Another Day (18 page)

He takes a pink packet from the heart and throws it playfully at me.

“Not everything is a symbol!” he shouts.

I am not going to let myself sit undefended. I pull a chopstick from the heart and use it like a sword. He takes up my challenge, and raises another chopstick in the same way. He lunges. I parry. We are happy fools.

The waiter comes over with some plates. A turns his head and I pierce his chest.

“I die!” A calls out.

“Who has the moo shu chicken?” the waiter asks.

“That’s his,” I say. “And the answer is, yes, we’re always like this.”

After the waiter leaves, A asks me, “Is that true? Are we always like this?”

“Well, it’s a little too early for always,” I answer. Not to ruin the moment. Just to make sure we’re not carried away by it.

“But it’s a good sign,” he says.

“Always,” I tell him.

I forget about the rest of my life. I don’t even have to push it away—I’ve forgotten about it. It’s no longer there. There is only now, there is only me and A and everything that we’re sharing. It doesn’t feel like amnesia as much as it feels like a sudden absence of noise.

At the end of the meal, we get our fortunes. Mine says:

YOU HAVE A NICE SMILE.

“This isn’t a fortune,” I say, showing it to A.

“No.
You will have a nice smile
—that would be a fortune,” he tells me.

Exactly. A fortune has to tell you what’s going to happen, not what already is.

And, really, who doesn’t have a nice smile?

“I’m going to send it back,” I say.

A looks amused. “Do you often send back fortune cookies?”

“No. This is the first time. I mean, this is a Chinese restaurant—”

“Malpractice.”

“Exactly.”

I wave for the waiter, who comes immediately.

“My fortune isn’t really a fortune, it’s just a statement,” I tell him. “And it’s a pretty superficial statement at that.”

The waiter nods and returns with a handful of cookies, each individually wrapped.

“I only need one,” I tell him. More than one would be cheating. “Wait one second.”

I open a second cookie—and am relieved by what I find inside.

ADVENTURE IS AROUND THE CORNER.

“Well done, sir,” A says to the waiter once I show it to them both.

“Your turn,” I say. A carefully opens his cookie, and practically beams when he reads what the fortune says.

“What?” I ask.

He holds it out to me.

ADVENTURE IS AROUND THE CORNER.

I am not a superstitious person. But I’m excited to get to that corner. Wherever it may be.

I know we don’t have much time left. I know that A and I are only borrowing this time from someone else, not receiving it entirely for ourselves. But I want to borrow it for as long as I can. I want him to keep talking to me. I want to keep listening to him.

Back in the library, I ask him to tell me more books to read. Because I know the answer to this question will get me to know him even more.

He shows me the book he was reading before. It’s called
Feed.

“It’s about the difference between technological connection and human connection. It’s about how we can have so much information that we forget who we are, or at least who we’re supposed to be.” He takes me farther down the shelves, to the very end of the YA section, and holds up
The Book Thief.
“Have you read this?” I shake my head, and he continues. “It’s a Holocaust novel, and it’s narrated by death itself. Death is separate from everything, but he can’t help feeling like he’s a part of it all. And when he starts seeing the story of this little girl with a very hard life, he can’t look away. He has to know what will happen.” He pulls me back to an earlier shelf. “And on a lighter note, there’s this book,
Destroy All Cars.
It’s about how caring about something deeply can also make you hate the world, because the world can be really, really disappointing. But don’t worry—it’s also funny, too. Because that’s how you get through all the disappointments, right? You have to find it all funny.”

I agree. And I’d talk to him more about that, but he doesn’t want to stop. I’ve asked him the right question, and he wants to answer it fully. He shows me a book called
First Day on Earth.
“I know this will sound weird, but it’s about a boy in a support group for people who feel they were abducted by aliens. And he meets this other guy who may or may not be an alien. But it’s really about what it means to be human. And I read it a lot, whenever I find it in a library. Partly because I find new things every time I read it, but also because these books are always there for me. All of them are there for me. My life changes all the time, but books don’t change. My reading of them changes—I can bring new things to them each time. But the words are familiar words. The world is a place you’ve been before, and it welcomes you back.”

He shakes his head. “I’ve never said that to anyone, you know. I’ve never even said it to myself. But there it is. The truth.”

I want to take out all the books, want to start sharing those worlds with him. Then I remember: This isn’t my library. This isn’t my town.

“What about you?” A asks. “What do you think I should read next?”

I know I should show him something really smart and sophisticated, but I know he’s asking me the question in the same way I asked him—to see me in the answers, to know more about me after the answers than he did before them. So instead of pretending that
Jane Eyre
is the story of my life, or that
Johnny Tremain
changed me completely when I read it, I lead him over to the kids’ section. I’m looking for
Harold and the Purple Crayon,
because when I was a kid, that appealed to me so much—the power to draw your own world, and to draw it in purple. I see it on display at the front of the section and go to get it.

As I lean over to pick it up, A surprises me by calling out, “No! Not that one!”

“What could you possibly have against
Harold and the Purple Crayon
?” I ask. As far as I’m concerned, this is a dealbreaker.

A looks relieved. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I thought you were heading for
The Giving Tree.
”

Who does he think I am? “I absolutely HATE
The Giving Tree,
” I tell him.

“Thank goodness. That would’ve been the end of us, had that been your favorite book.”

I would say the same if he’d chosen it. The tree in that book needs to stand up for herself. And the boy needs to be slapped.

“Here—take my arms! Take my legs!” I imitate.

“Take my head! Take my shoulders!”

“Because that’s what love’s about!” Really, I can’t believe parents read the book to children. What an awful message to send.

“That kid is, like, the jerk of the century,” A says.

“The biggest jerk in the history of all literature.” It’s nice to be agreeing on this point.

I put
Harold
down and move closer to him. I’m not going to need a purple crayon for what’s coming next.

“Love means never having to lose your limbs,” A tells me, leaning in.

“Exactly,” I say, kissing him.

No sacrifice. No pain. No requests.

Love. Just love.

I am lost in it. Enjoyably lost in it. At least until someone yells, “What do you
think
you’re
doing
?”

For a split second, I assume we’ve been caught by the librarian and are going to be fined. But the woman who’s yelling at me isn’t the librarian, or anyone else I’ve seen before. She’s an angry, middle-aged woman spitting out words. Getting all in my face, she says, “I don’t know who your parents are, but I did not raise
my
son to hang out with
whores.
”

I’m stunned. I haven’t done anything to deserve
that.

“Mom!” A shouts. “Leave her alone.”

Mom.
For a second, I think,
This is A’s mother.
Then I realize, no, it isn’t A’s mother. A doesn’t have a mother, not in the same sense that I have a mother. No, this must be the mother of the boy whose body he’s in. The one who homeschools him. The one who let him out to go to the library, and has found this.

“Get in the car, George,” she orders. “Right this minute.”

I am expecting A to give in. I will not blame him for giving in, even though I am feeling really attacked. But instead of giving in, A looks George’s mother in the eye and says, “Just. Calm. Down.”

Now it’s George’s mother who’s stunned. This innocent redheaded boy has probably never spoken to his mom like this before, although I have to imagine there have been plenty of times when she’s deserved it.

While George’s mother is thrown for a moment, A tells me we’ll find a way and he’ll talk to me later.

“You most certainly will not!” George’s mother proclaims.

I kiss him again. A kiss that’s
hello
and
goodbye
and
good luck
and
I’ve had a great time
all at once. I know these things are in there because I am putting them in there. Usually there are also questions in a kiss.
Do you love me? Is this working?
But this kiss is questionless.

“Don’t worry,” I whisper when the kiss is done. “We’ll figure out a way to be together. The weekend is coming up.”

I can’t say anything more than that, because George’s mother has grabbed his ear and has begun to pull. She looks at me again, trying to cut me down with her judgment—
whore whore whore
—but I don’t give up any ground. A laughs at how silly it is to be dragged away by his ear. This only makes her tug harder.

When they get outside, I wave. He can’t see me waving, but he waves back anyway.

It’s not even three o’clock. I check my phone and find a text from Justin asking me where I am, and then another saying he’s looked everywhere. I text back and tell him I wasn’t feeling well, and left school early. I know he won’t offer to bring me soup or check up on me, unless he wants to see if I’m lying.

So I turn off my phone. I disconnect.

If anyone asks, I’ll tell them I was sleeping.

And I’ll wait for A to wake me again.

I spend Friday morning thinking about the weekend. This is not unusual—most people spend Friday thinking about the weekend. But most aren’t trying to find a place to meet someone like A.

I come up with a plan. My uncle has a hunting cabin he never uses—and right now he’s in California for work. My parents have a spare key they will never in a million years know is missing. All I need is an alibi. Or a few alibis.

I get an email from A saying he’s a girl named Surita today, and not that far away. I’m ready to drop school entirely—it’s Friday, after all—but A insists on meeting after school. I get it—there’s no real reason to screw over Surita. But maybe A is a little nicer about that than I would be.

Justin’s still annoyed with me. “Feeling better, I see,” he says when we meet at his locker before class.

“Yeah. It must’ve been a twenty-four-hour thing.”

He scoffs and I get defensive.

“Sorry I didn’t text you a photo of my puke,” I tell him.

“I didn’t say a thing,” he replies, slamming his locker.

I’m not being fair. I’m getting mad at him, when I’m the liar.

Then I add another lie.

“I’m glad I’m better, since we’re going to see my grandmother this weekend. And I wouldn’t want to make her sick.”

As soon as I say this, I remember Justin’s own grandmother, who’s actually sick.

“When are you leaving?” he asks.

“Tomorrow,” I say. Then I realize what I’ve done, and add, “But I promised Rebecca I’d go over to her place tonight.”

“Whatever,” Justin mumbles. Then he walks away without saying goodbye, which is about what I deserve.

The reason I’ve mentioned Rebecca is because that’s what I’m going to tell my parents—that I’m spending the weekend with her. They like Rebecca, so they won’t mind. But I realize now I will have to at least spend tonight with her, since I’ve told Justin that’s what I’m doing.

When I see her in art class, I ask her if she has plans. I pray that she doesn’t.

“Nope,” she tells me. “Any ideas?”

“How about a sleepover?” I suggest.

Rebecca looks so excited. “You’re on! It’s been a while since we had a
Mean Girls
/
Heathers
double feature.”

“Or
Breakfast Club
and
Pretty in Pink.
”

These were our go-to movies, back when we were sleepover age. It makes me happy that Rebecca remembers, since it’s been a long time. Or at least it feels like a long time. That’s my pre-Justin life. Another lifetime ago.

“I have to do a few things after school,” I tell her. “With my mom. But how ’bout I come over around six?”

“Will you bring the cookie dough?” she asks.

“As long as you have the ice cream.”

It feels so good to be talking like this that I almost forget all the lies that surround it. I almost forget all the things I’m not telling her.

I meet A back at the bookstore. Today he’s this somewhat pudgy Indian girl. And I feel awful for thinking that right away, for noticing that first. It’s A. I am spending time with A. Focus on the driver, not the car.

As we decide to go for a walk in the park, I stare hard at Surita and imagine her as a boy. It’s not that hard. If you stare at anyone’s face long enough, it’s easy enough to imagine them as the other gender. Then I stop myself and wonder why I’m doing this. It’s not like I would stare at her and imagine her white. That would be messed up. But I still want to see her as a boy, to think of A as a boy inside.

Part of the problem is words. The fact that there are separate words for
he
and
she,
him
and
her.
I’ve never thought about it before, how divisive this is. Like maybe if there was just one pronoun for all of us, we wouldn’t get so caught on that difference.

Part of me wants to ask A about this, to ask,
Are you a he or a she?
But I know the answer is that A is both and neither, and it’s not A’s fault that our language can’t deal with that.

I’m sure A must notice. The fact that I’m not holding Surita’s hand. The fact that there’s not the same charge in the air as there was when A was in a guy’s body. I want to undo this. I understand it’s the wrong way to feel. But it doesn’t feel like a knot I can actually untie.

A explains that Surita lives with her grandmother, and that her grandmother doesn’t really pay attention, so she can be out as late as she wants. Which means I’m the one with the time limit today. I tell A about this, but then I also tell A I have a plan for the weekend, and that I know a place we can go. I don’t tell A what it is, or where it is. I want there to be some surprise.

We get to the jungle gym, and since there aren’t any kids around, we allow ourselves to become kids ourselves, climbing and swinging and laughing. A asks me who I hung around with in third grade, so I tell stories about me and Rebecca, me and my crush on this boy Peter, me and Mrs. Shedlowe, the lunch supervisor who would listen patiently to any problem I wanted to share. I know I can’t ask A the same question, so I ask instead for things A remembers from being younger. And A tells me about a Valentine’s Day his (her) mother took him (her) to the zoo, a birthday party where he (she) saved the day by finding a dog that had gone missing, and a Little League game where he (she) hit a home run, because somehow the body knew when to move, even if A didn’t.

“Small victories,” A jokes.

“But you made it through,” I say. “That’s the big victory.”

“And this,” A says, pulling closer, “must be the reward.”

I know I should touch this girl’s arm. I know I should draw him (her) close and find a way to nest inside the jungle gym. But instead I say, “Look—the slide!” and jump over to it, beckoning A to follow.

If A notices, A doesn’t say anything. And even if we don’t end up physically nesting in the space that’s entirely ours, it still feels comfortable. It still feels like time is comfortable.

I’m good. Except for one moment, when I imagine Justin at home, playing video games. Sensing something wrong. Mad about it. But having no real idea how far I’ve strayed.

Then I think about what A would be doing if A weren’t here with me. Lost in someone else’s life. Erasing himself in order to be her.

After we slide, I suggest we swing. Instead of splitting into a push and a rise, we sit down on swings that are next to each other, and pump our legs to get moving in the air. At one point we’re exactly even. A reaches out her hand, and I take it. We swing like that, perfectly even, for about twenty seconds. Then we start to pull apart, the difference in our weight, or in our strength, or in the angle of our bodies—something about our bodies—preventing us from continuing like that forever.

Back in the bookstore, I make A lead me back to
Feed,
to
The Book Thief,
to
Destroy All Cars
and
First Day on Earth.
I buy them all.

“You’re so lucky,” A says.

“Because they’re good books?” I ask.

“No. Because once you have them, they’ll always be there. You don’t have to keep looking for them.”

I’m about to offer to lend them to her, but of course I can’t.

“But enough of that!” A says. “Who needs worldly possessions when you can have the world instead?”

The voice A is using is cheery. Maybe A actually believes this. Maybe I’m wrong to want things, and to want to have things. Or maybe A just gave me a glimpse of something he (she) didn’t want me to see.

There’s not enough time to explore this. I have to get over to Rebecca’s. But A and I will have tomorrow. I remind myself we’ll have tomorrow.

It’s a hopeful farewell. It’s only when I’m back in my car that I realize I could have kissed her when we said goodbye.

It didn’t even occur to me.

That night, Rebecca can tell I’m thinking about something other than Lindsay Lohan and Tina Fey. She pauses the movie.

“Is something going on with you and Justin?” she asks. “Is that where your mind is right now?”

I’m immediately defensive—too defensive. “Why do you think there’s something going on with me and Justin? There’s nothing going on with me and Justin.”

With this last sentence, I realize I’ve accidentally told her the truth. But she doesn’t pick up on it.

“It’s just—I mean, it’s nice to have you back here. This is the first time we’ve done this since, well, the two of you got together. I wasn’t sure we’d ever do this again.”

Clarity. I’ve hurt her. I haven’t even noticed, and I’ve hurt her over these past months. She’s not going to tell me that, but it’s there. I see it now.

“I’m sorry,” I say, even though she hasn’t asked me for it—or maybe because she hasn’t asked me for it. “Things with him are fine. Really. But I also want to have more than Justin, you know? Like my best friends.”

Best friends.
It’s like a gift I’ve been given and don’t deserve. But here I am, pointing out that I still have it, that I haven’t returned it for something else.

“Do you want more ice cream?” Rebecca asks, picking up her bowl. “Because I want more ice cream.”

“Sure,” I say. Not because I want any, but because I know she wants to have more and doesn’t want to have more alone.

As I sit there in the rec room I’ve known for most of my life, as I see photos of Rebecca and her family at all different ages, I realize this is one thing about us: Rebecca has to see me as more than just a body, because the body she’s known has changed so much over the years. That must help a person see inside.

She comes back and unpauses the movie. Our double feature takes us well past midnight, for all the breaks we take for food and random things like seeing whatever happened to the guy who played Aaron and if he’s still cute. (He is.) The only awkward moment comes when Rebecca asks me what I’m doing for the weekend. I know this is when I should recruit her to be my alibi, when I should warn her that my parents might call. But I use the grandmother excuse again. She tells me to say hello, and I promise I will.

I go to sleep wondering what I’m doing and wake up wondering what I’m doing, knowing for sure that whatever it is, I’m going to do it anyway.