We’ve been so wrapped up in our own day that we haven’t really prepared for this. So when Justin starts asking the obvious questions—how do Rhiannon and I know each other, and how come he hasn’t heard about me before—I have to jump into the breach. For Rhiannon, fabrication is a ruminative act, whereas lying is a part of my necessary nature.
I tell him that my mother and Rhiannon’s mother were best friends in high school. I’m now living in Los Angeles (why not?), auditioning for TV shows (because I can). My mother and I are visiting the East Coast for a week, and she wanted to check in on her old friend. Rhiannon and I have seen each other off and on through the years, but this is the first time in a while.
Justin appears to be hanging on my every word, but he isn’t listening at all. I brush his leg “accidentally” under the table. He pretends he doesn’t notice. Rhiannon pretends, too.
I’m brazen, but careful with my brazenness. I touch Rhiannon’s hand a few times when I’m making a point, so it doesn’t seem so unusual when I do it to Justin. I mention a Hollywood star that I once kissed at a party, but make it clear that it was no big deal.
I want Justin to flirt back, but he appears incapable. Especially once there’s food in front of him. Then the order of attention goes: food, then Ashley, then Rhiannon. I dip my crab cakes in tartar sauce, and imagine Ashley yelling at me for doing so.
When the food is finished, he focuses back on me. Rhiannon comes alive a little and tries to mimic my movements, first by holding his hand. He doesn’t move away, but he doesn’t seem all that into it; he acts like she’s embarrassing him. I figure this is a good sign.
Finally, Rhiannon says she has to go to the ladies’ room. This is my chance to get him to do something irredeemable, get her to see who he truly is.
I start with the leg move. This time, with Rhiannon gone, he doesn’t move his leg away.
“Hello there,” I say.
“Hello,” he says back. And smiles.
“What are you doing after this?” I ask.
“After dinner?”
“Yeah, after dinner.”
“I don’t know.”
“Maybe we should do something,” I suggest.
“Yeah. Sure.”
“Maybe just the two of us.”
Click. He finally gets it.
I move in. Touch his hand. Say, “I think that would be fun.”
I need him to lean in to me. I need him to give in to what he wants. I need him to take it one step further. All it takes is a yes.
He looks around, to see if Rhiannon is near, and to see if the other guys in the room are seeing this happen.
“Whoa,” he says.
“It’s okay,” I tell him. “I really like you.”
He sits back. Shakes his head. “Um … no.”
I’ve been too forward. He needs it to be his idea.
“Why not?” I ask.
He looks at me like I’m a complete idiot.
“Why not?” he says. “How about Rhiannon? Jeez.”
I’m trying to think of a comeback for that, but there isn’t one. And it doesn’t even matter, because at this point, Rhiannon returns to the table.
“I don’t want this,” she says. “Stop.”
Justin, fool that he is, thinks she’s talking to him.
“I’m not doing anything!” he protests, his leg firmly back on his side of the booth. “Your friend here is a little out of control.”
“I don’t want this,” she repeats.
“It’s okay,” I say. “I’m sorry.”
“You should be!” Justin yells. “God, I don’t know how they do things in California, but here, you don’t act like that.” He stands up. I steal a glance at his groin and see that despite his denials, my flirtation did have at least one effect. But I can’t really point it out to Rhiannon.
“I’m gonna go,” he says. Then, as if to prove something, he kisses Rhiannon right in front of me. “Thanks, baby,” he says. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
He doesn’t bother saying goodbye to me.
Rhiannon and I sit back down.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her again.
“No, it’s my fault. I should’ve known.”
I’m waiting for the I told you so … and then it comes.
“I told you that you don’t understand. You can’t understand us,” she says.
The check comes. I try to pay, but she waves me off.
“It’s not your money,” she says. And that hurts just as much as anything else.
I know she wants the night to end. I know she wants to drop me off at home, just so she can call Justin and apologize, and make everything right with him again.
Day 6008
I go to the computer as soon as I wake up the next morning. But there’s no email from Rhiannon. I send her another apology. I send her more thanks for the day. Sometimes when you hit send, you can imagine the message going straight into the person’s heart. But other times, like this time, it feels like the words are merely falling into a well.
I head to the social-networking sites, searching for something more. I see that Austin and Hugo still list their relationship status as being together—a good sign. Kelsea’s page is locked to non-friends. So there’s proof of one thing I managed to save, and another where saving is possible.
I have to remind myself it’s not all bad.
Then there’s Nathan. The coverage of him continues. Reverend Poole is getting more testimony by the day, and the news sites are eating it up. Even the Onion is getting into the act, with the headline: WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS TO REVEREND POOLE: ‘THE DEVIL MADE ME EAT THE PLUM.’ If smart people are parodying it, that’s a sure sign that some less smart people are believing it.
But what can I do? Nathan wants his proof, but I’m not sure I have any to give. All I have is my word, and what kind of proof is that?
Today I’m a boy named AJ. He has diabetes, so I have a whole other layer of concerns on top of my usual ones. I’ve been diabetic a couple of times, and the first time was harrowing. Not because diabetes isn’t controllable, but because I had to rely on the body’s memories to tell me what to look out for, and how to manage it. I ended up pretending I wasn’t feeling well, just so my mother would stay at home and monitor my health with me. Now I feel I can handle it, but I am very attentive to what the body is telling me, much more so than I usually am.
AJ is full of idiosyncrasies that probably don’t seem all that idiosyncratic to him anymore. He’s a sports fanatic—he plays soccer on the JV squad, but his real love is baseball. His head is full of statistics, facts and figures extrapolated into thousands of different combinations and comparisons. In the meantime, his room is a shrine to the Beatles, and it appears that George is by far his favorite. It isn’t hard to figure out what he’s going to wear, because his entire wardrobe is blue jeans and different variations of the same button-down shirt. There are also more baseball caps than I can imagine anyone needing, but I figure he’s not allowed to wear those to school.
It’s a relief, in many ways, to be a guy who doesn’t mind riding the bus, who has friends waiting for him when he gets on, who doesn’t have to deal with anything more troubling than the fact that he ate breakfast and is still hungry.
It’s an ordinary day, and I try to lose myself in that.
But between third and fourth periods, I’m dragged right back. Because there, right in the hall, is Nathan Daldry.
At first I think I might be mistaken. There are plenty of kids who could look like Nathan. But then I see the way the other kids in the hall are reacting to him, as if he’s this walking joke. He’s trying to make it seem like he doesn’t notice the laughter, the snickers, the snarky comments. But he can’t hide how uncomfortable he is.
I think: He deserves this. He didn’t have to say a word. He could’ve just let it slide.
And I think: It’s my fault. I’m the one who did this to him.
I access AJ and find out that he and Nathan were goo
d friends in elementary school, and are still friendly now. So it makes sense that when he passes by me, I say hello. And that he says hello back.
I sit with my friends at lunch. Some of the guys ask me about the game last night, and I answer vaguely, accessing the whole time.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Nathan sit down at his own table, eating alone. I don’t remember him being friendless, just dull. But it looks as if he’s friendless now.
“I’m going to go talk to Nathan,” I tell my friends.
One of them groans. “Really? I’m so sick of him.”
“I hear he’s doing talk shows now,” another chimes in.
“You would think the devil would have more important things to do than take a Subaru for a joyride on a Saturday night.”
“Seriously.”
I pick up my tray before the conversation can go any further, and tell them I’ll see them later.
Nathan sees me coming over, but still seems surprised when I sit down with him.
“Do you mind?” I ask.
“No,” he says. “Not at all.”
I don’t know what I’m doing. I think of his last email—PROVE IT—and half expect those words to flash from his eyes, for there to be some challenge that I will have to meet. I am the proof. I am right in front of him. But he doesn’t know that.
“So how are you doing?” I ask, picking up a fry, trying to act like this is a normal lunchtime conversation between friends.
“Okay, I guess.” I get a sense that for all the attention people have been giving him, not many people have been asking him how he’s doing.
“So what’s new?”
He glances over my shoulder. “Your friends are looking at us.”
I turn around, and everyone from my old table suddenly looks anywhere but here.
“Whatever,” I say. “Don’t pay attention to them. To any of them.”
“I’m not. They don’t understand.”
“I understand. I mean, I understand that they don’t understand.”
“I know.”
“It must be pretty overwhelming, though, having everyone so interested. And all the blogs and stuff. And this reverend.”
I wonder if I’ve pushed too far. But Nathan seems happy to talk. AJ is a good guy.
“Yeah, he really gets it. He knew people would give me grief. But he told me I had to be stronger. I mean, having people laugh is nothing compared to surviving a possession.”
Surviving a possession. I have never thought about what I do in those terms. I never thought my presence was something that anyone would have to survive.
Nathan sees me thinking. “What?” he asks.
“I’m just curious—what do you remember from that day?”
Now a wariness creeps into his expression.
“Why are you asking?”
“Curiosity, I guess. I’m not doubting you. Not at all. I just feel like, in all the things I’ve read and all the things people have said, I never really got to hear your side. It’s all been secondhand and thirdhand and probably seventh- or eighth-hand, so I figured I’d just come and ask you firsthand.”
I know I’m on dangerous ground here. I can’t make AJ too much of a confidant, because tomorrow will come and he might not remember anything that’s been said, and that might make Nathan suspicious. But at the same time, I want to know what he remembers.
Nathan wants to talk. I can see it. He knows he’s stepped off his own map. And while he won’t pull back, he also regrets it a little. I don’t think he ever meant for it to take over his life.
“It was a pretty normal day,” he tells me. “Nothing unusual. I was home with my parents. I did chores, that kind of thing. And then—I don’t know. Something must have happened. Because I made up this story about a school musical and borrowed their car for the night. I don’t remember the musical part—they told me that later. But there I was, driving around. And I had these … urges. Like I was being drawn somewhere.”
He pauses.
“Where?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “I don’t know. This is the weird part. There are a few hours there that are completely blank. I have this sense of not being in control of my body, but that’s it. I have flashes of a party, but I have no idea where, or who else was there. Then suddenly I’m being woken up by a policeman. And I haven’t drunk a sip. I haven’t done any drugs. They tested for that, you know.”
“What if you had a seizure?”
“Why would I borrow my parents’ car to have a seizure? No, there was something else in control. The reverend says I must have wrestled with the devil. Like Jacob. I must have known my body was being used for something evil, and I fought it. And then, when I won, the devil left me by the side of the road.”
He believes this. He genuinely believes this.
And I can’t tell him it’s not true. I can’t tell him what really happened. Because if I do, AJ will be in danger. I will be in danger.
“It didn’t have to be the devil,” I say.
Nathan becomes defensive. “I just know, okay? And I’m not the only one. There are lots of people out there who’ve experienced the same thing. I’ve chatted with a few of them. It’s scary how many things we have in common.”
“Are you afraid it will happen again?”
“No. I’m prepared this time. If the devil is anywhere near me, I’ll know what to do.”
I sit right there across from him and listen.
He doesn’t recognize me.
I am not the devil.
This thought is what echoes through my mind the rest of the day.
I am not the devil, but I could be.
Looking at it from afar, looking at it from a perspective like Nathan’s, I can see how scary it could be. Because what’s to stop me from doing harm? What punishment would there be if I took the pencil in my hand and gouged out the eye of the girl sitting next to me in chem class? Or worse. I could easily get away with the perfect crime. The body that committed the murder would inevitably get caught, but the murderer would go free. Why haven’t I thought of this before?
I have the potential to be the devil.
But then I think, Stop. I think, No. Because, really, does that make me any different from everyone else? Yes, I could get away with it, but certainly we all have the potential to commit the crime. We choose not to. Every single day, we choose not to. I am no different.
I am not the devil.
There is still no word from Rhiannon. Whether her silence is coming from her confusion or from a desire to be rid of me, I have no way of knowing.
I write to her and say, simply:
I have to see you again.
A
Day 6009
There’s still no word from her the next morning.
I get in the car and drive.
The car belongs to Adam Cassidy. He should be in school. But I call the office pretending to be his father and say he has a doctor’s appointment.
It may last the entire day.
It’s a two-hour drive. I know I should spend it getting to know Adam Cassidy, but he seems incidental to me right now. I used to inhabit lives like this all the time—testing the bare minimum I needed to know in order to get through the day. I got so good at it that I made it through a few days without accessing once. I’m sure these were very blank days for the bodies I was in, because they were extraordinarily blank days for me.
Most of the drive, I think about Rhiannon. How to get her back. How to keep in her good graces. How to make this work.
It’s the last part that’s the hardest.
When I get to her school, I park where Amy Tran parked. The school day is already in full swing, so when I open the doors, I jump right into the fray. It’s between periods, and I have all of two minutes to find her.
I don’t know where she is. I don’t even know what period’s starting. I just push through the halls, looking for her. People brush by, tell me to watch where I’m going. I don’t care. There is
everyone else, and there is her. I am only focused on her.
I let the universe tell me where to go. I rely purely on instinct, knowing that this kind of instinct comes from somewhere other than me, somewhere other than this body.
She is turning in to a classroom. But she stops. Looks up. Sees me.
I don’t know how to explain it. I am an island in the hall as people push around me. She is another island. I see her, and she knows exactly who I am. There is no way for her to know this. But she knows.
She walks away from the classroom, walks toward me. Another bell rings and the rest of the people drain out of the hall, leaving us alone together.
“Hey,” she says.
“Hey,” I say.
“I thought you might come.”
“Are you mad?”
“No, I’m not mad.” She glances back at the classroom. “Although Lord knows you’re not good for my attendance record.”
“I’m not good for anybody’s attendance record.”
“What’s your name today?”
“A,” I tell her. “For you, it’s always A.”
She has a test next period that she can’t skip, so we stay on the school grounds. When we start to encounter other kids—kids without classes this period, kids also cutting—she grows a little more cautious.
“Is Justin in class?” I ask, to give her fear a name.
“Yeah. If he decided to go.”
We find an empty classroom and go inside. From all the Shakespearean paraphernalia hanging on the walls, I’m guessing we’re in an English classroom. Or drama.
We sit in the back row, out of sight of the window in the door.
“How did you know it was me?” I have to ask.
“The way you looked at me,” she says. “It couldn’t have been anyone else.”
This is what love does: It makes you want to rewrite the world. It makes you want to choose the characters, build the scenery, guide the plot. The person you love sits across from you, and you want to do everything in your power to make it possible, endlessly possible. And when it’s just the two of you, alone in a room, you can pretend that this is how it is, this is how it will be.