Free M.I.N.D. by Elissa Harris Page A

noise buzzes all around you. No problem, right? Wrong. It’s not that I’m claustrophobic; I just don’t like being restrained and squished in small places. (Funny, it’s not a problem when I get stuck in other people, though who knows what would happen if they got squished?) Even lying under my very pink canopy, I’ve been known to have palpitations. Hey, you try sleeping in a wad of bubblegum.
    â€œNineteen minutes!”
    The woman isn’t normal.
    I drop the locket onto my nightstand, lie down on top of my comforter, and ponder the meaning of “normal.” Average? Typical? Ordinary? Which makes me think about me. What’s normal, anyway? I used to have seizures, but now I plug myself into other people’s bodies. Forget Spassie Cassie—I’m Cassie the Human Appliance. Did I mention sane?
    Staring up at the canopy, I consider this further. Sane or not, using someone else’s body could definitely have its perks, since a) I’m not allowed to do practically anything, and b) they don’t call me Spassie Cassie for nothing. Imagine skydiving, or hang gliding, or racing down a mountain on a bike with no brakes. Or bungee jumping, or scaling Mount Everest, or snowboarding from the top of a glacier—I’d get to live the danger without taking the risk. Never mind that, imagine having hair that doesn’t balloon in humidity. How great would that be?
    Or not. Actually, there is a risk. Why did I have trouble getting out of Stephanie? Even scarier, what about my mother? What if I can’t get back to myself? Just how does the escape routine work?
    I think back to Vardina, specifically to what she was doing just before I made my exit. She was slicing her thigh with a safety pin. Then I think about Leanne and my embarrassing near-confrontation with her tampon. She was probably obsessing over dresses. And Stephanie? She’d stopped gaping at me and was putting on lipstick. As for my hysterical mother, her attention was diverted by Oreo’s oversized fur ball. The one thing they all had in common was that they no longer had me on their minds.
    Could that be it? Is that how it works? If so, the whole thing is really elementary. To get into their bodies, I have to want to be them in the instant they’re thinking of me. To get out, it’s the opposite. I have to want to separate and they can’t be thinking of me.
    Ha. Did I just say elementary? How am I even conscious without my own brain? Does that mean that brains are merely mixing bowls for our senses? Biological batteries that get recharged when we sleep? Generators for the soul? Definitely a brain-teaser.
    â€œFifteen minutes!”
    Oreo jumps up on my bed and flops down beside me.
    â€œPoor Oreo,” I say, stroking his matted fur. This is what pain does to cats. It stresses them out and turns their fur into steel wool.
    To Oreo, I’m not just this overgrown strange feline who was put on this earth to pet him, feed him, and clean his litter box; I’m also his mommy. I’m supposed to make the hurt go away. But how can I help him if I don’t know what’s wrong?
    Are there MRIs for cats? Or would he be better off with a CAT scan? Either way, he’d have to be catatonic to get through it. Okay, must stop with the cat puns.
    He looks so miserable, I want to cry.
    I wonder…
    Nah, it’s too crazy.
    Not any crazier than being my own mother.
    Except for one detail: Oreo’s not human. It would be like playing a Blu-ray on one of those ancient VCRs. Totally incompatible. Though maybe not. Fact is, I get along better with my cat than I do with my mother.
    â€œSo Oreo,” I say, stroking his ears. “Been thinking of me lately?”
    He purrs. Aw. He loves me.
    He blinks at me with affection; ergo, he’s thinking of me, right? I close my eyes and concentrate. Oreo, Oreo, I want to be Oreo. No homework, no chores. Not that I have any chores to speak of. My