Chapter 3

I wake up as Chloe again, and I'm already done with it.

The canopy bed is warm, the floral bedding soft against her shins. My shins. Chloe's shins. The body is light and small, my chest rising under a thin white sleep tank. The room smells like peony body spray and clean laundry, and I can hear the furnace running. My hand finds her phone on the nightstand. Six forty-two. The house is quiet.

I want Sophie. Not in some vague way. I want the lean legs and the sharp jaw and the way she cracks her knuckles when she's bored. I want to be the one who rolls her eyes at Mom and then feels that little twist of wanting her approval anyway. Chloe's body is nice. Soft, pretty, easy to wear. But Sophie's body is a challenge, and I'm bored of soft.

I get up quietly. Chloe's feet are bare and small, and the floor is cold. I grab a lavender sleep set from the drawer—cotton shorts, a little camisole—and pull it on over nothing. The fabric is soft against her skin, and I tie the drawstring. I don't bother with a bra. This body doesn't need one to leave the room.

I open the door and step into the hall. Sophie's door is closed. I know her routine: she'll be out in ten minutes to shower, then she'll come back and dress, then she'll go downstairs. I could wait. But I don't want to.

I go back into Chloe's room and stand by the door, leaving it open a few inches. I pretend to fiddle with my phone, waiting. Through the gap, I can see Sophie's door.

At 6:52, it opens.

Sophie steps out in an oversized gray sleep shirt and sleep shorts. Her hair is down and a little tangled, her face still soft with sleep. She's taller than me—taller than Chloe—and her legs are long and pale and lean, with muscle in the calves even at rest. She yawns, and I hear her crack her neck.

I step out of Chloe's room and bump into her. Deliberately. My hand catches her wrist.

"Hey. Watch it." Her voice is low and rough with sleep, but still hers.

I grip her wrist. Skin to skin. I focus, and the want sharpens.

The world goes white.

It's an electric shock at the point of contact, a yank so sharp it folds me through the space between her wrist and my fingers. For a heartbeat I'm nowhere. Then I flood into Sophie.

The first breath tastes like cucumber mint and dry hallway air and the last trace of sleep. My shoulders are wider. My legs longer. The floor is farther away. I'm standing taller, and my chest has a different weight—smaller than Denise's, firmer than Chloe's. The gray sleep shirt hangs loose over my hips. My hair is down, long and auburn, and it brushes my bare arms.

I open my eyes. Chloe is standing in front of me, her hand still on my wrist. But her hand relaxes. Her eyes blink, and then she looks at me with a knowing tilt. She's me now—a clone, in Chloe's body, with Chloe's memories and my core.

"Morning," she says, in Chloe's light, breathy voice.

I nod. My voice comes out lower, clipped. "Yeah."

She drops my wrist and goes back into Chloe's room, closing the door. I hear the soft click.

I'm Sophie. I'm in her body, in the upstairs hallway, wearing her sleep clothes. The house is waking up. I can smell coffee from downstairs.

I go into Sophie's room and close the door.

The room is dim, the curtains half-drawn. The bed is unmade, a gray comforter kicked to the foot, a pile of throw blankets on the floor. The walls are light gray with volleyball posters and a string of tournament photos. My volleyball—Sophie's volleyball—sits in the corner. The whiteboard on the door lists the practice schedule and the countdown to April 28th in red marker: twelve days. I look at it, and the stressor settles in my chest. The scout will be there. Her nerves are mine now.

I sit on the edge of the bed. The mattress dips under my weight. Sophie's weight. I'm taller, and my legs dangle differently. I crack my knuckles without thinking—it's a quick, sharp release, and the sound is satisfying. I do it again. I feel the bones pop in Sophie's fingers. Mine now.

I need to shower and dress for school.

I go to the bathroom and lock the door. The hot water hits my shoulders, and I have to adjust the shower head lower—Sophie is taller than Chloe but shorter than the door. The water runs over my stomach, and I feel the difference immediately. Chloe's stomach was soft. Denise's was softer. Sophie's stomach is flat, with a suggestion of muscle underneath. When I turn to reach for the shampoo, my obliques tighten. I press a hand to my belly. It's firm. It's mine.

I wash quickly with Sophie's cucumber mint body wash. The scent is light and clean. After, I wrap a towel around my chest—moderate, teardrop-shaped breasts, higher than Denise's, firmer than Chloe's. The towel wraps tighter around my waist.

I go back to Sophie's room to dress.

The boyshorts pull up smooth over my hips. The nude bra hooks in front, then I spin it around—Sophie's muscle memory. The white tee settles over my chest, fitted but not tight, and the high-waisted shorts button at my waist. They're snug at the hips and loose through the leg. I sit on the bed to pull on the socks and step into the platform sneakers. The extra inch makes me taller, and I like it.

I put in the silver hoops, fasten the black cord bracelet, and clasp the chain with the number 7 around my neck. It's cold against my collarbone for a second, then warm.

I catch myself in the mirror on the closet door. Sophie. Tall. Lean. A narrow waist that flares into athletic hips. Long legs in denim shorts. The white tee does nothing to hide the shape of my chest. My face is sharp: green eyes, freckles across my nose, the scar through my left eyebrow. I look like someone who would tell a teacher to back off. I crack my knuckles again, just to feel it.

Downstairs, the kitchen smells like coffee and toast. Denise is at the counter, spreading butter on a bagel. She looks up as I come in.

"Morning, Sophie."

I grunt. "Morning."

She narrows her eyes. "You're up early."

I shrug, sliding into a chair. "Couldn't sleep."

Chloe comes down a few minutes later, dressed in her cream knit top and pleated lavender skirt, hair in a low ponytail. She gives me a small smile and takes her seat. Lily barrels in after her, already in a pink dress and leggings, holding a crayon drawing. Mia slumps in last, hair half-up, sketchbook under her arm.

The morning is ordinary and loud. Mia asks if I've seen her hair clip. Lily sings to herself. Denise asks me to pass the juice. I do it without comment. Chloe watches me with that little knowing look, but she doesn't say anything.

At 7:20, I grab my black backpack and head out. Sophie's backpack is heavy with textbooks and a laptop. The straps dig into my shoulders a little. I notice the difference: my shoulders are broader, more square, and the bag sits differently than it did on Chloe's sloping frame.

The walk to the bus stop is cold. I pass a car parked at the curb and catch my reflection in the window. A tall girl in denim shorts and white sneakers, auburn hair pulled into a high ponytail, chin up, shoulders back. That's me. The morning light is gray, and my breath fogs in the cold. I crack my knuckles.

The bus comes at 7:32. I find a seat in the middle, next to a girl from my history class whose name I know—Kayla. She's wearing a puffer vest and earbuds. I don't say anything. Sophie wouldn't. I scroll on my phone, looking at college recruit pages. The qualifier is twelve days away. The scout will be there. The thought makes my stomach tighten. Sophie's stomach. I can feel her nerves humming under the surface, but I'm not nervous. I'm excited. This body is built for it.

The school is a squat brick building with a cracked front walk. I know every corridor, every locker, every teacher's name. Sophie's memories are just there. I walk to my locker and spin the combination without thinking. The door opens. I swap books, grab a granola bar, and head to first period.

Emma catches up with me in the hallway. She's tall, a little taller than me, with curly brown hair pulled back in a loose bun. She's wearing a volleyball warm-up jacket and leggings, and her smile is bright even at 8 a.m.

"Hey, Soph. You look better than yesterday."

"Do I?" My voice comes out dry. "Thanks for the update."

Emma laughs. "There she is." She bumps my shoulder with hers. The contact is easy, familiar. Sophie's body knows this. My mind registers it as new—a casual, warm pressure that I never got as a guy. I don't lean away.

"Where's my hoodie, by the way?" I ask. I know Emma borrowed it last week. Sophie would ask.

Emma rolls her eyes. "In my car. I'll bring it tomorrow."

"You said that yesterday."

"I said I'd try."

"Trying's not bringing it."

Emma grins. "Okay, okay. Tomorrow. Promise."

The banter flows easily. I can feel Sophie's affection for Emma—a steady, uncomplicated thing—and her impatience too. Emma is sunny and a little forgetful, and Sophie loves her for it but also wants to shake her. I don't shake her. I just nod and keep walking.

First period is calculus. I'm not great at it, but Sophie is solid. I take notes with her handwriting—messier than Chloe's, quick and angular. I chew on the end of my pen. I don't raise my hand. Sophie doesn't. She sits in the back and observes.

Second period is English. The teacher calls on me to read a passage, and I read it in Sophie's voice—medium, clear, a little flat. It's weird hearing her voice come out of my throat. I linger on the last word just to feel it. No one notices.

At lunch, I sit with Emma and three other girls from the team—Jenna, Becca, and Sarah. They're all in volleyball gear or athleisure. The table is loud, and I lean back in my chair, letting Sophie's posture take over: one arm over the back, legs stretched out, chin tilted. I don't say much, but when I do, it lands. A dry comment about the cafeteria pizza gets a laugh. I feel the satisfaction of Sophie's social position. She's not the most popular girl in school, but she's respected. She's the one people look to for a straight answer.

"You nervous about the qualifier?" Jenna asks, picking at a salad.

I shrug. "It's just another game."

Becca snorts. "With a scout there."

"So? He's just a guy with a clipboard."

Emma looks at me. "You say that now."

I crack my knuckles. "I'll say it after too."

The table laughs. But I can feel the truth under Sophie's bravado: she wants that scholarship. She needs it. The fear is a live wire under the confidence.

Afternoon practice is in the gym. The floors are glossy and the air smells like sweat and rubber. I change into Sophie's practice gear in the locker room.

I pull the sports bra over my head and adjust it. It's tight and compressive, flattening Sophie's chest to a small, high mound. The tank top hangs loose over my stomach. The spandex shorts grip my thighs and curve over my hips. I feel powerful. Lean. I do a quick squat to test the range. My quads flex.

On the court, Coach Hayes runs us through drills. Serves, digs, sets, spikes. Sophie's body knows exactly what to do. My serve is hard and flat, hitting the back line. My approach to the net is explosive—two steps, plant, jump, and I'm higher than I've ever been in any body. My hand connects with the ball and it slams down inside the line. The sound echoes.

Emma grins at me from the other side. "There she is!"

I wipe sweat from my forehead with the sweatband. My heart is pounding, and I can feel it in my throat. Sophie's lungs are strong. Her legs don't tire. I'm aware of the muscle in my calves and the power in my shoulders. This body is a weapon.

Between drills, I stand with Emma and drink from my water bottle. The gym is loud—squeaking shoes, Coach's whistle. Emma's face is red, and her curly hair is escaping her bun.

"How's the ankle?" I ask. I know she rolled it last week.

Emma shrugs. "Better. I taped it."

"You need to sit out, tell Coach."

"I'm fine." She bumps my shoulder again. "Worry about yourself, Hartley."

I don't. I'm not worried. I'm having fun. The stressor is there, but it's distant, a future thing.

After practice, I shower in the locker room with the other girls. The hot water runs over my shoulders and down my back. I'm aware of my nakedness—Sophie's nakedness—but it's just a body in a row of bodies. The other girls talk about the qualifier, about classes, about a party this weekend. I don't say much. I just listen.

I dress in the shorts and tee from this morning and head out. Emma walks with me to the parking lot.

"Hey," she says, "you're quiet today."

"Just tired."

"Okay." She studies me for a second. "You'd tell me if something was up, right?"

I nod. "Yeah."

She smiles. "Good. See you tomorrow."

I walk home. The afternoon is gray and cold. My legs are long and I walk fast. Sophie's stride eats the sidewalk. I pass a bus stop and see my reflection in the shelter glass. A tall girl with a high ponytail, denim shorts, white sneakers. Her face is serious, but there's an edge of confidence. That's me. I crack my knuckles and keep walking.

At home, I go straight to my room and drop my backpack. The countdown on the whiteboard is still there. Twelve days. I touch it with one finger.

I go downstairs for dinner. Denise has made a casserole. Chloe is setting the table, Mia is talking about her art portfolio, and Lily is reciting her play lines.

I sit down. Sophie's chair. I reach for the water pitcher and pour myself a glass.

Denise says, "Sophie, can you pass the rolls?"

I do. My arm moves easily.

"Thank you," she says.

I shrug. "Whatever."

Denise's jaw tightens. "I'd appreciate it if you didn't do that."

"Do what?"

"That." She sets down her fork. "The 'whatever.' It's dismissive."

I feel Sophie's irritation spike. It's hot and immediate, and I lean into it. "It's just a word, Mom."

"It's an attitude."

I roll my eyes. I feel them move, and I know exactly how it looks. Sophie has done this a thousand times. I'm doing it now. "Okay, then. I'll say 'absolutely, Mother.' Better?"

Chloe looks down at her plate. Mia shrinks. Lily keeps singing, oblivious.

Denise's voice is calm, but there's an edge. "Sophie June. We don't talk like that at this table."

I push my chair back. "Fine. Can I be excused?"

"No."

I sit back down, but I don't eat. I crack my knuckles under the table. The sound is loud in the quiet.

The rest of dinner is awkward. Denise tries to engage Mia about her portfolio, but the air is thick. I don't look at her. I can feel Sophie's resentment, and I don't fight it. But underneath, there's a twist. She wants Denise to approve of her. She wants her mom to see the hard work. Instead, she gets corrected for a word.

After dinner, I go upstairs. Mia follows me.

"Sophie?"

"What?"

She's holding something in her hand. My silver hoop earring. "I found this in my room. I borrowed it last week, I think. Sorry."

I take it from her. Sophie's annoyance flares. "You think? You just took them?"

"I forgot to ask. I'm sorry."

I look at her. She's thirteen, and she looks genuinely nervous. The protective part of Sophie kicks in, and I feel it in my chest. "Next time, ask."

"I will." She hesitates. "You're not mad?"

"I'm annoyed. But I'm not going to murder you. Just—ask, okay?"

She nods, and then she hugs me, quick and tight. Her hair smells like lavender. "Thanks, Soph."

I pat her back awkwardly. "Yeah, whatever."

She laughs and goes to her room. I close my door.

My room. Sophie's room. The dim light, the gray walls, the volleyball in the corner. I lock the door. The click is soft.

I strip off my shorts and tee. My bra and boyshorts come off too. I stand naked in front of the closet mirror.

Sophie's body. My body now.

I'm tall. Five-seven, with long limbs. My shoulders are square and defined. My waist is narrow. My hips are curved but athletic. My legs are long and lean, with muscle in the thighs and calves. My stomach is flat, and when I flex, I can see the faint lines of my abs. I have breasts—moderate, teardrop, sitting high. My skin is fair with freckles across my nose and shoulders. I have a scar through my left eyebrow.

I touch it. The scar. Sophie's childhood fall. I know the story. I was there—no, Sophie was there. She was six, chasing Chloe, and she tripped on the porch stairs.

I run my hands over my shoulders, my arms. The muscle is there, but it's lean, not bulky. I'm soft in the right places. I cup my breasts. They're firmer than Chloe's, smaller than Denise's. The nipples tighten under my palms. A breath catches in my throat.

I turn. My back is smooth, my waist dipping in. I have a volleyball player's butt—toned, lifted. I flex. The muscles respond.

This body is the opposite of Denise's. Denise was soft and full and carried her weight low. Chloe was delicate and small and light. Sophie is powerful. She could run for miles. She could jump. She could spike a ball at my face.

I sit on the bed. The gray comforter is soft under my bare thighs. I touch my legs, tracing the muscle in my calves, the smooth skin of my shins. My feet are clean, nails unpainted. Sophie doesn't do nail polish.

I go to the closet. The wardrobe is sporty and casual. I pull out the rust-colored floral wrap dress—her favorite. I step into it, tie the waist. It fits perfectly. The fabric is soft and light, and the skirt swirls around my knees. I look in the mirror. A girl in a dress, but with an athlete's shoulders and a sharp jaw. I like it.

I put the dress back and pull on Sophie's worn gray volleyball hoodie. It's soft and smells like her—cucumber mint and clean sweat. The number on the back is 7. I zip it halfway. Nothing underneath. The hoodie hangs to my hips, and the sleeves are long. I catch my reflection. Cozy. Cute.

I stay in the hoodie. I sit at her desk, cluttered with school papers and a laptop. I open the laptop. College recruit pages. The qualifier is in twelve days. The scout. I close the laptop.

I lie on the bed. The ceiling is gray. Sophie's music is my music now. I put in earbuds and play the playlist she always uses before games. Loud, fast, driving. I close my eyes.

The house settles. I can hear Mia moving around in her room, Lily's voice somewhere downstairs, Denise and Chloe talking in low tones. They're all separate now, each instance of me living a different part of this family.

I'm Sophie. I'm the middle child. I'm the athlete. I'm the one who cracks her knuckles and rolls her eyes and secretly wants her mom to be proud.

I pull the gray comforter up over my legs. My chest rises and falls under the hoodie. The bed smells like Sophie.

I close my eyes. I'm Sophie.