Chapter 4: The Soft Weight of Thirteen

The math paper is still in my hand.

I stare at it for a second. Fractions, with little flowers drawn in the margin, the petals smudged where Mia's palm rested. My hand now. Smaller than Sophie's, shorter fingers, the pencil callus on my middle finger almost invisible. There's a training bra on under my shirt—my shirt, Mia's shirt—and the elastic sits snug against my ribcage in a way Sophie's sports bra never did.

"See? You flip the second fraction." The words come out before I decide to say them, and the voice stops me. Soft. A little high-pitched. Breathless at the end, like it's always running out of air. Mia's voice. Mine now.

Lily, next to me on the living room floor, doesn't look up. She's coloring a unicorn, her tongue poking out between her lips. Her hair is honey blonde, in pigtails, and she smells like strawberry shampoo. She's humming something off-key—the same tune Denise hums, the tune I hummed when I was Denise. I'd forgotten that.

Sophie is on the couch. The body I was in an hour ago. She's watching me with that edge, the green eyes sharp, like she knows exactly what I'm doing and finds it funny. She's me. The clone. Her mouth twitches.

"Math go okay?" Sophie asks, and there's something in her voice—dry, amused. She knows the transfer happened. She felt me leave her.

"Yeah," I say in Mia's voice. "I think she's got it."

Lily beams. The gap between her front teeth shows. "Mia's good at math now!"

Sophie snorts. "Since when?"

I shrug. Mia's shoulders, narrow and soft. "Since today."

The moment stretches. Sophie looks at me a beat too long, then back at her phone. Chloe is somewhere in the kitchen—I can hear the clink of a mug. Denise's voice drifts in, warm and steady, saying something about dinner. The house smells like cut grass and the faint lavender of Mia's body mist on my own skin. My skin.

I get up. My legs are shorter now; the floor is closer. I sway once, adjusting to the new center of gravity—not as athletic as Sophie's, softer, with a lower pull at my hips. The tiered skirt I'm wearing—Mia's skirt, from before the transfer—swishes against my thighs. I'm not used to it yet. I like it.

Upstairs, the peach room is exactly as I remember from Mia's profile. The fairy lights are on, glowing gold against the walls. Drawings cover every surface, taped and pinned and overlapping. The twin bed with the iron frame, the mint-and-peach quilt. The easel by the window, a half-finished sketch still clipped to it. The desk crowded with sketchbooks and colored pencils and a laptop. The air is lavender and paper and something soft, like vanilla.

I close the door. The click is quiet.

I sit on the bed. The quilt is soft under my hands, and I can feel the stitching of the flowers through the fabric. My chest rises and falls. The training bra shifts with it, the elastic damp at the center of my back. I'm in her room. My room now.

Holy shit, I think. I'm thirteen.

The thought makes me laugh—a quick, breathy sound in Mia's voice, almost a giggle. It's absurd. I'm a twenty-year-old consciousness in a thirteen-year-old's body, sitting on a bed with fairy lights and a stuffed animal by the pillow. A stuffed rabbit with floppy ears. I reach over and touch it. The fur is soft and worn.

The fairy lights blur for a second. I blink. The room is quiet. From somewhere downstairs, Lily's voice rises, then Denise's calm answer.

I stand up and go to the easel. The sketch clipped there is a girl with wings, standing on a cliff, looking at the moon. The lines are delicate, the shading careful. Mia's hand drew this. My hand now. I trace the edge of the paper with my finger. The graphite smudges a little.

Then I go to the mirror on the closet door.

The girl looking back is soft. Strawberry blonde hair, wavy, held back by a small flower clip at the temple. Blue-gray eyes, big and dreamy, with a few pale freckles across the nose. A dimple on the right cheek, not showing now. She's pretty in a shy way, like she'd rather be drawing than being looked at.

I lift my hand. She lifts hers. I touch my face. The skin is warm and smooth, and the light from the fairy lamps makes everything soft, like a dream.

"Hi," I say, and her lips move, and the voice comes out soft. "Hi, Mia."

The name belongs to her. The voice belongs to me.

I spend a long time at the mirror. My hands learn the shape of my shoulders, the soft curve of my waist, the way my hips fill the skirt. I'm smaller than I was as Sophie, smaller than Chloe, smaller than Denise. The world feels bigger. The room feels bigger. I feel like I could float.

Later, after I've changed into the cream peasant blouse and the mint-and-peach floral skirt, after I've undone the training bra and felt the cool air on my chest—small, round, high-set, just beginning to fill out—and after my own breath has gone fast and soft in the quiet room, I lie on the bed and let the fairy lights blur again. The peak comes like a wave, sharp and then gentle, and afterward the room smells like lavender and me.

Sunday passes like a held breath.

I wake up in Mia's bed, the quilt twisted around my legs, and for a second I don't remember which body I'm in. Then I move, and the smallness comes back—the narrow shoulders, the soft thighs, the way my feet don't reach the footboard. I stretch, and my spine pops, and the sound is small and satisfying.

At breakfast, the kitchen is bright and loud. Denise is at the stove, flipping pancakes. Chloe is at the table with her laptop. Sophie is hunched over her phone. Lily is coloring at the counter. I slide into my chair—Mia's chair—and feel the cool wood through my thin cotton pajama shorts.

"Morning, sweetheart," Denise says without turning. Her voice is warm, that steady alto.

"Morning, Mom," I say, and the word comes out natural, in Mia's soft voice.

Sophie glances at me over her phone. Her eyes flick to my face, then away. She knows I'm not Mia—she's me. But she doesn't say anything. She's playing her part.

Lily holds up her drawing. "Mia, look! I drew a butterfly!"

"That's so pretty, Lily-bug," I say, and the words are Mia's, and the affection in them is real. Mia's love for Lily is a warm, complicated thing—protective, a little jealous—and I feel it rise in my chest and come out of my mouth without effort.

Lily beams. The gap in her teeth shows.

After breakfast, I help Denise clear the table. The dishes are warm from the sink. My hands move in the soapy water, small and sure. Denise's shoulder brushes mine as she dries.

"You've been quiet this weekend," she says softly.

I keep my eyes on the plate in my hand. "Just thinking about the portfolio."

The lie settles. Denise's face softens. "You've got time, sweetheart. And you're so talented. I've seen your sketchbooks."

The warmth in her voice lands in my chest. Mia's love for her mom, tinged with worry that she's a burden. I let it sit there.

"I know," I say. "I'll figure it out."

That night, I lie in bed and listen to the house settle. Sophie's music through the wall, faint and thumping. Lily's door opening and closing. Denise's footsteps, soft, going down the hall. I'm in the middle of it all, in the smallest room, under the fairy lights, and for a long moment I just breathe.

Monday morning, the alarm on Mia's phone goes off at 6:45. The screen glows on the nightstand. I reach for it with her hand. The passcode is the same as Mia's—I know it the way I know my own. 6:45. School.

I shower in the upstairs bathroom. The water is warm, and Mia's shampoo is lavender and something sweet. The lather is soft in my hair, and when I rinse, the water runs down the curve of my back. The body is still new, still settling. I wrap the towel around myself—smaller now, the towel nearly swallows me—and stand in front of the steamy mirror.

The girl in the glass is soft and pink from the heat. Her hair is dripping, darker when wet. I touch the dimple on her cheek, and it appears when I smile.

Then I dress. I pull on the mint green skater dress, soft cotton, spinning a little when I turn. The cream cardigan, buttoned only once. White canvas sneakers, a little scuffed at the toes. The charm bracelet with the star, sliding onto my wrist.

Downstairs, the routine is familiar. Lunches are packed. Backpacks by the door. Lily is in her unicorn pajamas, yawning. Sophie is already gone—early practice. Chloe gives me a quick smile.

"Have a good day, Mia," she says, and the affection in her voice is Chloe's, warm and sisterly.

"Thanks, Chloe," I say.

The bus comes at 7:20. The stop is two blocks away. I walk in the spring morning, the air cool and damp, the skater dress swishing around my thighs. The backpack is light on my shoulders—Mia's canvas one with the embroidered flowers.

Maplewood Middle School is a low brick building with a flagpole and a big front lawn. The bus pulls up, and I get off, and Zoe is waiting by the front steps.

She's smaller than I expected—petite, with shoulder-length brown hair tucked behind her ears. She's wearing a yellow cardigan over a white tee, and her jeans are rolled at the cuffs. She grins when she sees me.

"Mia! I was starting to think you'd been abducted."

"Just the bus," I say, and Mia's voice comes out breathy, a little rushed. "It was so slow."

"That's a thing." Zoe falls into step beside me. Her shoulder brushes mine, light and warm. "Did you finish the history questions?"

"Mostly." The word comes out with a small, apologetic tilt, like Mia's not sure. I am sure. Mia did the homework. I remember it, the way I remember her passcode and her coffee order. But the hesitation is Mia's, and it comes out naturally.

Zoe bumps my arm. "You always say that and then you have everything done."

The warmth of it—the easy, uncomplicated friendship—settles in my chest. I've been Denise's daughter, Chloe's sister, Sophie's rival, and now I'm Zoe's best friend. The platonic warmth is different at thirteen. Softer. Closer.

The day is a blur of classes. The teachers' voices, the chalk dust, the smell of floor wax and pencil shavings. I sit in Mia's classes and take notes in her loopy handwriting. I answer questions in her soft voice. At lunch, Zoe and I sit at the art club table, and the three other girls—I don't know their names, but Mia does, and I answer when they talk to me—fill the space with chatter about a webcomic and a boy in their English class and a teacher who gives too much homework.

I mostly listen. Mia listens. She's the quiet one, the one who draws while the others talk. I pull out the sketchbook from my backpack and open it to a half-finished drawing of a tree with a door in its trunk. My pencil moves without me telling it to. The line comes out sure, and I watch the tree grow under Mia's hand. My hand.

"That's so good," Zoe says softly, leaning over. Her hair brushes my cheek. "You're going to get into the program for sure."

The words land in my stomach, warm and tight at the same time. The portfolio. The deadline. May 10th. I'm supposed to be nervous about it. Mia is nervous about it. I can feel the flutter behind my ribs—a small, anxious thing, like a bird.

"I don't know," I say, and the doubt in my voice is real. It's Mia's doubt, but I'm the one carrying it.

Tuesday, art club.

The art room is at the back of the school, past the gym, with big windows that let in the late afternoon light. The tables are long and paint-stained, and the walls are covered with student work. Zoe is already there, setting up her watercolor tray. The three other girls—I know their names now, Maya and Erin and Priya—are clustered around a table, laughing about something.

I sit at my usual spot. The easel by the window is mine—Mia's—and the teacher, Ms. Delgado, is at the front of the room, talking quietly to a student. The assignment today is to work on independent projects. The portfolio.

I set up my supplies. The charcoal, the graphite pencils, the eraser. My hands move with Mia's precision, laying out the tools in the order she always uses. The smell of the room—chalk, paint, the faint citrus of someone's cleaning spray—is familiar.

I choose a fresh sheet of paper and start to draw.

The subject is a girl with wings, like the one on Mia's easel at home. But this time, the wings are open, and the girl is looking not at the moon but at her own hands, as if she's just realized she can fly. The lines come out sure and soft. My hand knows how to shade the feathers, how to give the girl's face just the right amount of wonder. The graphite smudges on the side of my palm, gray against Mia's pale skin.

The deadline sits in the back of my mind like a stone. May 10th. I'm supposed to be afraid I'm not good enough. I am, a little. But more than that, I'm proud. This is good. I'm making it good. The drawing is almost alive under my hand.

Zoe leans over from the next table. "Mia, that's incredible."

I glance up. Her face is open, warm. The other girls turn to look. Maya, Erin, Priya. They're all watching me now.

"Thanks," I say, and Mia's voice is soft, but inside I'm grinning. The gap between what they see—a shy, talented eighth grader—and what I know—a twenty-year-old man making art with a thirteen-year-old's hands—is electric.

Wednesday and Thursday pass in the same rhythm. School, lunch with Zoe, art club on Thursday, homework, dinner at 6:30. The week folds into itself, and I settle deeper into Mia's body. The smallness stops feeling strange. The training bra stops being a constant awareness. The voice stops surprising me when I speak.

I work on the webcomic at night, alone in Mia's room. The laptop glows on the desk. The webcomic is called The Girl Who Drew the Moon, and it's about a girl who discovers she can draw things into existence. The latest page is half-finished. I stare at the screen, and Mia's fingers find the keys, and the dialogue comes out in her voice—in my head, at least. I type a line: I didn't ask for this. But I'm not giving it back.

The words echo. I think about the original Mia, dormant somewhere inside this body. She'd probably laugh at that line. Or maybe she'd nod and keep drawing.

Friday comes.

The tension with Sophie surfaces at dinner. I'm sitting across from her, in Mia's usual spot. She's been quiet all week, but now she's watching me with that edge, and I know why. The bracelet.

"You borrowed my black cord bracelet again," Sophie says flatly. Her green eyes are on my wrist.

I look down. The silver charm bracelet is there, Mia's own. But Sophie means the black cord one, the volleyball one. Mia took it. I remember—Mia's hand reaching into Sophie's drawer, the impulse, the way she always forgets to ask. I'm wearing it now, over the charm bracelet, hidden under the sleeve of my cardigan.

"I was going to give it back," I say, and Mia's voice comes out small, defensive.

"You always say that." Sophie's tone is sharp. "And then you lose it and act like it's my fault for being upset."

The table goes quiet. Denise looks between us. Chloe touches her beauty mark. Lily watches with wide eyes.

The hurt rises in my chest—Mia's hurt, the sting of Sophie's rejection, the old pattern. But underneath it, something else. I'm the one wearing the bracelet. I'm the one who took it, as Mia, because Mia always takes it. And Sophie—the clone—knows exactly what's happening. She's playing the part. She's pushing the buttons.

"I won't lose it," I say. The words are quiet. I slide the bracelet off my wrist, under the table, and hold it out to her. "Here. I'm sorry."

Sophie hesitates. Her eyes flick to mine. For a second, the edge softens—just a fraction—and I see myself in her, seeing myself in me. Then she takes the bracelet.

"Just ask next time," she says.

"I will."

The moment passes. Denise exhales. Chloe changes the subject. Lily starts telling a story about a bug.

That night, in Mia's room, I sit at the desk and look at the drawing of the girl with wings. It's finished now, clipped to the easel. The portfolio is almost ready. The deadline is still two weeks away, but the work is done. I did it.

I think about the transfer. The week is almost over. Tomorrow, Saturday, I'll touch Lily's hand and leave this body. I'll become the youngest, the sunniest, the one who is loved without complication. The longing is already turning that way. It's always turning.

But tonight, I'm still Mia. I lie on the bed under the fairy lights, and my hand moves over the softness of my stomach, and the breath in my chest goes shallow and fast. The peak comes quiet, and afterward the room is very still.

Saturday afternoon.

The living room is soft with late light. Lily is on the floor, coloring, her crayons spread across the coffee table. The house is quiet. Sophie is at a friend's, Chloe is at the café, Denise is in the garden. It's just the two of us.

I sit down on the floor next to Lily. The carpet is soft, and the coffee table is at the perfect height for an eight-year-old. For me now, too.

Lily holds up a drawing. A stick figure with long hair and a crown. "It's you, Mia! A princess!"

"That's so pretty, Lily-bug," I say. The words are Mia's, soft and warm.

Lily beams. The gap in her front teeth shows. She goes back to coloring, her tongue poking out.

I watch her for a long moment. The light catches the honey blonde of her hair. She's humming again—that off-key tune. The one Denise hums. The one I hummed as Denise.

The wanting is there, sharp and warm behind my sternum. She's the next one. The youngest. The most uncomplicated. I could stay in Mia's body for another week, finish the portfolio, submit it, live the tender middle-child life a little longer. But the longing is already pulling forward. It's time.

I reach over and touch her hand.

The contact is skin to skin. Her fingers are small and warm, a little sticky from the crayons. The point of contact is the back of her hand, right over the knuckle of her index finger. I can feel the faint pulse under her skin.

The transfer starts before I finish the thought.

The jolt hits at the point of contact. Electric, sharp, folding the world down into that single inch of skin. Mia's body goes slack and far away. I feel myself pulled through—