“This isn’t a fortune,” she says, showing it to me.
YOU HAVE A NICE SMILE.
“No. You will have a nice smile—that would be a fortune,” I tell her.
“I’m going to send it back.”
I raise an eyebrow … or at least try to. I’m sure I look like I’m having a stroke.
“Do you often send back fortune cookies?”
“No. This is the first time. I mean, this is a Chinese restaurant—”
“Malpractice.”
“Exactly.”
Rhiannon flags the waiter down, explains the predicament, and gets a nod. When he returns to our table, he has a half dozen more fortune cookies for her.
“I only need one,” she tells him. “Wait one second.”
The waiter and I are both paying close attention as Rhiannon cracks open her second fortune cookie. This time, it gets a nice smile.
She shows it to both of us.
ADVENTURE IS AROUND THE CORNER.
“Well done, sir,” I tell the waiter.
Rhiannon prods me to open mine. I do, and find it’s the exact same fortune as hers.
I don’t send it back.
We return to the library with about a half hour to spare. The librarian catches us walking back in, but doesn’t say a word.
“So,” Rhiannon asks me, “what should I read next?”
I show her Feed. I tell her all about The Book Thief. I drag her to find Destroy All Cars and First Day on Earth. I explain to her that these have been my companions all these years, the constants from day to day, the stories I can always return to even if mine is always changing.
“What about you?” I ask her. “What do you think I should read next?”
She takes my hand and leads me to the children’s section. She looks around for a second, then heads over to a display at the front. I see a certain green book sitting there and panic.
“No! Not that one!” I say.
But she isn’t reaching for the green book. She’s reaching for Harold and the Purple Crayon.
“What could you possibly have against Harold and the Purple Crayon?” she asks.
“I’m sorry. I thought you were heading for The Giving Tree.”
Rhiannon looks at me like I’m an insane duck. “I absolutely HATE The Giving Tree.”
I am so relieved. “Thank goodness. That would’ve been the end of us, had that been your favorite book.”
“Here—take my arms! Take my legs!”
“Take my head! Take my shoulders!”
“Because that’s what love’s about!”
“That kid is, like, the jerk of the century,” I say, relieved that Rhiannon will know what I mean.
“The biggest jerk in the history of all literature,” Rhiannon ventures. Then she puts down Harold and moves closer to me.
“Love means never having to lose your limbs,” I tell her, moving in for a kiss.
“Exactly,” she murmurs, her lips soon on mine.
It’s an innocent kiss. We’re not about to start making out in the beanbag chairs offered by the children’s room. But that doesn’t stop the ice-water effect when George’s mother calls out his name, shocked and angry.
“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.”
“Your mom isn’t going to show up this time, is she?”
“Nope.”
“Good. Then I can do this without being killed.”
She kisses me hard. I kiss her hard back. And suddenly we’re letting our bodies do the talking. We are inside the doorway, inside the cabin. But I’m not looking at the room—I am feeling her, tasting her, pressing against her as she’s pressing against me. She’s pulling off my coat and we’re kicking off our shoes and she’s directing me backward. The edge of the bed kicks the backs of my legs, and then we are awkwardly, enjoyably stumbling over, me lying down, her pinning my shoulders, us kissing and kissing and kissing. Breath and heat and contact and shirts off and skin on skin and smiles and murmurs and the enormity revealing itself in the tiniest of gestures, the most delicate sensations.
I pull back from a kiss and look at her. She stops and looks at me.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey,” she says.
I trace the contours of her face, her collarbone. She runs her fingers along my shoulders, my back. Kisses my neck, my ear.
For the first time, I look around. It’s a one-room cabin—the bathroom must be out back. There are deer heads on the wall, staring down at us with glass eyes.
“Where are we?” I ask.
“It’s a hunting cabin my uncle uses. He’s in California now, so I figured it was safe to break in.”
I search for broken windows, signs of forced entry. “You broke in?”
“Well, with the spare key.”
Her hand moves to the patch of hair at the center of my chest, then to my heartbeat. I rest one of my hands on her side, glide lightly over the smoothness of the skin there.
“That was quite a welcome,” I tell her.
“It’s not over yet,” she says. And, just like that, we’re pressed together again.
I am letting her take the lead. I am letting her unbutton the top of my jeans. I am letting her pull the zipper down. I am letting her remove her bra. I am following along, but with each step, the pressure builds. How far is this going? How far should this go?
I know our nakedness means something. I know our nakedness is as much a form of trust as it is a form of craving. This is what we look like when we are completely open to each other. This is where we go when we no longer want to hide. I want her. I want this. But I’m afraid.
We move as if we’re in a fever, then we slow down and move as if we’re in a dream. There’s no clothing now, just sheets. This is not my body, but it’s the body she wants.
I feel like a pretender.
This is the source of the pressure. This is the cause of my hesitation. Right now I am here with her completely. But tomorrow I may not be. I can enjoy this today. It can feel right now. But tomorrow, I don’t know. Tomorrow I may be gone.
I want to sleep with her. I want to sleep with her so much.
But I also want to wake up next to her the next morning.
The body is ready. The body is close to bursting with sensation. When Rhiannon asks if I want to, I know what the body would answer.