“Definitely.”
We escape the room before Mr. Palmer gets to the rabbi.
Outside, Alexander gestures to the front steps, and we sit down there.
“I’ve missed you,” he says, reaching for my hand. “Where’ve you been this week?”
His hand is covered with dots of marker and specks of glue and glitter. There’s also glitter in his hair, on his cheek.
“You look like an art project,” I say.
“I am an art project,” he replies. “I mean, on my best days.”
“And on your worst days?”
“On my worst days, I feel the frustration of being separated from the things I was born to do.”
“Born to do?”
“Don’t you feel that way about some things? Even though they’re a choice—it’s all a choice—they’re also part of your mission. I will never be a consumer, in the sense that I would consume something to destroy it. Instead, I’m a cycler—I’ll take something in, but then I want to put it back into the world in a different form. In an ideal world, I get to take the inspiration I receive and put it back out as inspiration for someone else. I want to make things. Not in a selfish vacuum, but as part of the world. And I want to love. I want to love indiscriminately—people, places, and things. But not just those. I want to love verbs. Adjectives. I want to love beyond category. Because, in my heart, I know that’s what I was born to do. And life? Life is just the time I have to figure out how to do it well.” He laughs, shakes his head. “I’m sorry—I must sound so full of shit. It’s just what I’ve been thinking about while I’ve been making all these posters, with all these friends I basically know because of you.”
“You don’t sound full of shit,” I tell him. “You sound full of the opposite.”
“Thank you.”
“There’s no need to thank me.”
“There are hundreds of things to thank you for.”
“Stop.”
“Why?”
It’s a good question. Why, if he’s sincere, do I want him to stop? Why can’t I let him thank me, if he’s happy? Why can’t I thank him back, for having made me happy?
I think about his banner. I think about all those silhouettes. I want to ask him: If they were all the same person inside, only in different bodies on different days, would they still be equal to us?
He’d say yes. I know he’d say yes.
But he’d also think it was a crazy hypothetical.
“Rhiannon.”
“Yes?”
“How was your week?”
I think about snow in New York City. I think about Nathan’s leg in a brace. I think about Poole, who I can picture even though I’ve never seen him. I think about the drive I will take tomorrow. I think about glitter and glue and skin.
“My week has not been under my control,” I tell him.
“And how do you feel about that?”
“I think I want it to be more under my control. But I don’t know how I can get it there.”
“How can I help?”
I lean into him. “I wish you could. But you can’t.”
I know I shouldn’t kiss him. But I also know I shouldn’t turn away when he kisses me. I cannot slight him like that. I cannot send that message, that he means nothing. He means much more than nothing.
After the kiss is done, I lean back on the steps.
“I have no idea what I was born to do,” I confess.
“Then you’ll figure it out,” he says. “I have faith.”
I don’t deserve you, I think. But I already know what his answer to that would be:
Love should never be thought of in terms of deserving.
“We should probably get back in,” I tell him. “You don’t really have paint in the car, do you?”
“No. It was sitting on the floor next to your feet.”
“The joke has to be finished by now, right?”
“Let’s hope the woodpecker has had its say.”
He stands, then holds out a hand to help me up. For a second, I look at him, and I remember the day I met him, when A was inside.
I find myself asking, “What if you weren’t you on the day we met?”
He doesn’t think about it for more than a second.
“I guess I’d ask you to judge me based on all the days after that.”
His hand doesn’t go down to his side. He doesn’t tell me it’s a strange question, a strange thought. He’s still here for me.
I take his hand and head back inside.
* * *
—
That night, when I get home, I write to A.
A,
More thinking. Much more thinking.
I am looking forward to seeing you tomorrow. I am. But it’s still strange to be in a room with all my friends and not be able to tell them about it. To know they will never meet you. To know that you will never be a part of the rest of my life.
I mean, we could tell them. But could I guarantee the secret would be safe? No.
I want you to understand: I want to rewrite the world to make this possible. I do.
But since I can’t rewrite the world…something else needs to be rewritten. Whatever we’re going to be—we have to write it ourselves. And it’s not going to fall into any category we’ve ever seen before.
We need a new category that allows us to be us.
Maybe that’s what we’re meant to do.
I’ll see you tomorrow.
R
A
Day 6138
Friday morning, I get very lucky.
Eboni’s family is already planning to go to the march with a group from their church. The bus leaves right after school.
I pack quickly and let Rhiannon know where I’ll be staying. I’ve read her message and tell her we’ll talk about it then. Mostly because I have no idea what to say to it now.
I know she’s right. I know we need a new category, a new word for what we are.
I just don’t know what it is.
I figure I’ll have time to think about it on the bus ride down—but the bus ride has other ideas. The pastor hasn’t brought a radio—he wants his congregation to be the radio. So even before the bus hits a bridge or a tunnel, the songs are under way. I’m sure Eboni, like everyone else on the bus, knows the tunes by heart. So every time a new song begins, I dive in and try to find it. She has a lovely voice, but her performance today might not be as assured as usual.
We pass many other buses on our way down. We hold signs up to each other, cheer each other on, sing louder, sing until our bodies feel the strain, and then sing anyway.
There is a fervent joy in taking action. There is a nonabstract importance in what we are doing. The balance between right and wrong is always in question, and the only way to ensure we tip toward justice is to make sure our weight is firmly planted on the side of right. We are driving down to add our weight to the scale. We are singing because voices add as much weight as bodies do.
I know I am a pretender. I know I am here for other reasons, and will take part in other plans. But I have to believe that I, too, am trying to strike on the right side of the balance. I have to believe I am doing my part, even if that part is obscured from the people who surround me.
* * *
—
Around Delaware, people quiet down, retreat into their own conversations, their own naps. I feel the nervousness in the pit of my gut, and wonder if it’s about Rhiannon or Poole or both. Probably both. It’s the nervousness that comes from knowing that beginnings and endings are the same exact thing, and not knowing where that knowledge leads.
* * *
—
The hotel lobby is alive with energy—a reunion for people who’ve never met before. Now comes the hard part, since I have to p
eel Eboni away from the group without raising much suspicion.
I can see Rhiannon waiting for me. She’s looking around, but I’m too far away to signal her. I’m just one person in a big check-in crowd.
I want to go over and say something. But I don’t want to have to answer if anyone asks who I was just talking to.
It’s only when we’re heading to the elevator that I get close enough for eye contact. That’s all it takes. I see her recognize me. Without saying a word, I tell her I’ll be there as soon as I can. Without saying a word, she shows me she understands.
In the room, Eboni’s mom asks her if she’s going to go to the vigil at Third Baptist or if she’s going to the youth activity at the hotel. I see my opportunity and tell her I’ll go to the youth activity. She hands me a schedule, and I see there’s poster-making and fellowship in the Tubman Ballroom. It goes until ten, and it’s eight o’clock now. I have to hurry.
I’m worried that someone will see me leaving with Rhiannon, so instead of going over to talk to her, I send her another look, willing her to follow me outside. I even walk an extra block before I turn around and find her there, smiling.
“We’d make very good spies,” she says.
“The best,” I tell her. “I probably need to be back by ten, so we have…not much time.”
“That’s okay—I have to drive back tonight anyway. So I can, you know, drive in tomorrow morning.”
“I’m sorry you can’t stay over.”
“Yeah, I’m not really sure how I’d explain that one. My parents think I’m at Rebecca’s. Rebecca thinks I’m home, getting some sleep before the big day. If Rebecca and my parents ever start texting, we’re in big, big trouble.”
“Never introduce them.”
“It’s a little late for that.”
“Then I guess we’ll just have to be risky.”
“The best spies are.”
“Now, where to?”
“The Mall? It’s a few blocks that way. And, honestly, DC isn’t exactly the safest two-teen-girls-wandering-around-alone city. Let’s stick to the well-lit paths.”
“Lead the way.”
The sidewalks are busy even though the buildings are not. Most people seem to be in town for tomorrow…or maybe DC is just a city where everyone out on a Friday night seems like a tourist.
“So Nathan confirmed with Poole—he’ll meet you at the National Gallery food court at noon. You know it’s going to be crowded tomorrow, right?”
“The more crowded, the better, as far as I’m concerned.”
“Nathan also sent this.”
She holds out her phone so I can see Wyatt Giddings’s Facebook profile.
“That’s what he looks like. So you know who to look for.”
“Got it.”
“Assuming he doesn’t change first.”
“Yeah, assuming that.”
Rhiannon doesn’t look at me when she says, “I know this isn’t a normal conversation. It doesn’t have to be a normal conversation. I’m not expecting it to be.”
“But don’t you wish it were?”
“No. I think I’m realizing it won’t be. Or no. That’s not right. I’m realizing it won’t ever be normal for anyone who isn’t us. But if it becomes normal for us—that’s good. That’s all we can ask for.”
We’re at the Mall now. I turn left and see the Capitol, presiding like a bald man over his domain. I turn right and see the Washington Monument, a rocket too heavy to launch.
We sit down and it’s a little strange because I’m shorter than Rhiannon. I’m not used to that. Not that it matters—it’s just another minor adjustment.
“So what’s your name today?” she asks.
“Eboni.”
“Tell me about Eboni.”
I describe the bus ride down.
“Okay, but what about her? Have you gotten to know her at all?”
“Not really. I guess my mind’s been on other things.”
I can tell this isn’t the right answer.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“Nothing. I just think of you as always knowing them, at least a little.”
“That makes it better?”
“I think it does.”
“You’re probably right. I’m just distracted by…myself.”
“Believe me, that’s easy enough to do. For all of us.”
I know this part is hard for everyone, not just us. The hot excitement of first meeting has to cool into the warm satisfaction of being together. I have visited all stages of relationships; I’ve just never been in one myself before. I feel like I’ve seen the map, but now I’m living in the actual landscape.
“Do you want to talk about your message last night?” I ask.
“Sure. I’m not even sure if it made any sense.”
“It did. I just—I don’t know what the answer is.”
“Neither do I. I only know we have to find it together. You tried to find it for both of us last time. That didn’t work. And you can’t try to find it for both of us tomorrow. Poole can’t offer you anything that will give us an answer. He may try. He may try to use it as leverage. But you can’t let him. I don’t want to be your weak spot.”
“And I don’t want to be your weak spot.”
“Then I guess we’re clear. About everything we’re unclear about.”
I push her hair over her ear. Look her in the eye. Feel so much love for her then that it feels like the love I have for life itself.
“Whatever we are,” I say, “whatever we do, I will always be grateful for whatever together we have. I know you have plenty of togethers in your life. But you’re the only one I have. And as hard as it is sometimes, and as much as it may hurt, it matters to me more than you can understand.”
She wraps me in a hug then. Really holds on to me. And whispers, “I understand.”
We stay like that for a few minutes, holding on and letting the city walk past us. Then we gather ourselves and reenter the world.
“Let’s talk about tomorrow,” she says.
Together, we go through the plan.
A
Day 6139
I wake up in a different room in the same hotel.
I should have known the risk—I am at a tourist hotel in a tourist destination. But it’s still a surprise to wake up in the body of a teenager visiting from the Philippines, to find so many thoughts in a language I don’t understand. Rudy also knows English, so at least I can translate the thoughts. I learn that his family is in America for a week; they’ve come from New York and are headed to Orlando tomorrow. They had no idea their trip would coincide with the Equality March.
I don’t need to access Rudy’s memories to know this. His parents are in the room, loudly agitated, peering out the window and arguing about what to do. I understand everything on a three-second delay, since I need to use Rudy’s memory to translate as best as I can.
Even though nobody’s asked my opinion, I say, “We’re here. We should see things.”
I’ve taken my father’s side, and he swells with satisfaction. Rudy’s mother argues some more, but it’s a losing battle. I feel bad, because her argument is that it’s dangerous, and that we could easily lose each other. Which is exactly what I am planning will happen.
As we take turns going into the bathroom to get ready and dressed, Rudy’s father turns on the TV. Traffic cameras are showing buses flooding into the city. The crowds are already growing around and across the Mall. They are predicting as many as a million people are going to march, possibly more. Security is on high alert. The president says he is “monitoring the situation” from a golf course in Florida.
Whenever they show cars coming into the city, I keep an eye out for Rhiannon’s. I know she’s out there somewhere with her friends. We’re supposed to meet
at eleven.
I also know Poole is out there somewhere, getting closer and closer. We’ll meet at noon.
These people mean nothing to Rudy. And at the end of the day, he will hopefully forget them.
But for the next few hours, I am going to have to make them more important than his parents. Not more important than him—no matter what happens, Rudy must remain the most important. I must not allow myself to forget that.
It feels worse, to be borrowing the life of someone who is so far away from home, so far away from friends. But I have no choice.
I think I’ll have plenty of time to get to the Mall…but then we stop at the hotel restaurant for breakfast. I power through the buffet, but Rudy’s mother eats like she’s staging her own protest, taking her cereal one cornflake at a time, her grapefruit with a minute between each segment.
“We’d better go before it’s too crazy,” I say.
Then, five minutes later, “If we’re not quick, the Air and Space Museum will be blocked off.”
Then, as 10:15 approaches, “I’m sure you could take that croissant with you if you wanted. Do you want me to ask if they have a bag?”
“The buildings aren’t going anywhere,” Rudy’s mother replies, breaking off a piece of croissant so small that even a bird would ignore it.
Rudy’s father just checks his phone.
* * *
—
It’s 10:37 when we leave the hotel. It only takes a step for us to hit the crowd. It’s astonishing to see so many people—a slow flood of protestors carrying signs and wearing rainbow hats and cheering whenever someone decides to lead a cheer. I can sense that Rudy’s mother is about to return inside—so I turn around, say, “I’ll meet you back here later,” and plunge right in. Apologizing to Rudy for the trouble he will no doubt be in, I bob and weave through the crowd. Nobody seems to mind when I slide past. Nobody’s in a rush; everybody is here to be here. After I’m satisfied that I’ve put enough distance between myself and Rudy’s parents, I take a look around, see all the people in the crowd, really see them. And the thing that strikes me—the thing that really amazes me—is that I see everyone. It’s not the usual American crowd where the majority group is easy to pin down. No—this crowd is actually America, all different races and genders and ages and clothing styles and love inclinations on one street together, making their steady march to the destination. I have been so many of them, and I haven’t been nearly enough of them. I could live to be a million years old and never get to be everyone, not like this. But even with what little experience I’ve had, what’s happening makes sense to me—the thing that can make us most equal is our belief in and desire for equality. I have felt that in so many hearts, and now all the other concerns can be set aside so we can let that feeling rise to the top.
Someday Page 24
