“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I say.
She makes putting a seat belt on look sexy. Jesus.
She sees me laughing and asks, “What?”
She doesn’t get it.
“What?” I repeat. Like A doesn’t realize how amazing she is today.
She holds up her hand, defending her reaction. “You have to understand—you’re the first person to ever know me in more than one body. I’m not used to this. I don’t know how you’re going to react.”
Okay. I may have forgotten that. But still.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “It’s just that you’re this super hot black girl. It makes it very hard for me to have a mental image of you. I keep having to change it.”
“Picture me however you want to picture me. Because odds are, that’ll be more true than any of the bodies you see me in.”
She makes it sound easy. It’s not easy. Especially with a pretty girl.
“I think my imagination needs a little more time to catch up to the situ
ation, okay?” I say.
She nods. Even her nod is stunning. Not fair at all. “Okay. Now, where to?”
I’ve given this some thought. And I am not going to change the plan just because of the body in my passenger seat.
“Since we’ve already been to the ocean,” I say, “I figured today we’d go to a forest.”
—
So much for not thinking about it.
As we’re driving, all I can do is think about it. About her. About A inside her body. We’re talking—I’m telling her about the phone call with Kelsea’s father and the party last night, and she’s telling me about the parade she went to yesterday, in the body of a gay boy with a boyfriend. But even as we’re talking, my mind is racing with all kinds of thoughts. And the pathetic thing is that I know if A looked like Nathan today, I wouldn’t be having any of these thoughts. It would feel normal, because I’d be out with a normal boy.
But this is so different. Too different. Even though when she looks at me, I can feel A inside, it’s not easy to separate the two. And it’s not easy to realize this is part of the lottery. Some days, A is going to be like this.
I don’t see where I could possibly fit into a life like that.
I don’t want to kiss her. I could never kiss her.
So there’s that.
—
But I can talk to her and not worry that I’m talking too much, or talking too little, or saying the wrong thing. It’s like my life is usually lived behind this veil of judgment, and A manages to pull back the veil, seeing me more truthfully than anyone else.
I tell myself to notice that. To remember it. To not get so caught up in how attractive she is that I forget everything else.
—
I take us to this national park that I know has picnic benches. I’ve planned a picnic for two—and even if Ashley looks like she eats half a meal a day, I’m hoping A will find a way to eat like the rest of us. There are a few other people in the park, but I try to avoid them. This day is meant to be ours.
My phone is off. I am here, now.
“I love this place,” A tells me.
“You’ve never been here before?” I ask.