Body of Origin

By Kimberly J Smith

Sixteen-year-old Calliope Littleton is hiding something. A few things, actually. While it's public knowledge that she's switcherborne, only her parents know she's immune to the government-mandated drug meant to suppress her switching abilities. No one has a clue that she caused the accident leaving Jamie Mulligan, their school's star cross-country athlete, unable to walk. If anyone found out she's secretly letting him use her body to run again, she'd be in massive trouble. Cal is taking a huge risk, what with the outspoken leader of the anti-switcherborne movement running for president of the United States, and the government organization that monitors switcherborne activities investigating Jamie’s accident. But when Jamie decides to use Cal’s body for more than they agreed to, it ignites a chain of events that could destroy both of their lives.

BODY OF ORIGIN is a genre-bending, high-concept novel that explores prejudice and acceptance in a world where some are born with the ability to literally step into another's shoes. Cal’s story is for young adult readers in tune with today's political climate and passionate about the fight for human rights, who love speculative concepts, thrilling fabulism, and a touch of romance.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Jun 10, 2023
• ISBN: 9781312544352

Book preview

Disclaimer

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events, is purely coincidental.

Copyright

Copyright © 2023 Kimberly J. Smith

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permission requests, contact Kimberly J. Smith at [e-mail]. The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred.

Published by Lulu Publishing

Book cover design by Arash Jahani and Eric Brule

First Digital Edition, 2023

ISBN #: 978-1-312-54435-2

Also by Kimberly J. Smith:

Into the Faraway

The Dragon Whistler

The Vardo

Content Warning:

This book explores themes around trauma, injury, rape, homophobia, ableism, racism, and depression. It contains language some might find offensive and references to alcohol consumption, vaping, violence, and political oppression.

BODY OF ORIGIN

a novel by Kimberly J. Smith

Dedication

For Steve, Harrison, and Benjamin

You are my whole world. You are my whole heart

PART ONE

Chapter 1

My parents taught me not to be ashamed of who I am. Of what I can do. And until the summer before my junior year of high school, I never had. Before that day, I’d never felt true shame, or the weight of guilt on my heart. After, shame and guilt never let me forget what I’d done. Or why everything that happened next was all my fault.

• • • • •

The city bus zoomed past as I stepped out into the suffocating Texas afternoon, the cement sidewalk radiating heat up through the soles of my high tops. The oversized bus windshield gave me a perfect view of the heavy-set, dark-haired man in the driver’s seat, and I could see his eyeline was directed not on the road but downward toward his hand. A hand that held a phone.

My first thought was what an asshole. My second thought was oh shit.

The bus was going too fast and the dude behind the wheel wasn’t looking up to see if anyone might be about to step into the street.

I sucked in a hot, thick, panicked breath that turned to ice in my lungs. I wished I’d never left the house that afternoon.

But there was a hang-out at Hannah’s that night and my hair had needed to be dealt with. Hannah’s parents were away in Italy, so she’d invited a few of the orchestra kids over for movies and pizza to mourn the last weekend of summer. I’d spent my entire break working at Miss Zelda’s bookshop in the Square, clocking out for the last time the previous weekend. What free time I’d had in the last two and a half months, I’d spent with my best friend Tilly, so this was the first time the orchestra squad would see my new look. And it was an extremely cool look.

Short bob, bangs, and cotton candy pink hair. Not just a streak, the whole head. But it had been almost two months since the initial dye job, and it was beyond time to touch up the line of dark brown growth. I looked pretty different from the way I’d looked at the end of our sophomore year in May, and I wanted everything to be perfect.

I loved my new look. It represented exactly how I wanted people to see me for junior year—a little edgy, a little fun. I’d flown under the radar for most of my life, and I was sick of it. This year would be different. This year, I wanted people to notice me.

After scarfing down a grilled cheese sandwich, I’d walked the four blocks to old town Riverglenn and Chilton Pharmacy. I picked out a box of Cotton Candy and a box of platinum to strip out my natural dark brown color. The two-step process was a complete pain in the ass, and exactly why I’d put off the root touch-up for so long.

The woman in front of me at check-out looked like she’d just stepped out of a fashion magazine: she was tall and thin and wore a sleeveless leopard-print dress. The heat didn’t seem to bother her; not a bead of sweat showed on her smooth brown skin. But her hair: it was magnificent. Flat-iron straight, flowing down her back in a luscious shade of deep purple—as if she’d soaked her hair in plum juice. I was obsessed. In fact, I almost went back to the hair product aisle to swap out the Cotton Candy.

If I had . . . things would have turned out so different. Part of me wishes I would have gone for the plum. But another part of me believes in fate.

And karma, let’s not forget that bitch.

After the bus zoomed past me, my gaze jolted down the street, searching the bus’s path. The leopard-print dress lady, who’d left the pharmacy less than a minute before me, walked toward the corner. She’d just passed the empty bus stop when she turned left, stepping off the curb to cross the street.

Somehow, she didn’t notice the massive bus bearing down on her.

And the bus hadn’t slowed one bit. No brake lights glowed red. The driver still wasn’t paying attention.

Panic sliced through me. That bus is going to hit her.

Every thought hummed with sudden clarity as the growl of the bus’s engine growled steady and ruthless. In the distance, I heard the rumble of hundreds of voices and my mind registered that I was probably hearing that anti-switcherborne rally Dad had warned me about before he left for work that morning.

Focus, Cal! The bus!

The brake lights stayed dark. The intersection loomed. It was too late—

And that’s when it happened.

I didn’t mean to do it. Swear to God.

• • • • •

It had been a minute since I’d switched, and nausea swept through me the way it used to when I practiced switching with Mom and Dad four years ago, back when they taught me how to control an ability most people thought was uncontrollable. There’s this momentary feeling of detachment that comes from the movement of consciousness between bodies; a swoop of vertigo, like you’re standing in mid-air upside down. A heartbeat later I was in the bus driver’s seat, looking at his phone. He’d been watching a video of a dog attacking a delivery person.

Yes, the man was risking people’s lives to watch a stupid video. I’ll say it again. What an asshole.

I jerked my gaze up and saw the lady in the leopard-print dress had finally noticed the bus. I could see the panic on her face, but she wasn’t running back to the curb, to safety. She was reaching out for a second woman who was walking toward her, just a few steps away. And this woman was pushing a baby stroller. The leopard print dress woman was trying to get them back to the curb. To safety.

All this went through my mind in a split second. I had to do something.

Stomping my foot on the brake pedal, I dropped the cell phone and yanked the huge steering wheel to the left. Tires screeched and the passengers behind me shrieked as they tumbled out of their seats. The bus careened over the center median, plowing down a small tree and crashing into oncoming traffic. The bus driver wasn’t wearing a seat belt, so the impact hurled me forward. The steering wheel jabbed into the man’s thick midsection, but before any pain from this gut punch registered for me, I’d snapped back to my body like I was attached to a spiritual bungee cord. I collapsed to the sidewalk. Pain shot through my hands as they smashed against the hot cement.

A metallic crash shook the air. Someone screamed.

The sickening smell of gasoline and exhaust hit my nose as I scrambled to my feet, clutching my purse to my chest as if it could protect me from what had just happened.

All I could see of the bus was its back end, taillights finally glowing red. Steam and smoke billowed up from the front of the bus. Sirens wailed in the distance. A man yelled for help, pleading with anyone to call 9-1-1.

I looked up the street, daring to hope, and saw the two women standing on the sidewalk by the bus stop. The mother clutched her baby to her chest, the empty stroller tipped over at her feet. The leopard-dress lady yelled into a cell phone. We need an ambulance, now!

My breath released. The women and the baby were safe. Even if the bus had hit a car, the damage couldn’t be as bad as what would have happened to them if the bus had hit them.

I was grateful but completely thrown as to why the spontaneous switch had happened. I’d had control over these abilities since I was twelve. My parents had trained me well. They’d also taught me what could happen if anyone found out that I could switch despite being fully dosed with Lazator, the government-mandated switching suppression medication I took every day of my life.

Stunned, I stumbled weakly down the street away from the accident and crossed the street toward home. I made it only half a block before puking up the grilled cheese sandwich. I hated throwing up, it felt like my eyes were going to pop out of my head with each convulsion. Finally, I sank onto the grass and burst into tears.

Honey, are you okay? Behind me, an elderly lady had come out on her front porch to see why this tiny pink-haired girl was puking all over her lawn. Her expression was kind, but curiously confused. She probably thought I was drunk.

Yes, just sick. I’m headed home. Thanks, I blubbered, stumbling to my feet and lurching away.

Thank God both my parents were at work. At least I wouldn’t have to explain my current situation to them. Inside, I collapsed onto the couch in sobs. The ugly cry that followed was sharp and panicked, making my head ache and my nose run. As I snatched a handful of tissues from the holder on the coffee table, the first text pinged my phone. Then another. Then another.

Cal, did you hear? From Tilly. Another text from Serge: this sounds bad, girl. And then another from Hannah: doesn’t Jamie Mulligan live next door to you? With each one, my panic grew. Because each one was accompanied by the same screenshot of a post from Galen Phillips. A post that said he and Jamie Mulligan had been in a car accident. That Jamie was in the hospital. It looked bad. There was a picture of paramedics loading Jamie into the ambulance on a stretcher. In the background, I could see the front end of a city bus lodged into the crumpled passenger door of Galen’s vintage green Mustang.

Terror pulsed through every cell of my body. I scanned my socials and found Galen’s account. He’d posted again that he was on the way to the hospital, calling for all West Glenners to join him in praying for Jamie.

I ran to the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet before I puked again.

Then I texted Hannah to tell her I couldn’t hang out with them after all.

Chapter 2

It was thanks to Jamie Mulligan that West Glenn had won State in cross country for three years in a row. He’d been voted into Homecoming court both sophomore and junior year and was rumored to be a lock for Prom King next spring. Now he’d never walk again, much less run. All because of me.

The day Jamie came home from the hospital, six weeks after the accident, I watched from behind the curtains in my upstairs bedroom as Jamie’s dad lifted him out of the car, set him in a wheelchair, then rolled his son up the new ramp he’d built leading to their front door. I’d known it was a bad sign when Mr. Mulligan built that ramp. You don’t build a ramp if the doctors think your kid is going to walk again in a couple of weeks.

Guilt dominated my existence, every waking moment. It ruled my dreams. I was drowning in guilt and shame and overwhelmed by having to hide my emotions from everyone. I couldn’t make myself go visit Jamie, even though I knew I needed to. I should have gone to see him in the hospital, but I just couldn’t. I was a mess. One hundred percent of my energy was spent trying to keep my shit together so no one would question why I was so upset about a guy I hadn’t talked to in years. I hadn’t told my parents, or Tilly, or anyone the truth. How could I? I could barely believe it myself. But seeing him in that chair as his dad rolled him up that ramp brought everything to a head. I’d done this to him. And I owed it to Jamie to at least try to be his friend.

He'd been my best friend, once, years before. I don’t know if he saw it that way, but back when we were kids, that’s how I thought of him. Jamie had moved in next door the summer before I started fourth grade. Even though he was a year older than me, we quickly became inseparable. We did everything and went everywhere together that summer. When school started, he made other friends, but we were still tight. Then, in middle school, it changed. Jamie started liking girls—specifically, girls who were not me. He joined the track team and started winning. By time we got to high school, Jamie was one of West Glenn’s elite.

And I was still . . . me.

About that time, our parents stopped being neighbors who were friends and started acting like neighbors who were barely friendly. This past summer, when the Mulligans put out the huge yard sign proudly proclaiming they were in the Fred Boyles for President camp, the line between our two families was openly drawn and the door to friendship firmly closed.

We heard that Mr. Mulligan got some big promotion and Mara got a new job selling real estate. It was her job that really made them rich, Mom said. Mara sold houses in the upscale part of town, and her beauty made her a real estate celebrity. When a shiny new luxury car ended up parked in the Mulligan’s driveway, my parents just rolled their eyes.

Mom and Dad had driven the same two ancient Volvo sedans since before I was born, enthusiastically proud of the six-figure mileage on both odometers. My parents were the kind of people who wouldn’t dare dress to impress; functionality was the name of the game. My mom wouldn’t be caught dead in the expensive outfits I’d seen Mara Mulligan wearing. Non-profit work didn’t require such attire, and tight budgets went with the territory. If it weren’t for my dearly departed grandparents, we’d never have been able to afford our house in Riverglenn. I didn’t know how much they’d left to their only son, but it was enough for us to live in a good school district and fill my college fund.

I never really knew them. A carbon monoxide accident killed Dad’s parents just months after Mom and Dad were married. Mom’s father had died when she was in college and then her mother had a heart attack when I was a baby. So, it had always been just the three of us, and we were pretty tight.

Keeping secrets together will do that.

• • • • •

I pulled the cookie sheet out of the oven and breathed in the warm, gooey smell of mint chocolate chip: Jamie’s favorite. They’d need some time to cool before I could wrap them up as a welcome home gift, so I grabbed a banana and my paperback of The Great Gatsby and headed to the front porch to catch up on my reading homework. The dark gray wood creaked under my shoes as I settled onto the top step and forced myself to choke down at least three bites of banana. The scale had informed me that morning that I’d lost ten pounds since Jamie’s accident. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d weighed under a hundred pounds, and Mom was starting to worry-nag about my food intake. So, I needed to intake some food.

That Saturday morning, the air was cool and crisp, like the first sip of autumn. The leaves on the trees were just starting to turn; first hints of yellow, orange, and red. Gray clouds hovered in a slightly ominous sky. The wind chilled my bare arms and goosebumps rippled across my skin. I should have grabbed my hoodie.

I tried to concentrate on Gatsby, but focus was hard. Horrible thoughts kept intervening and I put the book in my lap and took three long deep breaths. In slowly. Hold. Out slowly. It did make me feel calmer. My meditation app was the only thing that had kept me from having a screaming meltdown these last six weeks, but I continually felt like I rode on the knife’s edge of losing it.

As I opened my eyes, movement to my right pulled my attention. An elderly black man shuffled down the sidewalk towards our house, his white cane leading in mesmerizing sweeps. His neatly trimmed, white beard glowed against his dark brown skin. A well-worn Army jacket hung loose on his stooped shoulders and mirrored aviator glasses covered his eyes. He might have looked like a tough guy except that he had one of those faces that seemed perpetually friendly, even when not smiling.

As the man passed our house, he turned toward me and said, Good morning. I startled; surprised that he knew I was there. I automatically replied with a smile: Good morning! but my cheeks flamed with embarrassment, like he’d caught me staring. Maybe he wasn’t totally blind or were his other senses stronger because of the blindness? I’d heard about stuff like that.

The man’s smile widened. Without breaking stride, he lifted the hand not holding the cane and waved to me. Have a nice day, he called, moving on. I watched him as he passed the Mulligan’s house and continued down the street. Only when he reached the corner and turned left did my smile melt, my gaze landing on the pristine white siding of Jamie’s house. The Mulligan home was always freshly painted, the shutters and edging stark black. The paint on ours, and many houses in the neighborhood, didn’t receive such regular attention. The Mulligan’s landscaping and lawn were perfectly sculpted and edged, the splash of yellow flowers under the front windows gave the house a warm and welcoming glow. Mara made sure their house had curb appeal. It was a show house. Ours looked homier and more lived in, and while my parents did enough gardening and mowing to keep the outside looking tidy, our house would never be as beautiful as Jamie’s.

My eyes fell on the wooden ramp, out of place with its simple wooden structure. Another reminder of what I’d done to Jamie. To his whole family, really.

Dread dug a spike in my gut. I tried to return to my reading but Nick’s accounting of yet another wild party at Gatsby’s mansion wasn’t enough of a distraction.

Just get it over with.

I returned to the kitchen, breathing in the sweet, minty smell of my baking and lined a box I’d scrounged up from Mom’s gift wrap closet with tissue. I piled the cookies inside before tying the box with a thick green velvet ribbon. Pulling on my black hoodie and a matching beanie—I’d taken to wearing one all the time at that point—I checked my reflection in the downstairs bathroom mirror. I’d gone easy on the makeup this morning because the last time I’d been face-to-face with the Mulligans I wasn’t even allowed to wear lip gloss. Back then, I’d worn my mousy brown hair in two long, dark pigtails. I looked nothing like that girl now with the pink tips of my chin-length bob beneath the beanie.

My heart pounded as I picked up the box of cookies. I took three more deep breaths and then, microscopically less anxious, headed out the front door and marched across the lawn. Fingers of chilly air slithered under the front of my tee shirt. Each step puffed up memories as if I was walking through powdered time: Jamie and me in front of our garage playing four-square; running down the sidewalk in a race that Jamie always won, laying on the Mulligan’s sloping front grass talking about the shape of the clouds.

I stopped on the sidewalk at the base of the ramp, a lump clogging my throat. Oh, hell no, Calliope Littleton. You will not cry. I blinked violently. Talking to Jamie for the first time in five years would be hard enough; I didn’t need to look like a melted psychopath while doing it.

Trying not to look at the large Frank Boyles for President yard sign, I climbed the ramp, my high tops clomping loudly. Well, here goes nothing. The four-note time machine of the doorbell whisked me back to that day in fifth grade when Mr. Mulligan told me Jamie had gone to the movies with his girlfriend. He’d emphasized the word girlfriend to make sure I got the point. Then he had smiled and shut the door in my face.

The girlfriend turned out to be Jenna Hawkins—tall, blonde, tan. She was Captain of the West Glenn Middle School volleyball team and my complete physical opposite.

I wasn’t allowed a cell phone back then, so the only way Jamie and I communicated was on the landline or in person. Neither happened after the Jenna Hawkins date. I simply never heard from him again.

The front door swung open, and Mr. Mulligan stared down at me with eyes as cold as a lizard’s. His gaze flicked to my hair and traveled down to my thrashed, half untied, one-time-white high tops. I forced a smile and studied him back. Mr. Mulligan’s hair was grayer, his face thinner. There were new lines around his eyes. He’d always had a reptilian look I’d found creepy. Jamie’s looks were all Mara Mulligan, none of this dude. Flakes of dry skin dotted his forehead. I couldn’t believe Jamie’s mom didn’t help him moisturize or something. He probably believed face lotion wasn’t manly or something.

Why, Cal Littleton, he said, attempting to sound friendly, but his smile never quite made it out of sneer mode. Look at you.

Before I could respond, I was love-mauled by a Dalmatian. I hadn’t seen her snarling grin in so long and I’d missed it. If you didn’t know that some Dalmatians grinned, her greeting might terrify you, but I knew it was just her smile. I dropped down into a squat before she could knock me down, accepting her doggie kisses as warm nostalgia washed over me. Hey, Mavis! I rubbed her ears the way I knew she liked. When I stood again, Mavis jumped up and put her front paws on my chest, nearly knocking me over. Her long tail whipped back and forth, happily.

Mavis, get down, Mr. Mulligan barked. She reluctantly obeyed, settling at his right foot.

Is Jamie home? I asked, immediately regretting my words. God, what an idiot. It wasn’t like he was out running around with his friends, was he? Of course, he was home. I mean, um, I just thought I’d stop by. To visit.

Mavis whined. Even she could tell I was blowing it.

Mr. Mulligan glanced over his shoulder toward the dining room. Let me see—

Jeez, Dad! Let her in already!

The sound of Jamie’s voice sent a surge of adrenaline through me and set my stomach spinning. I wanted so badly to see him, yet it was all I could do not to run for home.

Mr. Mulligan stood back and held the door open in a reluctant invitation. I was shocked he was going to let Jamie get away with talking to him like that. Guess when you survive getting hit by a bus, your parents don’t go so hard on backtalk.

Being inside Jamie’s house felt surreal. I honestly never thought I’d ever be there again. The place looked different. I remembered it feeling warm and cozy, but the decor was now sleeker and more modern. The walls were painted a light gray and all the carpet had been replaced by hardwood floors. But the air still smelled like lavender and lemon, the signature scent of the Mulligan household and it triggered memories that connected past and present for me.

A high-backed dining chair stood against the far wall beside a glass-fronted wooden cabinet that contained stacks of plates and rows of glasses. On top of the cabinet, a silver tray held two crystal champagne flutes and a small glass vase filled with tiny orange and red flowers.

I remembered the Mulligan’s house always being neat and tidy. Mara didn’t like a mess, and the only one in sight now was a few college brochures strewn across the long dining room table in front of Jamie.

Hey, Cal! He beamed his orthodontia-perfected smile at me, welcoming me with a warmth I didn’t know what to do with.

Hey, I croaked, hoping my smile wouldn’t betray my anxiety. Despite the betrayal and anger I’d harbored for years, a big part of me missed Jamie terribly—and not just because I’d regretted losing the friendship of someone who’d become one of the most popular kids at our school. Nearly every girl (and a lot of the guys) considered him seriously hot. But I’d never thought about Jamie that way. He was my best friend. Which was why it was so ridiculous to think that we couldn’t hang out anymore just because he started dating Jenna. I’d always suspected it was about more than that. It was really about me being switcherborne.

Jamie looked thinner than when I’d seen him in the halls last spring; the last time I’d been anywhere near him IRL. We hadn’t been in the same room since the ghosting, and I couldn’t help but stare, my eyes drinking in every new detail of him: the reddish-blond stubble peppering his jawline. His Irish Setter puppy face, now with slightly less puppy. The slight bump on the bridge of his nose—that was new. As was the wavy, deep auburn hair that fell long and shaggy over eyes as gray as the sky outside. Last time I’d seen him, his hair was much shorter.

Mr. Mulligan gave Jamie’s shoulder a squeeze before slipping through the swinging door that led to the kitchen. That gentle touch was so out of character from the man I remembered that it made tears burn behind my eyes. Blinking them back, I raised the box of cookies. I come bearing mint chocolate chip. I stepped around the table to set the box in front of him.

Aw, Cal, you really didn’t—

It’s no big deal, I said, returning to the other end of the table. You were always a fan of Mom’s mint chocolate chip cookies. I used her recipe.

The unspoken and it’s been a while since you had them hung in the air between us. Jamie tugged the ribbon loose and opened the box, breathing in that warm cookie smell. His eyes closed and he moaned. Oh yeah. Still a fan.

As he took a cookie from the box, I cleared my throat. Look, I just wanted to say how sorry I am. About what happened. To you. With the accident, and all. My mouth felt all rubbery and the words blurted out in spurts. Jeez, Cal, get it together.

Not like it was your fault, he shrugged.

The knot in my stomach tightened.

He took a bite and moaned. God, these are so good! Ah shit, I’m rude. You wanna sit down?

Thanks, but it looks like you’re busy, I don’t want to interrupt. I nodded toward the mess of college brochures in front of him. I thought you’d already committed to— The words were out of my mouth before my brain could check them for idiocy. The whole school knew Jamie had been offered a full-ride scholarship last spring when he brought home the state trophy for the third year in a row.

A full-ride track scholarship.

Oh, God, I — I stammered.

Don’t worry about it. He waved me off as if it was no big thing that his future was shot to shit. They withdrew the scholarship, for obvious reasons, Jamie continued, patting the arm of his wheelchair with a tight smile. "But