Every Day

“What do you think you’re doing?” she demands. I assume she’s talking to me, but when she gets to us, she pummels right into Rhiannon. “I don’t know who your parents are, but I did not raise my son to hang out with whores.”

“Mom!” I shout. “Leave her alone.”

“Get in the car, George. Right this minute.”

I know I’m only making it worse for George, but I don’t care. I am not leaving Rhiannon alone with her.

“Just calm down,” I tell George’s mother, my voice squeaking a little as I do. Then I turn to Rhiannon and tell her I will talk to her later.

“You most certainly will not!” George’s mother proclaims. I take some satisfaction in the fact that I’m only under her supervision for another eight hours or so.

Rhiannon gives me a kiss goodbye and whispers that she’s going to figure out a way to run away for the weekend. George’s mother actually grabs him by the ear and pulls him outside.

I laugh, and that only makes things worse.

It’s like Cinderella in reverse. I’ve danced with the prince, and now I’m back home, cleaning the toilets. That is my punishment—every toilet, every tub, every garbage pail. This would be bad enough, but every few minutes, George’s mother stops in to give me a lecture about “the sins of the flesh.” I hope that George doesn’t internalize her scare tactics. I want to argue with her, tell her that “sins of the flesh” is just a control mechanism—if you demonize a person’s pleasure, then you can control his or her life. I can’t say how many times this tool has been wielded against me, in a variety of forms. But I see no sin in a kiss. I only see sin in the condemnation.

I don’t say any of this to George’s mother. If she were my full-time mother, I would. If I were the one who would shoulder the aftermath, I would. But I can’t do that to George. I’ve messed up his life already. Hopefully for the better, but maybe for the worse.

Emailing Rhiannon is out of the question. It will just have to wait until tomorrow.

After all the toil is done, after George’s father has weighed in with a speech of his own, seemingly dictated by his wife, I head to bed early, take advantage of having the silence of a room all to myself. If my time as Rhiannon is any proof, I can construct the memories that I will leave George with. So as I lie there in his bed, I conjure an alternate truth. He will remember heading to the library, and he will remember meeting a girl. She will be a stranger to town, dropped off at the library while her mother visited an old colleague. She asked him what he was reading, and a conversation began. They went for Chinese food together and had a good time. He was really into her. She was really into him. They went back to the library, had the same conversation about The Giving Tree, and moved in to kiss. That’s when his mother arrived. That’s what his mother disrupted. Something unexpected, but also something wonderful.

The girl disappeared. They never told each other their names. He has no idea where she lives. It was all there for a moment, and then the moment unraveled.

I am leaving him with longing. Which may be a cruel thing to do, but I’m hoping he will use his longing to get out of this small, small house.

Day 6019

I am much luckier the next morning, when I wake up in the body of Surita, whose parents are away, and who is being watched over by her ninety-year-old grandmother, who doesn’t seem to care what Surita does, as long as it doesn’t interfere with her programs on the Game Show Network. I’m only about an hour away from Rhiannon, and in the interest of her not being called to the principal for repeated attendance violations, I meet her back at the Clover Bookstore after school is out.

She is full of plans.

“I told everyone I was visiting my grandmother for the weekend, and I told my parents I would be at Rebecca’s, so I’m a free agent. I’m actually staying at Rebecca’s tonight, but I was thinking tomorrow night we could … go somewhere.”

I tell her I like that plan.

We head to a park, walking around and playing on the jungle gym and talking. I notice she’s less affectionate with me when I’m in a girl’s body, but I don’t call her on it. She’s still with me, and she’s still happy, and that’s something.

We don’t talk about Justin. We don’t talk about the fact that we have no idea where I’ll be tomorrow. We don’t talk about how to make things work.

We block all this out, and enjoy ourselves.

Day 6020

Xavier Adams could not have imagined his Saturday was going to turn in this direction. He’s supposed to go to play practice at noon, but as soon as he leaves his house, he calls his director and tells him he has a bad flu bug—hopefully the twenty-four-hour kind. The director is understanding—it’s Hamlet and Xavier is playing Laertes, so there are plenty of scenes that can be run without him there. So Xavier is free … and immediately heads toward Rhiannon.

She’s left me directions, but she hasn’t told me what the ultimate destination is. I drive for almost two hours, west into the hinterlands of Maryland. Eventually the directions lead me to a small cabin hidden in the woods. If Rhiannon’s car weren’t in front, I’m sure I’d think I was hopelessly lost.

She’s waiting in the doorway by the time I get out of the car. She looks happy-nervous. I still have no idea where I am.

“You’re really cute today,” she observes as I get closer.

“French Canadian dad, Creole mom,” I say. “But I don’t speak a word of French.”