Another Day

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.

Chapter Twenty-One

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.