M: I’m not sure. I would look in the mirror in the morning and I’d think, That isn’t me. Which was true. It wasn’t me. And that’s how I’d start the day. Knowing I wasn’t me. And I guess what changed was that after a while, I realized that most people who look in the mirror don’t think, That is me. That is me exactly. Most of them think, That isn’t me. And I guess it made me feel a little better, to know they thought that, too.
NATHAN
Rhiannon texts me on Sunday night to say she’ll call me on Monday morning.
I’m not sure Rhiannon fully appreciates what it’s like to have a body-shifting madman threatening to kill you and the people you love, because by the time second period comes around, I still haven’t heard from her, and I’m worried I may seriously compromise the learning atmosphere of third period with the loudness of my palpitations, so I slip into the restroom to shoot off a few texts, and then finally call her, even though I think it’s just wrong to make a call from a toilet, even if you’re not using it. I’m worried that somehow she’ll know. But I’m more worried that she’ll never call.
She picks up after the fourth ring. It’s 9:34 and it sounds like I’ve woken her up.
“Hello? Nathan? What time is it?”
I tell her.
“Oh, shit! I got in so late and was going to just nap for an hour….I guess it lasted longer than that. I gotta get to school. The whole point was for me to not miss school.”
“Rhiannon?”
“Nathan?”
“What am I supposed to tell our malevolent friend?”
“Tell him A’s thinking about it.”
“Thinking about it. That’s not going to go over very well.”
“Point out that it’s not a no.”
“I believe in anger management terms, what you’re doing is called poking the bear. Which is very easy for you and A to do, because you won’t be in the room. But I’m the one who’s left holding the bear.”
“Well, while you’re poking, poke around as well. Find out anything you can about him. Anything that can help us.”
“Anything that can help us do what?”
“Stop him.”
I don’t like the sound of that.
“Please. Hold right there. Because anything you tell me after that is going to be completely written on my face when I see him, and he may very well knock my face off in order to have a transcript.”
“Okay. I’ve gotta go anyway. Let us know how it goes.”
“Is there anything else you’d like me to do for you? Get you a latte? Jump off a bridge?”
Rhiannon sighs in frustration—but at least I can tell she’s frustrated with herself, not me.
“Sorry. Thank you, Nathan. Honestly, I’m just waking up.”
“Is A there with you?”
“No. A’s somewhere else.”
“Where?”
“I don’t want it written on your face. Just know it’s nowhere near here.”
“What a coincidence—that’s exactly where I wish I were!”
“Nathan. Really. Thank you. You’re one of the good guys.”
“At least until proven otherwise!”
We say goodbye and I flush the toilet, as if I need to provide a bathroom alibi for some unknown audience.
Okay, I half expect New Poole to come out of the stall next to mine, to say he’s heard everything.
But instead there’s just some freshman at the sink. From the way he’s looking at me like I’m totally unhinged, I can tell he’s not New Poole.
* * *
—
He hasn’t given me a phone number or anything—just in case, I guess, he wants to try on a new life while he’s waiting for my call. But he wanted an answer today, so I’m sure he’ll find me one way or another.
It’s for this reason that I avoid going to the library after school. Of course I’m curious about whether Jaiden’s there, or whether she’s a strictly weekend Library Stalker Girl. But the presence of Poole 2.0 would definitely be a dating downer.
I drive to the mall instead. I have as much use for the mall as I do for a lobotomy or a condom (meaning I’m not having sex, not that I’m having sex without condoms). As I’m driving there, I see a car following me, and after a few turns, I’m pretty sure I know the driver. At a stoplight, I type the license plate into my phone, although what I will actually do with this information, I have no idea. Rhiannon wanted me to pay attention, poke around. I think a license plate should count for that.
There’s a spot right by the mall entrance, and there are lots of moms with strollers in the vicinity, so I figure this is about as safe as a mall parking lot gets. I go inside and head to the food court, figuring it highly unlikely that Mr. Poole Party is going to brain me in view of the Sbarro staff.
I’m only alone at my table for about thirty-seven seconds before Poole’s frat-boy version sits down across from me.
“I hope you have something for me,” he says.
I don’t know if it’s out of nervousness, or out of the fact that my answer to his question is not really, but for whatever reason, the next words out of my mouth are, “Do you want coffee? I want coffee.”
Before he can react, I’m out of my seat and headed to the Starbucks. There’s a short line, but I put him off by studying the menu. I order a mocha Frappuccino—with whipped cream, because, hey, it’s a special occasion—and pay with a credit card, slowly putting it into the chip slot. The power of suggestion is very strong, because instead of pushing me along, Poole Boy orders his own Frappuccino (no whipped cream—whatever) and pays with his own card. And that’s when I get to see the name on the card—Wyatt Giddings.
License plate: check. Name: check.
You’re welcome, Rhiannon.
It is, admittedly, awkward as we wait for our drink orders. He’s pretending not to know me, but at the same time not letting me out of his sight.
Once I get my drink, I head back to our table. He joins me a minute later.
“Why wouldn’t you get the extra calories and the joy of whipped cream? It’s not like it’s your waistline.”
It appears my don’t-let-him-see-how-full-on-frightened-you-are gambit is working, because he’s actually at a loss for words for a second. I guess he’s not used to sitting at the food court, shooting the breeze about his body-hopping.
“Do you have a message for me?” he finally asks.
“Yeah. Rhiannon has been in touch with A. And A is thinking about it.”
“Thinking about it?”
“Those were her exact words. I don’t know anything more than that.”
Poole looks like he’s about to crush his Frappuccino in his hand.
“That’s not good enough,” he growls.
“That’s all I got. At least for now.”
“I said…that’s not good enough.”
“I heard you the first time. Don’t shoot the messenger.”
“You have no idea what I will do to the messenger if he keeps delivering answers like this.”
“Here? In the food court? That can’t possibly be allowed. Plus…”
I stop there, to see what will happen. After about three impatient seconds, he says, “Plus?”
“Plus, you can’t hurt me right now.”
“And why is that?”
“Because I’m the only link to A you’ve got.”
He starts to get up. “I’ll give you twenty-four more hours. I will meet you back here tomorrow, and if you don’t have a meeting set up, I will do whatever I want to you.”
“Can I ask you a question?”
He’s standing now, but doesn’t leave.
“What?”
“What’s your name? I keep thinking of you as Reverend Poole, though obviously that name reached its expiration date. Who are you now?”
“Why does it matter?”
“What a person’s name is? I happen to think it matters a lot. I want to know what to call you when I talk about you.”
“My name right now is Wyatt.”
“Well, hello, Wyatt. I’m guessing you don’t hang out at the mall very much. Did you when you were a teenager?”
“How do you know I’m not still a teenager? Or maybe I never was a teenager. You’ve seen me at all kinds of ages.”
“I guess I just assumed. Silly me.”
Poke around. Don’t poke.
“Is it weird that I’m talking to you, knowing that Wyatt isn’t you? Does that happen to you a lot, when people actually know the deal going into the interaction?”
“No,” he says. I’m not sure which question he’s answering.
I’m trying to think of a follow-up, but he takes his drink and leaves.
* * *
—
I text Rhiannon: We have 24 more hrs. She doesn’t respond right away. I go into a few stores, delay delay delay, and then finally head back out to my car. I wouldn’t be surprised to find the windows smashed, a dead animal thrown inside. But it’s as I left it. And there isn’t any car following me as I head home—at least not as far as I can tell.
As soon as I get in the door, my mother yells at me, asking me where I was. I tell her the mall, and she says, “You know I don’t like you to go there,” which (a) is not something I know, and (b) is kind of a weird epicenter for her concern at this point. I wonder if she, too, was ever a teenager.
But I’m not about to ask her about it. I have more important things to do.
There’s a web search that needs to be done on Mr. Wyatt Giddings.
X
“Are you eating with us tonight?” Wyatt’s mother asks me when I get back home.
“Yes,” I say, and head straight to his room.
I am trying to be strategic here. If I have been getting pushback from my body hosts, it might be good to not push so hard against this one’s life. I feel this is the right body for right now—strong, imposing, virile. But also, I am hoping, relatable to A. Perhaps my mistake last time was approaching as an authority figure. Perhaps I am better off approaching as a peer.
I miss the freedom of having a space of my own larger than a room. And I am not exactly about to go back to school—we’ll see how long it takes the attendance office to catch on. But otherwise, it’s good to visit what you’ve left behind every now and then, to remember why you left it behind.
Like all perfectly nice people, the members of the Giddings family are defined mostly by their capacity to be boring. Mrs. Giddings is a good cook, though, so that keeps dinner moderately interesting. Wyatt’s younger brother, North, is a chatterbox—and, luckily, is still in eighth grade, so he isn’t chattering about Wyatt’s newfound absenteeism.
People live their whole lives doing this every night. I have no comprehension of how that’s bearable. It sets all the borders way too close.
If A still believes in things like this, I need to set her right. I know the pause here is just to make me wait, make me think they’re calling the shots.
But they have no idea.
In the meantime, I pass the salt. I watch hockey with Dad. I watch the porn on Wyatt’s computer and do the same things along to it that he does.
He has no reason to resist. And because of that, he’ll be mine for as long as I need him.
A
Day 6134
I think it was easier for her to leave than it was for me to stay.
Watching her drive off, I felt myself pulled behind the car. But I didn’t feel the car pulled back to me.
I know I need to be patient. I know we are in a better place than we were a couple of days ago. I know I need to give it some time.
But the power of missing her is stronger than any of this knowledge, at least when I wake up without her.
Again, I haven’t gone far—just three blocks north this time. Today I’m in the body of Rosa Thien. Her alarm has gone off at 5:32 a.m.
At first I assume this is because she has practice of some kind. But no. It’s because she takes the subway downtown for school, and has to leave plenty of time to get ready.
I stumble to the bathroom and find that even though the radiator is blasting a temperature roughly the same as that on the surface of Mercury, there’s no hot water in the shower. I let it run, thinking maybe it’ll warm up, but after a minute there’s a sharp knock on the door and a man calling, “Four minutes! No dawdling!”
I grit my teeth and bear as much of it as I can. As I’m stepping out, the showerhead burps and a little warmth comes out.
There’s another knock at the door.
“One second!” I call.
I put on a robe and wrap my hair in a towel. I barely get out of the bathroom before someone—an older brother, I figure out—pushes past me and closes the door. Another brother pokes his head out of a bedroom and asks, “Did he just go in there?” I nod. The bedroom door slams back closed.
Rosa’s desk is covered with makeup, and her mirror is lined with photos that give me a sense of what I need to do before I head to the subway. I’m sure Rosa can put on her face in fifteen minutes; maybe she even does the finishing touches while she’s riding the subway—I’m not sure I could pull that off. I take more time and, I’m sure, cut more corners. So many mothers have taught me how to do this, and it’s still not second nature to me.
I zone out easily and think about Rhiannon. And when I’m not thinking about Rhiannon, I think about Poole, and about what I’m going to do. Around me, the apartment gets louder and louder as more people get up—Rosa has four older brothers, it seems. All of them still live at home.
I access Rosa’s memory enough to know I have to get moving. I have to concentrate on which way to swipe the subway card and which direction to take the train and which train to take. I don’t expect to have much time to think on the subway, but it ends up that it’s at least fifteen stops to get to my school. At each of the fifteen stops, more people get on, until we’re pressed about as tight as clothed people ever get.
I don’t know how I feel about this.
It’s overwhelming, actually. Not because of who I am or what I am. But on a basic human level, it’s overwhelming. To press against so many strangers. To have so many faces to look into. To have so many eyes looking back or looking away.
My mind returns to the fact that I’m waking up so near to where I went to sleep. Does that mean there are more people like me around? Or is there no correlation? Is it just that there are more people?
But if there are more people…wouldn’t that mean there are more people like me?
I never think about it. I did for a time, but then I stopped.
Now I’m thinking about it again. And that’s Poole’s fault.
I think Rhiannon’s right that he wants to see me more than I want to see him. But I’m also afraid that once we start talking, that will flip. I will want to know more and more and more. And from there, will it be enough to know just one person like me? Will I want there to be more and more and more of us? Would my life change if suddenly everyone knew we existed?
Yes. Because they would never accept us.
Yes. Because we would be blamed for everything that goes wrong.
Yes. Because we would only inspire fear, not understanding.
They would never see us as human beings. And history is clear about what happens when someone is seen as less than human.
So what’s the point? I ask myself.
And then the answer: The point is that you don’t want to be alone.
What if Poole’s the same way?
“Rosa?”
I look up and find a girl who hasn’t spent nearly as much time on her makeup this morning as I spent on mine. Afte
r a beat, Rosa’s memory offers up a name: Kendall.
“Hi, Kendall.”
“Wow, you were really focused there—it was practically yoga. Subway yoga. That should totally be a thing.”
We spend the rest of the ride with Kendall telling me about her weekend and me being vague about mine. She says she went to a warehouse party, and I picture teenagers drinking around boxes that are about to be shipped to Walmart. I know that can’t be right.
I am lucky to have Kendall as an unknowing guide, because there have to be thousands of kids going to this school. It takes all of my attention to navigate the halls, and all of my agility to make it through the other students to get to class on time. There are moments when I think I’ve accidentally walked into a college, because there are classes with names like Memoir Writing and Beginning Thermodynamics. It ends up that Rosa is near the top of her class in a school where there’s a whole lot of grappling to be at the top. Every grade counts. Every day counts. I try my best.
At lunch, I email briefly with Rhiannon, who tells me she talked to Nathan. We go back and forth a couple of times, and it’s clear we’ve switched over from catching-up to making-new. I try to remind myself that it doesn’t make much of a difference if I’m in New York or Maryland—I’d still be in school, not seeing her.
After school, Rosa has debate practice. When it’s over, a couple of her friends are going for coffee, but I tell them I need to get home. They don’t question it.
I should go back on the subway…but I’m in New York. For all I know, I may never be in New York again. Even though it’s over a hundred blocks north, I decide I’m going to walk home.
The sidewalks are crowded, but because it’s cold, nobody is lingering. They are bundled into their own worlds, and the street is just a passageway from one point in the city to another. I don’t spot many tourist glances; even though there are hundreds of people around me, I might be the only curious one in sight. They want to bypass the details while I want to notice them.
Rosa’s shoes are very cute and not suited for walking more than twenty blocks at a time. I did not plan this well—but, really, I didn’t plan this at all. I end up in a park across from the Flatiron Building; if people look at me at all as I sit on my bench, it’s to wonder why I’m sitting on a bench in the cold. I know they’re probably right—I don’t want Rosa to get pneumonia from staying outside or a back injury from walking much more in her heels. The body is making up my mind for me. Which is as it should be…but I find myself wishing that it weren’t.
Someday Page 22
