell phone, as you pass. "Well, look who hasn't got a hot date for once."
"Go suck on your lacrosse stick," you retort, and march on into the kitchen, where you jerk the freezer open. "I'm gonna take a bath," you holler to anyone who happens to be in earshot. "Why don't we have any ice cream?"
"There are some pops behind the pizzas," your mom calls from the laundry room.
"Disgusting," you mutter, taking in the pizzas and pops both. But you draw out one of the fudgsicles and jam it into your mouth.
"When's the last time you saw Gordon?" Jordan jeers as you pass him again, slurping on the long, sweet cylinder. You flip him off, hard, without turning your head.
In the bathroom you turn the hot tap all the way on and let it run for ten minutes into the stoppered tub, then let it drain before refilling it with a cooler mix. Without paying close attention, you drop various crystals and salts and fragrances into the tub, then turn back to the mirror, where you bind your hair up into a towel. Now you just look tired, and rub some life back into your eyes before slipping into the tub.
The water is deep and hot, and at first it only stings your skin without warming you. It's especially harsh on your firm but tender butt, and you hiss long and hard as you settle in. You slump down, flexing your knees, and-- Oh, it stings your titties, too. But it feels so good. You will yourself into relaxing, and knead at your thighs, and methodically stroke your pussy, drawing a grunt that is more businesslike than pleasant.
What does Chelsea Cooper think? Well, what does she think about? Okay, what news is there from Kendra and Gloria? You groan. Text messages and Facebook posts are probably piling up with reactions to the tryouts. Kelsey has been bitching about the slots going to junior girls. That's good, you can sneer at her for not wanting to give the new class a chance. Cindy? She and the Garners all looked very vexed during the tryouts, as well they should. Peevishly, you mentally finger and gloat over their discomfort at being so neatly boxed in.
Ugh. It's all very tiring. It's also tiring to think about Gordon. The big lummox of course has been very docile since you told him to keep quiet and not do anything stupid, but it's also been boring and unfulfilling to have to keep pretending everything is normal with him. You feel another twinge: It's been a long time since you've had a satisfying fight with him, something that makes you feel like there's real electricity between you. You snort to think of his friends: Jason Lynch, that sniggering little psychopath, and Steve Patterson, that stalagmite of icy menace. Would he really be any warmer if it were Will looking out through those frozen gray eyes?
You slump deeper in the tub. Will. Chelsea wanted you to think of him while wearing her form.
You see Will Prescott's face, peeping at you furtively and fearfully. Even as Cara he was jumpy. He was nervous around you, and that made you nervous. And he looked stricken when you offered him those confidences. You feel frustration at the way he wouldn't speak or open up with you. People talk to you, whether you're drawing them out or bullying them. But he would just snap tightly shut. It was a challenge to get him to speak.
You open your eyes and stare at the tiles over the faucet until they swim out of focus. He's so gangly and unformed. You had the urge to straighten him out, to brace his shoulders and put a little stick in his spine. You've caught a sparkle in his eye, and if he just wouldn't slouch, if he would look out straight at the world and at you ...
Do you love him?
The question falls like a pebble into a vast, dark, and bottomless cavern, making no sound and eliciting no reply. You only hear yourself breathing, and you're not sure if it is Chelsea Cooper or Will Prescott who is panting for an answer.
The water grows tepid as you wait.
And, wearily, you have to give up. The dead feeling inside you isn't like an emotion, or like a lack of emotion. It's a feeling of unreality, the kind of answer you'd get if you tried asking what sound the sky makes, or where the donut hole goes after you've eaten the donut. You're trying to think about Will Prescott the way Chelsea Cooper would think about him, but you are both the thinker and the object of the thinker's thought. Maybe there is an answer, but it's one that swallows itself in paradoxes. For you could choose to think like a Chelsea Cooper who loves him, but it would be you choosing, and not her. Not even the mask of her.
* * * * *
Six-fifteen. You have to fight to control Chelsea's native impatience at the way your confederate is late. Arms folded, you pace the school parking lot in a tight circle, pausing only to tap your foot and fume at the nearby intersection. But there's nothing else to do. Frank and Joe are already inside the gym, up in the fuck room, and you don't want to be up there with them. Mostly they'd kept their distance during the day, and even at lunch they'd taken a far end of the table in the cafeteria. But even that had pissed you off, because they'd managed to draw so much attention to themselves and away from you. Joe especially. He's such a showboater. And he'd kept glancing over at you in a way that made you feel like you didn't have any clothes on.
Worse: Like you didn't have Chelsea's mask on, and he could see the real you.
"Where the fuck are they," you mutter to yourself. If you thought the exclamation would act as a summons, you are disappointed, for it is yet another five minutes before a small parade--your truck, Caleb's car, and another truck you recognize as Mitchell's--roll into the lot.
"You guys go on inside," Will says to the other two, and they trot on ahead with barely a glance at you. Will he marches up to you with an uncharacteristically confident pose. "So how is it?"
You smile back tightly. "It's interesting," you reply. "How is it with you?" He shrugs. "You bring the book and all those masks?" He holds up his school bag. "Then come on."
"Hang on," he says. "You gonna stay like that? Or are you going to switch into one of those assholes?"
"Well, they want us to see what they're thinking," you reply. "Are you going to switch?"
"I suppose it depends on what you're going to do."
You bite your lip. You'd not been looking forward to a conversation about your current location. Would she believe you if you told her that your time inside her had left you confused and uncertain? Or would she admit to a similar bafflement? A switch into one of the Durrases would be a good excuse for avoiding or delaying the topic.  | Members who added to this interactive story also contributed to these: |
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