Highway to Elle, Chapter 10: Lesson Plans

Highway to Elle
Chapter 10: Lesson Plans

by Paige Turner

"While scholars disagree on Kafka's precise intentions in 'The Metamorphosis,' the protagonist's transformation can be read as an exploration of identity fragmentation," Ms. Brenner said, surveying the classroom. "The physical changes Gregor experiences are merely external manifestations of a more profound internal disintegration. Who has thoughts on this interpretation?"

Logan felt a genuine spark of interest at the question, his hand rising out of a true desire to engage with the material. After everything he'd been through, Kafka's exploration of transformation resonated with him on a deeply personal level, but his enthusiasm to join in the class discussion of the topic was surprising.

Ms. Brenner's eyebrows lifted slightly, her expression showing mild surprise as well. "Elle" had been a solid student since arriving, but rarely volunteered insights with such eagerness. "Elle? You have a perspective to share?"

"I think it's, like, way more complex than just fragmentation," Logan heard himself saying in Elle's higher register and now-familiar teen cadence. "Gregor isn't just losing who he is—he's basically experiencing this forced reconstruction? His transformation totally imposes these new limitations, but also reveals capabilities he never knew he had. The real tragedy isn't just that he changes, but that everyone around him refuses to see the person still existing inside his altered form."

Ms. Brenner's expression shifted to genuine interest. "That's a sophisticated analysis, Elle. The dual nature of transformation—loss coupled with discovery—isn't something most first-time readers notice."

Logan felt a flutter of pride surge through him before realizing what was happening. The praise had triggered a genuine emotional response—not the manufactured reaction of his programmed persona, but real satisfaction at being recognized for his insight. What disturbed him wasn't just the pride itself, but how similar the feeling was to what he used to experience after executing a perfect play on the football field. His mind was finding the same reward pathways in completely different activities.

Literature had never interested him at Westlake, where he'd taken the minimum required English courses and focused entirely on his sports and business classes. Yet here he was, voluntarily analyzing Kafka with an enthusiasm that felt both foreign and disturbingly natural.

"I'd like you all to develop these ideas in your upcoming analytical papers," Ms. Brenner continued, writing on the whiteboard. "Three to five pages exploring identity transformation in either 'The Metamorphosis' or one of our other readings this term. Due next Thursday."

As the bell rang, Logan gathered his books, sliding his belongings into his pale pink backpack with small, graceful movements that had become second nature.

"Elle, could you stay a moment?" Ms. Brenner called as students filed out.

Logan approached her desk with trepidation. Had she somehow recognized something off about him?

"That was excellent participation today," she said, arranging papers on her desk. "Have you considered studying literature in college? Your analytical skills and ability to articulate complex concepts are quite developed."

"I hadn't really... I mean, I was thinking more along the lines of...sports management?" Logan struggled to complete the sentence, surprised to find his long-standing interest in the field—his major as Logan at Westlake—feeling strangely hollow, like recalling a movie he'd seen rather than a passion he'd once held.

"Well, you should consider literature," Ms. Brenner continued, not noticing his struggle. "I'm happy to write recommendation letters for promising students. Your perspective on metamorphosis was particularly insightful."

The question hit uncomfortably close to home. "Just... connecting with the text, I guess," Logan managed, shifting his weight nervously from one foot to the other.

"Sometimes literature gives us a language for experiences we can't otherwise articulate," Ms. Brenner said, her tone thoughtful. "Your guidance counselor mentioned you have an appointment this afternoon for college planning. Be sure to mention your literary analysis strengths. Not every student has your natural aptitude."

Logan nodded mechanically, mumbling thanks as he backed toward the door. He hated how much her praise affected him—how the words "natural aptitude" sent a warm glow of satisfaction through his chest despite his conscious rejection of everything they implied.

The guidance counselor's office was adorned with college pennants from prestigious universities, arranged in a colorful display that drew Logan's eye immediately upon entering. Mr. Daniels, a middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper hair and reading glasses perched on the tip of his nose, gestured to the chair across from his desk.

"Elle Turner, our new transfer. Welcome," he said warmly, pulling a folder from his desk drawer. "I've been reviewing your academic record from your previous school. Quite impressive, and I'm glad to see you're finding continued success here at Westridge."

"Thank you," Logan replied automatically, wondering what was shown on the doctored transcript from Oregon that GIRLI had generated for him.

"So, college applications," Mr. Daniels continued, opening a laptop. "We should discuss potential majors based on your academic strengths and interests. Your test scores show exceptional verbal reasoning and analytical skills."

He turned the screen toward Logan, displaying a colorful chart of academic strengths. The highest bars were labeled "Verbal Reasoning," "Written Expression," and "Literary Analysis," while "Quantitative Reasoning" and "Scientific Methodology" showed as average.

"Your English Literature grades are particularly strong," Mr. Daniels noted. "Have you considered pursuing a path in this direction for college?"

"I was actually thinking about, like, sports management?" Logan said, the statement coming out as a question in Elle's voice. "That's what I was planning on… before."

Mr. Daniels frowned slightly, checking his notes. "I don't believe you mentioned interest in that field before. Let me check." He typed briefly, then shook his head. "Nothing in your records indicates that interest. Are you sure?"

"Pretty sure," Logan replied, feeling increasingly uncertain as he tried to summon his former enthusiasm and found nothing but a vague, distant interest.

Mr. Daniels pulled several brochures from his drawer and handed them to Logan. "Well, I do have some information on schools with sports management programs. Take a look while I pull up some other options that might align better with your academic profile."

Logan flipped through the glossy brochures featuring broad-shouldered business majors in suits, conference rooms with sports memorabilia, and stern-faced professors lecturing about athletic marketing strategies. To his dismay, none of it sparked any interest. The programs that had once been his dream now seemed tedious, the career paths uninspiring. He set them aside, genuinely uninterested.

"What about Westlake or Central State? Those were my... I mean, they've been my target schools," Logan said, thinking of the prestigious state universities with dominant Division I football programs he'd been aiming for in his previous life.

"Those are excellent schools, of course," Mr. Daniels replied carefully, "but I'm not sure they're the best match for your particular strengths and activities. Your position on the Elite Squad opens up different opportunities that might be more beneficial."

"Cheerleading scholarships," Logan said flatly, understanding the implication.

"Among other opportunities," Mr. Daniels nodded. "The schools you mentioned are highly competitive, and while your grades are excellent, your best scholarship opportunities may lie elsewhere."

He handed Logan another stack of materials—colorful brochures showcasing small, quaint campuses with ivy-covered buildings, tree-lined quads, and students lounging on manicured lawns. These were clearly smaller, regional colleges—nothing like the university he'd once attended.

"Take these home and review them. When you return next week, we can discuss any questions you have and begin narrowing down your options."

Logan nodded and gathered his things, a cold disappointment settling in his stomach. Not only had his body been transformed, but now it felt as if his future was at risk of being diverted to a completely different tier of schools.

As he walked down the hallway away from the counselor's office, Logan realized with a jolt that he was carrying only the brochures for the small liberal arts colleges. He'd left the sports management materials for big state schools on Mr. Daniels' desk without even noticing, his mind automatically categorizing them as unimportant.

He stopped mid-stride, staring down at the glossy pamphlets in his hands that showcased intimate classroom settings, close faculty relationships, and campus traditions that seemed worlds away from the large lecture halls and sprawling campuses he'd once envisioned for himself. The thought of attending these smaller, less prestigious schools seemed oddly appealing, while the prospect of returning for the sports management brochures held no interest whatsoever.

Logan made his way across campus. The late autumn sun cast long shadows between buildings, and students hurried past in clusters, their conversations blending into a distant hum. He needed space to think, to analyze these shifts in his priorities and hopefully get his future back on track.

The library had become Logan's sanctuary. Hidden among the tall shelves in the reference section's most secluded corner, he could escape the perpetual charade of being "Elle." Here, he maintained his tenuous connection to his true self through the pages of the small leather-bound notebook he kept carefully hidden from Dr. Gupta.

Logan opened the notebook to a fresh page, uncapping his pen. Since discovering weeks ago that he could bypass the neural blocks through metaphorical writing, he had filled dozens of pages with encoded observations about his transformation. The journal had become both therapy and resistance—a way to document what was happening to him while preserving some fragment of his identity.

He pressed the pen to paper:

"Auburn waves obscure the horizon
Where memory's lighthouse once stood guard
Ancient fields lie fallow beneath new blooms
Strange seeds take root in familiar soil
What harvest waits when thoughts like foreign birds
Nest in trees I never planted?"

The words flowed with disturbing ease. He'd become adept at this coded language, finding a strange comfort in the rhythm and imagery that once would have seemed pretentious to him. He added another line, troubled by how naturally the metaphors came:

"Constellations shift above a sailor lost at sea
While charts redrawn by unseen hands guide his course."

It felt essential that he keep writing. Not that he truly believed anyone would ever read his writings. Or if they did, that they would ever decode his messages and rescue him. But the act of documenting itself was a form of resistance—asserting that Logan Turner still existed somewhere behind Elle's jade eyes.

Before he could continue, his phone vibrated with a notification:

"Dr. Gupta: Weekly evaluation moved to 4PM today."

Logan sighed, closing the notebook and tucking it into his backpack. These "evaluations" were never pleasant, always involving the risk of new procedures or treatments he didn't understand. Worse, they served as regular reminders of his complete powerlessness in this situation.

An hour later, Logan sat in Dr. Gupta's sterile office, trying not to fidget in the uncomfortable chair as she reviewed data on her tablet. The GIRLI facility always filled him with dread—its clinical atmosphere and the memory of countless treatments that had systematically dismantled his former self.

"Your integration metrics continue to show positive advancement," Dr. Gupta noted without looking up. "Particularly in academic socialization parameters and communication pattern adaptation. Coach Winters reports exceptional progress in athletic performance matrices as well."

"Thanks," Logan replied politely.

Dr. Gupta finally looked up, setting her tablet aside. To Logan's surprise, she reached into her desk drawer and produced a familiar object: his leather notebook.

"This was found during your arrival check-in today," she said, placing it on the desk between them.

"You went through my stuff?"

"Standard protocol includes searching personal items for prohibited materials."

Logan froze, ice flooding his veins. That journal was his only refuge, the one place he could express his true thoughts without the neural blocks interfering. He'd made a critical mistake—normally he kept the notebook hidden in his dorm room, but with the sudden schedule change this afternoon, he hadn't had time to return to his dorm after his library session. If Dr. Gupta had decoded his metaphors...

"Your literary development is quite remarkable," Dr. Gupta continued, her tone unchanged. "The metaphorical construction and symbolic imagery show sophisticated cognitive patterns typically absent in athletic-focused subjects."

Logan remained silent, uncertain how to respond. Was she taunting him? Had she understood the hidden meanings?

"The recurring nautical and natural imagery creates an intriguing thematic framework," she continued, opening the notebook to a marked page. "'Midnight waters carry silver thoughts to shores unknown, stars guide ancient mariners through modern straits.' Quite evocative."

Relief washed over Logan as he realized Dr. Gupta had completely misinterpreted his writings—seeing them as creative exercises rather than coded documentation of his forced transformation. The irony might have been amusing if it weren't so terrifying.

"Thank you?" he said uncertainly.

"This creative development actually confirms the efficacy of our academic preference modification program," Dr. Gupta stated, returning the notebook to him. "Your brain is responding optimally to the neural pathway reconfiguration."

"Academic preference modification?" Logan repeated, suddenly alert. "What does that mean?"

Dr. Gupta adjusted her glasses, studying him with her usual clinical detachment. "Your college placement probabilities required optimization beyond physical parameters. Elite cheerleading scholarship pathways correlate strongly with specific academic disciplines that enhance performance recognition among institutional recruitment committees."

"What are you saying?" Logan asked, though he feared he already understood.

"The initial neural synchronization we implemented during your transformation included pathways for modified academic interests," Dr. Gupta explained as casually as if discussing the weather. "Your brain has been gradually 'rewiring,' so to speak, with new connections emerging over time. The process takes several months to fully manifest—which is why you're now experiencing stronger affinity for literary analysis."

Logan felt the blood drain from his face. "You've been changing what I'm interested in?"

"More precisely, we enhanced your appreciation for literature and analytical thinking while suppressing interest in athletic administration," Dr. Gupta corrected. "Your neural scans show remarkable adaptation to the recalibrated academic pathways."

"That's why I can't stop thinking about books and writing?" Logan demanded, anger rising. "Why sports management seems boring to me now?"

"Exactly," Dr. Gupta nodded with what appeared to be satisfaction. "Your mind is now automatically redirecting toward optimal academic parameters for your placement trajectory."

She turned to her computer and swiveled the screen toward him. "We've already prepared your college applications for submission. These seven institutions offer optimal cheerleading scholarship opportunities."

Logan stared at the screen, shocked by how different these schools were from his original targets. "These aren't anything like Westlake. You promised me a path back to college athletics at top-tier schools."

"We promised you athletic scholarships and collegiate placement," Dr. Gupta corrected coldly. "We never specified institution tier. These schools have nationally ranked cheerleading programs, which is where your value as an asset is maximized."

"That wasn't the deal," Logan protested. "You were supposed to get me into a school like I was at before!"

"Division I sports management programs do not prioritize cheerleading scholarships," Dr. Gupta replied dispassionately. "Your optimal placement has always been at institutions where cheerleading receives priority funding and recognition."

Before Logan could object further, Dr. Gupta clicked to another screen, showing the applications themselves. Each was nearly complete, with "Early Childhood Education" listed as his intended major.

"Early childhood education?" he repeated in disbelief. "You're turning me into… a kindergarten teacher?"

"The career path aligns optimally with your restructured parameters," Dr. Gupta replied. "The nurturing skills and patience required for childhood education complement the cheerleading aesthetic while maximizing scholarship potential."

"I won't do this," Logan said, his voice tight with suppressed anger. "I won't sign those applications. You can't make me apply to these schools."

Dr. Gupta's expression didn't change, but her voice cooled several degrees. "Your participation in the application process is not optional. Should you resist, I should remind you that with one keystroke, I could initiate protocols to significantly reduce your cognitive capabilities."

Logan stared at her, stunned by the casual threat.

"We've preserved your intellectual capacity because you've offered minimal resistance thus far," Dr. Gupta continued. "Many subjects in your position are reconfigured for reduced cognitive function, focusing solely on physical performance metrics. Should compliance become an issue, your current intelligence would become a liability rather than an asset."

The implied threat hung in the air between them. Logan swallowed hard, suddenly aware of how much worse his situation could become. If he pushed back too much, or if Gupta figured out what was in his notebook, they'd turn him into an airheaded bimbo.

Dr. Gupta typed something on her keyboard, then turned the screen back toward him. "Your applications need to be submitted by the end of next week. I suggest you familiarize yourself with these institutions, as you will be expected to attend interviews with appropriate enthusiasm."

She handed the notebook back to him, oblivious that she was returning his singular act of defiance, his last tether to his true identity.

"You may go now," Dr. Gupta said, returning to her tablet.

The walk back to campus passed in a blur, Logan's mind reeling from the revelations. GIRLI wasn't just changing his appearance—they were transforming him from the inside out, replacing Logan Turner's ambitions and passions with Elle Turner's predetermined path. While they were technically fulfilling their promise to get him back on a college path, that path was going to be completely different from anything he had ever imagined for himself.

This violation cut deeper than the physical transformation. What he thought was his final refuge had itself turned out to be artificial. Even his minimal act of defiance was on GIRLI's terms.

Back in his dorm room, Logan sat cross-legged on his bed, laptop balanced on his knees as he focused on his English paper. The words flowed with disturbing ease, his analysis of identity transformation in Kafka's work practically writing itself. His fingers moved across the keyboard with fluid grace, crafting sentences that would have been beyond his capabilities just months ago.

"This is bullshit," he muttered, pushing the laptop aside. He couldn't even properly hate the assignment—some artificial part of him was actually enjoying the analysis, finding satisfaction in connecting themes and crafting arguments about literary symbolism. But now that he knew it was artificial, his eagerness clawed at him.

Needing a distraction, Logan reached for his phone and opened Instagram. Dr. Gupta had finally granted him limited internet access last week, reinstating his social media privileges with the stern warning that every keystroke, search, and interaction would be closely monitored.

The door opened and Alexis entered, casually throwing her backpack on her bed. "Hey! Just dropping off my books before I head back out," she said, grabbing her student council folder from her desk. She glanced at Logan's phone and smiled. "Scrolling through Insta again? Seriously, it's so great your mom finally relented. Not having socials would be, like, literal social suicide here."

"Yeah, totally," Logan replied, affecting Elle's casual tone. "She's still super strict though. Gets all the notifications and everything, but at least I'm not the only senior without an account anymore."

"The aesthetic we set up for your profile is perfect," Alexis said proudly. "Those filters we picked make you look absolutely fire in every pic."

"Thanks for helping me with all that," Logan said, very aware that Alexis had guided him through yet another aspect of teen girl life that now came second nature to him.

"That's what roomies are for! Gotta run though—the council meeting starts in five," Alexis said with a dramatic sigh before hurrying out the door, leaving Logan alone again. He scrolled through his feed, pausing on a selfie Alexis had posted of the two of them after yesterday's practice, his copper hair gleaming under the gym lights. The caption read: "Elite Squad prep with my bestie @flying.elle! Bringing our A-game for championships! 🤸‍♀️💙"

Logan tapped the likes, curious who was viewing these images of his transformed self. Mostly Westridge students, a few parents, some cheerleaders from rival schools. As he scrolled through the "suggested for you" section, a familiar face appeared—Kayla Chen. The algorithm had somehow connected them, perhaps through mutual connections or location data.

His ex-girlfriend. The woman who had almost recognized him at the mall months ago.

Before he could reconsider, Logan tapped her profile. Kayla's Instagram was exactly what he'd expect—medical school application updates, fitness photos, nights out with friends. He scrolled carefully, a strange voyeuristic feeling washing over him as he looked at the life that had continued without him.

Then he saw it. A photo from three weeks ago: Kayla with her arms wrapped around a tall, athletic guy in a Central State University lacrosse jersey. The caption read: "Six months with this amazing man! ❤️ Thank you for making every day brighter @jake.rodriguez."

Logan braced himself for the jealousy, the hurt, the ache of seeing his ex-girlfriend with someone new. He waited for the emotional impact that should come with seeing someone he had once loved moving on.

Nothing came.

He felt... nothing. Not jealousy. Not regret. Not even a mild twinge of romantic loss. He studied the photo with detached curiosity, noticing how Kayla's emerald dress complemented the guy's crimson jersey, how her earrings matched her bracelet. He was analyzing her aesthetic choices like a fashion magazine editor, not experiencing any lingering romantic attachment.

Confused, Logan scrolled further, finding a beach photo from summer—Kayla in a small bikini, laughing as waves crashed around her. The former Logan would have felt an immediate pull of attraction. The current Logan found himself thinking the teal color was flattering with her complexion. There was simply no stirring of desire whatsoever.

"What the hell?" he whispered to himself, uncertain what was happening.

An experiment. He needed to conduct an experiment.

Logan typed "model" into the search bar, bringing up countless photos of objectively attractive women. Nothing. No reaction. He felt like he was flipping through a clothing catalog, noticing colors and styles without any hint of attraction.

With overwhelming dread, he switched tactics, searching for male models instead. The results were identical—aesthetic appreciation of symmetrical features without any spark of desire. Good looking people, male or female, registered as exactly that—good looking, in the same way a sunset or painting might be beautiful. Nothing more.

The realization gave Logan a small amount of comfort. It wasn't that his attractions had shifted to men. But they had been neutralized entirely. The part of his brain that experienced sexual desire had been simply... turned off. Like a light switch flipped to darkness.

A notification appeared on his phone: Chase Montgomery, the star wide receiver who had saved him at the homecoming dance, had just followed him on Instagram. Seconds later, a DM from Chase appeared: "working on Kafka paper. could u pls share your thoughts on the symbolism? I'm stuck 😅"

-he should probably respond to Chase-

Logan stared at the message, feeling a flutter in his chest—not attraction, but the simple pleasure of attention, of knowing someone was thinking of him. The complete emotional neutrality toward romantic or sexual feelings was perhaps the most disturbing aspect of all these changes.

Late that night, Logan returned to his notebook, struggling to process everything he'd learned:

"The sea abandons salt to silver stone
While distant bells toll for what's left behind
Neither longing for moon nor sun
Compass needle spinning without direction
What remains when passion sleeps beneath the waves?
When voices not my own echo in empty halls?
The ghost ship sails on currents manufactured
By hands that never felt its wooden heart"

The words were both beautiful and haunting—an epitaph for the person he had been, written in the poetic voice he never would have developed without GIRLI's invasive reprogramming. The irony wasn't lost on him. Even his resistance was shaped by their modifications.

Logan closed the notebook carefully, tucking it into its hiding place as he heard Alexis's key in the lock. He quickly arranged his face into the pleasant, slightly vacant expression that had become his default.

"Hey! You're still up?" Alexis greeted cheerfully as she entered. "How's the paper coming?"

"Just finished," Logan replied with Elle's voice, Elle's smile, Elle's small hand gestures. "Ms. Brenner's going to love it."

"You're such a try-hard," Alexis laughed, but her tone was admiring. "Wanna help me with my math homework? I'm totally lost."

"For sure," Logan replied.

As he helped Alexis review her quadratic equations, Logan surprised himself by genuinely enjoying the teaching process. Though math wasn't his strongest subject anymore, he found unexpected satisfaction in breaking down complex ideas into simpler components, watching understanding dawn on Alexis's face as concepts clicked into place for her.

"You explain this way better than Mr. Peterson," Alexis said, completing a problem correctly. "You should seriously consider tutoring."

After Alexis finally went to sleep, Logan sat alone in the soft glow of his desk lamp. He opened his laptop and navigated to the college application portal Dr. Gupta had shown him earlier. The preset forms waited, cursor blinking patiently on the submit button for each carefully crafted application to cheer schools with Early childhood education programs.

His finger hovered over the mouse. Submitting these applications meant accepting the path GIRLI had chosen for him and acknowledging that Logan Turner's dreams were truly gone. Yet what choice did he have? Fight and lose what remained of his intelligence? Continue resisting only to be further modified into compliance?

With a deep breath, Logan clicked "Submit" on the first application to Plainview University, a mid-sized school known for its championship-winning "Crimson Spirit" cheer program but located in a remote farming community hours from any major city.

Then he submitted his application to Riverdale College, with its aging facilities but nationally ranked cheerleading team that consistently outshone its mediocre Division II football program.

Golden Coast University followed, a sprawling party school with mediocre academics but an elite cheer program with direct pipelines to professional entertainment and theme park performance teams. He clicked "submit."

One by one, he submitted to each school, each click representing another piece of his former identity abandoned. Mountain View Christian College, known more for its religious conservatism than academics but boasting impressive cheer facilities funded by alumni donations.

East Coast Performing Arts Institute, barely accredited but with direct connections to professional cheerleading teams.

Lakeside Community College, a two-year associates program with limited transfer options but whose "Lakeside Lightning" cheer team had become an unexpected social media sensation with their viral routines.

Prairie State University, a large agricultural school with solid STEM programs but better known nationally for its cheer team's appearances in televised competitions than any academic achievements.

By the seventh and final submission to Sterling Ridge College—an exclusive women's college but which had strategically invested in cheer scholarships to boost enrollment—he felt oddly calm, the resistance draining from him like air from a punctured balloon.

The word "Submit" glowed on each application button, its double meaning not lost on him. He was submitting applications, yes, but with each click, he was also submitting to GIRLI itself—surrendering to their vision for his future, accepting the path they had engineered for him. Just as his body had bowed to their chemical treatments and his brain had succumbed to their neural programming, now his future was capitulating to their master plan.

There was an awful symmetry to it—GIRLI had demanded his surrender at every level: body, mind, and now destiny. Each click of "Submit" represented another territory lost in their methodical conquest of who he was.

The most disturbing part wasn't that GIRLI had changed him—it was that he was beginning to forget why he should care. As his computer confirmed the successful submissions, Logan wondered how much of himself still existed beneath Elle's copper hair.

As he closed his laptop and prepared for bed, a terrifying question surfaced: Would he eventually stop caring about the difference?