David Levithan - Every Day

“Like impersonating their boyfriends,” Rhiannon says.

“Yeah. But you have to understand—you were the exception to the rule. And I didn’t want it to be based on deception. Which is why you’re the first person I’ve ever told.”

“The funny thing is, you say it like it’s so unusual that you’ve only done it once. But I bet a whole lot of people go through their lives without ever telling the truth, not really. And they wake up in the same body and the same life every single morning.”

“Why? What aren’t you telling me?”

Rhiannon looks me in the eye. “If I’m not telling you something, it’s for a reason. Just because you trust me, it doesn’t mean I have to automatically trust you. Trust doesn’t work like that.”

“That’s fair.”

“I know it is. But enough of that. Tell me about—I don’t know—third grade.”

The conversation continues. She learns the reason I now have to access information about allergies before eating anything (after having been nearly killed by a strawberry when I was nine), and I learn the origin of her fear of bunny rabbits (a particularly malevolent creature named Swizzle that liked to escape its cage and sleep on people’s faces). She learns about the best mom I ever had (a water park is involved), and I learn about the highs and lows of living with the same mother for your entire life, about how no one can make you angrier, but how you can’t really love anyone more. She learns that I haven’t always been in Maryland, but I move great distances only when the body I’m in moves great distances. I learn that she’s never been on an airplane.

She still keeps a physical space between us—there will be no leaning on shoulders or holding hands right now. But if our bodies keep apart, our words do not. I don’t mind that.

We return to the car and pick at the remains of the picnic. Then we walk around and talk some more. I am astonished at the number of lives I can remember to tell Rhiannon about, and she is amazed that her single life bears as many stories as my multiple one. Because her normal existence is so foreign to me, so intriguing to me, it starts to feel a little more interesting to her as well.

I could go on like this until midnight. But at five-fifteen, Rhiannon looks at her phone and says, “We better get going. Justin will be waiting for us.”

Somehow, I’d managed to forget.

It should be a foregone conclusion. I am a seriously attractive girl. Justin is a typically horny boy.

I am hoping that Rhiannon’s theory is right, and that Ashley will only remember what I want her to remember, or what her mind wants her to remember. Not that I’m going to take this far—all I need is confirmation of Justin’s willingness, not actual contact.

Rhiannon’s picked a clam house off the highway. True to form, I confirm that Ashley doesn’t have any shellfish allergies. In truth, Ashley has tricked herself into thinking she’s “allergic” to a number of things, as a way of narrowing down her diet. But shellfish never hit that particular watch list.

When she walks into the room, heads actually turn. Most of them are attached to men a good thirty years older than her. I’m sure she’s used to it, but it freaks me out.

Even though Rhiannon was concerned about Justin having to wait for us, he ends up coming ten minutes after we do. The look on his face when he first sees me is priceless—when Rhiannon said she had a friend in town, Ashley was not what he pictured. He gives Rhiannon her hello, but he’s gaping at me when he does.

We take our seats. At first I’m so focused on his reaction that I don’t notice Rhiannon’s. She’s receding into herself, suddenly quiet, suddenly timid. I can’t tell whether it’s Justin’s presence that’s making this happen, or whether it’s the combination of his presence and mine.

We’ve been so wrapped up in our own day that we haven’t really prepared for this. So when Justin starts asking the obvious questions—how do Rhiannon and I know each other, and how come he hasn’t heard about me before—I have to jump into the breach. For Rhiannon, fabrication is a ruminative act, whereas lying is a part of my necessary nature.

I tell him that my mother and Rhiannon’s mother were best friends in high school. I’m now living in Los Angeles (why not?), auditioning for TV shows (because I can). My mother and I are visiting the East Coast for a week, and she wanted to check in on her old friend. Rhiannon and I have seen each other off and on through the years, but this is the first time in a while.

Justin appears to be hanging on my every word, but he isn’t listening at all. I brush his leg “accidentally” under the table. He pretends he doesn’t notice. Rhiannon pretends, too.

I’m brazen, but careful with my brazenness. I touch Rhiannon’s hand a few times when I’m making a point, so it doesn’t seem so unusual when I do it to Justin. I mention a Hollywood star that I once kissed at a party, but make it clear that it was no big deal.

I want Justin to flirt back, but he appears incapable. Especially once there’s food in front of him. Then the order of attention goes: food, then Ashley, then Rhiannon. I dip my crab cakes in tartar sauce, and imagine Ashley yelling at me for doing so.

When the food is finished, he focuses back on me. Rhiannon comes alive a little and tries to mimic my movements, first by holding his hand. He doesn’t move away, but he doesn’t seem all that into it; he acts like she’s embarrassing him. I figure this is a good sign.

Finally, Rhiannon says she has to go to the ladies’ room. This is my chance to get him to do something irredeemable, get her to see who he truly is.

I start with the leg move. This time, with Rhiannon gone, he doesn’t move his leg away.

“Hello there,” I say.

“Hello,” he says back. And smiles.

“What are you doing after this?” I ask.

“After dinner?”

“Yeah, after dinner.”

“I don’t know.”

“Maybe we should do something,” I suggest.

“Yeah. Sure.”

“Maybe just the two of us.”

Click . He finally gets it.

I move in. Touch his hand. Say, “I think that would be fun.”

I need him to lean in to me. I need him to give in to what he wants. I need him to take it one step further. All it takes is a yes.

He looks around, to see if Rhiannon is near, and to see if the other guys in the room are seeing this happen.

“Whoa,” he says.

“It’s okay,” I tell him. “I really like you.”

He sits back. Shakes his head. “Um … no.”

I’ve been too forward. He needs it to be his idea.

“Why not?” I ask.

He looks at me like I’m a complete idiot.

“Why not?” he says. “How about Rhiannon? Jeez.”

I’m trying to think of a comeback for that, but there isn’t one. And it doesn’t even matter, because at this point, Rhiannon returns to the table.

“I don’t want this,” she says. “Stop.”

Justin, fool that he is, thinks she’s talking to him.

“I’m not doing anything!” he protests, his leg firmly back on his side of the booth. “Your friend here is a little out of control.”

“I don’t want this,” she repeats.

“It’s okay,” I say. “I’m sorry.”

“You should be!” Justin yells. “God, I don’t know how they do things in California, but here, you don’t act like that.” He stands up. I steal a glance at his groin and see that despite his denials, my flirtation did have at least one effect. But I can’t really point it out to Rhiannon.

“I’m gonna go,” he says. Then, as if to prove something, he kisses Rhiannon right in front of me. “Thanks, baby,” he says. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”