Another Day (Every Day 2)

—

I know that I owe A some kind of communication. Later that night, I send an email.

A,

Today was awkward, but I think that’s because it feels like a very awkward time. It isn’t about you, and it isn’t about love. It’s about everything crashing together at once. I think you know what I mean.

Let’s try again. But I don’t think it can be at school. I think that’s too much for me. Let’s meet after. Somewhere with no traces of the rest of my life. Only us.

I’m having a hard time imagining how, but I want these pieces to fit.

Love,

R

After telling so many lies to so many other people, it feels good to be honest with someone, and to know that honesty will be appreciated. If A is going to be the one true thing in my life, I have to keep it true…even as I wonder if I can make it real.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

I am ready to meet him wherever and whenever I have to. But when I finally get an email from A the next morning, it’s to tell me he’s woken up in the body of a boy whose grandfather has died. He has to go to the funeral today. There won’t be any way to meet.

I want to type back that I’m sorry for his loss. But it’s not his loss, of course. I actually feel bad for the boy whose body he’s in, because he won’t get to attend his own grandfather’s funeral. It’s not A’s fault. But it’s still not fair.

I don’t know why the fact that I won’t be seeing A sends me on a spiral, but it does. I should be used to it. I should know this is always going to be part of the plan—or the part that derails the plans. But with everything else such a mess, I was relying on it anyway. And now I’m feeling stupid for relying on it.

Going to school doesn’t make it any better. I feel a distance from everything. Maybe this is self-defense—I can still hear people talking about me, can still see them looking at me like I’m awful. But I also know that nobody here can understand what I’m going through. Nobody here is in love with someone who may or may not show up on any given day. Nobody here doesn’t know what form his or her love will take. And instead of feeling superior to them—instead of feeling smug because I have what they don’t have—I find myself envying them. I want the same stability that Stephanie and Steve have. Or Rebecca and Ben. Which isn’t stability—there are still fights and disagreements and bad days and good days—but it’s at least more stable than the great unknown I’m not-quite-dating.

I am sixteen years old, I find myself thinking. This is way too much.

The one thing I’m not doing is wishing it were a few weeks ago, and that I was still entirely Justin’s. But even that is shakable. Because when I see him for the first time since the gym, it sends me spiraling further. He’s coming out of math class, and I am just another body in the hall. What I see isn’t pretty. It’s much more sad than angry. He has always hated being here, and now he hates it even more. I’m sure, if he saw me, the hate would be shot in my direction. But since he doesn’t see me, there’s nowhere for it to go. Instead, it loops in on itself, chews on its own tail.

A week ago, I would be rushing over to comfort him. I would be trying to unknot that anger, that hate, to get him to breathe. That was what I did. That was what he needed, and what he always resented.

I turn away and move in the direction I know he won’t be going, even though it’s not the direction I need to go. It’s bad enough already. I don’t want to make it even worse.

—

The next day, A says he can see me. But it comes with a warning.

I’m not sure this guy is your type. He’s pretty huge. I just want to prepare you, because the last time you saw me, it wasn’t like this.

Type. Suddenly A is worried about my type. I don’t want him to be thinking that way. It will only make it harder for both of us. And since I really keep thinking of A as a “he” now, I almost want to tell him that at least he’s got half of my type right, if he’s a guy. But what does that even mean? How wrong am I to think that way?

Love the person inside, I remind myself. This will only work if you love the person inside.

—

The problem is—and I think about this all through school—I have a mental image of the person inside. When I picture A, I picture him as this attractive guy, shimmering like a spirit or a ghost, jumping from body to body. That is the person I am in love with. And in my mind he’s a guy, and in my mind he’s white, and in my mind he has dark hair, and in my mind he’s lean. Not buff. Not superstar beautiful. Just an ordinary attractive. I can even see him smile.

This mental picture should make it easier for me, should make A more real to me. But it only makes it harder, because I know the mental picture is about what I want, not what A is.

—

He is waiting for me outside the Clover Bookstore after school. He’s dressed up in a button-down shirt and a tie, which I appreciate. But there’s no way around it—he’s big. Really big. And that’s hard for me to deal with. Not because he’s ugly. There’s actually something sweet about him, in that tie. But he’s just so much bigger than me. I’m intimidated. And, yes, it’s really hard for me to adjust from seeing A in Vic-the-girl-who’s-a-boy’s body one day and this body the next time I see him.

“Hey,” he says when I get closer. I guess that’s our code word now. Our greeting. But it still sounds weird coming in this voice, so low.

“Yeah, hey,” I reply.