There’s always tomorrow, I tell myself. Which sounds less possible than someday, and much more possible than never.
I stop off at a French café and get a hot chocolate that tastes like they’ve taken a slice off a chocolate cloud and placed it in a mug. If I cannot have a greater peace, I can slide into smaller satisfactions. I am alive. I am tasting this. I have a warm jacket on a cold day. There’s a girl out there who knows me. I will go home and sleep well. I will try not to think about all the things I cannot control.
RHIANNON
When people ask me about my weekend, I don’t know what to tell them. I only know I can’t tell them the truth.
When Rebecca asks me how my weekend was, I tell her I’m not sure I could ever go to NYU. I tell her the streets are very loud at night. She asks me if I got to go to any parties, and I tell her I was boring and went to sleep when everyone was going out.
When Preston asks me how my weekend was, I tell him, no, I didn’t see any celebrities on the street, and no, I didn’t get to go see anything on Broadway, but yes, I did get to see Central Park, and while no, I didn’t go ice-skating, I still felt I was in the center of the world.
When Alexander asks me how my weekend was, I’m as shy answering as he is asking. He tells me he missed me, especially when it started to snow. He says he was about to call me to go sledding; he’d even had the hill picked out. Then he remembered I was away. “You didn’t go sledding in the city, did you?” he asks. And I say no, I didn’t. I make it sound like I didn’t have any fun. I make it sound like I was lonely. I tell him it would have been fun to go sledding, just the two of us. It’s not a lie, and doesn’t feel like a lie. But I still feel shy saying it.
When my mother asks me how my weekend was, I tell her I liked being in the city, but I’m not sure it’s where I’m going to end up. “You can go to school wherever you want,” she says to me, kissing my forehead. “Just as long as it’s not that far.”
When I ask myself how my weekend was, I’m shy again. Because I don’t know what I want to hear.
A
Day 6135
I rise from sleep on a tide of sickness, and the moment I wake up, I open my mouth and the sickness comes pouring out. Luckily, someone’s left a garbage pail by the side of the bed. I retch and heave until it feels like there’s nothing left to release but the lining of my stomach.
This is not a good start to Anil’s day. Or mine.
Anil’s mother comes in soon after, cleans up, takes my temperature, and gives me some ginger ale. The bubbles feel like warfare in my mouth. The ginger ale comes back up.
I find myself apologizing. Anil’s mother just shakes her head, says, “No no no,” and tells me to lie back down again. She says she’ll call my school. While she goes into the other room, I fade out. When I come back, I see she’s left my phone, my laptop, and the remote control for the TV next to my bed. A note says to call her at work if I need anything.
I have the whole day to myself, but I can’t make it very far. The body is operating under its own gravity, and that gravity pulls it straight to bed. I used to look forward to days like this, when I had a solid excuse to avoid trying to act out someone else’s day. I could laze around and just be me. Read a book. Watch some TV. Play some video games. Happy in my own company. No need for anything else.
I look back on those days and realize the only way I could live them was to believe myself completely separable from any other story line. I had my own plot, but it didn’t link to anything greater.
Now I lie in bed and feel all of these connections. To Rhiannon. To Poole. To anyone else who’s like me.
I can’t retreat into myself anymore.
I sit up in bed and pull Anil’s laptop over. There’s a message from Rhiannon—Poole’s been in touch with Nathan again, and is demanding a meeting.
It’s time.
I know it’s time. I keep scrolling and see all of these posts about a march on Washington the coming weekend. A bunch of Anil’s friends are going. Their school is chartering a bus.
I know I won’t still be in Anil’s body…but I hope that whoever I am will be in a position to go.
X
I am aware of how destructive my impatience can be.
I am tired of Wyatt’s routine, so I step away from it. I load some clothes and a baseball bat into his car and drive away. Easy as that.
I find Nathan on his way home from school. I pull over, don’t say a word. He starts to talk to me, but I still don’t say a word. He sees the bat in my hand but is not quick enough to get out of its way. I bash his knee, then take a threatening swing at his shoulder after he falls to the ground, stopping just short of a decisive shatter. I don’t have to say a word. He gets the message.
I leave him Wyatt’s phone number, which will be mine now. I get back in the car. Drive away.
I imagine Wyatt’s revulsion. Or thrill. Unleash a boy and he often revels in being a dog.
I know I will not be returning to his boring parents and his boring home. He may never return there. I have not made any determination, beyond the fact that his life is now inalterably mine. The body does not protest when I think this. Wyatt has no idea.
The fact that his body is now mine is the only thing stopping me from doing more damage. I must not call attention. Not yet.
I wait.
RHIANNON
All my friends are excited about the Equality March on Saturday. We’re gathering Thursday night at Rebecca’s house to make posters. I plan to drive with them to DC; what they don’t know is that, if everything goes as planned, I’ll also be going the night before, to see A.
Thursday afternoon, I head over to Nathan’s house. During the school day, he sent me a text: I need you to take me to the library. I didn’t ask him why he needed me to drive; I just said yes.
Now, as he opens his front door, I see what the problem is. His leg is in a brace.
“What happened?” I ask.
“There are a few things I forgot to mention in my role as courier,” he says, limping out the door. “You drive, I’ll talk.”
I help him into my car, putting the passenger seat all the way back.
“He could have at least had the decency to smash my nondriving leg,” he says when I’ve settled into the driver’s seat. “I guess it’s wrong to expect base consideration from a psychopath.”
“Back up a second and tell me what happened,” I say. “Also, which library are we going to?”
He fills me in, explaining how Poole ambushed him, then left a phone number. Which is the reason he texted me to say Poole was growing impatient, leading us to arrange a meeting for Saturday.
“Why didn’t you tell us what he’d done?”
“Honestly? Because I was embarrassed. It was hard enough to explain to my parents that I’d been jumped by some random assailant on my way home from school. They think I’m being bullied and am stoically refusing to name names. They have no idea!”
“I’m so, so sorry.”
“There’s also that. You have no reason to be sorry. You didn’t get me into this mess. The mess just kind of formed around us, didn’t it?”
“Still—”
“He has to be stopped. That’s the bottom line, right? Because your boygirlfriend isn’t going to, like, talk Poole out of being evil. He might be lonely, but he’s also, like, an überasshole, and reason tends not to work with überassholes. They make their own reason and get all pissy when people don’t agree with them that the world is flat.”
“I don’t know if we’re going to stop him. First we need to see what he wants.”
“Apparently Wyatt’s disappeared.”
“Wyatt?”
“The teenager whose body Poole’s in. Wyatt. I’ve been monitoring all his social media, and it’s taken a turn. A lot of Hey, buddy, where are you? and Call your parents
, okay? Timed with him using my body for batting practice. That doesn’t bode well for Wyatt.”
“Has he posted anything back?”
“Nope. He hasn’t posted anything for days. I guess Poole doesn’t like social media. Which is weird, since so many modern megalomaniacs do.”
“Poor Wyatt.”
“Yeah. I have to tell you, I wasn’t thrilled about losing a day of my life. But at least A had the decency to leave when the day was up.”
“I guess in a way we got lucky.”
“In a way. I like that. How many of them do you think are out there? Dozens? Thousands? Just the two?”
“I have no idea.”
“Neither do I. It’s like there’s this whole other layer to existence. The dark matter of humanity.”
“Is that why you’re going to the library? To research?”
Nathan smiles, shakes his head. “Nah. I’m going to the library hoping to see a girl.”
“Any particular girl? Or just, like, a girl in general?”
“A very particular girl.”
He tells me a little about Jaiden—a little because that’s all he knows.
“It sounds like a promising start,” I tell him.
“Well, we’ll see how she feels once she sees what a rough-and-tumble crowd I hang with.”
“Tell her you were rescuing a kitten.”
“From Satan. That’s my story—I was rescuing a kitten from Satan.”
“How could she possibly resist?”
“Easily?”
He looks out the window, and we fall silent. Finally he says, “I also wanted to talk to you. Before this weekend.”
“About?”
“About whether the Caps have a chance at the Stanley Cup this year.”
“Really?”
“No. About the mess we’ve gotten ourselves into. I know I fell into it, while you’re more like a volunteer. Because you love A. I get that. And I know you have plenty of friends who probably give you plenty of unsolicited advice—but I’m guessing that in this case, they have no idea what you’re up to, or what might happen to you. So I’m going to step into the breach. You’ve known A as a lone wolf—and from all accounts, A’s been a good wolf companion. But A’s about to meet the leader of the wolf pack. And, as discussed, he’s not a good dude. Even if A doesn’t join the pack, A’s going to get more of a sense of what can be gotten away with. And I have to believe that’s dangerous. Not just to you and me, but to everyone. Which is why I said what I said before: Poole needs to be stopped. And if A isn’t prepared to stop him, you’re going to have to get the hell out of there. Not just away from Poole, but from A as well. Even if it breaks your heart.”
“Where is this coming from?”
“It’s what keeps me up at night, Rhiannon. You and I—we’re getting to glimpse something very few people see. But we have to remember that we’re only glimpsing it, not living it. We have no idea how the people who are living it will react to an invitation to the pack.”
“A will react like any other decent human being. That’s who A is.”
“I want to believe that. You want to believe that. But how are we ever going to know it for sure?”
“You can’t know it about anybody, Nathan. Belief is all we have.”
Nathan nods. “Fair. And, for the record, I believe in you. Which is why I can say these things.”
“And I believe in you. Which is why I’m glad you’re saying them.”
“We have reached an understanding. And whatever happens this weekend—I’m only a text or a call away.”
“I will definitely keep you posted.”
When we get to the library, I start to get out of the car, to help him out.
“No, no—I’ve got it,” he tells me.
“Do you need a ride back?”
“Probably. I’ll text you. I’m not even sure if she’ll be here.”
“Well…good luck.”
“Thanks. I’ll need it!”
He gets out of the car and hobbles into the library. I know I should drive away, but I park instead. I just want to make sure he’s alright.
I don’t have to walk that far into the library to see I’m no longer needed. He’s made his way to a carrel in the center; a girl is standing up, gesturing for him to sit down. His hand gestures imply that he’s telling her how he rescued a kitten from Satan. She’s laughing, praising his bravery.
I sneak back out before he sees me. I’ve only driven for ten minutes before I stop at a light and see I’ve gotten a text from him.
Jaiden will give me a ride home.
The simplicity of this makes me happy.
And jealous.
But mostly happy.
* * *
—
That night at Rebecca’s, I try not to be distracted. Rebecca is always nervous when people are over at her house—her dad likes to interrupt every five minutes with a joke he’s heard, and her mom, who worries about everything, worries even more than usual that her valuables will be stolen or broken. She moves them all into her bedroom and keeps watch…only there are always valuables she’s forgotten, so every few minutes, while Rebecca’s dad is throwing around pope jokes as if they’re still things that high schoolers tell their friends, her mom will sneak behind him in her nightgown and robe, take a Hummel figurine off a shelf, and run back to their room.
Rebecca’s parents like me more than they like most of her other friends, so as soon as I get there, I stop in her parents’ room to say hello. Her mom’s in bed, polishing her silver. When I say hi, she acts like this is a perfectly normal thing to do on a Thursday night.
“It’s good that you kids are going to the march,” she tells me. “It’s important.”
“It is,” I tell her. “We’re all really excited.”
A big group from our school is going to the Equality March. The premise is very straightforward: We’re protesting any law, any action, that doesn’t treat people as equal. Whether it’s about gender, race, LGBTQIA+ identity, physical ability—anybody who wants us all to be treated equally is being encouraged to march, to send a message to a government that often feels like the final fortress of straight cis white men.
In the kitchen, there are art supplies everywhere. Alexander is in heaven. As I watch over his shoulder, he sews a row of silhouettes onto a banner. They are people of all shapes and sizes. Underneath, he’s sketched out a caption: WE ARE ALL DIFFERENT. BUT UNDER A JUST LAW, WE ARE ALL THE SAME.
When Alexander’s in an act of creation, he fully immerses himself. It’s actually visible from the outside, like I can see all of the possibilities swirling around him, and then the flash of focus as he reaches for one of them and brings it down into his illustration. Preston and Will are having what can only be called a biodegradable-glitter fight over the kitchen sink; Rebecca is asking Ben to double-check her spelling of disenfranchised; Stephanie is in the corner, sobbing and whispering into her phone. Alexander doesn’t notice this. But after a few minutes, he surfaces and notices me behind him. He turns and smiles.
“What do you think?”
“It works,” I tell him. “It really works.”
He nods, ties a last knot, and puts down his thread.
“I think we’re going to have five posters for each person who’s marching,” he tells me, gesturing to a stack on the floor. On the top, LOVE THE RIGHT TO LOVE is written in rainbow glitter.
“Preston and Will’s creation?” I ask.
“Rebecca’s, actually. Theirs is underneath.”
I lift the rainbow proclamation and unveil a fierce glitter dragon.
YOUR FEAR DOES NOT GET TO DICTATE MY LIFE, it reads.
“Do you like it?” Preston says.
“I love it,” I tell him.
“We’re just trying to find dif
ferent ways to state the obvious,” Will says. “Because, let’s face it, it’s really messed up that we have to march for something that’s so damn obvious.”
“What do you mean, I’m not hearing you?” Stephanie cries into the phone.
Rebecca jumps toward her. “Oh no. Hang up, Stephanie. Just hang up the phone.”
“I can’t!”
Rebecca grabs it out of her hand; she doesn’t put up much of a fight.
“Steve, not now,” Rebecca says. “We’re in a no-fuckery zone. And you are bringing fuckery into it.” She hangs up. Stephanie sobs some more.
Rebecca pulls her to her feet. “C’mon,” she says. “Bedroom time.”
As soon as she leaves, as if he’s been waiting, Rebecca’s father steps in.
“Hey, guys,” he says, sounding like the boy who’s been picked last for kickball trying to charm his way into being picked third-last next time.
“Hello, Mr. Palmer,” Preston and Will say.
“You got everything you need?”
“Everything but equality, sir!” Will answers, all golly-gee. Preston elbows him.
“Speaking of equality…did I ever tell you the one about the Frenchman, the Dutchman, and the Brit in the POW camp?”
“I think you have, sir,” Ben says. “It’s certainly memorable.”
“Well, here’s a new one. The pope decides he wants to have his own website, so he calls IT, and IT sends him a priest, a rabbi, and a woodpecker. You following so far?”
“I think I left some of my paints in my car,” Alexander says to me. “Want to help me get them?”
Someday Page 23
