Another Day (8 page)

Forget about everyone else laughing. Now I want to laugh. This can’t be happening. It can’t.

She’s going to tell me more. She’s going to push it further. She’s going to say my name like that again, and I am going to hear music in it I shouldn’t hear.

I hold up my hand. “No more,” I insist. “Not now.” And then it’s there—the answer I don’t want, the benefit against the doubt. “Tomorrow. I’ll give you tomorrow. Because that’s one way to know, isn’t it? If what you say is happening is really happening—I mean, I need more than a day.”

I’m waiting for her to put up a fight. I’m waiting for her to argue it some more. Or maybe this is the part where the camera crew comes out and I discover my humiliation has all been filmed for some cruel TV show.

But no.

None of that happens.

All that happens is that she thanks me. Genuine thanks. Thankful thanks.

“Don’t thank me until I show up,” I warn her. “This is all really confusing.”

“I know,” she says.

It’s my life.

I have to go. But then I turn back one last time to look at her, and I see how she’s on the border between hope and devastation. It’s that visible to me. And even though the alarms are loud and clear in my head, I feel I can’t leave her like this. I want to push her a little closer to hope and a little farther from devastation.

“The thing is,” I say, “I didn’t really feel it was him that day. Not completely. And ever since then, it’s like he wasn’t there. He has no memory of it. There are a million possible explanations for that, but there it is.”

“There it is,” she echoes. There’s no bragging in her voice. No trickery.

It can’t be real, but it’s real to her.

Fact. Feeling.

I shake my head.

“Tomorrow,” she says.

Now it’s my turn to echo. “Tomorrow,” I tell her, committing myself to something I feel like I became committed to a long time ago. Tomorrow. A word I’ve used for as long as I knew what it meant.

But now…now it feels like it means something different.

Now it feels like it means something slightly new.

I don’t text Justin. I don’t call him.

No, I go straight to his house and pound on the door.

His parents are still at work. I know he’s the only one home. It takes him a couple of minutes, but he opens the door. He’s surprised to see me.

“We weren’t supposed to be doing something, were we?” he asks.

“No,” I tell him. “I just need to talk to you for a second.”

“Um…okay. Do you want to come in?”

“Sure.”

He takes me into the den, where his warfare game is paused. I have to move the controller to clear a seat next to him.

“What’s up?” he asks.

“It’s about last week. I need to talk to you about it.”

He looks confused. Or maybe just impatient.

“What about last week?”

“When we went to the beach. Do you remember that?”

“Of course I remember that.”

“What songs played as we drove there?”

He looks at me like I’ve just asked him about rocket science. “How the fuck am I supposed to remember what songs were playing?”

“Was it cold or warm?”

“You were there. Don’t you know?”

“You told me a story about climbing a tree when you were eleven. Do you remember that?”

He snorts. “I could barely climb a ladder when I was eleven—I don’t think I was climbing any trees. Why are you asking me this?”

“But you remember being there, right?”

“Sure. There was sand. There was water. It was a beach.”

I don’t understand. He has some memory. But not all of it.

I decide to try a lie.

“You were so nice to me when I was stung by that jellyfish. God, that hurt. But I liked the way you carried me back to the car.”

“I wasn’t going to leave you there!” he says. “You’re easy to carry.”

He wasn’t there. He was there—but he wasn’t there.

I am so confused.

His hand is brushing over my knee, up my leg.

“I can carry you somewhere now, if you want.”

He’s coming in for a kiss. His lips are against mine. His body is starting to press.

This is not what I want, and he has no idea.

And I don’t know how to explain, so I kiss him back.

Acceleration. His hand going under my shirt. His tongue in my mouth. The cigarette taste of him. The sweat and grit on his hand from the controller.

I know it’s really bad to pull away. That it will hurt him if I pull away. But I pull away. Not far. But enough.

He pulls back in reaction. “What? I figure, if you came all this way…”

“I can’t,” I tell him. “I’ve got too much going on in my head. I’m not in the mood.”

He moves his thumb slowly against my breast. “I believe I know ways to put you in the mood.”

Usually my body reaches out for this.

“Stop,” I say.

He’s not a jerk. When I say stop, he stops. But he doesn’t look happy about it.

“Are you getting tired of me?” he asks.

He wants it to sound like he’s joking. And I could point out that if he’d stayed sober on Saturday night, we could have done something then. But is that really true? After dancing with Nathan, would I really have had sex with Justin?

I know what I’m supposed to say, and I say it: “No, I could never get tired of you.” I kiss him again, but it’s clearly a goodbye kiss. “I’m tired, yes. But not of you.”

I stand up, and he doesn’t get up to walk me out. Instead, he grabs the controller, unpausing his game.

I’ve hurt him. I didn’t mean to, but I have.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says.

Tomorrow. The version he’s offering isn’t the same as the one the girl—A—offered.

I guess I’m not going to know which tomorrow I’m stepping into until I actually get there.

I fall asleep right after dinner and wake up right before midnight. And in that waking moment, I think:
I want to go back there. I want to go back to that day when everything was perfect, and Justin was everything I want him to be.

Even if it wasn’t Justin.

I can’t believe I am allowing myself to think this. I can’t believe I’m opening my email. I can’t believe I am typing.

A,

I want to believe you, but I don’t know how.

Rhiannon

I can’t believe I am hitting send.

But I do.

And I guess this means there is a part of me that believes.

I check my email again at lunch.

Rhiannon,

You don’t need to know how. You just make up your mind and it happens.

I am in Laurel right now, over an hour away. I am in the body of a football player named James. I know how strange that sounds. But, like everything I’ve told you, it’s the truth.

Love,

A

A football player named James. Either this is the most elaborate prank ever pulled on a stupid girl or it’s real. These are the only two options. Trick or truth. I am trying hard to think of another explanation, but there’s nothing in the middle.

The only way to know is to play along.

A,

Do you have a car? If not, I can come to you. There’s a Starbucks in Laurel. I’m told that nothing bad ever happens in a Starbucks. Let me know if you want to meet there.

Rhiannon

A few minutes later, a reply:

Rhiannon,

I would appreciate it if you could come here. Thank you.

A

I have to excuse myself to go to the girls’ room because I can see Rebecca’s wondering who I’m emailing in the middle of lunch. The answer is so ridiculous that I can’t even think of a good lie to cover for it.

Safe in a stall, I type back:

A,

I’ll be there at 5. Can’t wait to see what you look like today.

(Still not believing this.)

Rhiannon

And then I am standing there, the girl in the stall with the phone out, staring at the screen that doesn’t even hold the message she typed, since it’s already flown away, into the hands of someone she doesn’t really know. There is nothing that can make you feel quite so dumb as wanting something good to be true. That’s the horrifying part—that I want this to be true. I want him—her? him?—to exist.

I promise myself I won’t think about it until five o’clock, and then I break that promise a thousand times.

Even Justin can tell I’m distracted. The moment when I least need him to pay attention, he finds me after school and is concerned.

“I missed you today,” he says. His hands move to my back and he starts to work the tension from the muscles there. It feels good. And he’s doing it in the middle of the hall, right by our lockers, which isn’t something he usually does.

“I missed you, too,” I say, even though it doesn’t feel entirely true.

“Let’s go find a Girl Scout and get some cookies,” he says.

I laugh, then realize he means it.

“And where will you find a Girl Scout?” I ask.

“Three doors down from me. I swear, she has a vault full of Thin Mints. Sometimes there are lines on her porch. She’s like a dealer.”

I have time for this. It’s not even three yet. If I get on the road by four, I should be fine to get to the Starbucks in Laurel by five.

“Does she have Samoas, too?”

“Are those the coconut ones or the peanut butter ones?”

“Coconut.”

“I’m sure she has them all. Seriously. She’s a cartel.”

I can tell he’s excited. Usually I can find complaints waiting in the corners of his words or gestures. But right now, they’re nowhere in sight.

He’s happy, and part of the reason he’s happy is because he’s happy to see me.

“Let’s go,” I say.

We park our cars in his driveway and then walk three doors down. He doesn’t hold my hand or anything, but it still feels like we’re together.

The girl who answers the door can’t be older than eleven, and she’s so small that I’m amazed her mom lets her answer the door at all.

“Have you placed a preorder?” she asks, pulling out an iPad.

This cracks Justin up. “No. This is more of a drive-by.”

“Then I can’t promise availability,” the girl states. “That’s why we encourage preorders.” She reaches for a table next to the door and hands us a cookie listing, as well as a business card with a website address on it. “But since you’re here, I am happy to see what I can do. Just note that the prerefrigerated Thin Mints are preorder only.”

Justin doesn’t even look at the paper. “We’d like a box of Samosas,” he says. “The coconut ones.”

“I believe you mean
Samoas,
” the girl corrects. “I am going to have to close and lock the door while I check inventory. Are you sure you only want one box? A lot of people say they only want one, and then they’re back the next day for more.”

“Mia, you know I live down the street. Just get us the box.”

Mia is clearly considering a harder sell, then thinks better of it. “One moment,” she says, then shuts the door in our faces.

“Her parents once got so desperate that they asked me to babysit,” Justin tells me. “And I was so desperate for cash that I said yes. She offered me cookies, then left a note for her mother to take the cost of the cookies out of my pay. I set the note on fire and dropped it in the sink. I don’t think she appreciated that.”

I can’t imagine asking Justin to babysit. And I can also imagine him being the most fun babysitter ever, if you didn’t try to bill him.

Mia returns with our box of Samoas. Justin takes the box from her hand and starts to walk away without paying, which makes Mia turn purple in outrage. Then Justin says, “Just kidding,” turns back, and gives her the cash in singles.

“Next time,
preorder,
” she tells both of us before slamming the door again.

“Not the sweetest girl,” Justin comments as we head back to his house. “But she gives good cookie.”

Instead of going inside, Justin leads me to the backyard. His mom has a small garden with a bench. He takes me there.

“Samoa for your thoughts,” he says, pulling open the box and the plastic.

“My only thought is:
I want a Samoa,
” I tell him.

“Here,” he says, putting one between his teeth. I lean in and snatch it up.

“Yum,” I say, mouth full.

He pops one into his own mouth. “Yeah, yum,” he agrees, some coconut falling into the air between us. After he swallows, he says, “I imagine we taste the same right now.”

I smile. “I imagine we’re both pretty coconutty. And chocolatey. And caramelly.”

“There’s only one way to know for sure.”

He goes in for the kiss and I let him take it. I tell myself this is what I want. Just like the ocean. Just like a couple.

He pulls away. “Yum.”

“Give me another.”

He presses in for another kiss. I push him away and say, “I meant another cookie.” He laughs. I appreciate the laugh.

Instead of insisting on the kiss, he passes me the box of cookies. I take two.

They’re really good, much better than I remembered them being. Sweet and rough.

“Don’t get too hooked,” Justin warns. “That’s how Mia gets you. Before you know it, you’re preordering by the dozens. And then, even worse, you’re insisting that they be
refrigerated.
”

“You speak like someone who knows. I’ll bet your fridge is full of Thin Mints.”

“Oh, no. It’s worse than that. I only eat the fat mints now.”

Why are you in such a good mood?
I want to ask him. And then I want to ask myself,
Why do you have to question this?

“Wanna see my stash?” he asks.

“I’ve already seen your stash.”

“And what do you think?”

“It’s
huge.
”

We’re being silly, but that’s nice. Even though we’ve been together for a while, it’s still nice to flirt, and to feel the lightness of flirting.

I don’t want to tell him I can’t stay long. I know that will make it less exciting than it was a minute ago.

So I don’t say anything. But I also don’t make a move to go inside. I kiss him here, on the bench. I kiss him here and feel awful because one of the reasons I am kissing him here is because I know it’ll be easier to leave if we’re already outside.

He doesn’t sense it, though. He is kissing me back. He is happy. He is sure to move the precious box of cookies out of our way as we crash into each other.

I begin to convince myself that this is what I want. This is where I am meant to be. I am only going to see A in order to get the explanation. But that is not my life. This is my life. Justin is my life.

I get there late. I’ve had an hour to straighten myself out, calm myself down, make myself appear to be a girl who has not just spent an hour making out with her boyfriend. I’ve also been thinking of questions to ask, ways to know whether what A is saying is true. I mean, it can’t be true. But I’m looking for ways to prove that.

When I get to the Starbucks, I’m expecting the girl from yesterday to be there. Or Nathan. Someone to tell me, ha ha, it was a joke. But neither of them is there. Instead, there’s this guy—a big football player of a guy. Not my type. Almost scary in his size. But he looks gentle when he waves to me.

Again, my perspective changes when I look into his eyes. All the assumptions fall away.

I take a deep breath. I know I need to settle this. I try to remember my plan.

“Okay,” I say as soon as I get to his table and sit down. “Before we say another word, I want to see your phone. I want to see every single call you’ve made in the past week, and every single call you received. If this isn’t some big joke, then you have nothing to hide.”

I can’t imagine that after being with me so sweetly, Justin would have set this up. But I want to make sure his number isn’t on the phone. I want to see if there are any texts or calls on there from yesterday.

I search around. I look at the contacts. I don’t find any phone calls from yesterday. The two texts are from friends of his. There’s nothing about me anywhere.

So there’s that.

I hand back the phone and tell him it’s time for me to quiz him. I start by asking what I was wearing that day on the beach.

Worry flashes in his eyes.

“I don’t know,” he says after half a minute. “Do you remember what Justin was wearing?”

I try to remember. But what I remember instead is the feeling, the wonder of it all. Not the clothes.

“Good point,” I say. “Did we make out?”

He shakes his head. “We used the make-out blanket, but we didn’t make out. We kissed. And that was enough.”

I note his use of the phrase
make-out blanket.
And the fact that he doesn’t make too much of a deal of it.

“And what did I say to you before I left the car?” I ask.

“ ‘That’s the nice note.’ ”

“Correct. Quick, what’s Steve’s girlfriend’s name?”

“Stephanie.”

“And what time did the party end?”

“Eleven-fifteen.”

“And when you were in the body of that girl who I took to all of my classes, what did the note you passed me say?”

“Something like,
The classes here are just as boring as in the school I’m going to now.
”

“And what were the buttons on your backpack that day?”

“Anime kittens.”

I try to think of a way he could know all this, from all those different people. Short of him being able to read my mind, I can’t explain it.

“Well,” I say, “either you’re an excellent liar, or you switch bodies every day. I have no idea which one is true.”

“It’s the second one,” he assures me. Then he looks concerned again. “Let’s go outside,” he whispers. “I feel we may be getting an unintended audience.”

I can’t see the person he’s talking about, but I can see other people who could easily be listening to us. Still, his proposal is a little too step-into-my-van for my taste.

“Maybe if you were a petite cheerleader again,” I tell him. “But—I’m not sure if you fully realize this—you’re a big, threatening dude today. My mother’s voice is very loud and clear in my head:
No dark corners.
”

He points out the window, to a bench along the road. “Totally public, only without people listening in.”

“Fine,” I say.

I’m trying to think of new questions as we walk outside. I haven’t even gotten any coffee, but it doesn’t seem like the right time to stop for a latte.

He seems nervous. And if I’m honest, I know it’s not a serial-killer nervousness. It feels like the only thing that could be killed here are his hopes. I have never seen a boy hope so visibly. I wonder if he knows he’s doing it.

Distance. I let him sit down first so I can keep a little distance. So I can look into those eyes without falling into them. So I can keep some judgment.

I want to know more, so I need to ask more. If he’s going to convince me, he’s going to have to tell me much more.

“So,” I resume, “you say you’ve been like this since the day you were born?”

He hesitates for a brief moment. I get a sense that he doesn’t have conversations like this very often.

Well, I don’t, either.

“Yes,” he says quietly. “I can’t remember it being any different.”

“So how did that work? Weren’t you confused?”

Again, he thinks about it for a second, then answers. “I guess I got used to it. I’m sure that, at first, I figured it was just how everybody’s lives worked. I mean, when you’re a baby, you don’t really care much about who’s taking care of you, as long as someone’s taking care of you. And as a little kid, I thought it was some kind of a game, and my mind learned how to access—you know, look at the body’s memories—naturally. So I always knew what my name was, and where I was. It wasn’t until I was six or seven that I started to realize I was different, and it wasn’t until I was nine or ten that I really wanted it to stop.”