Prompted

Faces

Written 2/22/18

The clocks that line the wall of the thrift shop tell me it's almost two in the morning as I flick through another rack of clothes. Despite the late hour, I'm bouncing on the heels of my feet, full of bubbling energy from the coffee I'd drunk earlier and the thrill at all the different outfits I was finding.
I have a few random T-shirts lying in the cart, almost covered by a baseball cap, two fake gold necklaces, and a pair of socks printed with turtles.
I close my eyes and grab a random pair of pants from the rack—purple bellbottoms that have holes in the butt and knees—before wheeling my cart to the dressing rooms. There's no sign of Barry, the lanky teen who usually minds the back area, but I'm not surprised. He'd been telling me the other day how worried he was about finals.
He'd only told me because I'd been his age that day—wearing skinny jeans and a crop top, blonde hair that wasn't mine pulled into a messy bun. He had probably thought I was cute, but I know Barry too well to be interested.
I push my cart into the biggest room, meant for wheelchair users, and lock the door behind me.
Today my face is tan, framed by short brown hair that reaches my jaw. A few wrinkles crease my eyes when I squint at myself in the mirror, but the face looking back at me is a peaceful one.
I call this face June, for the summery top that changes me into her.
After I peel my pants off I tug on the bellbottoms I'd grabbed, even though I don't have very high hopes for them. But I always grab a few random pieces of clothes just for fun.
The pants barely fit—June is a chubby woman, and the rips already in the pants tear further when I shove my legs through. But I suck in a breath, trying to flatten my stomach, and manage to button the pants. The zipper is out of the question, but I don't need it—after a few seconds, I feel the change rippling through me.
I close my eyes, feeling June's arms get slimmer. The pressure on my stomach from the pants disappears as my middle shrinks, and when I open my eyes, I let out a delighted laugh.
The woman in the mirror is cute. Her—my skin is a rich shade of brown, and June's flat brown hair is gone, replaced by a curling mess that can only be called an afro.
I'm shorter than I was a few seconds ago, but only by a couple of inches. I turn slowly in the mirror to admire myself from all angles.
"Who are you?" I ask the girl whose body I wear. "Happy or sad? Quiet or loud?" I lean forward to inspect the new color of my eyes. "Hmm...Tammy."
I step back to look myself from head to toe again, then nod. This body is definitely a Tammy.
I slowly cycle through the rest of the clothes, finding a few treasures. The turtle socks turn me into a young girl who looks about 9 with curled pigtails and missing teeth. I name her Leslie.
One of the gold necklaces turns me into an old lady with more frown lines than smiles. I decide to keep her, calling her Edith. The other necklace turns me into a woman who looks a lot like June—middle aged, cropped hair, probably has several children but no grandkids yet. I leave her in the cart, deciding I have too many necklaces and faces that look like her.
I don't like any of the t-shirts. Two change me into short teenage boys, the third into a fat older man, and the fourth into a girl so skinny I almost fall over. I leave them with the gold necklace.
The baseball cap is a success. Instead of a boy, like I'd been expecting, it turns me into a short girl with long black hair and dark eyes. I tilt my head at myself—this one isn't me, but it's closer than the rest of the clothes.
After grabbing everything I want, I head for the cash register. I'm June again, and Mr. Mackson, the owner of the shop, smiles at me when I place my items on the counter.
I suppress a smirk as he starts ringing me up—only last week he'd been yelling at me for leaving trash in the dressing rooms. But I'd been a different person, a different face then.
"Have you seen our entire jewelry collection?" he asks, wrapping the necklace in tissue paper before dropping it in the bag with the rest of my items.
I nod, handing him a wad of cash. My eyes flick to the shelf of earrings he'd indicated, scanning them quickly. Pearls, diamonds, a few ear cuffs, one shaped like a dragon—
My heart almost stops. Mr. Mackson is rattling on about weekend deals, but I ignore him, reaching for the dragon cuff.
It's gold, with a few fake jewels laid into the eyes. But I don't care what it looks like—I care that it's mine.
"Would you like me to add that?"
"No," I say, curling my fingers around the cuff. He blinks as I turn on my heel and walk for the door, bag of clothes in one hand and dragon cuff in the other.
"Hey!" he shouts from behind me. "You have to pay for that!"
I ignore him and walk out the store.
I'm immediately greeted by crisp night hair and the sound of an alarm going off—Mr. Mackson is mad about the earring.
Speeding up, I let go of one of the handles of my bag so it falls open. When I round the corner of the block I pull the baseball cap out of the bag and plop it on my head, stumbling slightly as I change into the slim girl I'd been earlier, but keep walking, pulling my shirt off carefully.
I'm wearing a plain black tank top underneath that's a little big for my frame now, but I don't want Mr. Mackson to put anything together.
I hear him shouting behind me but don't turn, and after a moment his voice dies out. I allow myself a small grin of victory and keep walking.
As I head home, I turn the ear cuff over in my fist. Is it really mine? It looks similar, but there are probably a thousand gold dragon ear cuffs out there.
But I want it so badly to be mine.
When I was eighteen and had only just started to experiment with my power, my house burned down. All of my clothes were gone except for one ratty pair of pajamas that I'd been wearing when I got out. People in the community wanted to help, so they gave my parents anything they needed—toiletries, food, supplies, and clothing. Clothing that turned me into someone else every time I wore it.
It's been a couple years, and I still don't have very much of my own stuff. A few outfits here and there, but most of my wardrobe is second hand, because there's no point in having anything of my own.
Because when I was eighteen, wearing borrowed clothes and borrowed faces for a few weeks, my ratty pajamas—the last piece of clothing that was really mine—disappeared. Someone probably threw them away or I just misplaced them. But when they were gone, I was gone too.
I haven't worn my face since.
It hasn't been a walk in the park, but I've managed. I've found enough faces that look like mine to fool my friends and family at a distance, and in the meantime, I've raided thrift shops and second hand stores for different faces, different bodies and people to wear for a while.
I uncurl my fist and look down at the piece of jewelry there. This could finally be me.
I'd lost the ear cuff when I was 17—I'd been at my grandma's house, here in the city, when I'd taken it off at a pool. That was the last time I'd seen it.
I reach the steps of my townhouse and hurry up. I stay out odd hours so my neighbors don't notice me coming in—I'm sure they'd have questions—but I'm nervous anyway.
Once inside, I sprint up my staircase to my bedroom. June's pants, now oversized, slide down and I almost fall but manage to catch myself at the last second and trip the rest of the way into my bedroom.
I'd left my closet doors open earlier and now the clothes inside seem to spill out—dresses and coats and shoes and hats and anything that struck me as remotely interesting when I bought it.
I cross the room to my mirror, kicking off my pants as I go and throwing my shirt and hat on the floor. Even though I'm wearing nothing but my underwear, the girl I'd changed into still stares at me. I frown at her, then close my eyes and reach up to tuck the ear cuff over my ear.
I don't open my eyes after I feel the change—nervousness freezes me, too many fears floating through my head. If someone else found the earring and wore it before it went to the store, it won't work. If I lose it again before buying new clothes for myself, I'll lose my face again.
I take a deep breath through my nose. It's just another face, I tell myself. Just one more face to wear.
Slowly, I peel my eyes open and stare at the feet in the mirror.
Small. Pale. Not wrinkled. Good.
I move up, studying the legs, then the hips and stomach, then the chest. Check, check, check.
I make myself look up, at the face in the mirror.
The face is grinning at me—no, I'm grinning at me.
Because for the first time in three years, I'm looking at my face.