Every Day

I write back to Rhiannon and tell her where I am. She writes back immediately—she must be waiting by her computer—and asks me if I can meet her after school. We arrange to meet at the Clover Bookstore.

Dylan is a charmer. He also, from what I can tell, has crushes on three different girls at the same time. I spend the day trying not to commit him any closer to any of them. He will have to figure out for himself which font he prefers.

I am a half hour early to the bookstore, but I’m too nervous to read anything but the faces of the people around me.

She walks in the door, also early. I don’t need to stand or wave. She looks around the room, sees me and the way I’m looking at her, and knows.

“Hey,” she says.

“Hey,” I say back.

“It feels like the morning after,” she tells me.

“I know,” I say.

She’s gotten us coffee, and we sit there at the table with the cups sheltered in our hands.

I see some of the things I noticed yesterday—the birthmark, the scattering of pimples on her forehead. But they don’t matter to me nearly as much as the complete picture.

She doesn’t seem freaked out. She doesn’t seem angry. If anything, she seems at peace with what’s happened. When the shock wears off, you always hope there’s understanding underneath. And with Rhiannon, it seems as if the understanding has already surfaced. Any vestige of doubt has been swept away.

“I woke up and I knew something was different,” she tells me. “Even before I saw your letter. It wasn’t the usual disorientation. But I didn’t feel like I’d missed a day. It was like I woke up and something had been … added. Then I saw your letter and started reading, and immediately I knew it was true. It had actually happened. I stopped when you told me to stop, and tried to remember everything about yesterday. It was all there. Not the things I’d usually forget, like waking up or brushing my teeth. But climbing that mountain. Having lunch with Justin. Dinner with my parents. Even writing the letter itself—I had a memory of that. It shouldn’t make sense—why would I write a letter to myself for the next morning? But in my mind, it makes sense.”

“Do you feel me there? In your memories.”

She shakes her head. “Not in the way you’d think. I don’t feel you in control of things, or in my body, or anything. I feel like you were with me. Like, I can feel your presence there, but it’s outside of me.”

She stops. Starts again. “It’s insane that we’re having this conversation.”

But I want to know more.

“I wanted you to remember everything,” I tell her. “And it sounds like your mind went along with that. Or maybe it wanted you to remember everything, too.”

“I don’t know. I’m just glad I do.”

We talk more about the day, more about how strange this is. Finally, she says, “Thank you for not messing up my life. And for keeping my clothes on. Unless, of course, you didn’t want me to remember that you sneaked a peek.”

“No peeks were sneaked.”

“I believe you. Amazingly, I believe you about everything.”

I can tell there’s something else she wants to say.

“What?” I ask.

“It’s just—do you feel you know me more now? Because the weird thing is … I feel I know you more. Because of what you did, and what you didn’t do. Isn’t that strange? I would have thought that you would’ve found out more about me … but I’m not sure that’s true.”

“I got to meet your parents,” I say.

“And what was your impression?”

“I think they both care about you, in their own way.”

She laughs. “Well said.”

“Well, it was nice to meet them.”

“I’ll be sure to remember that when you really meet them. ‘Mom and Dad, this is A. You think you’re meeting him for the first time, but actually, you’ve met him before, when he was in my body.’ ”

“I’m sure that’ll go over well.”

Of course, we both know it won’t go over at all. There’s no way for me to meet her parents. Not as myself.

I don’t say it, and neither does she. I don’t even know if she’s thinking it in the pause that ensues. But I am.

“It can never happen again, right?” she eventually asks. “You’re never the same person twice.”

“Correct. It will never happen again.”

“No offense, but I’m relieved I don’t have to go to sleep wondering if I’m going to wake up with you in control. Once, I guess I can deal with. But don’t make a habit of it.”

“I promise—I want to make a habit of being with you, but not that way.”

And there it is: I had to go and bring up the issue of where we go from here. We got through the past, are enjoying the present, but now I push it and we stumble on the future.

“You’ve seen my life,” she says. “Tell me a way you think this can work.”

“We’ll find a way,” I tell her.

“That’s not an answer. It’s a hope.”

“Hope’s gotten us this far. Not answers.”

She gives me a hint of a grin. “Good point.” She takes a sip of coffee, and I can tell another question’s coming. “I know this is weird, but … I keep wondering. Are you really not a boy or a girl? I mean, when you were in my body, did you feel more … at home than you would in the body of a boy?”