I woke up feeling light and moved through my new morning routine without thought until I was sitting at my vanity table performing my five-minute no-makeup-makeup ritual (May had drilled me in the steps I needed to go through for my School Face until I could do it all with a quick and steady hand). Washed face, tinted moisturizer, light blush, eyebrow liner, lip balm . . . and I stopped and stared at the face in my vanity mirror.

  I was smiling. Why was I smiling? Oh.

  I’d gone right to sleep last night and didn’t remember any dreams, not even sexy ones, I’d been too emotionally wrung out for that, I supposed. Or my brain was finally adjusting to my new teen hormone levels? But I felt lighter, too, even if I wasn’t ready to think about what had happened. Now, prepping for my second week of school, an epiphany hit me with all the force of a truck and I froze, balm stick in my raised hand.

  My unintentional confession last night; to be yours. That had been my answer to May’s asking me what I wanted, and she’d held me and told me I was. Just one week ago she’d asked me if I would be able to forgive her for all that had happened to me, and I’d been able to nod because I’d wanted to; when had I gone from denial to not just acceptance but wanting her for my mom more than anything?

  It had been a little more than a month, less than two, since David had passed out from pain and I’d woken up as yet-to-be-named April, with all the trauma and drama and fears, and in that time they’d gone from being neighbors and closest friends to family and not just on paper. Looking at myself in the mirror, I didn’t have to say a “This is me,” mantra in my head anymore. I wanted this to be me, I wanted to be April because April was theirs and April had family and friends and a lifetime to spend with them, and that meant everything.

  I might still have flashes of dissociative vertigo looking down at myself or hearing my own voice, moments when I didn’t belong in my own skin, but while I still missed my lost inches terribly, my lost adulthood and manhood wasn’t even a price anymore, not compared to what I had now. If a genie magically appeared and offered me the chance to go back to being David, even a healthy younger David not staring down oncoming heart-failure, I’d punt that little blue clown out my window as fast as I could open it. I was going to go downstairs and eat breakfast with my family, and I was going to go to school and see my new friends. I still had . . . almost everything to figure out, really, but I’d figure it out as April. Me and Carl and May, Dad and Mom, we’d all figure it out together.

  I couldn’t finish up and dress fast enough. Downstairs I smooched Mom and hugged Carl and tickled my baby sister and ate my banana and egg on toast (Carl made it perfectly), running out the door before either of them could ask about my smiles. I met Shania at the rail station and we chatted about our club choices since they were starting this week, and it was nice. Realizing again that, against all possible expectations, I was on my way to school on a Monday morning and my stomach wasn’t twisting with dread, left me almost giddy.

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  Shania and I parted ways heading to our lockers and it was nice to see Pinky, too, waiting by ours. She gave me a “Hemingway!” and brushed invisible lint off the shoulder of my blazer, falling into chat mode with zero awkwardness as I fast-changed from my street skirt to my school skirt. (I’d finally managed the hallway change on Friday, feeling extremely visible but the over-under change was easy and besides we were in Girl Country.)

  Rolling up my street skirt I put it away and when I picked up my bookbag Pinky hooked arms with me, pulling me into the flow in the direction of Ms. Maddison’s room. “So you’re resolved on being a Dangerous Bitch?”

  My first Self-Defense Club class was today because the truth was, while thankfully it hadn’t figured in any nightmares, I hadn’t forgotten the fright I’d had at Delia’s party. Even if my fears hadn’t been entirely rational in that situation, losing nearly a foot and a half and well over a hundred pounds had left me . . . vulnerable in ways only other girls could appreciate. One of those things I’d solve as April. I nodded.

  “And I registered for Comportment Class for Tuesdays and Thursdays.”

  Pinky snerked a laugh. Comportment Class had its own nickname, too: Manners & Mannerisms. As old as Hadley Girls School, it was basically a club class for girls studying social etiquette, the art of conversation, and social accomplishments—which today apparently involved setting boundaries, crossing lines, and doing it in style. The twelfth-year’s cotillion that had happened the same night as Delia’s party was a Comportment Club event.

  It made perfect sense; at least half of the students being scholarship students (the whole reason the school had been built in the early 1900s), teaching them the social manners of the professional and moneyed classes had always been another way for the school to give its boys and girls a leg up. After she got over her shock at my choice, Mom had figured it would help me overcome my social panics, through exposure therapy if nothing else. For myself, I agreed because a bunch of it covered “male and female etiquette,” thus the nickname, and whatever that meant I wanted to know about it whether I used it or not.

  And it was my choice; like Mom said, there were all kinds of ways of being a girl, so now I just rolled my eyes at Pinky. “Tell me you didn’t do Comportment Club your first year.”

  “Oh, I did it. That’s where I— Anyway, I’m surprised you’re doing it. You’ve already got that social grace thing going on.”

  “I what now?”

  “You know. You’ve got the polish. Anyone can tell you’re not used to all this—” She waved at the packed hallway. “—but your aunt gave you the poise and vocabulary, most of the time you act a lot more mature than most girls our age. You blew my mom away with all that politely thanking her for hosting you and asking about her work, if it wasn’t for your shrimpy size I’d peg you for a debutante. College girl at least. Is it because of the homeschooling? Spending most of your time around adults?”

  “. . . Yes? Aunt Sophie does know all the words.” I laughed at the thought of telling Pinky about the education that Aunt Sophie had given me with The Pillow Book. She looked at me askance as I kept a bigger laugh in.

  “There’s a story there, isn’t there?”

  I raised my chin, looking down my nose and adopting the snooty accents of society wives met over charity events with prospective business partners. “And perhaps one day I shall even tell you, but now I fear our ways must part. Adieu, adieu, until our midday repast.”

  She pushed me, her laughter following me into the classroom.

  Becoming April, the arc of her acceptance of her changeling transformation. Of course April's story is far from over. What's going on with Papa? Is she going to learn more about the People? And acceptance is only a first step as she finds her place as April Seever, nor is she finished learning about her own alien abilities (hint: she can do more than just "feel" other changelings and People). From here chapters will be closer to once a week than once a day, and final edits on Becoming April will see the story published on Kindle in January (without no DRM so it can become a permanent part of your collection if you enjoyed it).

  With Becoming April finished, I would love to hear what everyone thought! In the form of ratings and reviews especially, but comments, discussion of just what I was trying to do with April's story, etc. are half the reason for posting this project on Royal Road.

  Happy holidays!

  TP