This is not how he’s expecting a grimy high schooler in a mangy, ridiculous ski hat to talk. He pulls back from the tray and pulls back from the table, but in a way that makes it seem like he’s uncovered a contagion and wants to get away from it as quickly as possible.
“You are not welcome here,” he says. Then, end of subject, he walks back behind the counter.
Jesse and Jarid, sensing victory, gleefully finish their fries, and I can see Jarid starting to scout other people’s trays. I know I’ve put the manager in his place—but while that felt good for about one triumphant minute, I now put myself in his shoes, the manager of a Burger King getting paid not that much to do the King’s bidding. Putting him in his place doesn’t feel as much of a triumph. I know he won’t call the police to have us kicked out, but his words did the trick—I feel unwelcome in a way I didn’t before. I feel like we’re being watched. I feel I’ve intruded. I feel like at any moment it’s going to be exposed that we’re the people who can’t afford Burger King, who have infiltrated Burger King and taken some fries.
“Come on,” I tell my brothers. “Jasmine should be home by now.”
Reluctantly, they pack up and we leave. When we get back to the motel, we find Jasmine doing homework in a stairwell, her books spread out over the landing as if it were a desk.
“We had fries!” Jesse reports.
“Lucky you,” Jasmine replies, without any sarcasm I can sense.
I find myself wishing I’d brought her back some fries, even though I never had any to bring.
“Here,” she says, clearing off some of the landing. “It’s work time.”
The three of us sit down on the stairs and join her.
* * *
—
When we get back to our room, the sun is nearly setting. I’m surprised to see our father’s gone—then I realize he works the night shift and sleeps during the day, which is why Mom didn’t want me around. She returns with a bucket of KFC—there isn’t a kitchen in our motel room—and a Walgreens bag with something called a Licefreee! Kit inside. I think the extra e and the exclamation point betray a suspicious amount of enthusiasm…but I keep that to myself.
The shampooing happens after dinner’s done. I tell my mom I can shampoo myself, but she tells me to sit down on the toilet and let her do it. When she pulls off the hat, she does not sound pleased. Under her instruction, I dunk my head beneath the tepid shower, then let her knead the shampoo into my hair. A thorough combing comes next, followed by an exhaustive search-and-destroy mission with tweezers across my scalp.
“You’re nitpicking,” I tell her. “You’re actually nitpicking.”
I worry this is a gouda comment, but she laughs and says, “Yeah, I suppose I am.”
Since we’re alone in the bathroom—Jesse and Jarid have settled into the bed—there are questions I want to ask her. But I realize they’re my questions, not Joe’s, and of the two of us, he’s the one who has the right to ask questions, not me.
When she’s satisfied we’re done, I rinse out my hair again and dry it. It feels better…but not all the way better.
“We’ll get up a little early and do it again before you go to school,” she tells me. “And I hope you’re enjoying it—because being Licefreee ain’t cheap.”
“This is the best night I’ve had in years,” I tell her.
It’s a joke, but she sighs in response and mutters, “Don’t I know it.” Then, catching me catching her, she adds, “Two more months, hon. Everything will be different in two more months.”
* * *
—
Before it’s time for bed, I tell Joe’s mother I need some air; she doesn’t ask any questions and lets me head outside. I go back to the stairs, expecting to find Jasmine there. But she’s not. I walk the rest of the corridors, and still I don’t find her. I search Joe’s memory to find which room she lives in—but I also discover that Joe knows to never knock on her door. She’s never told me why. We’re hallway friends, not room friends.
I’m sorry I’m not going to get to tell her goodbye. Even though, of course, I wouldn’t be able to tell her goodbye at all.
* * *
—
It’s only when I’m back on the floor of our room, trying to find the best position for sleep, that I think about Rhiannon and the fact that I still haven’t answered her. It feels more complicated now. She wants me to say something, but what if the thing I have to say is This is why I can’t do this? Life will always get in the way. Whether it’s my own life or the lives of others—it doesn’t really matter. It’s just life, and it’s rarely convenient, and if I have to choose between the person in front of me and the person who isn’t here, it’s the one who’s here who will always be more important.
Say something?
Right now, all I feel I can say is I can’t.
NATHAN
He could be anyone.
Any teacher in my school. Any student. I’ve only seen him as an adult, but that doesn’t mean he can’t be my age.
I have no idea what the rules are. Or if there are any rules.
Don’t let it get to you, I tell myself. That’s what he wants. Don’t give in to it.
But he could be in any car that passes. He could be in any store I walk into.
He could take over my mother. My father.
It’s not paranoia if the threat is real. But it feels more like paranoia when you’re the only one who knows about the threat.
The emails have stopped. It’s like he knows he doesn’t have to bother.
He’s gotten to me.
* * *
—
“You’re a mess,” Rhiannon tells me. “Why are you a mess?”
We’re at a diner midway between her town and mine. Nobody we know is around. We want it this way.
I wonder what makes her think I’m a mess. I actually tried to dress well to see her. I am buttoned up. Laces tied. Khakis ironed flat. But some wrinkles are coming through.
“I’m not a mess,” I say.
She takes a sip of her milkshake. Seriously considers me.
I give her my best smile.
“Nope,” she says. “You’re definitely a mess.”
I am trying so hard not to be. I am trying hard not to think he’s the old man two booths away. Or the waitress. Or the guy coming out of the bathroom, looking at Rhiannon as he walks by.
She reaches for one of my fries.
“It’s okay,” she says. “I’m a mess, too.”
Before I can contradict this, she goes on.
“Why hasn’t A given me some kind of sign? I mean—okay, I guess what I’m really asking is: What if A’s already forgotten about me? Do you think that’s possible? What if it was all in my mind—not that A was here, but that it meant what I thought it meant? I know A wanted me to move on. I have moved on—but I also haven’t. But what if A has? What if I’m the only one who can’t stop thinking about it?”
I know this is why I’m here, so she can say all these things out loud. Because who else can she tell? I am her only-case scenario.
And the joke is that I have no idea what to say to her. She’s talking about love, and I know more about table tennis than I do about love.
“There’s really no way to know, is there?” I say. “I mean, you’re looking for the Wizard of Helpful, but I’m afraid I’m just another jester at your service. And I don’t even know that many good jokes.”
I’m serious, but she laughs. Not a big ha ha, but an appreciative hmph.
She checks her phone and puts it down again.
“I can’t stand knowing A is out there and not knowing anything else. And I also can’t stand the fact that if A isn’t out there—if something’s happened, if A has disappeared—then I will never know. Silence can mean way too many things.”
I want
to ask her why she doesn’t think he could be with us right now, right in this room.
“Ugh,” she groans. “I’m only messing you up more, aren’t I? You’re nice to listen to me. I know there aren’t any answers. But to hold the questions inside all day, every day—it makes me feel like such a fraud, because what I’m thinking is so different from what I’m saying to everyone.”
“You can tell me anything,” I assure her. “I just won’t have anything remotely intelligent to say about it. I’ve totally got your back, but I’m only armed with a water pistol.”
“You’re such a dork.”
“Yeah, but I’m your dork, right?”
“Of course.”
I wonder if Rhiannon and I are like strangers who were sitting next to each other during a bus crash. We both survived, and we can talk a lot about that, and about what it’s like after. But the further the topic gets from bus crashes, the more it might feel like we’re fellow survivors rather than friends.
She checks her phone again. Looks at it. Presses a few keys.
“What?” I ask. “What is it?”
Not that it’s any of my business. But even if I’m no love expert or even a girl expert, I can tell something’s happening.
“It’s A,” she says. “A wrote.”
She’s not thinking about how loud she is. But I am. I don’t want anyone else to hear. Because anyone else could be anyone.
After about four minutes of her reading and, presumably, rereading, I ask, quieter, “What did A say?”
She doesn’t answer. She just hands me her phone.
“See for yourself.”
It’s not a post on Facebook; it’s an email from a gibberish address.
Dear Rhiannon,
I saw your post about saying something…but it’s hard to know what to say. I genuinely thought the best thing would be for us to be separate, to have our own lives, without any overlap or communication. That still might be the best thing. But I am also feeling doubt. And confusion. And sadness.
I want you to be happy. I am unsure I can ever be happy or make anyone else happy. Not with the way my life works. Not for any sustained period of time. And if you are happy, then I can absolutely go away again. But if you are not happy, and if you truly still miss someone, and if you truly want me to say something…then at the very least we can have this. Words. Overlap. Connection. I doubt that it will be helpful to tell you that I miss you, but I’m not strong enough to stop myself from doing it. I’m sorry. This may only make it worse.
A
“Wow,” I say.
The paranoid part of me is thinking: There’s no way to know for sure that A wrote this. Maybe it’s Poole. Maybe he found Rhiannon’s address. Maybe it’s just part of the game. There are no specifics here. It could easily be a trap.
The not-paranoid part of me is thinking: Don’t be stupid. No one else could have written this. A is the only person who can know how this feels.
“Yeah,” Rhiannon says. “Wow.”
“I guess this answers your questions,” I tell her.
“Some.”
“But it also raises new ones.”
“Lots.”
I can’t tell if she’s happy. Mostly she seems stunned.
“How are you going to respond?” I ask.
She takes back the phone. “I’m not sure. I want to know where A is. And I want to know what this means. The first will be easy to answer. The second—I don’t think A knows, either. And if neither of us knows what it means, how do we decide what it means?”
“But what can it mean?” I ask. “I don’t want to sound harsh…but it’s not like you can be together, right?”
And now the look she gives me—it’s like we survived that bus crash and I’m asking, Are you sure you want to go on another bus?
“I know the limitations, Nathan. I know that I am likely to be screwing my life up yet again. I know he’s probably right, and that the best thing is for us to be separate. But not silent. That’s the worst. So while I know what can’t happen, I do want to see what can happen—alright?”
“Hey,” I say, throwing my hands up, “it’s your life. Do what you want to do. Just please make sure he stays out of my body while you do it.”
Okay, now I’m really hoping nobody is listening to us.
“You sound mad,” Rhiannon says, sounding mad herself. “Why are you mad?”
“First I’m a mess, and now I’m mad. Thanks.”
“Okay, if you’re not either of those things, tell me what you are.”
“I’m mad, okay? I’m mad because even though I know it’s allegedly not his/her/their fault, what A does bothers me. In a way that it doesn’t seem to bother you. You’re so excited to have gotten an email from A, but while A was writing it, someone else—someone like you, someone like me—was completely blanked out.”
“What do you mean, allegedly? None of this is A’s fault. A didn’t choose this.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because if A could choose, A would be with me now.”
The moment she says it, she can’t believe she’s said it.
She backtracks. “I’m sorry. I don’t know that. At all. I don’t know anything. This is a lot at once. At the very least, we can agree on that, right?”
I don’t tell her that what she’s said has scared me. A would be with me now. What can that even mean? In whose body? I’m too nice to ask. But the question is there. Just like Poole is there. Somewhere.
“It’s okay,” I say. “It’s definitely a lot at once.” I think about what A wrote. “Do you think you’re happier now than you were before? I mean, compared to when we sat down in this booth and you hadn’t heard from A—are you happier?”
“Can I give you the honest answer?”
“No, I’d prefer you to be dishonest.”
There’s a second when she thinks I’m serious. Then, when she realizes I’m not, she goes on.
“I think this is one of those situations when the word happiness—or even the concept of happiness—is pretty meaningless. Because I think when people want you to be happy, they mean you’re not anything else—the happiness is so big, so bright, that all you are is happy. And there are definitely moments like that. I’ve definitely felt that way. But hearing from A—if I were to list the adjectives it makes me, happy wouldn’t be in the top hundred. I’m sure it’s in there, as part of some of the other words. Like, happy is definitely an ingredient of relieved, and I am definitely feeling relieved I’m not crazy and making it all up in my head. But when A says happy, I think A really means hopeful. And that’s much more complicated. While I’m relieved and excited and glad, I’m not sure that I’m hopeful. Which is probably what you’re getting at. Or what you’re afraid I’ll be. But no—I’m not happy and I’m not hopeful. I just feel…better.”
“Well, good. I don’t want you to feel worse.”
Her phone rings. Both of us are surprised. I’m guessing both of us instantly think it’s A calling.
But, reality.
Rhiannon looks at the screen. “It’s Alexander. I should probably get it. He never calls.”
She answers, and even though I try not to listen, I can get the gist of it. Something about plans.
After she hangs up, she explains, “His parents aren’t home. And he wants to make me dinner.”
“That sounds nice,” I say.
“I know.”
“So the problem is…?”
“There’s no problem,” she says. “Except for, you know, all the problems.”
“I wish I could help you.”
“Believe me, this helps. Just being able to talk about it.”
“How fortunate that your body-changing ex found his way to me!” I joke.
“He’s not an ex,” she says, not joking.<
br />
“Then what is he? Besides, you know, not a he.”
“I just don’t think of A as an ex. It’s never felt over.”
She stops herself there. And I don’t let her shift away from it by saying something else.
Right there. We both know it.
We’ve gotten to the heart of all the problems.
Someone: So what do you mean, that you’re in different bodies?
M: I mean exactly that.
Someone: Tell me more.
M: You don’t want to hear this.
Someone: I do.
M: Why?
Someone: Because I know you’re telling the truth, and I also know that I’m not understanding it. I want to. Hopefully that counts for something. And remember, I’m the person who can lapse into thinking that life isn’t real. There’s not much that can surprise me at this point, in terms of the way you can perceive the world, and how individualized our perceptions can get.
M: Fine. If you really want to know…
Someone: I do.
M: You know what you were saying about it feeling like life is a video game? That you’re this avatar and someone else is at the controls? Well, for me it’s the opposite. I’m holding the controller. I’m making the moves. But my avatar keeps changing. Every single day, it changes. And it’s this avatar that everyone else reacts to. That’s the game. And even though I’m always the same person at the controller, everyone else’s responses entirely depend on the avatar that I’m playing. But—and this is where it gets tricky—the avatars are never actually mine. I am only borrowing them from other players in the game. Which means if I do something wrong, they get points taken off. And if I lose the game, they lose the game. They die. So I can’t stop playing, even though I want to stop playing.
Someone: You don’t like the game?
M: No. If I had any chance of winning, I might. But I don’t get to keep any of the rewards. I’m an empty player.
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