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!”