Another Day (12 page)

“Who is this?”

I try to think of a name that isn’t mine. “It’s Mia. I’m a friend of hers?”

“Well, Kelsea isn’t here right now. And she won’t be using her phone for a few days. If you leave a message there, though, I’m sure she’ll get back to you. Just give it some time.”

I risk it and ask, “Is she okay? I’m just a little…concerned.”

“She’s somewhere getting help,” he says. “It’s going to be okay.” He pauses; this is new ground for him. “I know it’ll mean a lot to hear from her friends. It’s good of you to call.”

He’s not going to tell me more, and that’s fine. This is enough to know.

“Thank you,” I say. I want to tell him he did the right thing. But I don’t want to make too much of an impression.

I’m already the friend who isn’t really there.

I’m home late. I have to walk Justin to his door because he’s so out of it. I wonder if his mom is awake.

“Thank you,” he says quietly. “My grandmother is an amazing lady, and you’re not too bad yourself.”

“Don’t give your mom a hard time,” I tell him.

He raises his fingers in a salute. “Yes, ma’am.” Then he leans over and kisses me good night. I’m surprised, and he can tell I’m surprised.

“Night, ma’am,” he says. Then he disappears inside.

I email A when I get back to my house.

A,

Sorry I couldn’t make it to Annapolis—there were some things I had to do.

Maybe tomorrow?

R

It’s Sunday. Justin won’t be up for a while. We haven’t made plans. My parents won’t leave the house.

I’m free.

I tell my mom I have errands to run, then email A and ask if he wants to be one of my errands.

Yes,
he writes back.
A million times yes.

I am just going to do this,
I tell myself as I make all the arrangements, as I come up with plans.

I am not going to think about it.

I am not going to think about what it means.

I am just going to do it, and be with A, and see what it means as it happens.

A’s told me he (she?) is a girl named Ashley today. I’ve gotten directions to her house. I know she’ll be waiting when I pull up.

I guess I’m picturing the girl A was when I first met her (him?). Pretty, but not overwhelmingly so. Someone I could be friends with. Someone I could be.

But holy shit, not this girl.

She comes out of the house and I’m like,
What kind of music video am I living in?
Because this girl is smoking hot. She looks like she should travel with backup singers. And photographers. And three stylists. And a small dog. And Jay-Z.

This is the kind of girl you never see in real life. You can almost pretend girls like this don’t really exist. They’re computer-generated by fashion magazines to make you feel lame.

Only this girl is
real.

And I know I shouldn’t care—this isn’t a contest. But really? I already feel fat, and she isn’t even at the car yet.

The one thing she doesn’t have is a
walk.
A girl like this should have a walk. But I guess that’s A inside. Stomping when he should sashay.

When she gets in the car and I see her up close, I have to laugh. Even her skin is perfect. All I’m asking for is a simple fucking pimple.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I say.

She makes putting a seat belt on look sexy. Jesus.

She sees me laughing and asks, “What?”

She doesn’t get it.

“What?”
I repeat. Like A doesn’t realize how amazing she is today.

She holds up her hand, defending her reaction. “You have to understand—you’re the first person to ever know me in more than one body. I’m not used to this. I don’t know how you’re going to react.”

Okay. I may have forgotten that. But still.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “It’s just that you’re this super hot black girl. It makes it very hard for me to have a mental image of you. I keep having to change it.”

“Picture me however you want to picture me. Because odds are, that’ll be more true than any of the bodies you see me in.”

She makes it sound easy. It’s not easy. Especially with a pretty girl.

“I think my imagination needs a little more time to catch up to the situation, okay?” I say.

She nods. Even her nod is stunning. Not fair at all. “Okay. Now, where to?”

I’ve given this some thought. And I am not going to change the plan just because of the body in my passenger seat.

“Since we’ve already been to the ocean,” I say, “I figured today we’d go to a forest.”

So much for not thinking about it.

As we’re driving, all I can do is think about it. About her. About A inside her body. We’re talking—I’m telling her about the phone call with Kelsea’s father and the party last night, and she’s telling me about the parade she went to yesterday, in the body of a gay boy with a boyfriend. But even as we’re talking, my mind is racing with all kinds of thoughts. And the pathetic thing is that I know if A looked like Nathan today, I wouldn’t be having any of these thoughts. It would feel normal, because I’d be out with a normal boy.

But this is so different. Too different. Even though when she looks at me, I can feel A inside, it’s not easy to separate the two. And it’s not easy to realize this is part of the lottery. Some days, A is going to be like this.

I don’t see where I could possibly fit into a life like that.

I don’t want to kiss her. I could never kiss her.

So there’s that.

But I can talk to her and not worry that I’m talking too much, or talking too little, or saying the wrong thing. It’s like my life is usually lived behind this veil of judgment, and A manages to pull back the veil, seeing me more truthfully than anyone else.

I tell myself to notice that. To remember it. To not get so caught up in how attractive she is that I forget everything else.

I take us to this national park that I know has picnic benches. I’ve planned a picnic for two—and even if Ashley looks like she eats half a meal a day, I’m hoping A will find a way to eat like the rest of us. There are a few other people in the park, but I try to avoid them. This day is meant to be ours.

My phone is off. I am here, now.

“I love this place,” A tells me.

“You’ve never been here before?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “Not that I can remember. Although it’s possible. At a certain point, it all blurs together. There are a lot of days when I haven’t really paid attention.”

I know she’s paying attention now. She smiles at me as I turn off the car. She watches as I head to the trunk. She seems delighted when I pull out the picnic hamper.

The hamper came with a blanket, and I put it over the picnic table like a tablecloth—because, when it all comes down to it, I don’t like sitting on the ground if a table is an option. Then I put out all the food I bought—nothing big, just a lot of small things, like chips and salsa and cheese and bread and hummus and olives.

“Are you a vegetarian?” A asks.

I nod.

“Why?”

I am so tired of this question. Shouldn’t it be the meat eaters who are asked why? And it’s always like they’re expecting this crazy answer. So I decide to give the craziest answer I can think of.

I keep a straight face and say, “Because I have this theory that when we die, every animal that we’ve eaten has a chance at eating us back. So if you’re a carnivore and you add up all the animals you’ve eaten—well, that’s a long time in purgatory, being chewed.”

It’s funny to see Ashley’s perfect features contort into a grimace. “Really?” she asks.

I laugh. “No. I’m just sick of the question. I mean, I’m vegetarian because I think it’s wrong to eat other sentient creatures. And it sucks for the environment.”

“Fair enough,” she says.

I’m not sure I’ve persuaded her.

Maybe over time I can,
I think.

Then I think,
What?

I shouldn’t be thinking of anything over time. It’s just one day plus another day plus another day. Maybe.

When things get bad with Justin, the question I find myself asking is: What’s the point? Like, why put ourselves through all this? Why try to squeeze two people into the shape of a couple? Are the things you gain really worth the things you lose?

Now I’m asking myself the same things about A. We’re talking about favorite foods, and the best meals we’ve ever had, and the foods we hate the most—when she asks me all these questions, I enjoy answering, and when I ask her questions back, I enjoy the answers she gives me. If this were a date, it would be going really well. But there’s a part of me that’s standing outside of it, that’s looking at it as it happens, and that part is asking,
What is this? What’s the point?

When we’re done eating, we pack the leftovers in the hamper and return it to the trunk. Then, without discussing what we’re going to do next, we walk into the woods. The paths aren’t obvious—we find our way through the trees by heading into them, looking for the widest distances, the clearest ground.

When we’re alone, when we’re walking like this, all of the conversation that’s been happening on the outside moves to the center of our minds.
What is this?
I know I can’t answer it alone.

“I need to know what you want,” I say.

She doesn’t seem surprised by the request. If it were Justin, I know I’d get a
What’s gotten into you?
But A answers without missing a beat.

“I want us to be together,” she (he?) tells me.

She says it like it’s easy. But there’s no way my mind can turn it into something easy. Not when she’s in a different body every day. I can have a conversation with any of them, I’m sure. But when it comes to chemistry, when it comes to making that part of me come alive—I know some days are going to work and some aren’t. Like now. She has to see that.

“But we can’t be together,” I say. I’m amazed by how calm I sound. “You realize that, don’t you?”

“No,” she says. “I don’t realize that.”

Frustrating. It’s like talking to a child who still believes that proclaiming something out loud can make it real. I wish I could believe like that.

I stop walking and put my hand on her shoulder. The truth hurts to say, especially because she looks so unready to hear it.

“You need to realize it,” I tell her. “I can care about you. You can care about me. But we can’t be together.”

“Why?”

“Why?” It’s exasperating to have to spell it out. “Because one morning you could wake up on the other side of the country. Because I feel like I’m meeting a new person every time I see you. Because you can’t be there for me. Because I don’t think I can like you no matter what. Not like this.”

“Why can’t you like me like this?”

“It’s too much. You’re too perfect right now. I can’t imagine being with someone like…you.”

“But don’t look at her—look at me.”

I am. I
am
looking at her.

“I can’t see beyond her, okay?” I say. “And there’s also Justin. I have to think of Justin.”

“No, you don’t.”

This makes me angry. Whatever Justin and I have, it can’t be dismissed in a single sentence.

“You don’t know, okay? How many waking hours were you in there? Fourteen? Fifteen? Did you really get to know everything about him while you were in there? Everything about me?”

“You like him because he’s a lost boy. Believe me, I’ve seen it happen before. But do you know what happens to girls who love lost boys? They become lost themselves. Without fail.”

I don’t want to hear this. “You don’t know me—”

“But I know how this works!” Her voice is loud, certain. “I know what he’s like. He doesn’t care about you nearly as much as you care about him. He doesn’t care about you nearly as much as I care about you.”

I can’t hear this. What good is hearing this?

“Stop! Just stop.”

But she won’t. “What do you think would happen if he met me in this body? What if the three of us went out? How much attention do you think he’d pay you? Because he doesn’t care about who you are. I happen to think you are about a thousand times more attractive than Ashley is. But do you really think he’d be able to keep his hands to himself if he had a chance?”

“He’s not like that,” I say. Because he’s not.

“Are you sure? Are you really sure?”

“Fine,” I say. “Let me call him.”

I don’t know why I’m doing this, but I’m doing it. I take out my phone. Turn it on. Call him.

“Hullo,” he answers.

“Hi!” I’m too cheery. I take it down a notch. “I don’t know what you’re up to tonight, but I have this friend in town I’d love for you to meet. Maybe we could all get dinner?”

“Dinner? What time is it?”

“It’s only two now. Maybe at six? At the Clam Casino? I’ll treat.”

“Okay. Sounds good.”

“Great! I’ll see you then!”

I hang up before he can ask me who my friend is. I’ll have to think of a story.

“Happy?” I ask A.

“I have no idea,” she replies.

“Me either.” Because now that I’m thinking about it, I’m wondering what I’ve just done.

“When are we meeting him?”

“Six.”

“Okay,” she says. “In the meantime, I want to tell you everything, and I want you to tell me everything in return.”

Everything.

I start when I was born. My father was away for business and my mother was all alone in the hospital. She knew I was going to be a girl. One night my father, after a few beers, told me the story of how she called my name as I was being born. As if I would hear her calling. As if he were there in the room to know what she said.

We moved around a lot when I was really young, but I don’t remember much of it. My first memory is actually of Liza hiding with me under our parents’ bed. I remember her telling me to be quiet. I remember seeing their feet, hearing their voices looking for us. I don’t remember being found.

I give A all these little Lego-like details, and don’t have any idea what they build. But I can see A building something—a story—as I hand them over. I can see A putting it together, and wanting to.

I ask her when she first knew about being the way she is. She tells me that until she was four or five, she just assumed she was normal—she assumed everyone woke up every day with new parents, in a new house, with a new body. Because when you’re young, people are willing to reintroduce the world to you each day. If you get something wrong, they’ll correct you. If there’s a blank, they’ll fill it in for you. You’re not expected to know that much about your life.

“There was never that big a disturbance,” she tells me. “I didn’t think of myself as a boy or a girl—I never have. I would just think of myself as a boy or a girl for a day. It was like a different set of clothes. The thing that ended up tripping me up was the concept of tomorrow. Because after a while, I started to notice—people kept talking about doing things tomorrow. Together. And if I argued, I would get strange looks. For everyone else, there always seemed to be a tomorrow together. But not for me. I’d say,
You won’t be there,
and they’d say,
Of course I’ll be there.
And then I’d wake up, and they wouldn’t be. And my new parents would have no idea why I was so upset.”

I try to imagine going through that, but I can’t really. I don’t think I could ever get used to it.

A continues. “There were only two options—something was wrong with everyone else, or something was wrong with me. Because either they were tricking themselves into thinking there was a tomorrow together, or I was the only person who was leaving.”