David Levithan - Someday

It occurs to me that Didi might have been in my history class. I might not have noticed her there, since we hadn’t had lunch together yet, so I hadn’t identified her as my best friend.

“Not you,” I say. Not because I know it’s true, but because it makes the moment easier. “More Mr. Snyder.”

“Snerder.”

“Didn’t I say Snerder?”

“No, you said Snyder.”

She’s looking at me like I just spit some truth serum out on her floor instead of swallowing it.

“Are you okay?” she asks.

In response, I give her the same words I’ve given so many other people, without any of them ever understanding what I really mean.

“I’m not myself today.”

This defuses the situation somewhat.

“I think watching too much Lorraine Hines will do that,” Didi says. “You probably said Snerder. And he can be a total dick. No matter what color you are.”

I must remember that I am Whitney. I must remember that Didi is her friend. I must remember that if Whitney wants to call Didi on her assumptions, that’s Whitney’s decision, not mine. So instead of telling her what I really think, I say, “All this truth serum’s made me hungry. Do you have any popcorn in the kitchen?”

“Let’s check,” she says, leaving the conversation as fast as she can leave the room.

For the rest of the afternoon, until I can plead a dinner excuse, I go through the motions.

Meaning: I could be anyone.

Also meaning: I am no one at all.

Later that night, alone in Whitney’s room, I try not to think about Didi, and wonder some more about the people in the videos. I head to the Truth Serum website, which is arranged to look like a truth-themed lifestyle magazine, with Lorraine Hines front and center. It’s a little off-putting, how thrilled she seems by other people laying themselves bare. But when you filter her out and focus on the truth tellers themselves, there is something magnetic about the bareness, and the bravery of the ones who wear the terror and exhilaration so clearly.

I watch some more videos. A pastor questioning God. A teenager describing his suicide attempt and why he’s grateful his stomach was pumped in time. A grandmother whose big truth is that she has been happy with her life, and how she feels that in a culture of complaint, it is frowned upon to talk about a life that’s gone well.

The more I hear these truths, the more I can feel my own growing restless. Why do these people get to lay it all out while I have to remain silent? Why can’t I be with the only person who took my truth seriously? If I went on this site and posted a video, there would be two options, both of them bad:

People wouldn’t believe me. Or they would.

People would treat me as a lunatic. Or they would take me at my word—and hunt me down to understand how I came to be how I am.

Also, if I made a video, it wouldn’t be me they saw. And whoever’s life I borrowed would have to bear the stigma of my presence for the rest of their future.

So . . . definitely not an option.

I go back to the Truth Serum home page and see a button labeled Anonymous Truth. I click on it and Lorraine Hines appears.

“For many of us, the truth can only be said if there’s someone listening. But often the truth becomes harder if the person listening is someone we know. We here at Truth Serum want to provide a safe forum for you to share your truth with someone you don’t know. Just click the link below and you will be paired at random with a person who will witness your truth without judgment.”

I don’t know that I believe anyone can ever listen without judgment—but still I click on the link. There’s no risk that I can see. I will be elsewhere in the morning.

I am put in a chat box with someone who goes by the initials WL. I am reminded before WL comes into the chat that our conversation will be anonymous. I enter the initials AA.

I feel the skittish foolishness that comes from relying on my own anonymity, even though WL can’t see me, complicated by the fact that I already feel I’m hiding behind Whitney’s body.

WL:Hello. I am WL (not my real initials) and I will be your truth listener today. Please, tell me your truth.

I’m disappointed by how rote this is. I’m probably talking to some cut-rate artificial intelligence—artificial semi-intelligence. I almost log off. But then I decide, no, I might as well acknowledge my reaction, in the spirit of telling the truth.

AA:That seems abrupt. And vague.

I figure this is the part when it will become obvious if it’s a computer I’m talking to.

WL:It is. But that’s how this works.

AA:But what do you mean by “your truth”? Don’t we have many? I mean, I’m wearing a red shirt right now. That’s a truth.

WL:That isn’t the truth you came here to talk about, though, is it?

AA:No. It isn’t.

WL:So tell me that truth. The one that brought you here.

Why am I here? Maybe to be forced into this question. Because that’s the thing about my life—nobody asks me anything. And if nobody’s asking, it’s easy to keep all the answers on the shelf, gathering dust. I can forget they exist. I can avoid them.

The reason I’m here isn’t because of what happens to me every day. The reason I’m here is . . .

AA:I am in love with someone I can’t be with.

I exhale. It is an effort to admit this, even to a stranger. It is an effort to admit it to myself.

WL:Why not?

AA:Because she isn’t here.

WL:Where is she?

AA:1500 miles away. I left her. I had to.

WL has no idea how old I am. WL has no idea what I look like. WL has no idea where I am.

In many ways, WL knows me better than anyone in front of me ever does.

WL:Why did you have to leave?

AA:Because there was no way for me to stay.

WL:Why?

AA:Because I have a condition that prevents me from being able to stay with her.

This is the closest I can come to explaining it. I know it isn’t entirely truthful. But even with WL, I have to draw a line. I can only trust so far. I can only expect understanding to a certain degree.

WL:A medical condition? A psychological condition?

Same thing, I want to tell WL.

AA:A medical condition.

But this doesn’t feel like the truth. I keep typing.

AA:No, that’s not right. It’s who I am. Neither medical nor psychological. Or even spiritual. It’s just . . . the way my life is.

WL:What about your life is preventing you from being with her?

AA:I just can’t be with her.

WL:Fear of commitment?

“No,” I say to the screen. It’s not fear of commitment. It’s a knowledge that commitment is impossible. I don’t fear it at all.

AA:No. I travel a lot. I mean, I have to travel a lot. There’s no way out of it.

WL:So you can’t be home for her?

AA:I would love to be. But I can’t.

WL:And have you talked this over with her?

AA:Yes.

WL:And she agrees that it cannot work?

Be truthful, I tell myself.

AA:I think so.

WL:You think so?

AA:She knows about my condition. I think she would try to love me anyway. But because I’m the one who’s lived with it my whole life, I know better than her that it will never work.