I want to type back that I’m sorry for his loss. But it’s not his loss, of course. I actually feel bad for the boy whose body he’s in, because he won’t get to attend his own grandfather’s funeral. It’s not A’s fault. But it’s still not fair.
I don’t know why the fact that I won’t be seeing A sends me on a spiral, but it does. I should be used to it. I should know this is always going to be part of the plan—or the part that derails the plans. But with everything else such a mess, I was relying on it anyway. And now I’m feeling stupid for relying on it.
Going to school doesn’t make it any better. I feel a distance from everything. Maybe this is self-defense—I can still hear people talking about me, can still see them looking at me like I’m awful. But I also know that nobody here can understand what I’m going through. Nobody here is in love with someone who may or may not show up on any given day. Nobody here doesn’t know what form his or her love will take. And instead of feeling superior to them—instead of feeling smug because I have what they don’t have—I find myself envying them. I want the same stability that Stephanie and Steve have. Or Rebecca and Ben. Which isn’t stability—there are still fights and disagreements and bad days and good days—but it’s at least more stable than the great unknown I’m not-quite-dating.
I am sixteen years old, I find myself thinking. This is way too much.
The one thing I’m not doing is wishing it were a few weeks ago, and that I was still entirely Justin’s. But even that is shakable. Because when I see him for the first time since the gym, it sends me spiraling further. He’s coming out of math class, and I am just another body in the hall. What I see isn’t pretty. It’s much more sad than angry. He has always hated being here, and now he hates it even more. I’m sure, if he saw me, the hate would be shot in my direction. But since he doesn’t see me, there’s nowhere for it to go. Instead, it loops in on itself, chews on its own tail.
A week ago, I would be rushing over to comfort him. I would be trying to unknot that anger, that hate, to get him to breathe. That was what I did. That was what he needed, and what he always resented.
I turn away and move in the direction I know he won’t be going, even though it’s not the direction I need to go. It’s bad enough already. I don’t want to make it even worse.
—
The next day, A says he can see me. But it comes with a warning.
I’m not sure this guy is your type. He’s pretty huge. I just want to prepare you, because the last time you saw me, it wasn’t like this.
Type. Suddenly A is worried about my type. I don’t want him to be thinking that way. It will only make it harder for both of us. And since I really keep thinking of A as a “he” now, I almost want to tell him that at least he’s got half of my type right, if he’s a guy. But what does that even mean? How wrong am I to think that way?
Love the person inside, I remind myself. This will only work if you love the person inside.
—
The problem is—and I think about this all through school—I have a mental image of the person inside. When I picture A, I picture him as this attractive guy, shimmering like a spirit or a ghost, jumping from body to body. That is the person I am in love with. And in my mind he’s a guy, and in my mind he’s white, and in my mind he has dark hair, and in my mind he’s lean. Not buff. Not superstar beautiful. Just an ordinary attractive. I can even see him smile.
This mental picture should make it easier for me, should make A more real to me. But it only makes it harder, because I know the mental picture is about what I want, not what A is.
—
He is waiting for me outside the Clover Bookstore after school. He’s dressed up in a button-down shirt and a tie, which I appreciate. But there’s no way around it—he’s big. Really big. And that’s hard for me to deal with. Not because he’s ugly. There’s actually something sweet about him, in that tie. But he’s just so much bigger than me. I’m intimidated. And, yes, it’s really hard for me to adjust from seeing A in Vic-the-girl-who’s-a-boy’s body one day and this body the next time I see him.
“Hey,” he says when I get closer. I guess that’s our code word now. Our greeting. But it still sounds weird coming in this voice, so low.
“Yeah, hey,” I reply.
It’s even worse when I’m next to him. I feel miniscule.
“What’s up?” he asks, like this body is no different from any other.
“Just taking you all in, I guess,” I say. It’s like a test. Let’s make A as different as possible from last time, and see how you deal.
I’m not in the mood to be tested. I’ve been tested enough.
“Don’t look at the package,” A says. “Look at what’s inside.”
I get it. I do. But still, I don’t like the assumption that this is natural.
“That’s easy for you to say,” I tell him. “I never change, do I?”
God, I don’t want to be fighting. I think this even though I’m the one who’s being fighty.
And then I take the thought one step further, and think, It’s like it was with Justin.
No. It’s not. With Justin, I fought because he backed me into corners.
A is not doing that.
Like now. A could easily say, Yeah, sure you change—the girl I met was really nice, and the girl talking to me right now is acting like a bitch.
But the thing is: A wouldn’t say that. Which is why I’m here.
Instead of confronting me, A says, “Let’s go.” Taking it forward instead of getting stuck here.
“Where to?” I ask.
This gets a smile. “Well, we’ve been to the ocean and to the mountain and to the woods. So I thought this time we’d try…dinner and a movie.”
Ha. Not what I was expecting. But much better than trying to find a desert.
“That sounds suspiciously like a date,” I say, smiling myself.
“I’ll even buy you flowers if you’d like.”
I like the sound of that. “Go ahead,” I tell him. “Buy me flowers.”
I’m both joking and not joking. And he’s serious, because instead of going into the bookstore, he finds a florist and buys me a dozen roses. It’s a little crazy, but this whole thing is a little crazy, so I accept it.
He gives me options from the movie theater down the road, and I say if this is a date, then we have to go see one of those superhero movies that seem designed for dates—enough action for the guys and enough banter for the girls. Of course, as soon as I say this, I realize that this equation doesn’t take into account people who are neither boys nor girls—and also makes some pretty big assumptions about what guys want and what girls want.
A doesn’t call me on it, though. Instead, he tells me it’s something he wanted to see, without telling me why.
When we get to the theater, it’s mostly empty. The only other people there on a Thursday night are a posse of teenagers who clearly don’t care about homework or school tomorrow. I can see them staring at us and making sniggering comments—maybe because of A’s size, maybe because I’m this girl going to the movies with a bouquet of roses, like it’s Valentine’s Day or something.
It’s funny because A is clearly having a little trouble navigating in this guy’s body. It makes sense—he’s not used to being this big, and he has to adjust. He barely makes it into the chair next to mine—and even though he does, it’s clear I’m not going to have any part of the armrest. He tries to move his arm around me, and it’s awkward—I’m basically stuck in his very active armpit. But honestly? I think it bothers A more than it bothers me. By the end of the previews, he’s given up, and moves one seat away so we can have some breathing room. But that’s not exactly what you should do on a date.
To make things better, he moves his hand to the seat between us. I know what this means. I move my own hand there, too, and as the movie starts and the world is threatened with destruction, we hold hands. It’s nice—but not as nice as before. Partly because his hand is so much big
ger than mine. Partly because of the angle. Partly because it’s sweaty, and because he keeps shifting in his seat. Eventually, I give up, and he doesn’t try to get me back. I would be okay leaning against him—his body would be really good for leaning. But he’s moved too far away. So we just sit there in our separate spaces for most of the movie. I don’t mind, but it doesn’t feel like a date.
—
After the movie, we head to an Italian place. I still don’t know what to do with the flowers, and wish I’d never asked for them. In the end, I put them under my chair.
He asks me again about how school is going, and I give him the update. I also tell him about letting my parents know, and about Rebecca calling him Mystery Man.
“I hope that’s not how you think of me,” he says.
“Well, you have to admit you have more mystery to you than the usual guy. I mean, person.”
“Like what?”
“Like why you are the way you are? Like where you come from? Like why you do the things you do?”
“Yeah,” he says, “but don’t we all have those same mysteries? Maybe not where you came from—but do you really know why you are the way you are? Or why you do the things you do? I don’t know why I was born this way—but you don’t know why you were born your way, either. We’re all in the dark. It’s just that my dark is a little more unusual than yours. For all we know.”
“But there’s more about me that’s explainable. You have to admit that.”
“You can drive yourself crazy looking for explanations for every single thing. I can’t do that. I’m happy to let things just be what they are. I don’t need to know why.”
“But you have to be curious! I’m curious.”
“Well, I’m not. And if this is going to work, I need you to take it at face value.”
“Face value? Really?”
“Okay. Bad choice of words. Inside value. Soul value. Self value. Whatever you want to call it.”
“What do you call it? What do you think you are?”
“I’m a person, Rhiannon. I’m a person who happens to go into other people for a day. But I’m still a person.”
Chastised. I feel like I’ve disappointed him. I’ve fallen into the same trap as everyone else. I haven’t understood.
We stop talking to eat. But I can’t help watching him. Searching.
“What is it?” A asks, catching me looking.
“It’s just that…I can’t see you inside. Usually I can. Some glimmer of you in the eyes. But not tonight.”
I’m not sure if this is his fault or mine. The connection needs to be plugged in on both ends, and maybe it’s loose in me tonight.
“I promise I’m in here,” he says.
“I know. But I can’t help it. I just don’t feel anything. When I see you like this, I don’t. I can’t.”
“That’s okay. The reason you’re not seeing it is because he’s so unlike me. You’re not feeling it because I’m not like this. So in a way, it’s consistent.”
“I guess,” I say. But it’s not what I want to hear. I’ve never heard him disown one of the bodies before. I’ve never heard him say, This isn’t me. Is it because he feels that way, or is it because I’m making him self-conscious? He knows I’m uncomfortable, and it’s making him uncomfortable. He, who can adapt to everything, and has been doing it for as long as he’s been alive, is seeing himself through my eyes, and because of that, he’s finding himself lacking.
I need to stop. But what am I supposed to do? Try to not see him as this huge guy? How can I ignore that? How can I not feel different relative to that?
All of these thoughts, and I can’t say any of them aloud. Because that will only make it worse.
So instead we talk about the movie. The food. The weather.
This is disturbing. Disturbing because we’re not talking about us. And also disturbing because I realize that when you’re sixteen and in love, there isn’t much to talk about besides yourselves.
—
This isn’t about the body you’re in, I want to tell A. It’s about where we are.
He doesn’t call me on it until we’re walking to get our cars.
“What’s going on?” he asks me.
“Just an off night, I guess.” I try to smell the roses, but the scent is worn out. “We’re allowed to have off nights, right? Especially considering…”
“Yeah. Especially considering.”
It’s not the one thing, it’s everything. If he were in the body from the cabin, I would be kissing him good night. If he were the girl-boy from the other day, I wouldn’t be. Or if he were Ashley with her Beyoncé looks. Or if he were Nathan from the basement. I wouldn’t be. And if he were the picture in my mind, this night would have been different. Right now would be different.
It’s not how it should be. But it’s how it is with me. At least until I can get more used to it. If I can get more used to it.
I couldn’t even kiss him goodbye if I wanted to. Not lightly. Not without him coming down to my level.
So instead of trying for that, I raise the roses up. I let him breathe them in instead of a kiss. I try to make it a nice goodbye that way.
“Thanks for the flowers,” I tell him.
“You’re welcome,” he says.
“Tomorrow,” I say.
He nods. “Tomorrow.”
We leave it at that.
—
But is it enough?
We keep saying tomorrow. We keep promising it, even though there’s no way to promise it for sure.
My parents are already asleep when I get home, but the quiet house gives me too much space to think. Dinner and a movie. The most basic elements of a relationship, of dating. But we failed it, didn’t we?
—
I think maybe I’ll feel different in the morning.
I don’t.
I lie there in bed, wondering where A is and what he looks like.
I imagine having to think that every morning. Maybe not for the rest of my life. But even for the rest of high school.
It feels like too much.
—
I email A.
I really want to see you today.
We need to talk.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
A emails back to say that today he’s a girl named Lisa, and that he’ll meet me anytime I want. I say after school, and tell him to meet me at this park by my high school.
I spend the whole day wondering what to do. I want A in my life. I know he’s a good thing, and that he cares about me in a way few people have. What we have is love. I’m sure it’s love. But does that mean it can be a relationship? Does that mean we’re bound to be together? Can’t you love someone without being together?
—
After school, I find A on a bench in the park—he’s exactly where I asked him to be. The girl he is today looks like someone I could be friends with—similar style in clothes, similar hair. I still have to adjust, but it’s not as hard, because it’s more familiar.
She’s reading a book, and doesn’t even notice me until I sit down next to her. Then she looks up and smiles.
“Hey,” she says.
“Hey,” I say back.
“How was your day?”
“Okay.” I don’t want to come right out and say all the things I’ve been thinking. So instead I tell A about class, and about the homecoming game that everyone’s excited about tomorrow, and how Rebecca is insisting that I go, even though I don’t really want to go. A asks me why, and I admit it’s partly because I don’t want to see Justin and partly because…well, it’s a football game.
“It’s supposed to be good weather, at least,” A says before launching into the forecast for the weekend.
I have to interrupt. If we start talking about whether or not it’s going to rain on Sunday, I am going to scream.
“A,” I say, even though A’s not finished. “There are things that I need to say to you.”
A stops. And it’s not like yest
erday, when he felt so distant inside the body. Now he’s floating to the surface of this girl. So nervous. So scared.
I wish I could tell him it will all be okay. I wish I could ask him to the homecoming game. I wish I could have him meet all my friends. I wish I could say that I want to kiss this girl as much as I want to kiss everyone else. I wish I could say what he wants me to say.
But I refuse to lie. That’s the one thing we can have—honesty between us. Everything else—whatever it is—can be built from that.
“I don’t think I can do this,” I say.
He knows what I mean. He doesn’t say What? He doesn’t look confused. Instead, he asks, “You don’t think you can do it, or you don’t want to do it?”
“I want to. Really, I do. But how, A? I just don’t see how it’s possible.”
Now he asks, “What do you mean?”
I spell it out. It hurts to do it, because I know it’s not something he can control. But he has to see that I can’t control my own self, either.
“I mean, you’re a different person every day. And I just can’t love every single person you are equally. I know it’s you underneath. I know it’s just the package. But I can’t, A. I’ve tried. And I can’t. I want to—I want to be the person who can do that—but I can’t. And it’s not just that. I’ve just broken up with Justin—I need time to process that, to put that away. And there are just so many things you and I can’t do. We’ll never hang out with my friends. I can’t even talk about you to my friends, and that’s driving me crazy. You’ll never meet my parents. I will never be able to go to sleep with you at night and then wake up with you the next morning. Never. And I’ve been trying to argue myself into thinking these things don’t matter, A. Really, I have. But I’ve lost the argument. And I can’t keep having it, when I know what the real answer is.”
This is it. As honest as it gets. But he doesn’t give in when I force him to face it.
“It’s not impossible,” he tells me. “Do you think I haven’t been having the same arguments with myself, the same thoughts? I’ve been trying to imagine how we can have a future together. So what about this? I think one way for me to not travel so far would be if we lived in a city. I mean, there would be more bodies the right age nearby, and while I don’t know how I get passed from one body to the next, I do feel certain that the distance I travel is related to how many possibilities there are. So if we were in New York City, I’d probably never leave. There are so many people to choose from. So we could see each other all the time. Be with each other. I know it’s crazy. I know you can’t just leave home on a moment’s notice. But eventually we could do that. Eventually, that could be our life. I will never be able to wake up next to you, but I can be with you all the time. It won’t be a normal life—I know that. But it will be a life. A life together.”