The Double Life of Danny Day

by Mike Thayer

  Dr. Donaldson had once described my situation as only ever living life on either end of the pendulum swing. I was either brazenly jumping off garage roofs on a discard day or cowering from bullies with my tail between my legs on a sticky day. My life may average out in the middle, but I’d never spent a single day there. He wondered what effect it would have on someone in the long run. Back when he’d made the comment, I couldn’t have cared less. But now, sitting alone on a bus with my head in my hands, I thought I was beginning to understand the answer.

  CHAPTER 13

  PHONE CALL

  (Discard Wednesday—Sept. 8th)

  “Daniel Douglas Day, I have never been so disappointed in you in my entire life.” My mom stood, arms folded, in my bedroom doorway.

  “Uhhh, that’s not actually true,” I said from my bed, holding up a finger and remembering the discard day that I borrowed the minivan and took it off a few jumps at a nearby BMX track.

  “What has gotten into you?” My mom shook her head, spreading her hands in disbelief. “I would like my old son back, please.”

  “He’ll be here before you know it,” I mumbled.

  “Yeah, well, so will your father, after he gets back from the chiropractor. I can promise you one thing, Danny. He will not be in the mood for … for … this.” She made an exasperated gesture in my general direction.

  “Chiropractor?” I asked. “What happened to Dad?”

  “He fell asleep at the kitchen table working late. Can hardly even move his neck. Your behavior at school is the last thing he needs right now.”

  My dad. Dang it. I had remembered to hide the shoe polish from the twins yesterday morning, but I’d completely failed to go downstairs and wake him up last night. I’d been so amped up and distracted with checking over my emergency box and prepping for the prank day that it must have slipped my mind.

  “You act like you don’t even care, Danny,” my mom continued, apparently not done with my scolding. “What if the boy had had a reaction? What if he’d stopped breathing?”

  I rolled my eyes. “I didn’t slip him rat poison, Mom. It was hot sauce.”

  “It doesn’t matter what it was—”

  “So you’d get mad if I dumped a sugar packet on his Tater Tots?” I interjected.

  “Well—I mean—it does matter what it was,” my mom spluttered. “I just don’t know why you decided to put anything at all on this kid’s food. It just doesn’t seem like something you’d do.”

  A lifetime of raising Sticky Danny had set my mom up to be completely blindsided by Discard Danny. However angry she got, she always left moments like these more confused than anything, which worked in my favor. I could handle confused, but I didn’t like seeing my mom upset or disappointed. It was tolerable on a discard day, but I still didn’t like it. I’d been in this spot before, however. Any moment now she’d just throw her hands up and leave.

  “Danny—” My mom’s voice cracked, and she pressed her lips together hard. “I guess I thought you were okay with the move. You never complained, so I never asked. Do you think it would help if you, I don’t know … spoke with Dr. Donaldson?”

  I opened my mouth for some kind of smart-alecky comeback, but the words fizzled out in my throat. This prank wasn’t nearly as bad as some I’d pulled in the past, but I couldn’t remember the last time my mom had suggested I speak with Dr. Donaldson. Something was different for her, and I didn’t know what it was, and that made me uneasy.

  It wasn’t until I was about four years old that my parents began to worry that something was wrong. I was always talking about stuff that had never happened, conversations we’d never had. They first wrote it off as an overactive imagination, but it was harder to deny when I began talking about things before they happened: some bit of news I’d overheard on the TV, unexpected weather, sports outcomes, things like that. After a tour of doctors, neurologists, psychiatrists, and even a psychic, we stumbled on Dr. Donaldson. He was the first person who really listened to what I was trying to say, and he was unconventional enough to not dismiss it. Over the years, my parents were apparently content with the progress, and I saw him less and less. They rarely spoke about how things used to be. Even on discard days I struggled to tease much information out of them.

  “Just think about it,” my mom said, her voice noticeably softer, her face shifting from angry to concerned. She heaved a deep sigh and shut the door. I heard her muffled footsteps go down the stairs.

  I stared at the door in silence before pulling out my phone. It wasn’t that I was afraid to call Dr. Donaldson, or even that I thought it was a bad idea. In fact, if I talked to Dr. Donaldson, I was sure to get useful advice, but that advice wouldn’t come without a cost. I didn’t want to dial his number, because it would be admitting that my mom was right and that I needed an extra session with a therapist. You don’t go to a doctor unless you’re sick, and however much I missed my chats with Dr. Donaldson, the feeling that I was mentally well enough to not need them was something I didn’t want to easily give up.

  I tried to distract myself by pulling out my discard-day notes, but there wasn’t much there, never was on a prank day. I went through the rest of my discard-day evening routine of stockpiling a few sports scores and news stories. Curious, I checked out Dud Spuds and Stud Spuds, but they were predictably without an update since lunchtime. I should have claimed it as a small victory, but nothing felt right at the moment. I even tried a few games of Champions Royale, but it did little to ease the nagging feeling in my gut.

  “This thing’s not gonna go away now, is it?” I mumbled to myself. If this feeling was only getting worse, then maybe I wasn’t well. Maybe I did need help. I checked the time. It was close to 7:00 p.m. I swiped over to my contacts and scrolled down to Dr. Donaldson’s number. I stared at the name. What did I have to lose anyway? It was a discard day after all. No one would know but me. I pressed the button for video chat, and after five rings Dr. Donaldson answered.

  “Howdy, Danny.” The image on the phone was poorly lit and mostly showed the bottom of Dr. Donaldson’s hipster beard. It was like he had placed the phone on the floor or table. He stared intently somewhere off-screen as he spoke. “One moment, please.”

  I watched as his eyes darted from side to side, his tongue sticking out in intense concentration. I’d seen this look before, not on him, but something about it seemed familiar.

  “Wait a second,” I said, realization dawning. “Are you … playing video games?”

  “Not very well, I’m afraid.” The doctor winced and then let out a disappointed sigh. “Darn this infernal game. That’s three bad drops in a row.”

  “What alternate dimension did I just dial into?” I said, scratching my head.

  I could see Dr. Donaldson put down a black Xbox controller before reaching for his phone. “Sorry about that. Doing a bit of research is all. Can’t tell you how many kids I see about addictions to this kind of stuff. Thought I’d get a firsthand account. How can I be of service this lovely discard-day evening?”

  “Very admirable of you, Doctor,” I said. While I was surprised to see him playing video games, it was just the kind of unexpected coolness I’d come to expect from the man over the years. “So, I’m just calling to—wait. What makes you so sure it’s a discard day?”

  He stood and walked over to turn the light on before returning to his chair. “Well, Sticky Danny is typically a bit more self-conscious about calling me at home at eight p.m. Houston time.”

  “Oh,” I said, realizing immediately that he was right. “Sorry about that.”

  “Bah, you know I’m always free for a chat, Danny, especially when I end up repeating today and getting my evening back anyway. I don’t make a habit of giving my personal number to clients, but you know I make exceptions for those who regularly bend the space-time continuum. So what’s up?” Dr. Donaldson settled into his chair as he always did before we got into the serious stuff.

  I explained everything that had happened since co
ming to Pocatello: every run-in with Jaxson, Braxlynn, and Noah, my interactions with Freddie, my most recent conversation with my mom, and most important, Zak’s answer to my question about how he’d use the double day. “I’m doing all the same stuff I always do. I’m still having fun on the discard days and staying disciplined and out of trouble on the sticky days, but it just feels, I don’t know … empty.”

  Dr. Donaldson steepled his fingers and tapped them against his lips. “Danny, do you wish that something would come along and cause harm to your sisters?”

  “Uh, no,” I said, having been through Dr. Donaldson’s lines of questioning enough times to know they were never what they seemed. “A whole section in my daily notes is dedicated solely to twins damage control.”

  Dr. Donaldson nodded. “Yes, that makes sense. You love your sisters dearly. We wouldn’t wish failure, loss, heartache, or disappointment on anyone we love, but what kind of girls and women would they grow up to be if you removed every harmful thing from their lives? If they were never confronted with anything unpleasant? If they never had to struggle to overcome an obstacle?”

  “Trust me,” I said. “Trouble follows them like a shadow. I only take the edge off.”

  “And what about you? You’re in a tough spot, Danny. You’d be crazy to know something bad is coming and not avoid it, but in doing so, how many of those challenges, uncomfortable situations, and hardships have you missed out on? How many opportunities for growth have you self-selected out of your life and have passed you by?”

  “With all due respect”—I held up a hand—“I’m pretty sure I’ve lived through more broken bones, ER visits, and trips to detention than any ten kids combined.”

  “But what causes growth, Danny?” Dr. Donaldson replied. “Experiencing the moment of hardship or wrestling with the consequences that come after? Consequences that you often don’t have to contend with.”

  “So I shouldn’t avoid bad stuff on a sticky day? Gonna be kind of hard when I know that the school corn dogs cause food poisoning to just muscle one down on a sticky day and take one for the team.”

  “I do miss our talks.” Dr. Donaldson gave a slight chuckle. “I’m not saying you should eat a rancid corn dog, but I do think a bit more balance in your life would help you work through your current funk. I’m all the way out in Texas, Danny. You could call me every day for a year, and it would still be hard for me to understand exactly what you’re going through up there. I’d never be able to appreciate the nuances of your school’s social scene, your specific challenges, the potato-centric culture.”

  “So what do you suggest? I get a doctor up here?”

  “No.” Dr. Donaldson shook his head and leaned closer to the screen. “I think it’s time you found someone you could trust, that speaks your language. Someone to help you balance your two worlds and work through things. I think it’s time to tell a friend about the double day.”

  I inhaled sharply. “I just don’t know, Doc.” However much a part of me always wanted to do it, I could simply never picture myself taking that leap of faith.

  “Look.” Dr. Donaldson stroked his long beard. “Maybe I’ve been giving you the wrong advice this whole time.”

  I furrowed my eyebrows. “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve been telling you that being the one-eyed man in the land of the blind isn’t enough, that to get a better perspective on the double day and on life you need to ‘open your other eye,’ but maybe that’s not the best way.”

  “No?” I said, not sure where he was going.

  “Maybe instead of opening your other eye, you need to help one of the ‘blind’ open theirs and have them tell you what they see.” He paused. Even though I was 1,500 miles away, I knew he could read my reluctance like I was sitting in his office with my emotions written on my forehead in black ink. “Danny, if you want change in your life, then you’ve got to want to change your life. That’s as plainly as I can put it.”

  I twisted my mouth. I didn’t know whether it was the move, or Zak, or the bullies, or all of it combined, but this emptiness inside me was different from anything I’d ever felt, and I wanted it gone. If I want change, I have to want to change. I repeated the phrase a few times in my head.

  However much the prospect of telling someone about the double day terrified me, I knew deep down that it was the right answer, and I knew who it needed to be. It was finally time to share my secret.

  CHAPTER 14

  CONFESSION

  (Discard Thursday—Sept. 9th)

  The next discard day I boarded the bus and saw Zak sitting toward the back, Bluetooth earbuds in, bobbing his head.

  Even though it wasn’t a sticky day, I still had a knot in my stomach. These were uncharted waters. I had never managed to convince someone of the double day without having them first think I was crazy. If I told Zak on a sticky day and he told anybody, I’d have a permanent spot on the Dud Spuds hall of fame, if there was such a thing. This wasn’t like telling Dr. Donaldson. He was paid to listen and not judge me. He was also required by law to not tell anyone.

  I took a deep breath and sat next to Zak. I needed to be confident I could pull this off perfectly before I tried anything on a sticky day, which meant I’d be spending a whole bunch of discard days working out all the kinks. I wasn’t expecting much from my first attempt other than getting the lay of the land.

  “Hey, man, what’re you listening to?” I asked Zak.

  He plucked out one of his earbuds and offered it to me. “Vivaldi.”

  “Vi-who now?” I said putting the earbud in. A chorus of violins played some piece of classical music I’d never heard. Or maybe I had. They all sounded the same to me.

  “Vivaldi. It’s from his third opus. L’estro armonico. It’s my morning jam. Afternoons are Brahms.”

  I motioned for his phone so he would show me all the info. I pulled out my notebook and wrote it down.

  “So you like it?” Zak asked, his face a mix of hope and surprise.

  I gave Zak a flat stare. “No.”

  “Oh.” Zak’s expression slumped. “So why did you write it down?”

  I looked around and leaned in close, keeping my voice low. “For another one of my mind-reading tricks.”

  “I’m not sure I follow.”

  “Look, I will tell you my secret, but you gotta promise not to tell a soul. Deal?”

  Zak shrugged. “Sure.”

  “This is going to sound kind of weird,” I said, leaning in even closer, “but I need you to know that I’m completely serious when I tell you this.”

  “Okay, okay.” Zak laughed. “I get it. I’m ready.”

  “I am able to do those mind-reading tricks because I actually live every day twice.” I paused. If today was all about getting a baseline to see what I was dealing with, then from Zak’s reaction, that baseline was one of profound confusion.

  Zak cocked his head to the side, as if not hearing me correctly. “Uh … what?”

  “I told you it was going to sound weird.” I leaned back and put my hands up. “I will explain as simply as I can. I live every day of my life twice. Once where I can kind of do what I want, including learn what people are going to say, and then the day resets itself and I get another crack. That’s why I know what people are going to say or write down.”

  Zak stared at me, blinking, his eyes presumably searching for any signs that I was joking. “So what am I going to say next?”

  “It’s the first time I’ve lived this day, so I don’t actually know.”

  Zak pressed his lips in a flat smile. “Not your most impressive trick.”

  Attempt 2: (Discard Friday—Sept. 10th)

  “Hey, man, what’re you listening to? Wait.” I held up a finger, closed my eyes, brought my other hand to my forehead. “Let me guess. Vivaldi. Third opus. L’estro armonico. Am I close?”

  For a moment Zak looked like he had stopped breathing. He glanced over his shoulders two times each before returning to meet my eyes. “The mi
nd reader is back at it, huh? So did you see it on my phone, or are my earbuds on too loud?”

  I pursed my lips. “Zak, this may come as a shock to you, but not every eleven-year-old kid can name every piece of classical music he hears. In fact, I think it’s pretty safe to say that no one, besides you, can name any piece of classical music. Trust me, it’s more believable that I’m reading your mind.”

  “All right, so what else you got up your sleeve?”

  “Not much for right now.” I clicked my tongue. “But I can tell you how I do these little tricks as long as you promise not to freak out.”

  “Your method is going to freak me out?”

  “No.” I waved my hands back and forth as if trying to reset the conversation. “I’m just saying that my method is a bit weird, and I want to make sure you don’t freak out.”

  “Well, now I’m getting worried that I should be freaking out.”

  Attempt 4: (Discard Tuesday—Sept. 14th)

  “All right, so what else you got up your sleeve?” Zak asked.

  “How about knowing that your full name is Zakari Kaito Ansah. Your dad was born in Ghana, Africa, and played college football for Oklahoma. Your mom was a concert violinist for the Tokyo Junior Orchestra Society when she was younger. You’re also a blue belt in judo. How’s that?”

  Zak’s expression betrayed no emotion until he spoke. “So you cyber stalk people. That’s just wrong, bro.”

  Attempt 7: (Discard Friday—Sept. 17th)

  “All right, so what else you got up your sleeve?” Zak asked.

  “Well”—this was now the fifth time I was trying to answer this question without torpedoing the conversation—“you make fun of me for playing too many video games, but I know for a fact that you play Clash of Warbands before you go to bed every night.” I had snuck over to his house the discard day before at around 10:00 p.m. to see if I could get any useful info and saw him through the window.