And one of my songs started coming from the speakers. I recognized it by the second note, of course, but the others didn’t until the recorded version of me started singing, and then Madeline Green clapped her hands together. “Oh, listen!” she said, turning toward me. “It’s you!”
And it was—from half a century ago, with my song that had become the anthem for a generation of ugly-ducking girls like me. How could Pinky possibly think I wanted to hear that now, here, at the place where all the heartbreak the song chronicled had been experienced?
Why the hell had I come back, anyway? I’d skipped even the fiftieth reunion; what had driven me to want to attend my sixtieth? Was it loneliness?
No. I had friends enough.
Was it morbid curiosity? Wondering who of the old gang had survived?
But, no, that wasn’t it, either. That wasn’t why I’d come.
The song continued to play. I was doing my guitar solo now. No singing; just me, strumming away. But soon enough the words began again. It was my most famous song, the one I’m sure they’ll mention in my obituary.
To my surprise, Madeline was singing along softly. She looked at me, as if expecting me to join in, but I just forced a smile and looked away.
The song played on. The chorus repeated.
This wasn’t the same gymnasium, of course—the one where my school dances had been held, the ones where I’d been a wallflower, waiting for even the boys I couldn’t stand to ask me to dance. That gym had been bulldozed along with the rest of the old Cedar Valley High.
I looked around. Several people had gone back to their conversations while my music still played. Those who had won the little trophies were showing them off. But Devon, I saw, was listening intently, as if straining to make out the lyrics.
We hadn’t dated long—just until my parents found out he was black and insisted I break up with him. This wasn’t the song I’d written about us, but, in a way, I suppose it was similar. Both of them, my two biggest hits, were about the pain of being dismissed because of the way you look. In this song, it was me—homely, lonely. And in that other song …
I had been a white girl, and he’d been the only black—not boy, you can’t say boy—anywhere near my age at our school. Devon had no choice: if he were going to date anyone from Cedar Valley, she would have had to be white.
Back then, few could tell that Devon was good-looking; all they saw was the color of his skin. But he had been fine. Handsome, well muscled, a dazzling smile. And yet he had chosen me.
I had wondered about that back then, and I still wondered about it now. I’d wondered if he’d thought appearances couldn’t possibly matter to someone who looked like me.
The song stopped, and—
No.
No.
I had a repertoire of almost a hundred songs. If Pinky was going to pick a second one by me, what were the chances that it would be that song?
But it was. Of course it was.
Devon didn’t recognize it at first, but when he did, I saw him take a half-step backward, as if he’d been pushed by an invisible hand.
After a moment, though, he recovered. He looked around the gym and quickly found me. I turned away, only to see Madeline softly singing this one, too, la-la-ing over those lyrics she didn’t remember.
A moment later, there was a hand on my shoulder. I turned. Devon was standing there, looking at me, his face a mask. “We have some unfinished business,” he said, softly but firmly.
I swallowed. My eyes were stinging. “I am so sorry, Devon,” I said. “It was the times. The era.” I shrugged. “Society.”
He looked at me for a while, then reached out and took my pale hand in his brown one. My heart began to pound. “We never got to do this back in ’63,” he said. He paused, perhaps wondering whether he wanted to go on. But, after a moment, he did, and there was no reluctance in his voice. “Would you like to dance?”
I looked around. Nobody else was dancing. Nobody had danced all evening. But I let him lead me out into the center of the gym.
And he held me in his arms.
And I held him.
And as we danced, I thought of the future that Devon’s grandchildren would grow up in, a world I would never see, and, for the first time, I found myself hoping my songs wouldn’t be immortal.
Shed Skin
In the summer of 1982, I worked at Bakka, Toronto’s science-fiction specialty bookstore (and now the oldest surviving SF shop in the world). The then-owner, John Rose, encouraged me enormously in my writing, which was just beginning back then, and we remain great friends.
Turns out I wasn’t the only one he nurtured. After my stint at Bakka, a bunch of other people who went on to be professional SF or fantasy writers worked there, and all of us were encouraged by John: Tanya Huff, Michelle West, Cory Doctorow, and Nalo Hopkinson among them.
In 2002, to commemorate both John’s retirement and the thirtieth anniversary of the store, he asked all his past and present employees who’d gone on to writing careers to each contribute a story to a limited-edition anthology. I wrote this story for that book, and—in a rare turn of events—managed to interest Analog Science Fiction and Fact in reprinting it.
I found the themes and ideas in this story echoing in my head long after I finished writing it. Indeed, I gave a copy of the story to my novel editor at Tor, David G. Hartwell, saying I’d like a contract to revisit the same subject matter at novel length; my agent Ralph Vicinanza, of course, intervened, adding that Rob wanted more money than he’d ever been paid before for a book to do this. Tor said okay, and my novel Mindscan was born. I think it’s one of my best books (and it won the John W Campbell Memorial Award for Best Novel of the Year)—and it has its roots here.
“Shed Skin” was a finalist for the Hugo Award for Best Short Story of the Year, and won Analog magazine’s “AnLab” award—the annual Analytical Laboratory readers’ choice poll.
“I’m sorry,” said Mr. Shiozaki, as he leaned back in his swivel chair and looked at the middle-aged white man with the graying temples, “but there’s nothing I can do for you.”
“But I’ve changed my mind,” said the man. He was getting red in the face as the conversation went on. “I want out of this deal.”
“You can’t change your mind,” said Shiozaki. “You’ve moved your mind.”
The man’s voice had taken on a plaintive tone, although he was clearly trying to suppress it. “I didn’t think it would be like this.”
Shiozaki sighed. “Our psychological counselors and our lawyers went over the entire procedure and all the ramifications with Mr. Rathburn beforehand. It’s what he wanted.”
“But I don’t want it anymore.”
“You don’t have any say in the matter.”
The white man placed a hand on the table. The hand was flat, the fingers splayed, but it was nonetheless full of tension. “Look,” he said, “I demand to see—to see the other me. I’ll explain it to him. He’ll understand. He’ll agree that we should rescind the deal.”
Shiozaki shook his head. “We can’t do that. You know we can’t. That’s part of the agreement.”
“But—”
“No buts,” said Shiozaki. “That’s the way it has to be. No successor has ever come back here. They can’t. Your successor has to do everything possible to shut your existence out of his mind, so he can get on with his existence, and not worry about yours. Even if he wanted to come see you, we wouldn’t allow the visit.”