Another Day

by David Levithan

  I ask her when she first knew about being the way she is. She tells me that until she was four or five, she just assumed she was normal—she assumed everyone woke up every day with new parents, in a new house, with a new body. Because when you’re young, people are willing to reintroduce the world to you each day. If you get something wrong, they’ll correct you. If there’s a blank, they’ll fill it in for you. You’re not expected to know that much about your life.

  “There was never that big a disturbance,” she tells me. “I didn’t think of myself as a boy or a girl—I never have. I would just think of myself as a boy or a girl for a day. It was like a different set of clothes. The thing that ended up tripping me up was the concept of tomorrow. Because after a while, I started to notice—people kept talking about doing things tomorrow. Together. And if I argued, I would get strange looks. For everyone else, there always seemed to be a tomorrow together. But not for me. I’d say, You won’t be there, and they’d say, Of course I’ll be there. And then I’d wake up, and they wouldn’t be. And my new parents would have no idea why I was so upset.”

  I try to imagine going through that, but I can’t really. I don’t think I could ever get used to it.

  A continues. “There were only two options—something was wrong with everyone else, or something was wrong with me. Because either they were tricking themselves into thinking there was a tomorrow together, or I was the only person who was leaving.”

  “Did you try to hold on?” I ask.

  “I’m sure I did. But I don’t remember it now. I remember crying and protesting—I told you about that. But the rest? I’m not sure. I mean, do you remember a lot about when you were five?”

  I see her point. “Not really. I remember my mom bringing me and my sister to the shoe store to get new shoes before kindergarten started. I remember learning that a green light meant go and red meant stop. I remember coloring them in, and the teacher being a little confused about how to explain yellow. I think she told us to treat it the same as red.”

  “I learned my letters quickly. I remember the teachers being surprised that I knew them. I imagine they were just as surprised the next day, when I’d forgotten them.”

  “A five-year-old probably wouldn’t notice taking a day off.”

  “Probably. I don’t know.”

  I can’t help wondering about the people whose body A takes for a day. I wonder what they feel the next day. I think about Nathan staring at me so blankly. But mostly I think about Justin.

  “I keep asking Justin about it, you know,” I say. “The day you were him. And it’s amazing how clear his fake memories are. He doesn’t disagree when I say we went to the beach, but he doesn’t really remember it, either.”

  “James, the twin, was like that, too. He didn’t notice anything wrong. But when I asked him about meeting you for coffee, he didn’t remember it at all. He remembered he was at Starbucks—his mind accounted for the time. But not what actually happened.”

  “Maybe they remember what you want them to remember.”

  “I’ve thought about that. I wish I knew for sure.”

  We walk in silence for a minute, then stop at a tree with a ladder of knots. I can’t help but touch one. A touches the other side, and works her hand around to mine. But I keep moving, too. Circling.

  “What about love?” I ask. “Have you ever been in love?”

  Which is my way of asking: Is it possible? Is any of this possible?

  “I don’t know that you’d call it love,” A tells me. “I’ve had crushes, for sure. And there have been days where I’ve really regretted leaving. There were even one or two people I tried to find, but that didn’t work out. The closest was this guy Brennan.”

  A stops. Looks again at the tree, at the knots.

  “Tell me about him,” I say.

  “It was about a year ago. I was working at a movie theater, and he was in town, visiting his cousins, and when he went to get some popcorn, we flirted a little, and it just became this…spark. It was this small one-screen movie theater, and when the movie was running, my job was pretty slow. I think he missed the second half of the movie, because he came back out and started talking to me more. I ended up having to tell him what happened so he could pretend he’d been in there most of the time. At the end, he asked for my email, and I made up an email address.”

  “Like you did for me,” I point out. So Nathan knew what he was doing a little more than I’d thought.

  “Exactly like I did for you. And he emailed me later that night, and left the next day to go back home to Maine, and that proved to be ideal, because then the rest of our relationship could be online. I’d been wearing a name tag, so I had to give him that first name, but I made up a last name, and then I made up an online profile using some of the photos from the real guy’s profile. I think his name was Ian.”

  This surprises me, that A was a boy in love with a boy. Maybe because it’s a girl’s voice telling me this story. Or maybe because I assume girl when I hear boyfriend. Which I know isn’t right, but it’s where my mind goes.

  After I express my surprise, she asks me if it matters. I tell her it doesn’t. And while she tells me the rest of the story—she tried to keep it going online, but he wanted to meet, and she knew they never could, so she ended it—I try to convince myself that it really doesn’t matter. And I guess it doesn’t matter, in terms of her (him). But it still matters in terms of me. At least a little.

  As she wraps up the Brennan story, A tells me, “I promised myself I wouldn’t get into any more virtual entanglements, as easy as they might seem to be. Because what’s the point of something virtual if it doesn’t end up being real? And I could never give anyone something real. I could only give them deception.”

  “Like impersonating their boyfriends,” I can’t help but say.

  “Yeah. But you have to understand—you were the exception to the rule. And I didn’t want it to be based on deception. Which is why you’re the first person I’ve ever told.”

  I know this is meant as the highest compliment A can give me. But I want to know what I did to earn it. I want to know how A knows I’m the right person to tell. I want to know what that means.

  I tell her, “The funny thing is, you say it like it’s so unusual that you’ve only done it once. But I bet a whole lot of people go through their lives without ever telling the truth, not really. And they wake up in the same body and the same life every single morning.”

  Now she’s curious. “Why? What aren’t you telling me?”

  I have known you less than two weeks, I think. I wish I could disarm myself so completely in such a short time. But even if A thinks I’ve earned that, I am not even close to believing she’s earned it. Not because of who she is or what she is. Because it’s so soon.

  I get that her life has a special set of rules. But my life has rules, too.

  I look her right in the eye. I am not angry—I want to be sure she knows I’m not angry. But I am serious. “If I’m not telling you something, it’s for a reason. Just because you trust me, it doesn’t mean I have to automatically trust you. Trust doesn’t work like that.”

  “That’s fair,” she says. Although I can tell she’s also a little disappointed.

  “I know it is,” I tell her. “But enough of that. Tell me about—I don’t know—third grade.”

  There is no point in talking more about us. We need to talk about ourselves separately for a little while longer.

  It’s not entirely separate, of course. We’ve both been afraid of teachers. We’ve both gotten lost at theme parks. We’ve both fallen into hair-pulling, teeth-kicking fights with siblings. We’ve grown up on the same TV shows, being the same age. Only, while we both had dreams of waking up in Hannah Montana’s body and Hannah Montana’s life, A actually believed that the dream could come true.

  I ask about all those lives, all those days, and what A can remember. The result is like a series of snapshots—a slideshow of bits and pieces with the fa
ces always changing. All of the firsts—first snow, first Pixar movie, first evil pet, first bully. And other things I wouldn’t have even realized were things—the size of bedrooms, the strange diets parents put their kids on, the need to sing in church even if you don’t know any of the tunes or any of the words. Discovering allergies, illnesses, learning problems, stutters. And living the day with them. Always living another day.

  I try to keep up. I try to offer some of my firsts, some of my surprises. But they don’t seem as first or as surprising.

  We talk about family. She asks me if I hate my mother.

  “No,” I tell her. “That’s not it. I love her, but I also want her to be better. I want her to stop giving up.”

  “I can’t even imagine what that’s like. To come home to the same parents every day.”

  “There’s no one who can make you angrier, but you also can’t really love anyone more. I know that doesn’t make sense, but it’s true. She disappoints me every day she just sits there. But I know she would do anything for me, if she had to.”

  It’s strange to say this out loud. It’s not something I’d ever say to my mother, or even think in her presence. But maybe I should. I don’t know.

  Even though I’m afraid of the answer, I ask A if she’s always been around here, or if she jumps to bodies in much farther places. In other words, I want to know if one day she’ll be too far away to see, if she could wake up on the other side of the world.

  “It doesn’t work like that,” she tells me. “I honestly don’t know why it works the way it does, but I know that I never wake up that far from where I was yesterday. It’s like there’s a method to it—but I couldn’t tell you what it is. Once I tried to chart it out—the distances between bodies. I tried to see if it made mathematical sense. But it was mathematical gibberish. Random, but in a limited way.”

  “So you won’t leave?” I ask.

  “Not by waking up. But if the body I’m in goes somewhere else—I go with it. That becomes my new starting point. That’s how I got here, to Maryland. This one girl had a field trip to DC, and the group she was in was cheap, so they stayed outside the city. The next morning, I didn’t wake up back in Minnesota. I was still in Bethesda.”

  “Well, don’t take any field trips soon, okay?” I make it sound like a joke, but I mean it.

  “No field trips,” she agrees. Then she asks me about my own travels, and I tell her all about how I haven’t really been anywhere since we settled down in Maryland. Even DC is a stretch. My parents like to stay put.

  She asks me where I want to go. I tell her Paris. Which is such a silly answer, because I feel like it would be any girl’s answer.

  “I’ve always wanted to go there, too,” A says. “And London.”

  “And Greece!”

  “And Amsterdam.”

  “Yes, Amsterdam.”

  We walk round and round the forest, planning to travel the world. We walk past tree after tree and all the years we’ve lived seem to be there to be reached for. We return to the car and take more chips, more olives. Then we walk a little farther, talk a little further. I can’t believe how many stories there are—but they keep appearing because our stories are talking to each other; one of mine leading to one of A’s, then one of A’s leading to one of mine.

  I never talk like this, I think. And then I realize this is very close to what A was saying before. You’re the first person I’ve ever told.

  Yes, A is the first person I’ve ever told most of these stories to. Because A is the first person who has listened and heard and wanted to know.

  Which might not be fair to Justin. Because how much have I actually tried to tell these things to Justin?

  Only on the beach. Only that day.

  Thinking of Justin makes me think of the stupid dinner plans we’ve made. I look at my phone and find that hours have passed. It’s five-fifteen.

  There isn’t even time to cancel.

  “We better get going,” I tell A. “Justin will be waiting for us.”

  Neither of us wants to do this now. We want to stay here, keep this.

  I feel like I’ve made a mistake.

  I feel like what we’re about to do is a big mistake.

  Chapter Thirteen

  She tries to talk to me on the car ride over, and I try to talk to her, but I think we’re both lost in what we’re about to do. It’s awful that we’re going to trick him like this. And it’s even more awful that I’m dying to know what he’ll do.

  I’ve gotten used to how Ashley looks, so it throws me to see the reaction when we hit the Clam Casino. The greeter is Chrissy B, this guy I went to high school with. He graduated last year, wanting to do musical theater. The closest he’s come so far is when someone orders the Happy Clamday to You special, and he and the other staff members have to sing the “Happy Clamday” song while someone blows out a candle that’s sitting on a half shell. It’s a pretty scary place, but the food is good.

  Chrissy B takes one look at Ashley and it’s like he’s projecting all of his runways onto her. I’ve never seen him snap to attention so fast, or handle the menus so self-consciously. It’s like I’m not even there, not until I say hi and ask him if Justin’s already around. Chrissy B seems annoyed to have to answer me. But he tells me no, and I say we’ll wait. Justin doesn’t like it when I sit down before he does—I think because then we’re committing to staying, and sometimes he changes his mind.

  As we wait for him, I can sense other people looking at Ashley. If A notices, she keeps her cool. I don’t like it. Some of the guys are looking so openly, so hungrily—what right do they have to do that? Some of the women are admiring, and others are resentful. Whatever their feelings, they have a reaction. If I were Ashley, I would feel like a bug trapped in a jar.

  Justin walks in about ten minutes after we do, which is only five minutes late.

  He sees me first, and starts to head over. Then he sees Ashley and stops for a second. He’s not immediately predatory, like the other guys. He’s floored. Completely floored.

  “Hi,” I say. It’s awkward because usually I’d kiss him hello. But I don’t want to do that in front of A. “Ashley,” I say, “this is Justin. Justin, this is Ashley.”

  Ashley puts out her hand to shake—it’s a very not-Ashley gesture, and I almost laugh from nervousness. Justin shakes. He’s looking at her whole body when he does.

  “Let me get you a table!” Chrissy B chirps, as if his stage time in this amateur production has finally come.

  As we walk over, more people look. If they’re thinking there’s a couple here, it’s Ashley and Justin. I’m the third wheel.

  I don’t know what to say or do. I have no idea how to explain Ashley to Justin. And now that we’re here, I don’t want them to get along. I don’t want him to fall for her. I don’t want him to look at her in a way he’d never look at me. I don’t want to be humiliated like that.

  “So,” Justin says once Chrissy B has fanned out the menus and left us to our choices. “How do you two know each other?”

  I can’t think of a single thing but the truth, which isn’t nearly good enough.

  But A doesn’t hesitate. “Oh, it’s a funny story!” she says, and it’s like her voice already believes it’s a funny story, and is sure we’ll agree in about ten seconds. “My mom and her mom were best friends in high school. Then we moved away when I was eight. Mom couldn’t stand the cold, so we went to LA. My dad got a job working on movie sets, and Mom became a librarian at the downtown library. I didn’t think I’d get into the LA thing, but I totally did. When I was ten, I told my mom I wanted to do commercials—not that I wanted to be an actress, but that I wanted to do commercials! And from there I’ve done some bit parts and auditioned for a lot of TV shows. Nothing yet, but I’ve come close. And every few years, Mom and I make a trip back here, to see some family and old friends. Rhiannon and I see each other every couple of years—but it’s been a while this time, hasn’t it? Like, three or four years?”<
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  “Yeah,” I say, because I sense I’m supposed to say something here. “I think it’s three.”

  A is really getting into it. And she’s also really getting into Justin. I can see her leg brushing up against his. He doesn’t move into it, but he doesn’t move away.

  This isn’t happening, I tell myself.

  I knew I couldn’t compete with Ashley. So what did I do? I put myself in a competition.

  I have no one to blame but myself.

  “So have you been on any shows I would’ve seen?” Justin asks.

  She starts to tell him about being a corpse on a medical investigation show, and being in a party scene on a “reality” show. And the stupid thing is—I’m believing it. I’m actually imagining her on that coroner’s slab, or joking with a D-list celebrity over a keg.

  “But LA’s such a fake place,” Ashley confesses when she’s through with her résumé. “That’s why I’m glad I have real friends like Rhiannon.”

  She gives my hand a little squeeze. I find that reassuring.

  Our dinner arrives, and Ashley starts to talk about guys, including this one time she “shared a moment” with Jake Gyllenhaal at some château. As she’s talking about this encounter, she keeps touching Justin’s hand. I do not find that reassuring.

  Luckily, Justin pulls away to get back to his lobster roll. I ask Ashley how her parents are doing. She answers flawlessly. Justin isn’t so interested in parents, which is good.

  But then the food is done, and Justin’s hands are free, and Ashley goes full throttle again. Defensively, I reach for Justin’s hand myself. It feels like lobster roll. He doesn’t shake me off, but it’s clear he doesn’t understand why I’m holding it, either. I try to move my leg against his, but I’m at the wrong angle. It looks like I’m trying to get a napkin from under the table.

  “How’s everything going?” Chrissy B comes over to ask, his eyes full of Ashley.

  “Wonnnnnderful!” she purrs.

  Who are you? I think.

  Chrissy B bounces away, happy.