What have I gotten myself into? What’s going on here? It doesn’t even occur to me to leave. No. This is now my life. Whatever she’s about to say is going to be my life.
It’s all there in her eyes.
We hold there for one very careful moment. Then she breaks it with her words.
“Every morning, I wake up in a different body. It’s been happening since I was born. This morning, I woke up as Megan Powell, who you see right in front of you. Three days ago, last Saturday, it was Nathan Daldry. Two days before that, it was Amy Tran, who visited your school and spent the day with you. And last Monday, it was Justin, your boyfriend. You thought you went to the ocean with him, but it was really me. That was the first time we ever met, and I haven’t been able to forget you since.”
No. That’s all my mind can come up with. No. This is not happening. This is not what I want. I came here to find something real. And now I’m being served bullshit.
It’s the punch of the punch line. I am the butt of the joke.
“You’re kidding me, right?” I’m so angry, so mad. “You have to be kidding.”
This girl is good. She doesn’t laugh. She doesn’t let down her guard at all. No. She keeps going, more urgent now, like I need to believe her, like I need to fall for it even worse.
“When we were on the beach, you told me about the mother-daughter fashion show that you and your mother were in, and how it was probably the last time you ever saw her in makeup. When Amy asked you to tell her about something you’d never told anyone else, you told her about trying to pierce your own ear when you were ten, and she told you about reading Judy Blume’s Forever. Nathan came over to you as you were sorting through CDs, and he sang a song that you and Justin sang during the car ride to the ocean. He told you he was Steve’s cousin, but he was really there to see you. He talked to you about being in a relationship for over a year, and you told him that deep down Justin cares a lot about you, and he said that deep down isn’t good enough. What I’m saying is that…all of these people were me. For a day. And now I’m Megan Powell, and I want to tell you the truth before I switch again. Because I think you’re remarkable. Because I don’t want to keep meeting you as different people. I want to meet you as myself.”
I feel stalked. I feel tricked. I feel like everything good that’s happened in the past eight days has just been pissed on. The beach. The dancing. Even taking that girl around the school. It’s all just someone else’s joke. And there’s only one person who could have done this. Only one person who could’ve known.
“Did Justin put you up to this?” I can’t believe this. I truly can’t believe this. “Do you really think this is funny?”
“No, it’s not funny,” she says—and the way she says it, there isn’t anything funny in there at all. “It’s true. I don’t expect you to understand right away. I know how crazy it sounds. But it’s true. I swear, it’s true.”
She really wants me to believe it. I guess that would make it even funnier.
What’s strange is that she doesn’t seem like a bitch. She doesn’t seem like someone who’d get off on torturing me. But isn’t that what she’s doing?
“I don’t understand why you’re doing this,” I tell her, my voice shaking. “I don’t even know you!”
She can see she’s lost me, and it’s making her more desperate. “Listen to me,” she begs, her voice shedding some calm. “Please. You know it wasn’t Justin with you that day. In your heart, you know. He didn’t act like Justin. He didn’t do things Justin does. That’s because it was me. I didn’t mean to do it. I didn’t mean to fall in love with you. But it happened. And I can’t erase it. I can’t ignore it. I have lived my whole life like this, and you’re the thing that has made me wish it could stop.”
I want to stop listening. I want to stop myself from driving over here. From wanting to know what was going on. I should have left it unknown. Because now it’s still unknown, but it’s a much worse unknown.
And the awful part is: She’s right. Justin didn’t act like Justin. I know that. But that doesn’t mean it wasn’t Justin. It just means it was a better day than usual. I have to believe that. Because this story can’t be true. I mean, why not just say he was taken over by aliens? Bitten by a vampire? And—wait—then there’s the most unbelievable part of all. According to this story, I am The Girl. I am worth all that.
“But why me?” I ask, as if I’ve finally found the flaw, finally proven her wrong. “That makes no sense.”
But she doesn’t give in. She launches back with, “Because you’re amazing. Because you’re kind to a random girl who just shows up at your school. Because you also want to be on the other side of the window, living life instead of just thinking about it. Because you’re beautiful. Because when I was dancing with you in Steve’s basement on Saturday night, it felt like fireworks. And when I was lying on the beach next to you, it felt like perfect calm. I know you think that Justin loves you deep down, but I love you through and through.”
“Enough!” Oh God, now I’m the girl yelling in the café. Now I’m losing it. “It’s just—enough, okay? I think I understand what you’re saying to me, even though it makes no sense whatsoever.”
“You know it wasn’t him that day, don’t you?”
I want her to stop. I don’t want to know any of this. I don’t want to be thinking about this. I don’t want to be thinking about all the ways Justin has avoided talking about that day. About how my love for him made so much sense then, but hasn’t since. About how I haven’t found any of the him from that day in the him afterward. I don’t want to think about how I felt when I was dancing with Nathan. About how it felt when he sang that song. About the real reason I came here today. About what I really wanted.
“I don’t know anything!” I insist. Again, I’m too loud. People are watching. Whatever story they’re playing out in their minds, it’s not going to be this one. I lower my voice—I don’t want them to hear more. I don’t want to do this. “I don’t know,” I say. “I really don’t know.”
Why? Why is this happening to me? Why can’t I stand up and leave? Why am I thinking for even a second that it might not be a lie?
Her. This girl. I look at her. Her heart is breaking. She is looking at me and her heart is breaking. I don’t understand. I don’t understand why. Her hand is moving onto mine. She is holding my hand. She is trying to get me through this. She is trying to take me through.
“I know it’s a lot.” Her voice is hurt. Her voice is comfort. “Believe me, I know.”
I can barely get the words out. “It’s not possible.”
“It is,” she says. “I’m the proof.”
Proof. Proof is a fact. None of this is a fact. This is a feeling. All of this is a feeling.
No. It’s thousands of feelings. So many of them yes. So many of them no.
She wants me to believe—what? That she was Justin. That she was Nathan. That girl in school. Other people.
How can I believe that? Who would ever believe that?
It cannot be a fact.
But it’s still a feeling. The yes. It’s there.
How can I let myself feel that? How?
“Look,” she says, “what if we met here again tomorrow at the same time? I won’t be in the same body, but I’ll be the same person. Would that make it easier to understand?”
Like it’s that simple. Like that couldn’t be a trick.
“But couldn’t you just tell someone else to come here?” I point out. If I can be suckered by one person, why not another?
“Yes, but why would I? This isn’t a prank. This isn’t a joke. It’s my life.”
The way she says it—It’s my life.
Not a feeling. Fact.
“You’re insane,” I tell her. If she actually believes what she’s saying, how could she not be?
But she doesn’t seem at all insane when she tells me, “You’re just saying that. You know I’m not. You can sense that much.”
I look a
t her again. I search for the lie in her eyes. The flaw. And when I don’t see it, I decide, Fine, it’s time for me to ask some questions.
I start by asking her what her name is.
“Today I’m Megan Powell.”
“No,” I say. “I mean your real name.” Because if she’s really jumping from body to body, there has to be a name for the person inside.
I’ve thrown her. She wasn’t expecting this question. I wait for her to back away from what she’s said. I wait for her to laugh and say I’ve got her.
But she doesn’t laugh. She hesitates, but she doesn’t laugh.
“A,” she finally says.
At first I don’t get it. Then I realize—she’s telling me that this is her name.
“Just A?” I ask.
“Just A. I came up with it when I was a little kid. It was a way of keeping myself whole, even as I went from body to body, life to life. I needed something pure. So I went with the letter A.”
I don’t want to believe this.
“What do you think about my name?” I challenge.
“I told you the other night. I think it’s beautiful, even if you once found it hard to spell.”
True. That is true.
But I can’t.
I can’t.
I’m sure there are other questions, but I’m out of them. I’m sure there could be plenty more time, but I’m out of time. I can’t do this. I can’t allow this to be real. I can’t start believing her. Because that will make me an even bigger fool.
I stand up. She stands up, too.
There are still people looking at us. Imagining we’re having a fight. Or imagining we’re a couple. Or imagining this is a first date that’s been a total bust.
Fact: It is none of these things.
Feeling: It is all of these things.
“Rhiannon,” she says. And it’s in there. It’s in the way she says my name. Every now and then, Justin says my name like that. Like it’s the most precious thing in the world.
Forget about everyone else laughing. Now I want to laugh. This can’t be happening. It can’t.
She’s going to tell me more. She’s going to push it further. She’s going to say my name like that again, and I am going to hear music in it I shouldn’t hear.
I hold up my hand. “No more,” I insist. “Not now.” And then it’s there—the answer I don’t want, the benefit against the doubt. “Tomorrow. I’ll give you tomorrow. Because that’s one way to know, isn’t it? If what you say is happening is really happening—I mean, I need more than a day.”
I’m waiting for her to put up a fight. I’m waiting for her to argue it some more. Or maybe this is the part where the camera crew comes out and I discover my humiliation has all been filmed for some cruel TV show.
But no.
None of that happens.
All that happens is that she thanks me. Genuine thanks. Thankful thanks.
“Don’t thank me until I show up,” I warn her. “This is all really confusing.”
“I know,” she says.
It’s my life.
I have to go. But then I turn back one last time to look at her, and I see how she’s on the border between hope and devastation. It’s that visible to me. And even though the alarms are loud and clear in my head, I feel I can’t leave her like this. I want to push her a little closer to hope and a little farther from devastation.
“The thing is,” I say, “I didn’t really feel it was him that day. Not completely. And ever since then, it’s like he wasn’t there. He has no memory of it. There are a million possible explanations for that, but there it is.”
“There it is,” she echoes. There’s no bragging in her voice. No trickery.
It can’t be real, but it’s real to her.
Fact. Feeling.
I shake my head.
“Tomorrow,” she says.
Now it’s my turn to echo. “Tomorrow,” I tell her, committing myself to something I feel like I became committed to a long time ago. Tomorrow. A word I’ve used for as long as I knew what it meant.
But now…now it feels like it means something different.
Now it feels like it means something slightly new.
—
I don’t text Justin. I don’t call him.
No, I go straight to his house and pound on the door.
His parents are still at work. I know he’s the only one home. It takes him a couple of minutes, but he opens the door. He’s surprised to see me.
“We weren’t supposed to be doing something, were we?” he asks.
“No,” I tell him. “I just need to talk to you for a second.”
“Um…okay. Do you want to come in?”
“Sure.”
He takes me into the den, where his warfare game is paused. I have to move the controller to clear a seat next to him.
“What’s up?” he asks.
“It’s about last week. I need to talk to you about it.”
He looks confused. Or maybe just impatient.
“What about last week?”
“When we went to the beach. Do you remember that?”
“Of course I remember that.”
“What songs played as we drove there?”
He looks at me like I’ve just asked him about rocket science. “How the fuck am I supposed to remember what songs were playing?”
“Was it cold or warm?”
“You were there. Don’t you know?”
“You told me a story about climbing a tree when you were eleven. Do you remember that?”
He snorts. “I could barely climb a ladder when I was eleven—I don’t think I was climbing any trees. Why are you asking me this?”
“But you remember being there, right?”
“Sure. There was sand. There was water. It was a beach.”
I don’t understand. He has some memory. But not all of it.
I decide to try a lie.
“You were so nice to me when I was stung by that jellyfish. God, that hurt. But I liked the way you carried me back to the car.”
“I wasn’t going to leave you there!” he says. “You’re easy to carry.”
He wasn’t there. He was there—but he wasn’t there.
I am so confused.
His hand is brushing over my knee, up my leg.
“I can carry you somewhere now, if you want.”
He’s coming in for a kiss. His lips are against mine. His body is starting to press.
This is not what I want, and he has no idea.
And I don’t know how to explain, so I kiss him back.
Acceleration. His hand going under my shirt. His tongue in my mouth. The cigarette taste of him. The sweat and grit on his hand from the controller.
I know it’s really bad to pull away. That it will hurt him if I pull away. But I pull away. Not far. But enough.
He pulls back in reaction. “What? I figure, if you came all this way…”
“I can’t,” I tell him. “I’ve got too much going on in my head. I’m not in the mood.”
He moves his thumb slowly against my breast. “I believe I know ways to put you in the mood.”
Usually my body reaches out for this.
“Stop,” I say.
He’s not a jerk. When I say stop, he stops. But he doesn’t look happy about it.
“Are you getting tired of me?” he asks.
He wants it to sound like he’s joking. And I could point out that if he’d stayed sober on Saturday night, we could have done something then. But is that really true? After dancing with Nathan, would I really have had sex with Justin?
I know what I’m supposed to say, and I say it: “No, I could never get tired of you.” I kiss him again, but it’s clearly a goodbye kiss. “I’m tired, yes. But not of you.”
I stand up, and he doesn’t get up to walk me out. Instead, he grabs the controller, unpausing his game.
I’ve hurt him. I didn’t mean to, but I have.
“I’ll see you tom
orrow,” he says.
Tomorrow. The version he’s offering isn’t the same as the one the girl—A—offered.
I guess I’m not going to know which tomorrow I’m stepping into until I actually get there.
Chapter Eight
I fall asleep right after dinner and wake up right before midnight. And in that waking moment, I think: I want to go back there. I want to go back to that day when everything was perfect, and Justin was everything I want him to be.
Even if it wasn’t Justin.
I can’t believe I am allowing myself to think this. I can’t believe I’m opening my email. I can’t believe I am typing.
A,
I want to believe you, but I don’t know how.
Rhiannon
I can’t believe I am hitting send.
But I do.
And I guess this means there is a part of me that believes.
—
I check my email again at lunch.
Rhiannon,
You don’t need to know how. You just make up your mind and it happens.
I am in Laurel right now, over an hour away. I am in the body of a football player named James. I know how strange that sounds. But, like everything I’ve told you, it’s the truth.
Love,
A
A football player named James. Either this is the most elaborate prank ever pulled on a stupid girl or it’s real. These are the only two options. Trick or truth. I am trying hard to think of another explanation, but there’s nothing in the middle.
The only way to know is to play along.
A,
Do you have a car? If not, I can come to you. There’s a Starbucks in Laurel. I’m told that nothing bad ever happens in a Starbucks. Let me know if you want to meet there.
Rhiannon
—
A few minutes later, a reply:
Rhiannon,
I would appreciate it if you could come here. Thank you.
A
I have to excuse myself to go to the girls’ room because I can see Rebecca’s wondering who I’m emailing in the middle of lunch. The answer is so ridiculous that I can’t even think of a good lie to cover for it.
Safe in a stall, I type back:
A,