David Levithan - Every Day

She shakes her head.

“Tomorrow,” I say.

“Tomorrow,” she says, a little less than a promise, and a little more than a chance.

Day 6003

I am not alone when I wake up the next morning.

I am sharing the room with two other boys—my brothers, Paul and Tom. Paul is a year older than me. Tom is my twin. My name is James.

James is big—a football player. Tom is about the same size. Paul is even bigger.

The room is clean, but even before I know what town I’m in, I know we’re not in the nice part of it. This is a big family in a small house. There is not going to be a computer here. James is not going to have a car.

It’s Paul’s job—self-appointed or otherwise—to get us up and out. Our father’s not home from the night shift yet, and our mother’s already on the way to her job. Our two sisters are about done with the bathroom. We’re next.

I access and find that I’m in the town next to Nathan’s, over an hour from Rhiannon’s.

This is going to be a hard day.

The bus ride to school takes forty-five minutes. When we get there, we head to the cafeteria for free breakfast. I am amazed at James’s appetite—I pile on pancake after pancake, and he’s still hungry. Tom matches him bite for bite.

Luckily, I have study hall first period. Unluckily, there’s still homework that James needs to do. I push through that as quick as I can, and have about ten minutes of computer time left at the end.

There’s a message from Rhiannon, written at one in the morning.

A,

I want to believe you, but I don’t know how.

Rhiannon

I write back:

Rhiannon,

You don’t need to know how. You just make up your mind and it happens.

I am in Laurel right now, over an hour away. I am in the body of a football player named James. I know how strange that sounds. But, like everything I’ve told you, it’s the truth.

Love,

A

There’s just enough time for me to check my other email address. There’s another email from Nathan.

You can’t avoid my questions forever. I want to know who you are. I want to know why you do what you do.

Tell me.

Again, I leave him unanswered. I have no idea whether I owe him an explanation or not. I probably owe him something. But I’m not sure it’s an explanation.

I make it through to lunch. I want to go immediately to the library to check the computers again. But James is hungry, and Tom is with him, and I am afraid that if he doesn’t get his lunch now, there won’t be anything for him to eat until dinnertime. I checked, and there’s only about three dollars in his wallet, including change.

I get the free lunch and eat it quickly. Then I excuse myself to the library, which inspires no shortage of taunts from Tom, who claims that “libraries are for girls.” A true brother, I shoot back with, “Well, that explains why you never find any.” A wrestling match ensues. All of this takes away time from what I need to do.

When I get to the library, all the computers are taken. I have to loom large over a freshman for about two minutes before he freaks out enough to give me his space. Quickly I check out public transportation, and find out I’ll need to take three buses in order to make it to Rhiannon’s town. I’m ready to do it, but when I check my email, there’s another message from Rhiannon, dated just two minutes ago.

A,

Do you have a car? If not, I can come to you. There’s a Starbucks in Laurel. I’m told that nothing bad ever happens in a Starbucks. Let me know if you want to meet there.

Rhiannon

I type:

Rhiannon,

I would appreciate it if you could come here. Thank you.

A

Two minutes later, a new email from her:

A,

I’ll be there at 5. Can’t wait to see what you look like today.

(Still not believing this.)

Rhiannon

My nerves are jangling with possibility. She’s had time to think about it, and that hasn’t turned her against me. It’s more than I could ask for. I am careful not to be too grateful, lest it be taken away.

The rest of the school day is unexceptional … except for a moment in seventh period. Mrs. French, the bio teacher, is hectoring a kid who hasn’t done his homework. It’s a lab assignment, and he’s come up blank.

“I don’t know what got into me,” the slacker says. “I must have been possessed by the devil!”

The rest of the class laughs, and even Mrs. French shakes her head.

“Yeah, I was possessed by the devil, too,” another guy says. “After I drank seven beers!”

“Okay, class,” Mrs. French intones. “Enough of that.”

It’s the way they say it—I know Nathan’s story must be spreading.

“Hey,” I say to Tom as we head to football practice, “did you hear about that kid in Monroeville who says he was possessed by the devil?”

“Dude,” he replies, “we were just talking about that yesterday. It was all over the news.”

“Yeah, I mean, did you hear anything more about it today?”

“What more is there to say? Kid got caught in a crazy lie, and now the religious crazies want to make him a poster child. I almost feel sorry for him.”

This, I think, is not good.

Our coach has to go to his wife’s Lamaze class, which he bitches about to us in detail, but it forces him to end practice early. I tell Tom that I’m going to make a Starbucks run, and he looks at me like I have been totally, irredeemably girlified. I was counting on his disgust, and am relieved to get it.

She’s not there when I arrive, so I get a small black coffee—pretty much the only thing I can afford—and sit and wait for her. It’s crowded, and I have to look brutish in order to keep the other chair at my table unoccupied.

Finally, about twenty minutes after five, she shows up. She scans the crowd and I wave. Even though I told her I was a football player, she’s still a little startled. She comes over anyway.

“Okay,” she says, sitting down. “Before we say another word, I want to see your phone.” I must look confused, because she adds, “I want to see every single call you’ve made in the past week, and every single call you received. If this isn’t some big joke, then you have nothing to hide.”

I hand over James’s phone, which she knows how to work better than I do.

After a few minutes of searching, she appears satisfied.

“Now, I quiz you,” she says, handing back the phone. “First, what was I wearing on the day that Justin took me to the beach?”

I try to picture it. I try to grab hold of those details. But they’ve already eluded me. I remember her, not what she was wearing.

“I don’t know,” I say. “Do you remember what Justin was wearing?”

She thinks about it for a second. “Good point. Did we make out?”

I shake my head. “We used the make-out blanket, but we didn’t make out. We kissed. And that was enough.”

“And what did I say to you before I left the car?”

“ ‘That’s the nice note.’ ”

“Correct. Quick, what’s Steve’s girlfriend’s name?”

“Stephanie.”

“And what time did the party end?”

“Eleven-fifteen.”

“And when you were in the body of that girl who I took to all of my classes, what did the note you passed me say?”

“Something like, ‘The classes here are just as boring as in the school I’m going to now.’ ”

“And what were the buttons on your backpack that day?”

“Anime kittens.”

“Well, either you’re an excellent liar, or you switch bodies every day. I have no idea which one is true.”

“It’s the second one.”

I see, over Rhiannon’s shoulder, a woman looking at us quizzically. Has she overheard what we’re saying?