Every Day

  After soccer practice, Skylar’s friends come over to play World of Warcraft. We talk about school and talk about girls (except for his friends Chris and David, who talk about boys). This, I’ve discovered, is the best way to waste time, because it isn’t really wasted—surrounded by friends, talking crap and sometimes talking for real, with snacks around and something on a screen.

  I might even be enjoying myself, if I could only unmoor myself from the place I want to be.

  Day 5997

  It’s almost eerie how well the next day works out.

  I wake up early—six in the morning.

  I wake up as a girl.

  A girl with a car. And a license.

  In a town only an hour away from Rhiannon’s.

  I apologize to Amy Tran as I drive away from her house, a half hour after waking up. What I’m doing is, no doubt, a strange form of kidnapping.

  I strongly suspect that Amy Tran wouldn’t mind. Getting dressed this morning, the options were black, black, or … black. Not in a goth sense—none of the black came in the form of lace gloves—but more in a rock ’n’ roll sense. The mix in her car stereo puts Janis Joplin and Brian Eno side by side, and somehow it works.

  I can’t rely on Amy’s memory here—we’re going somewhere she’s never been. So I did some Google mapping right after my shower, typed in the address of Rhiannon’s school and watched it pop up in front of me. That simple. I printed it out, then cleared the history.

  I have become very good at clearing histories.

  I know I shouldn’t be doing this. I know I’m poking a wound, not healing it. I know there’s no way to have a future with Rhiannon.

  All I’m doing is extending the past by a day.

  Normal people don’t have to decide what’s worth remembering. You are given a hierarchy, recurring characters, the help of repetition, of anticipation, the firm hold of a long history. But I have to decide the importance of each and every memory. I only remember a handful of people, and in order to do that, I have to hold tight, because the only repetition available—the only way I am going to see them again—is if I conjure them in my mind.

  I choose what to remember, and I am choosing Rhiannon. Again and again, I am choosing her, I am conjuring her, because to let go for an instant will allow her to disappear.

  The same song that we heard in Justin’s car comes on—And if I only could, I’d make a deal with God.…

  I feel the universe is telling me something. And it doesn’t even matter if it’s true or not. What matters is that I feel it, and believe it.

  The enormity rises within me.

  The universe nods along to the songs.

  I try to hold on to as few mundane, everyday memories as possible. Facts and figures, sure. Books I’ve read or information I need to know. The rules of soccer, for instance. The plot of Romeo and Juliet. The phone number to call if there’s an emergency. I remember those.

  But what about the thousands of everyday memories, the thousands of everyday reminders, that every person accumulates? The place you keep your house keys. Your mother’s birthday. The name of your first pet. The name of your current pet. Your locker combination. The location of the silverware drawer. The channel number for MTV. Your best friend’s last name.

  These are the things I have no need for. And, over time, my mind has rewired itself, so all this information falls away as soon as the next morning comes.

  Which is why it’s remarkable—but not surprising—that I remember exactly where Rhiannon’s locker is.

  I have my cover story ready: If anyone asks, I am checking out the school because my parents might be moving to town.

  I don’t remember if there are assigned parking spaces, so just in case, I park far from the school. Then I simply walk in. I am just another random girl in the halls—the freshmen will think I’m a senior, and the seniors will think I’m a freshman. I have Amy’s schoolbag with me—black with anime details, filled with books that won’t really apply here. I look like I have a destination. And I do.

  If the universe wants this to happen, she will be there at her locker.

  I tell myself this, and there she is. Right there in front of me.

  Sometimes memory tricks you. Sometimes beauty is best when it’s distant. But even from here, thirty feet away, I know that the reality of her is going to match my memory.

  Twenty feet away.

  Even in the crowded hallway, there is something in her that radiates out to me.

  Ten.

  She is carrying herself through the day, and it’s not an easy task.

  Five.

  I can stand right here and she has no idea who I am. I can stand right here and watch her. I can see that the sadness has returned. And it’s not a beautiful sadness—beautiful sadness is a myth. Sadness turns our features to clay, not porcelain. She is dragging.

  “Hey,” I say, my voice thin, a stranger here.

  At first she doesn’t understand that I’m talking to her. Then it registers.

  “Hey,” she says back.

  Most people, I’ve noticed, are instinctively harsh to strangers. They expect every approach to be an attack, every question to be an interruption. But not Rhiannon. She doesn’t have any idea who I am, but she’s not going to hold that against me. She’s not going to assume the worst.

  “Don’t worry—you don’t know me,” I quickly say. “It’s just—it’s my first day here. I’m checking the school out. And I really like your skirt and your bag. So I thought, you know, I’d say hello. Because, to be honest, I am completely alone right now.”

  Again, some people would be scared by this. But not Rhiannon. She offers her hand, introduces herself as we shake, and asks me why there isn’t someone showing me around.

  “I don’t know,” I say.

  “Well, why don’t I take you to the office? I’m sure they can figure something out.”

  I panic. “No!” I blurt out. Then I try to cover for myself, and prolong my time with her. “It’s just … I’m not here officially. Actually, my parents don’t even know I’m doing this. They just told me we’re moving here, and I … I wanted to see it and decide whether I should be freaking out or not.”

  Rhiannon nods. “That makes sense. So you’re cutting school in order to check school out?”

  “Exactly.”

  “What year are you?”

  “A junior.”

  “So am I. Let’s see if we can pull this off. Do you want to come around with me today?”

  “I’d love that.”

  I know she’s just being nice. Irrationally, I also want there to be some kind of recognition. I want her to be able to see behind this body, to see me inside here, to know that it’s the same person she spent an afternoon with on the beach.

  I follow her. Along the way, she introduces me to a few of her friends, and I am relieved to meet each one, relieved to know that she has more people in her life than Justin. The way she includes me, the way she takes this total stranger and makes her feel a part of this world, makes me care about her even more. It’s one thing to be love-worthy when you are interacting with your boyfriend; it’s quite another when you act the same way with a girl you don’t know. I no longer think she’s just being nice. She’s being kind. Which is much more a sign of character than mere niceness. Kindness connects to who you are, while niceness connects to how you want to be seen.

  Justin makes his first appearance between second and third period. We pass him in the hall; he barely acknowledges Rhiannon and completely ignores me. He doesn’t stop walking, just nods at her. She’s hurt—I can tell—but she doesn’t say anything about it to me.

  By the time we get to math class, fourth period, the day has turned into an exquisite form of torture. I am right there next to her, but I can’t do a thing. As the teacher reduces us to theorems, I must remain silent. I write her a note, as an excuse to touch her shoulder, to pass her some words. But they are inconsequential. They are the words of a guest.

&n
bsp; I want to know if I changed her. I want to know if that day changed her, if only for a day.

  I want her to see me, even though I know she can’t.

  He joins us at lunch.

  As strange as it is to see Rhiannon again, and to have her measure so well against my memory, it is even stranger to be sitting across from the jerk whose body I inhabited just three days ago. Mirror images do no justice to this sensation. He is more attractive than I thought, but also uglier. His features are attractive, but what he does with them is not. He wears the superior scowl of someone who can barely hide his feelings of inferiority. His eyes are full of scattershot anger, his posture one of defensive bravado.

  I must have rendered him unrecognizable.

  Rhiannon explains to him who I am, and where I come from. He makes it clear that he couldn’t care less. He tells her he left his wallet at home, so she goes and buys him food. When she gets back to the table with it, he says thanks, and I’m almost disappointed that he does. Because I’m sure that a single thank-you will go a long way in her mind.

  I want to know about three days ago, about what he remembers.

  “How far is it to the ocean?” I ask Rhiannon.

  “It’s so funny you should say that,” she tells me. “We were just there the other day. It took about an hour or so.”

  I am looking at him, looking again for some recognition. But he just keeps eating.

  “Did you have a good time?” I ask him.

  She answers. “It was amazing.”

  Still no response from him.

  I try again. “Did you drive?”

  He looks at me like I’m asking really stupid questions, which I suppose I am.

  “Yes, I drove” is all he’ll give me.

  “We had such a great time,” Rhiannon goes on. And it’s making her happy—the memory is making her happy. Which only makes me sadder.

  I should not have come here. I should not have tried this. I should just go.

  But I can’t. I am with her. I try to pretend that this is what matters.

  I play along.

  I don’t want to love her. I don’t want to be in love.

  People take love’s continuity for granted, just as they take their body’s continuity for granted. They don’t realize that the best thing about love is its regular presence. Once you can establish that, it’s an added foundation to your life. But if you cannot have that regular presence, you only have the one foundation to support you, always.

  She is sitting right next to me. I want to run my finger along her arm. I want to kiss her neck. I want to whisper the truth in her ear.

  But instead I watch as she conjugates verbs. I listen as the air is filled with a foreign language, spoken in haphazard bursts. I try to sketch her in my notebook, but I am not an artist, and all that comes out are the wrong shapes, the wrong lines. I cannot hold on to anything that’s her.

  The final bell rings. She asks me where I’ve parked, and I know that this is it, this is the end. She is writing her email address on a piece of paper for me. This is goodbye. For all I know, Amy Tran’s parents have called the police. For all I know, there’s a manhunt going on, an hour away. It is cruel of me, but I don’t care. I want Rhiannon to ask me to go to a movie, to invite me over to her house, to suggest we drive to the beach. But then Justin appears. Impatient. I don’t know what they are going to do, but I have a bad feeling. He wouldn’t be so insistent if sex weren’t involved.

  “Walk me to my car?” I ask.

  She looks at Justin for permission.

  “I’ll get my car,” he says.

  We have a parking lot’s length of time left with each other. I know I need something from her, but I’m not sure what.

  “Tell me something nobody else knows about you,” I say.

  She looks at me strangely. “What?”

  “It’s something I always ask people—tell me something about you that nobody else knows. It doesn’t have to be major. Just something.”

  Now that she gets it, I can tell she likes the challenge of the question, and I like her even more for liking it.

  “Okay,” she says. “When I was ten, I tried to pierce my own ear with a sewing needle. I got it halfway through, and then I passed out. Nobody was home, so nobody found me. I just woke up, with this needle halfway in my ear, drops of blood all over my shirt. I pulled the needle out, cleaned up, and never tried it again. It wasn’t until I was fourteen that I went to the mall with my mom and got my ears pierced for real. She had no idea. How about you?”

  There are so many lives to choose from, although I don’t remember most of them.

  I also don’t remember whether Amy Tran has pierced ears or not, so it won’t be an ear-piercing memory.

  “I stole Judy Blume’s Forever from my sister when I was eight,” I say. “I figured if it was by the author of Superfudge, it had to be good. Well, I soon realized why she kept it under her bed. I’m not sure I understood it all, but I thought it was unfair that the boy would name his, um, organ, and the girl wouldn’t name hers. So I decided to give mine a name.”

  Rhiannon is laughing. “What was its name?”

  “Helena. I introduced everyone to her at dinner that night. It went over really well.”

  We’re at my car. Rhiannon doesn’t know it’s my car, but it’s the farthest car, so it’s not like we can keep walking.

  “It was great to meet you,” she says. “Hopefully, I’ll see you around next year.”

  “Yeah,” I say, “it was great to meet you, too.”

  I thank her about five different ways. Then Justin drives over and honks.

  Our time is up.

  Amy Tran’s parents haven’t called the police. They haven’t even gotten home yet. I check the house phone’s voicemail, but the school hasn’t called.

  It’s the one lucky thing that’s happened all day.

  Day 5998

  Something is wrong the minute I wake up the next morning. Something chemical.

  It’s barely even morning. This body has slept until noon. Because this body was up late, getting high. And now it wants to be high again. Right away.

  I’ve been in the body of a pothead before. I’ve woken up still drunk from the night before. But this is worse. Much worse.

  There will be no school for me today. There will be no parents waking me up. I am on my own, in a dirty room, sprawled on a dirty mattress with a blanket that looks like it was stolen from a child. I can hear other people yelling in other rooms of the house.

  There comes a time when the body takes over the life. There comes a time when the body’s urges, the body’s needs, dictate the life. You have no idea you are giving the body the key. But you hand it over. And then it’s in control. You mess with the wiring and the wiring takes charge.

  I have only had glimpses of this before. Now I really feel it. I can feel my mind immediately combating the body. But it’s not easy. I cannot sense pleasure. I have to cling to the memory of it. I have to cling to the knowledge that I am only here for one day, and I have to make it through.

  I try to go back to sleep, but the body won’t let me. The body is awake now, and it knows what it wants.

  I know what I have to do, even though I don’t really know what’s going on. Even though I have not been in this situation before, I have been in situations before where it’s been me against the body. I have been ill, seriously ill, and the only thing to do is to power through the day. At first I thought there was something I could do within a single day that could make everything better. But very soon I learned my own limitations. Bodies cannot be changed in a day, especially not when the real mind isn’t in charge.

  I don’t want to leave the room. If I leave the room, anything and anyone can happen. Desperately, I look around for something to help me through. There is a decrepit bookshelf, and on it is a selection of old paperbacks. These will save me, I decide. I open up an old thriller and focus on the first line. Darkness had descended on Manassas, Virginia.
…

  The body does not want to read. The body is alive with electric barbed wire. The body is telling me there is only one way to fix this, only one way to end the pain, only one way to feel better. The body will kill me if I don’t listen to it. The body is screaming. The body demands its own form of logic.

  I read the next sentence.

  I lock the door.

  I read the third sentence.

  The body fights back. My hand shakes. My vision blurs.

  I am not sure I have the strength to resist this.

  I have to convince myself that Rhiannon is on the other side. I have to convince myself that this isn’t a pointless life, even though the body is telling me it is.

  The body has obliterated its memories in order to hone its argument. There isn’t much for me to access. I must rely on my own memories, the ones that are separate from this.

  I must remain separate from this.

  I read the next sentence, then the next sentence. I don’t even care about the story. I am moving from word to word, fighting the body from word to word.

  It’s not working. The body makes me feel like it wants to defecate and vomit. First in the usual way. Then I feel I want to defecate through my mouth and vomit through the other end. Everything is being mangled. I want to claw at the walls. I want to scream. I want to punch myself repeatedly.

  I have to imagine my mind as something physical, something that can control the body. I have to picture my mind holding the body down.

  I read another sentence.

  Then another.

  There is pounding on the door. I scream that I’m reading.

  They leave me alone.

  I don’t have what they want in this room.

  They have what I want outside this room.

  I must not leave this room.

  I must not let the body out of this room.

  I imagine her walking the hallways. I imagine her sitting next to me. I imagine her eyes meeting mine.