Chapter 14: 6:00. Dance Of The Hours

The meeting took up pretty much the first half of Monday. We avoided the cafeteria and ordered in for lunch, but we all had classes later. I didn't want to go, but I'd have to do this sooner or later; I couldn't miss too many classes, even the generals. (Not that I didn't nervously game out a plan to feign illness, switch all my classes online, and never leave the dorm room - but they'd never buy it, even if we hadn't already confessed to the faculty.)

Tammy wound me after lunch, and I headed off to class. It was different going out like this on my daily routine; the furtive trips over the weekend to secure necessities and move our stuff were one thing, but here I was, going to one of my classes in place of Stuart the human male; not trying to stay under the radar and pass for some anonymous demi-human in a crowd, but intending (if I could work up the nerve) to admit that this was me, for now...

As I stepped out of the women's dorm onto the quad, I felt like the eyes of the entire world were trained on me. Not that this was literally true - but then, this thing that I had become was unusual even by demi-human standards. Just by existing, I was a novelty and a curiosity, even to people who didn't study these things. Like yesterday, people were definitely staring, and there were more than a few whispers.

Despite my classmates' advice, I couldn't help wondering what they were saying, what they were thinking about me. Did they know? Were Tammy and Emma right about my body language? Was that something only other girls would pick up on? What about the guys? Were they perceiving me as some cross-dressing mechanical freak, or as a...a pretty young demi-human woman...? Which would be worse?

I was immensely self-conscious about my movements. Whether or not Tammy was right about body language, at least I didn't notice. But it was hard to miss how every swing of the limbs and turn of the head was divided into many infinitesimal but discrete increments, metered out with each swing of the escapement on my mainspring. How did that look to other people - to humans, humanoids, organic life-forms? Was it creepy and unsettling, like cheap stop-motion? Or just strange? Where did I fall around the Uncanny Valley?

Really, that went for my whole appearance. I was a simulacrum, an artificial mimicry of a human being, a puppet trying to pass as a person. For God's sake, I was a metal shell with felt "skin" in the shape of a woman, around a clatter of clockwork mechanisms, with a big-ass winding key jutting from my back. More conventional robots sometimes had to deal with people being freaked out by them, even the really humanlike ones; how much more freakish must I look? Or was I too artificial even for that, seen only as a thing and not a person...?

I brooded over it all the way to class, where I switched to worrying about going through with this. I didn't want to, I really didn't want to - but there was no good way around it. I couldn't switch to "distance learning" on short notice, I couldn't even leave the dorms without finding someone else to wind me every few hours, and I couldn't afford to miss classes if I wanted to keep my grades up. I had to do this; and I found I was already inside, having taken my seat on auto-pilot as I had every other Monday afternoon this semester.

Some of my classmates in freshman comp were already there, and I definitely made an impression. Some were less shocked than others - they'd probably seen me around campus that weekend - but they were still surprised. The instructor came in late, as usual, clearly frazzled from grading; her eyes widened when she saw me, but she said nothing. It wasn't until a couple minutes in, while everyone was still chit-chatting and waiting for her to start, that one of the girls turned to me and uttered the fateful words:

"Hey, wait, you...aren't you, um, that...uh, that guy...?"

That caused a stir. She couldn't remember my name, but with that cue, my habit of staking out specific seats in each class, and any resemblance I did bear to my old self, it wasn't long before one of the other student snapped his fingers in recognition. "Um, Stuart, right? Hey, seriously, man, what the hell...!?"

I groaned as the class erupted. Slipping quietly into place was never more than a happy delusion - not looking like this - but all hope of it was shot now. The instructor wasn't thrilled, either; no way were we going to get anywhere today. But she couldn't do much about it; everyone thronged around me, quizzing me on how this happened, trying to get a better look...

Suddenly the classroom was filled with the shriek of nails on a chalkboard, which resonated most uncomfortably in whatever served for my cochlea now. It got everyone else's attention, too, especially since the writing lab didn't have one. I glanced up to the whiteboard to find the instructor at her workstation, the only one in the room with speakers. I couldn't see the screen, but she'd obviously found some video online (probable title: "NAILS ON CHALKBOARD (10 HOURS)") with which to break up the chaos.

"Alright," she growled, "if we've all sated our curiosity, do you mind if we get started?"

To my surprise, everybody complied - but they were only half paying attention, at best. I could feel their eyes on me, furtive glances or sideways definitely-not-a-stares, and hear whispering. There wasn't much I could do but keep my head down and try to focus on the lecture - but I was as distracted as they were. What were they saying? What were they thinking?

I caught one guy checking me out, though he glanced away as soon as he realized I noticed. I wanted to be mad, but honestly, I knew the pattern from when I was a dumbass awkward teenager, after adolescent hormones had taken hold of me and before I'd clued into the fact that it's creepy and you're never as subtle as you think you are. I wondered how he felt; did he see me as a real girl? Or was it weird if I was a man inside? Or was there a whole other layer of weirdness in being interested in a sexless...animate inanimate object? Did he even guess that? What did he think was under my clothes? What did he want to do with-

I cringed, forcing that thought out of my head with extreme prejudice. Was this what it was like, on the other end of that...? I'd had a chance to make my apologies back when, but for the first time I could actually empathize with my junior-high crushes. But then, what did the girls think of me? Did they consider me one of them, now that I was in this position? Or was I just some interloper...?

Shaking my head and trying to stop thinking about it, I focused hard on the lecture.

---

"I paid forty-five bucks for this shit," I groaned with an audible grinding of gears, slapping the book down on the desk. I wanted to throw it across the room, but that might knock its resale value down (...from around $10 to around $5.) And this wasn't even the primary textbook for the course...

The book - cringily titled View.Points - was "supplemental"^* material for freshman comp, a collection of essays assembled less to make a particular point or provide a range of opinions on a specific topic than to "broaden student understanding by providing exposure to unconventional views," to quote the blurb on the back cover. Meaning that I'd spent the last twenty minutes being exposed to someone's argument that collecting Happy Days memorabilia was a lot like curating an art museum, when you stopped and thought about it.

^* ("Required.")

We were supposed to select an essay from the book, analyze the author's arguments, and explain why we did or didn't agree with their thesis. But the idea of actually trying to engage with this piffle was enough to give me hives (if I'd still had skin.) The other essays were similarly dire: a man who'd invented a clown-centric religion for himself, a clown who moonlighted as an exotic dancer writing about their identity crisis, a woman who talked to her plants explaining why they were more loveable than people... The sad fact was that, thus far, the actual best essayist was the clown.

"Though plant-lady was more relatable," I said to Lucky. "I mean, here I am talking to you."

The little mushroom-creature regarded me with amiable incomprehension. I reached over and rubbed her cap; she seemed to like it when I did that, nudging into my hand like a cat being scratched behind the ears. I had to admit, it was kind of soothing having her around; I'd never felt like I had time for a pet, but if we were stuck with her anyway, I might as well get what enjoyment I could out of this insanity.

After some research, I'd found that, yes, mushroom cultivation kits were a thing, but you could also buy "sterile substrate," which was just the stuff that provided nutrients, without the spores. Tammy drew a hard line against the manure-based products, sterile or no, so we ordered a bag of mixed-grain stuff that was supposed to be a good starter. With express shipping, it'd cost me nearly as much as that stupid book; Tammy and Emma chipped in on a small terrarium.

It wasn't much, but she took to it. We put it under Emma's desk - the spot with the least sun exposure - and every so often she'd meander over, climb in over the little ramp we'd set up, and dig her stubby feet into the "soil" for a bit, doing...whatever it is that fungi do to feed. She spent most of the morning there, but when the sun passed overhead and the east side of the room darkened she'd come over and hang out with me or explore the suite. She wasn't especially bright, but she was definitely curious.

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Still, there wasn't much for her to do. I thought we should get some things for her terrarium, like you did for rodents (did she remember being a rat, I wondered? Would she recognize a hamster-wheel if she saw it?) but I had no idea what would make it more "homey" for a mushroom. Other mushrooms? But then they'd be competing for nutrients... A rotting log...? Or would it be okay to just get some cat toys, to give...whatever she had for a brain some stimulation?

"Hey," I called over to Tammy, leaving the book aside for now and walking over to her room, "what would you want in your personal space, if you were a little mushroom-thing?"

She glanced up at me from her desk. "Hell if I know, I'm still trying to figure out being this. Maybe a mirror?"

"A mirror?" I asked, a little confused.

"Well, you know, so she can see what she looks like. I dunno if rats can recognize their own reflection, but maybe little mushroom-girls can. Or maybe not, and she'll just have another of her there for company."

"I dunno," I said. "What if she ends up fighting with her mirror-friend instead? Like a parakeet?" It'd never really occurred to me that Lucky could know or care about her new form, and it seemed a little far-fetched, but there were animals that could pass the "mirror test..."

"Ahh, not a chance," Tammy replied, waving a pectoral fin dismissively. "C'mon, you're the one she spends the most time with; you know she's a total sweetie. Besides, what would mushrooms even have to fight over? It's not like they're competing for mating rights or anything." She frowned. "Um, I assume...?"

I shrugged. "Not as far as I know, but I'm not a mycologist. Besides, you said yourself that things could be different for little mushroom-creatures."

"Well, worst case, we take it back out," she said; then her phone buzzed atop her desk. She glanced over at the screen and sighed. "Cripes, another thing I have to figure out..."

"What's that?" I asked, sitting down on the little sofa.

Tammy hesitated for a moment, then shrugged. "Exercises. This is supposed to be my P.T. time, but I don't even have the parts of me that really needed a workout anymore, and what I have instead, I know nothing about. I've been putting it off, but I can't do that forever..." She frowned. "Still need to work out a new dietary plan, too."

"You really do take care of yourself," I said with some admiration, then cringed as I wondered if this was a rude thing to say to a handicapped person (or someone who until recently had been.) Tammy looked a little put-off for a moment, but nodded.

"Hafta," she said. "Other people can help you care for yourself, but they can't make you care. You have to value yourself first." She gave me a pointed look; I tried not to notice.

"Anyway," I said, "I think for merfolk, it's all about swimming; they say it's like a full-body workout. And you've got all-hours pool access now."

She frowned, thought for a moment, then glanced away from me in embarrassment. "I, uh...I don't have a swimsuit," she said, her caudal fin twitching uneasily.

Lucky had wandered over to Tammy's side, and was tugging at my sock. "Well, I think a lot of merfolk, um, don't bother," I said, lifting her up into my lap and stroking her cap. "I mean, lots of them do, but nobody'd find it weird for a mermaid to go without."

"Like hell!"

She was blushing, and I realized I'd put my foot in it. "Um, sorry," I said. Would this be less weird and awkward if I hadn't been a guy...?

She sighed. "F-forget it. Look, I know you're trying to help. It's just..." She trailed off for a moment, thinking. "...huh. I guess I could probably use a sports bra in a pinch, but I don't have anything for bottoms besides the skirts we cut up, and those'd just drag, in the water..."

"Really," I said, "nobody cares about that, for merfolk. I don't think they even make anything for the purpose; people just don't think about it."

"I do," she said. "But...gah. There probably isn't a good way around this." She sighed. "Fine, but you're coming with me."

I frowned. "Why me?"

"Moral support, plus you know more about this stuff than I do." Tammy shrugged. "And I've never had to lift myself out of a pool before; I don't know if I'll need help."

Part of me wanted to beg off; I had no idea if this would be as weird and awkward as the conversation just now. Plus, I did have homework. But my classmate needed help, and that was reason enough to be there, wasn't it? And I could read these stupid essays just fine at the pool; I wasn't going to be doing any swimming, like this...

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