An Original Transformation

Part 2

Fleur went a bit beyond the scope of the book.

“Aristotle’s god is the ultimate philosopher. Totally perfect and contemplating and outside of any human conception.”

“What do you think?” My simple little question.

At first, Fleur looked to her notes, as though I was quizzing her. She reiterated something before about how this informed other works by Aristotle.

I smiled but shook my head as I clarified, “No, I’m just asking personally. What’s God to you?”

She gripped her hands and gave a sigh. I would’ve accepted it if she pushed me into a different topic, but she took a breath and relaxed.

“Nothing. I’m an atheist.” She said it without a quaver in her voice, steady with my gaze. While her shoulders clenched, she didn’t show any other signs of tension.

I ran through her words in my head a few times, parsing them to make sure I didn’t misunderstand her meaning. I’d run into people at my old school who had questions of faith. I’d run into those who reconsidered their denomination with a sweaty shiver like they were cheating on a loved one. I never imagined I would meet an atheist.

If I followed my parents’ example then holding out a cross while reciting verses and backing away, as though from a rabid beast, would’ve been the next appropriate course of action.

I did flinch and Fleur seemed to notice as she lowered her head gently and brushed at her hands. It took me a moment to find words. I asked for a bit of clarification, but it amounted to “Are you absolutely sure?”. Fleur’s responses were as steady as if I were asking her if she was sure her top was pink. In retrospect, I would’ve stuffed a sock in my past self’s mouth. Fleur kept a smile all through my questions, though she was clinging by her long nails to the edge of it.

She told me, “I didn’t decide who I am and what I believe in a day. It’s taken a lot from me over my whole life. No matter how it makes you feel, unapologetically, this is me.” As a nudge, she bent over her notes, and I focused on that.

We both attempted to study for the rest of our time at the library but Fleur’s words were slower and softer. Mine came in shorter sentences where I might’ve explained myself in detail before. Fleur also accepted any answer before jotting something down. We finished the rest of our notes in half the time.

We could’ve parted ways there with a copy of the notes and answers but, as Fleur was quietly stretching, I happened to mention a friend from camp when I was young who made everyone think he knew Bigfoot. My story led into her story about an uncle who thought certain trees were secret aliens, as well as his often extensive advice in Christmas cards to recognize the leaves of real trees from aliens.

That led us to our most comfortable topic, cartoons we loved. We had a certain amount of overlap but each of us gushed about works which the other had never heard of. More fervently than anything we gleaned about the Ancient Greeks, we each knew we had to trade/lend copies of our favorite works.

The uncertain ground was where transformations came into question. I had several favorite shows where it was casually part of the plot but Fleur’s choices apparently did as well.

Mulling with a soft rub of her wrist, Fleur told me, “It’s okay. I mean…it’s not the thing. It’s me. I just… there’s a lot of stuff which…I’m not even sure what to say about it. But…please don’t restrain what you love just because of me.”

I immediately answered back the same. Whatever Fleur had inside her, her loves and her joys, I felt captivated to learn more. No matter what.

She held a warm look close to her face but didn’t say anything else as we finished our study session.

The days and weeks would go by and we would talk at the easiest convenience. We each had separate online services but we migrated where necessary. It was hard to talk at school with Fleur torn between wanting to take notes and wanting to detail Cybertron. Lunch wasn’t any better as the distraction of food never made things smooth. Our later library sessions were patrolled by hawk-like, voice-stealing librarians, so they never got more animated than a quick pattern of whispers. Our homes were never an appealing option, although I was often eager to see Fleur’s home. She wound up seeing mine first.

We had a project in history which couldn’t be completed at the library alone. I’d told my parents just the right amount about Fleur, highlighting her studious nature and how she’d helped me maintain my great GPA, so that they had no objection to her staying over.

The initial meet and greet was both unsettling for me and a relief. Unsettling because I met up with Fleur dressed like one of the girls at my old school, with her hair and piercings made as subtle as possible. Her voice was slight and courteous. The relief came when my parents treated Fleur like an old family friend. Every nod and smile from them came imbued with the implication of meddling matchmaking. At least, it meant they left us alone for the evening.

In private, Fleur loosened the tight straight lines of her clothes and settled down. She clutched at her hands despite the ease of her body. I asked her if she was alright.

She didn’t give me a nod or a shake, only the words, “I’m used to presenting myself in certain roles. But I don’t like it.” I mused on that as we went to work on the project.

Over time, I had little moments like that where the mystery I felt around Fleur only deepened with vague comments and little gestures. In the early days, I tried to lead her to details, but she always turned away. As the weeks passed, I accepted this as part of her allure and made guesses I kept to myself.

I learned what Fleur liked. I knew what made her smile. I felt the pace of an idle conversation with her. In turn, she would make little references to transformations (such as “if you have that strawberry yogurt then you’ll become the redheaded lady from their TV ads”) in passing which left me with a smile. I crafted transformative tote bags in my mind which mended clothes and switched them based on what you imagined (in retrospect, it may have already existed somewhere at the time) to Fleur’s delight.

After some time of the unexpected which Fleur brought into my life, we settled into the steady and the familiar. I conceded that I might never understand her. Little did I know her secrets were about to burst through on a quiet Sunday when I finally took a trip to her house.

It was as nice as her quick details and fragments alluded to. Her parents, who were out at the time, left a presence from the décor which led me to pine for such a family.

I noticed something was amiss in the slow way Fleur shut the rumpus room door and pressed her hands together to the point of pain. Her eyes lingered on a mottled patch of carpet before she took a breath and met my eyes with quivering uncertainty. I sent her a look of ease.

Still, it took her several moments more before she found words.

“I’ve been hiding from you, Zack. I have. I’ve been hiding myself. And it pains me every day that such a large chunk of me is invisible. But it’s still too raw. I…what I’m about to tell you…I beg you, with all my heart, that you tell no one else. It’s only for you.”

Stolen story; please report.

A rush of fear and exhilaration filled my thoughts. Fervently, I told her, “Of course! I never talk about what you say to anyone else.” In whole truth, I didn’t really have anyone else who I talked with quite like Fleur. Not even my pastor.

I tried to settle myself with a few long breaths. I reiterated my promise with trembles which fed back on themselves. We both trembled. Then our eyes met and slowly, carefully, the pressure went slack. We both settled into our chairs, with me close enough to touch her. As she went to scratch at her wrist, I put my hands between hers. Goosebumps spread up her arms, but she didn’t blush.

She stopped and started the first sounds out of her mouth. Despite every overture she or I could try, what it took, in the end, was her gritting her teeth and muttering a frustrated grunt to blurt out, “My birth name was Maxwell.”

Her eyes turned away, but I followed them. I pursued them with a smile and a calm gaze. Those words were enough for me to understand, but I let her unravel the rest of them, which came in fits and starts.

“I…oh gosh. Okay. Well. Uh…I’ve. See. When. So like…I…it’s so difficult.”

I tried in her place, “You had the permanent version of transformation?”

It was something I ran across early on in my explorations. Sites involving it usually outnumbered the kind I wanted to find. I sometimes read them. I could’ve anticipated some of what Fleur told me, but I let her tell her story with as much encouragement as I could offer.

“Yes. I may have to close my eyes, but I’ll get through it….” She did so and it seemed to help with her nerves.

She continued, “When I was a little kid, I was a regular boy. Normal. No weirdness. Normal childhood. My parents have always loved and encouraged me. My problems started a few years ago, around puberty. I had sudden health problems, worse than anything when I was little. Serious depression and a lot of dark feelings about my body too. I just felt like my life was slipping away and I was changing into a monster.”

Resting her hands, one on top of the other, she said, “I’d get hives all over, like my body was agreeing with my self-loathing. My hands really had it bad, to the point I would scratch them every single moment, like I wanted to tear the flesh off. It’s still with me as a nervous habit but I had zombie hands before. I started wearing gloves as a way to keep myself from scratching.” I cast a sympathetic look at her hands. She was brushing them but not scratching as she told me more.

“It was actually one of my therapists who got me started on a whole-body transformation… It was grueling though. I absolutely needed to prove I wasn’t just some depressed preteen. From there, I needed to prove there wasn’t another underlying problem. Fortunately, my therapist was very professional and had handled some cases like mine before, although I was the youngest he’d ever recommended. There was a lot of paperwork. They started me out with temporary transformations different than the kind you opt-in for. I’d take these pills every few hours which made my body more like a girl’s before reverting. It took all my willpower to hold off for the right time to take each pill.”

I didn’t know what else to do but touch her hand, listen, and watch her, even when her eyes jittered about too nervously to keep near mine. With a little sound, she asked me, “Is there…anything you need me to explain?”

I shook my head and assured her that I’d run into just about all this on the internet.

She tried on a quick smirk, as she noted, “The benefit of a transformation fan friend…” I smiled back at her.

Her pills scaled up in effects until they made her fully female for a limited time.

“This had to be documented too”, she added with a sigh. “Documenting both the harshest and best of the effects. The hardest thing was when I had to stop taking them to prove those effects too. But it helped prove my case. I finally got approval. It was kinda scary on the day it happened. It was an outpatient procedure. They hooked me up to a special IV and gave me a mild sedative because permanent ones are quite painful. I didn’t remember much, except that I woke up in a pink gown feeling like my life had finally begun.”

I had to know more. I eagerly asked her questions about how it felt by comparison and what things were challenging and strange and which things were familiar. I tried not to launch all my questions at once, but I trembled in my seat. Fleur leaned back and clutched her hands.

“There’s so much to say. I’ve saved some things to a private journal. Only a few people have ever seen it, like my therapist and some friends from junior high. I had it more open before, but I found out one of my friends was not as trustworthy as I thought. I returned to the same classes after a long time away for therapy. Most people didn’t even remember the other me and it would’ve been fine, except for that betrayal. I had my classes moved a few times, but it didn’t help. Those were dark times and, eventually, I had to do at-home coursework until high school, when I was able to transfer to a school far enough away from my old one…”

I winced. With all the transformations that happened casually and for sheer amusement, it bewildered me that a medical transformation would be so discriminated against. And not by my parents, by those our age who were the swiftest adopters of recreational transformations.

Fleur awaited, skittish and tense, for my response. At any other moment, I would’ve resisted being so bold, but I found myself giving her the biggest hug I could give. She blushed as I released her and said a quick apology.

Fleur assured me, “No, it was wonderful.” We still moved about like delicate china to one another. I learned that Fleur’s name, which she picked herself, was actually taken from that book I remembered reading when I was younger. I also got a promise to get a look at her journal “eventually”. More than anything, I assured her that nothing had changed between us.

Actually, that wasn’t completely true. Whereas I had found her captivating, mysterious, and alluring before, I added to the mix a raging crush and a feeling she was the sexiest human being I could ever imagine. This feeling wasn’t tempered in the least when she exposed her childhood photos to me. I noticed the dark rings of her eyes back then, but I still saw only Fleur.

She watched me when I gave her these responses, and I noticed her watching. I saw how she tensed up before a new piece of information, then marveled at me, like a complex bit of a study note. I was just glad such moments concluded with her trying on wider and deeper smiles which shimmered in even the darkest of rooms.

At school, plenty of people talked about us and how we hung out together, but for reasons which merely made Fleur blush instead of cry. To the average classmate, we were a quirky pairing of a punk rocker girl and a choir boy. We let them talk.