The Queer Rebels

Chapter 1: Waiting

I keep picking at a small hole in the green vinyl seat cushion. My finger worms its way through the thick exterior fabric and into the soft foam, the way I imagine the anesthesia and nanobots entering through my veins in a few hours.

Or whenever they get around to calling my name.

Glancing up, I check the analog clock above the nurse's station, and I swear the red second hand moves in slow motion. It can't be right that I've only been here for fifteen minutes.

I look back down at the worn seams of my chair and wonder how many people have sat in this seat before me on their Choosing Days. Did they do what most people do and choose beauty or charisma? Or did they have a plan for something different, like I do?

The plan only Marcy knows about.

I've heard stories about people requesting outlandish things on their Choosing Days. In last year's class, there was a guy who swore he was going to choose to have flames for hair. He told anyone who would listen.

But did he go through with it?

No. Of course not. They don't let you make choices you will regret when you're forty. That's why you speak with a counselor before you meet a surgeon.

Last I heard, that guy is training to be in finance. He wears a well-tailored suit every day and always keeps his hair trimmed, combed, and parted on the left side.

I'm not like him. My plan won't make me an abomination. It'll cure me of being one.

There are about a dozen of us in this waiting room–happy twentieth birthday to us!–but it's so quiet that if I closed my eyes, I would swear that I was alone in my dorm. The loudest sound is the buzz of the overhead fluorescent lights, which prickles my ear like a mosquito.

A few people look familiar to me. There's a guy with auburn hair squeezing a ball in his hand that was in my ninth year history class, and the girl with wire-rimmed glasses and tightly curled hair lives in my building.

No one is talking, which is weird. You'd think some people here would be friends. Or at least chatty acquaintances. We all grew up in this city, went to school here when we were kids, and now live in the same few blocks of dorms.

I guess everyone is lost in thought, wondering what it will feel like to change. To be made perfect. Will it hurt?

I don't care if there is pain, and I'm not seeking perfection. I just want to feel complete.

My mother described the procedure as tingling a little. A vibration that flows down your limbs and out the tips of your fingers. But this morning, when I pressed her for more, she admitted she couldn't recall. They keep the memory shrouded in fog because they don't want us trying to experiment on ourselves.

They say they don't want the world to descend back into chaos.

As I sit here, picking at the seat cushion, the vinyl tears and fabric loosens around my finger. I freeze. If the nurse sees what I'm doing, she could write me up for property destruction.

The last thing I need is another mark on my record.

I try to focus on something else. My eyes are drawn to the sharp light bouncing off the chrome armrests and the polished linoleum floors. The lighting reveals every imperfection–fitting for the day when they will all be erased.

I slip my finger out of the tear I've created and fold my hands in my lap. They are pale and delicate and hairless. I try to imagine what my hands will look like after I make my choice. After I am fixed.