Six Earlier Days (3 page)

But really, I’m just tired.

At lunch, I try to eat reasonably, but the body wants more.

I feed it.

Gym class is a release. I make volleyball a contact sport. Not with the other players—I don’t start body-slamming my teammates. But I feel like I am in contact with my body again, with what it can do.
I’m wasted in the classroom
, the body seems to be telling me.
I wasn’t made to be sitting down
.

Then I return to the classroom—two more periods until the end of school. I fall asleep briefly, both times.

After school I commune with my like-bodied, like-minded friends. It’s off-season, so the only sport we can play is preparation. I feel more at home here than I did alone in the basement this morning. Here the routine expands. It feels like teamwork. And teamwork can’t help but engage
the mind as well as the body.

I have been in the bodies of people who I suspect would give almost anything to have this body, to be this person. I’d be more hesitant, if I had a choice. Because over the years I have become wary of tinkering with nature in this way. A body like this is rarely natural. A body like this must be created and maintained. And when you give so much energy to the body, there ends up being very little energy for much else, at least when you are sixteen and just starting to form it. Perhaps if I could feel the satisfaction and admiration as my own, I would feel differently. Or if I needed this strength for anything other than its own display.

At dinner, Hamilton’s mother feeds him enough for the whole family. His father, whose body looks like Hamilton’s, only with a layer of time on top, talks nonstop about the game he was watching on TV last night. Hamilton’s little sister looks bored, and Hamilton’s little brother looks eager. When dinner is over, I understand why: He asks Hamilton if he can lift some weights tonight, too. Hamilton’s mother shakes her head, but his father says it’s no big deal.

“A five-pound weight never hurt anyone,” he says.

“Unless you smash someone in the skull with it,” Hamilton’s little sister chimes in.

“I don’t know, Charlie,” I say. “I really don’t know.”

“C’monnnnn,” he pleads. He can’t be older than ten.

I relent. We head to the basement and I give him the lightest weight to curl, telling him to be careful. He sticks his tongue out in concentration as he lifts it up and down, making his little biceps burp up rather than bulge.

“Your turn! Your turn!” he calls out after ten repetitions.

I’m sure this is part of what they do, and I respect the glee that Charlie feels being in his brother’s domain. I know I should do what Hamilton would do. But I’m just so tired.

“Not tonight,” I tell him.

“Why not?”

“Because,” I say, choosing my words carefully, “it’s okay to take a break. You can’t push yourself too hard.”

“Why?”

“Because you could push yourself to a place you can’t get back from.”

Charlie looks at me quizzically. “I don’t understand.”

I mess up his hair a little, playfully. “You don’t need to. All you need to know is there are all kinds of strong.”

I know he still doesn’t get it, but that’s okay. Maybe he’ll remember these words later on, and maybe he won’t.

I decide to speak his language a little better.

“Ice cream,” I say. “We definitely need ice cream.”

The body thinks it’s a waste to be lying on the couch, watching Nickelodeon. But the body is also a little relieved. And the mind? Well, the mind is happy with this kind of teamwork: two brothers with matching ice-cream bowls and matching ice-cream scoops, laughing at a talking sponge.

The heaviest thing I’ll lift for the rest of the evening is Charlie, when it’s time to go to bed.

But I still make sure the alarm is set for 4:44 the next morning. Because that shouldn’t really be my choice.

I try not to alter the lives I borrow for a day. But sometimes it can’t be helped.

Paul Deringer should not present much of a challenge. His morning doesn’t hold any surprises—his room is straightforward, his family is straightforward, and his schedule, when I access it, is straightforward. When I get to school, his friends are friendly. This in itself seems straightforward, but with some people there are subterranean currents beneath every interaction; they treat their friendships as politics and their lives as performance. Luckily Paul is not like that, and neither are his friends.

One friend is clearly his closest—checking his memories, I know that Nicole is the one he looks for first in the crowd, the one he will always sneak away at lunch to be with. They are not dating—the memories are clear in showing that. But they use the fact that neither of them is dating as a way to spend all the time together that would ordinarily be spent with a boyfriend or girlfriend. Timewise, it’s almost the same as dating. Heartwise, too. There just isn’t any kissing. Or at least none that I can find.

There’s a zero-tolerance policy about phones in this school, so the only way to communicate in class is to pass notes. Nicole and Paul always sit next to each other, to make this easier. I’ll admit: I find passing notes with Nicole to be more interesting than class. She’s clever, and I have to challenge myself to be clever, too. Or at least until we get to what Nicole calls “surrealist knock-knock jokes.” Then we’re just silly.

It doesn’t surprise me at the end of the day when Nicole tells me we have plans. Instead of heading to my bus, I’m commandeered into walking beside her, back to her house. When we get there, she aims straight for the kitchen, saying, “Help yourself to anything.” Quickly I access the geography of her house, which Paul is more than familiar with. Then I access the things he usually eats when he’s there. One has to be very careful around best friends, because a wrong move can be read as momentous. I’ve been in situations where I’ve reached for a soda and as a result have been lectured about how I will do anything to be popular, even drink what the
popular kids drink.

I go for some pretzels, and Nicole’s lack of commentary means I’m safe. I figure we’ll set up in the den or the kitchen, since I’m a boy today and she’s a girl, and most parents have the mistaken notion that if a boy and a girl are alone in a room with a bed, pregnancy will ensue. But Nicole’s parents must not fear that from me, because she picks up her book bag and leads me onward. When we get to her room, she stretches out on the floor, unpacking her books and pulling out a pen. I take my space beside her, my body eventually semiicircling around my homework. From above we must look like a pair of parentheses, with open pages between us.

Human beings act very much like storms when there’s something to say. Very rarely in nature does a deluge catch you by complete surprise. There are the signs before—the sky darkening, the wind picking up, the air smelling like rain even before a drop has hit. With Nicole, the sky darkens when I look up to find her watching me do my homework. The wind picks up when she quickly looks away. The air smells like rain when she second-guesses, and looks at me again.

Paul might ask, “What is it?” Or he’d already know what it is. But for me, the storm remains nameless. I try to dodge it. I go back to my homework. I read the science textbook like my life depends on it.

This only angers her more.

She’s abandoned any pretense of studying. She is watching me, sending the first wave of rain over to me, the dare so clear. I am supposed to look up at her. I am supposed to meet her eye. Time will not let me go forward until I do.

I try to keep reading, even though the words dodge my focus. I turn the page when enough time has gone by for me to be due to turn the page.

“Paul.”

She’s moved her foot over to mine, and it stays there. Presses.

I look up. “What?”

“What?” she mimics.

I know she thinks my incomprehension is fake, but it’s real.

She sighs. Then says, “Knock, knock.”

I respond with the unavoidable, “Who’s there?”

“Water.”

“Water who?”

“Water we doing?”

I try to keep my voice light. “Homework?”

“No. I mean, what are we doing?”

The storm now shows, and it’s inside of her. It’s been inside of her all along. I don’t know if Paul would recognize it, but I do. His memories might show that they’re better off friends, that they were never meant to date—but that’s not her version.

And today, of all days, is when she’s going to call him on it.

Once the storm comes out, the landscape changes. What you had before is altered in some way. And you have a choice: build something new and better from what’s left, or abandon it.

It is lonely in the eye. As we sit there in the pause, as she stares at me, awaiting a response, as I see the things I could say and wonder which one to grasp for, I feel profoundly alone in myself. Reading people is a talent that I have developed, but in the end, that’s all it is—reading. Reading is not life. Reading is creating life in your head. And that can only help you so much in a storm.

I try not to alter the lives I borrow for a day, but sometimes I have no choice. Or, more accurately, I am given a choice, and I have to make it. One way or the other.

“What are we doing?” I say.

“Yes,” Nicole says, her foot moving lightly over my ankle. “What are we doing?”

I look away—I can’t do this while looking at her—and say, quietly, “I think we’re doing homework.”

She sits up, moves her foot away. I move my eyes back to the textbook.

I am telling myself it would be worse to say yes to her now and then have Paul take it away tomorrow. I am telling myself that if I make it casual enough, we can make it through the next hour, and that the conversation can be revisited tomorrow, or another day, when Paul is back. I am lying to myself that a storm can be put back inside a person, bottled up and preserved. I know I am lying to myself, but I also choose to believe it.

My instinct is that he doesn’t want to kiss her, that he’s never wanted to kiss her. But I wonder if that’s his detachment or mine.

We last five more minutes in that room. Then Nicole says she has to go downstairs for a second, and doesn’t come back up for a half hour. When she’s back, I want to ask her if she’s okay. But I have no idea whether that will make things better or worse. So I stay quiet, and then ten minutes later I say I have to go. She doesn’t protest.

I can’t just leave it like this. I can’t. So after my bag is packed, after she makes no move to walk me to the front door, I linger in her room for a second, then say, “I’m sorry. I just need to think. I can’t think right now. And I need to.”

It’s not enough. I can see that in her face. It’s not. The only hope I have is that over time it will grow to be enough. Or that whatever step Paul takes next will make it enough. Once I’m gone.

As I walk home, I stop accessing and try to navigate by instinct. Where do I think I should go? Which way is Paul’s home? I try to sense where the body wants me to be, which street feels more familiar, which direction feels inherently right.

I get horribly lost.

In all of the bodies I’ve been in, in all of the lives I’ve borrowed for a day, one thing has always been consistent:

Everyone wakes up tired.

In truth, most of us go through the day tired, as if all of the information swirling through the air, all of the thoughts battling within our mind, leave us in a state of perpetual exhaustion. I don’t know if it was always like this, but I’m pretty sure it’s more like this now.

I wake up, and I’m tired. This is not a surprise. I am also in the body and life of a sixteen-year-old boy named Mark. Yesterday I was in the body and life of a sixteen-year-old boy named Chase. For most people, this
would
be a surprise. But I am strangely used to it. This is just the
way my life goes.

I access Mark’s mind, situate myself within his day. I’m only here until midnight. I try to get the basic facts, not the details. The details can be interesting, but they can also distract me into attachment. The worst thing in the world would be to pretend to know the people whose lives I step through. They cannot be homes to me. They must be hotel rooms.

Mark’s friend Sam is going to pick him up in a half-hour, so I have to shower and get dressed. Everything in his room is compulsively in place—I open one of his drawers and find the shirts folded with department-store precision, each corner of one shirt matching the corresponding corner of the shirt below it. I don’t really know if this is the result of military neatness or OCD—whatever part of Mark feels compelled to fold shirts this way has been banished for the day by my own personality. Because I try not to leave traces, I will have to live my life neatly today. Over the years, I have learned how to stand against the easy temptations of disorder. I’ll just have to do it more with Mark.

His toiletries are arranged in a very specific way, and I make sure to replace them in exactly the same configuration when I’m done. His pajamas get folded and put under the pillow, because I don’t know what would happen if someone came into the room during the day and saw them uncharacteristically sprawled on the floor.

I even make the bed.

One of the hardest things to know about people is how they move. I’ve grown very accustomed to taking on other bodies as my own, but I’m never sure how the real owners wear them. I can access memories, yes, but it’s not as if we have memories of the ways we walk or the ways we gesture. Our memories filter these facts out. Unless we are hurt in some way, our memories pretty much disregard our bodies. We don’t remember the way we like to sit. It is unlikely, in a lineup, that we’d be able to identify the back of our hand.