Tristan sits there, with his arm clamped around Kiara’s shoulder, like they were Siamese twins connected at the wrist and neck.

  “I’ll just have a salad,” says Veronyka. “I don’t need all that grease.” And then she looks at Kiara and adds, “It could give me zits.”

  Kiara smiles, pretending that it doesn’t bother her. She can feel the zit on her face, like a slice of pepperoni on an otherwise pristine pie. She turns her face away so that the others can’t see it, but they do. Her friends have radar when it comes to details of personal appearance. They can spot an out-of-place hair from a hundred yards. They can smell a dying fashion trend like body odor.

  Tristan looks at Kiara’s face and zeroes in on the zit. He takes his hand from her shoulder. “You know,” he says, “there are soaps you could use for that.”

  “Ha-ha,” says Kiara, covering it with her hand and intensifying her silent death-prayer toward Veronyka. When the pizza comes, Kiara refuses to eat. Instead she pulls out the card the old woman gave her and considers it. Dr. Morgan Taylor Voyd.

  “Who’s that?” asks Tristan, not minding his own business.

  “Some doctor,” says Kiara. She tries to hide the card, but Tristan grabs it.

  “What is he, a zit doctor?” asks Tristan.

  “No, he’s a discorporeal physician,” she says, trying to sound wise, as if she knows what it means.

  Tristan passes the card around the table, to Kiara’s humiliation.

  “Must be a shrink,” says Veronyka. “A good therapist can really help with emotional issues.”

  “He’s not that kind of doctor!” insists Kiara. “And anyway, I’m not going to see him.” She grabs the card back, crumples it up, and hurls it across the room. It lands right in the trash.

  “Two points!” announces Tristan, and slips her into his boyfriendly headlock again, in spite of the zit.

  * * *

  Tristan talks about himself as he walks Kiara home. He’s in the middle of professing his undying belief that there’s nothing fake about professional wrestling when Kiara interrupts him.

  “Tristan, do you think I’m pretty?” she asks.

  Tristan shrugs. “Yeah, sure, why not?” he says—which doesn’t mean much, because Tristan would say anything as long as he got to show her off to his friends in public places.

  “Am I prettier than Veronyka?” Kiara dares to ask.

  Tristan hesitates. “Well…,” he says, “you’re both pretty. You’re just pretty in different ways.”

  The answer infuriates Kiara. She takes his hand and pulls it behind his back in a move that rivals the best of wrestlers.

  “Ow!” yells Tristan. “Lemme go!”

  “You were supposed to say yes,” she tells him. She pushes him away and heads off in the other direction. Tristan, still dumbfounded, doesn’t follow.

  She retraces her steps down First Avenue and ducks back into Little Guido’s. Then she digs through the trash, past greasy half-eaten slices of pizza and sticky soft-drink residue, until she finds the crumpled business card.

  * * *

  Deep in the unknowable parts of Brooklyn, overgrown sycamores line the streets of the old neighborhood where the doctor lives. Tree roots buckle the sidewalk into concrete accordion folds. The homes are brown brick, and although it’s a bright day, the trees block out every trace of the sun.

  Halfway down the street, a shingle hangs outside the doctor’s home office. M. T. VOYD reads the shingle. APPOINTMENTS REQUIRED. Kiara has already made her appointment.

  She rings the bell, and a moment later the doctor answers the door.

  “Come in, Kiara, I’ve been waiting for you!” He’s a tall man, as gaunt as a skeleton, with teeth that are a little too white. His head is clean-shaven and buffed to a shine. There seem to be none of the usual markers to measure his age.

  “Did you have a hard time finding the place?” he asks. His voice is soothing, yet at the same time cold and slippery, like wet ice on a glass table.

  “No,” answers Kiara. The truth is, she barely had to look for it at all. It was as if she was drawn right to it.

  The doctor has a huge cherrywood desk, spotlessly clean. His walls are covered with diplomas and certificates from the best universities and finest medical associations. He folds his long fingers together and sits at his giant desk across from Kiara, smiling.

  “Just what kind of doctor are you?” asks Kiara.

  “I began as a surgeon,” Dr. Voyd tells her. “A brilliant one, oh, yes. Surgical techniques have been named after me. I am in textbooks.”

  “But you’re not a surgeon anymore?”

  “I got bored with that kind of medicine,” he tells her. “Too easy. No challenge. But in my extensive travels, I have seen many things that science cannot explain.” He smiles, revealing those spotless teeth. “That is the kind of medicine I practice now. The kind of medicine you need.”

  Kiara can feel her knees shaking. “How do you know what kind of medicine I need?”

  Dr. Voyd laughs deep and heartily. “Isn’t it obvious?” he says. Then he gets deadly serious. “You are unhappy with yourself. You think there must be a way to change those features of yours. Those eyes that are just a tad too small. Those ears that are a little too prominent. And then there’s that unsightly blemish on your cheek. Am I right?”

  Kiara nods, entranced by the way this man has examined her need the way another doctor might examine her throat.

  “Well, I am in the business of makeovers.”

  Kiara’s heart pounds with anticipation. “You can fix my face?”

  “Not just your face, but everything. I can give you a new look—a new feel. I can give you a new body.” And with that he stands and ushers Kiara to a door that opens up into his spacious house. Only it is not a house. It looks more like a hospital from the Dark Ages. Or a morgue.

  The walls are painted black and covered with strange symbols. Hanging from the ceiling are dolls, each with a single pin piercing them through the heart… and beneath each doll is a body lying on a narrow steel table. At least a dozen of them. Their slow breathing is the only sign that they are alive.

  “Welcome,” says Dr. Voyd, “to the Soul Exchange.”

  Kiara, her curiosity overcoming her terror, steps into the room to get a good look at the people on the tables. They are not the most beautiful specimens of humanity. Very unattractive, by Kiara’s exacting standards.

  “It’s a simple procedure,” explains Dr. Voyd. “I extract their souls and implant them into new, more desirable bodies.”

  “How come they’re all so ugly?”

  Dr. Voyd sighs. “Once my clients trade up, I sometimes get left with bodies no one wants.”

  Kiara can understand that. It’s just like at last month’s cheerleader bake sale. The lousy cookies never sold, leaving a roomful of baked goods nobody wanted.

  “But… I don’t want any of these bodies.”

  Dr. Voyd smiles his toothy grin. “I have one coming in tomorrow that is perfect for you.” Then he reaches into a folder, pulls out a wallet-sized photo, and presents it to Kiara.

  The moment Kiara sees the face in the picture, she knows it’s right! The girl in the picture is about sixteen, like Kiara, and perfect! Thick locks of wavy hair. Smooth skin, a wonderful smile. She is far more beautiful than Kiara—or even Veronyka. Yes, this will be the perfect exchange!

  “It is my policy,” explains Dr. Voyd, “that if you agree to the exchange, you may take nothing with you. Your personal belongings, your money—all must go to whoever inherits your old body. And whatever she has becomes yours. You understand?”

  Kiara nods. It will be worth it. Now only one question remains.

  “How much?” she asks.

  “For you,” says Dr. Voyd, “three hundred dollars.”

  Which is precisely the amount Kiara can withdraw from an ATM. She thinks about it and nods. “It’s a deal.”

  * * *

  During school the next day, the anticipation hangs heavy over Kiara. She withdrew the three hundred dollars first thing that morning. She can practically feel the weight of it in her purse, which she constantly clutches to make sure the money’s still with her, not trusting it in her locker or her backpack. The exchange is to take place at four o’clock in the afternoon, sharp.

  Throughout the day, she keeps glancing at Veronyka and can barely contain her mocking laughter. Ha! she thinks. Tomorrow I’ll walk into school—everyone’s eyes will turn away from Veronyka and turn to me!

  By the end of the day, she can’t keep it to herself anymore. She has to tell someone. On the way out of school, she pulls Tristan aside.

  “I want to show you something,” she tells him. Then she ever so carefully pulls the picture of her new self out of her purse. “What do you think of her?” she asks him. “Don’t you think she’s beautiful?”

  Tristan’s eyes go wide as he stares at the picture, then he looks at her worriedly. “Is this a trick question?” he asks.

  “Just answer me: Do you think she’s beautiful?”

  “Well… yeah,” he says. “But…”

  “But what?”

  Tristan holds the picture closer. “Her hair’s kind of goofy-looking….”

  Kiara lets out an irritated puff of air. “Well, she can change her hair. That’s easy.”

  Tristan hands her back the tiny picture. “So, what’s the point?” he asks.

  Kiara smiles slyly. “You’ll see.”

  * * *

  Four o’clock sharp. The wind blows through the thick sycamores, and the rustling leaves are so loud Kiara can’t hear herself think as she races down the street.

  “Everything is prepared,” says Dr. Voyd as Kiara steps in, handing him the cash. “Follow me.”

  They pass through the room full of unwanted bodies to a smaller back room, lined with a dark and gritty metal Kiara guesses must be lead. A body lies on a stone slab, covered with a sheet from head to toe, and above it dangles a doll, pinned like the others through the heart. A second stone slab waits for Kiara. Dr. Voyd closes the heavy leaden door, and it seals the room like a bank vault.

  “Lie down, Kiara,” says the good doctor. “This will take only a little while.”

  Kiara lies down and watches as the doctor takes another doll from a shelf, then comes toward her with scissors. She tenses, terrified of what he might do. He brings the scissors to her face, then moves them off to the side, snipping a lock of her hair. Then he takes that hair and carefully sews it into the seam of the doll’s cloth head. “I have long studied effigies and surrogate mysticism,” he said. “You might call this a ‘voodoo doll,’ but there are dozens of cultures around the world that use object substitution in ways that defy conventional science.”

  “Is this going to hurt?” Kiara asks.

  “Not in the slightest.”

  Kiara tries to fill her mind with thoughts of the perfect face she will have. At last Dr. Voyd takes a long hatpin with a round pearl-colored head and holds it in one hand, the doll in the other.

  “Take a deep breath and hold it,” he instructs. She does, then watches as he jams the pin through the doll’s heart.

  Sudden blackness colder than the dark side of the moon, and emptier than death.

  Kiara feels herself moving through the darkness. It could be a million miles, it could be a million years; time and space have no meaning now. The cold is unbearable, but she has no mouth to scream, until—

  She gasps, a deep breath of air that rattles in her lungs, then opens her eyes to see the cloudy cloth that covers her face. She pulls it back, revealing a bright light above. Out of focus. Then the light is eclipsed by Dr. Voyd’s shiny round head.

  “You can get up now. The exchange is complete.”

  Kiara sits up, feeling achy and weary. She looks to the other stone slab, but her old body is not there.

  “You were in transition for an hour,” explains the doctor. “During that time, the other client took possession of your old body and left.”

  Kiara reaches up to her face. It doesn’t feel right. Something is wrong. Her face feels cracked and rough like elephant skin. There is something round and fuzzy on her chin. A hairy mole!

  She looks at her hands and screams. But no one can hear her in the leaden room except for the doctor.

  Her hands are old. More than old—they are ancient: wrinkled and weak, covered with the age spots of thirty thousand sunrises.

  Dr. Voyd smiles coldly. Mockingly. “Another satisfied customer,” he says, and hands her a mirror.

  Kiara is now the old woman—the same old woman who gave her the card. This was the body she has exchanged for her own!

  “No!” shouts Kiara, but her voice sounds frail and thin. “This can’t be me.”

  “What’s the matter?” says Dr. Voyd. “Mrs. Wentworth is a beautiful woman! Of course, not as young as she was in that picture. But beauty is ageless.”

  Now Kiara understands why the hairstyle in the picture didn’t seem right.

  “You can’t do this to me!” she screams. “I’m only sixteen!”

  “Correction,” says the doctor calmly. “You were only sixteen.”

  She cries through her blurry, aged eyes.

  “Of course,” says the doctor, “if you’re not happy with Mrs. Wentworth, I could give you one of the people in the other room.”

  “I don’t want any of them!” wails Kiara. “I want someone young! Someone beautiful.”

  Dr. Voyd crosses his arms. “Well,” he says, “I can make such an exchange for you, if you bring in a young subject to exchange with.”

  At last some hope! “Yes!” she cries. “I’ll bring you someone as soon as I can!”

  “And then of course there’s my fee,” explains Dr. Voyd. “To put you in a young body… that will cost you an even million dollars.”

  She gasps for air, her breath taken away by the mere thought.

  “But I don’t have a million dollars!”

  Dr. Voyd puts a large, firm hand on her shoulder. “Come now, Mrs. Wentworth. Of course you do! Have you checked your bank account lately?”

  * * *

  An early fall day, several weeks later. The old woman feeds pigeons in the park, all the while looking sideways at a group of loud high schoolers. Faces she recognizes. She wears jewelry so heavy she can barely lift her hands. But she does. She lifts one to her cane and painfully forces herself to her feet, making her way down the cobblestones to the group of kids.

  Her former body is there, with someone new inside it. Tristan and Veronyka are there as well. They laugh and make fun of anyone who walks by. The kids see her coming and start to laugh hysterically.

  “Here comes your last girlfriend,” says the Kiara-body to Tristan. Tristan thinks it’s just a joke.

  The old woman hobbles forward, her weary eyes fixed on Veronyka. She takes a card out of her pocket and holds it out to the gorgeous young girl with her trembling old hand.

  “I’ve been watching you,” says the old woman desperately to Veronyka. “I know a doctor who can help you. He can make you look even better than you do now. He knows what you need.”

  The Kiara-body laughs cruelly as if it is one big joke. She can afford to laugh; she is no longer trapped in Mrs. Wentworth’s body.

  Veronyka looks at the card with disgust and hands it back to the old woman. “Thanks, but no thanks.” Then she smiles. “I’ve already been to Dr. Voyd. In fact, I was there before you were.”

  The Kiara-body laughs again. In fact, both girls laugh, evil and cold, like two members of a dark and secret club.

  The old woman feels dizzy. She begins to fall backward, and Tristan catches her. “Hey, are you okay?”

  He helps her up, and she shrugs him off. “I’ll be fine,” she says, and limps away, not daring to look back.

  So Veronyka had been a client. Of course! She should have known! The fact was, Kiara had come to realize that there had been many, many others who had been through Mrs. Wentworth’s body. She was certainly a rich old woman. When the whole thing began, a year ago, she had fifteen million dollars, according to her bank statement. Then, about once a month, she wrote a check for a million dollars—always to Dr. Voyd, as different people were tricked into her body and bought their way out. It’s like a game of musical chairs, and every turn costs a cool million—until someday soon the money will run out, and someone will get trapped in poor Mrs. Wentworth’s chair for good.

  Voyd is a genius. And now he is very, very rich. She admires him almost as much as she hates him.

  As she makes her way toward her decaying mansion across Central Park, someone comes running up behind her.

  “Yo, old lady, wait up!”

  It’s Tristan.

  “What can I do for you, young man?”

  “That doctor you’re talking about,” he says. “Is he a doctor for guys, too? I mean, can he make a guy better-looking too?”

  The old woman looks him over slowly. This is something she has not considered. “Perhaps,” she says, then reaches into her pocket and pulls out the card, handing it to him.

  “I think he’ll know what you need too,” she says. “Call him for an appointment right away.”

  “Thanks,” says Tristan with a big smile. Then he turns and runs off.

  The old woman grins at the new prospect. It’s not what she expected—and of course there will be many, many adjustments… like getting used to the wrestling team, for one—and then there’s the problem of dating her old self.

  But she’ll learn to adapt, because, in spite of everything, his youth is certainly worth a million dollars. And beggars can’t be choosers.

  Clothes Make the Man

  An alarm blasts.

  Then the carousel jerk-starts, slowly turning around and around. It’s not the kind of carousel you find at the amusement park, but the kind you find in airports—that stainless-steel mechanical thingamabob that sends the luggage on a slow ride around the baggage claim area.

  “Why does it always take so long?” barks my father impatiently as other people’s suitcases come flying out of the dark chute. “Is there only one person working back there?” My father is an annoyed traveler. I don’t know if he’s like that when it comes to business travel, but whenever we come along, everything annoys him. There’s a food cart in the aisle when he wants to go to the bathroom, or the seat won’t recline, or our luggage takes too long to arrive.