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She thinks about it for a second. “Good point. Did we make out?”
I shake my head. “We used the make-out blanket, but we didn’t make out. We kissed. And that was enough.”
“And what did I say to you before I left the car?”
“ ‘That’s the nice note.’ ”
“Correct. Quick, what’s Steve’s girlfriend’s name?”
“Stephanie.”
“And what time did the party end?”
“Eleven-fifteen.”
“And when you were in the body of that girl who I took to all of my classes, what did the note you passed me say?”
“Something like, ‘The classes here are just as boring as in the school I’m going to now.’ ”
“And what were the buttons on your backpack that day?”
“Anime kittens.”
“Well, either you’re an excellent liar, or you switch bodies every day. I have no idea which one is true.”
“It’s the second one.”
I see, over Rhiannon’s shoulder, a woman looking at us quizzically. Has she overheard what we’re saying?
“Let’s go outside,” I whisper. “I feel we may be getting an unintended audience.”
Rhiannon looks skeptical. “Maybe if you were a petite cheerleader again. But—I’m not sure if you fully realize this—you’re a big, threatening dude today. My mother’s voice is very loud and clear in my head: ‘No dark corners.’ ”
I point out the window, to a bench along the road.
“Totally public, only without people listening in.”
“Fine.”
As we head out, the woman who was eavesdropping seems disappointed. I realize how many people sitting around us have open laptops and open notebooks, and hope that none of them have been taking notes.
When we get to the bench, Rhiannon lets me sit down first, so she can determine the distance that we’ll sit apart, which is significant.
“So you say you’ve been like this since the day you were born?”
“Yes. I can’t remember it being any different.”
“So how did that work? Weren’t you confused?”
“I guess I got used to it. I’m sure that, at first, I figured it was just how everybo
dy’s lives worked. I mean, when you’re a baby, you don’t really care much about who’s taking care of you, as long as someone’s taking care of you. And as a little kid, I thought it was some kind of a game, and my mind learned how to access—you know, look at the body’s memories—naturally. So I always knew what my name was, and where I was. It wasn’t until I was four or five that I started to realize I was different, and it wasn’t until I was nine or ten that I really wanted it to stop.”
“You did?”
“Of course. Imagine being homesick, but without having a home. That’s what it was like. I wanted friends, a mom, a dad, a dog—but I couldn’t hold on to any of them more than a single day. It was brutal. There are nights I remember screaming and crying, begging my parents not to make me go to bed. They could never figure out what I was afraid of. They thought it was a monster under the bed, or a ploy to get a few more bedtime stories. I could never really explain, not in a way that made sense to them. I’d tell them I didn’t want to say goodbye, and they’d assure me it wasn’t goodbye. It was just good night. I’d tell them it was the same thing, but they thought I was being silly.
“Eventually I came to peace with it. I had to. I realized that this was my life, and there was nothing I could do about it. I couldn’t fight the tide, so I decided to float along.”
