Every Day by David Levithan

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 petitecheerleader 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 everybody’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 ahome. 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.”
    “How many times have you told this story?”
    “None. I swear. You’re the first.”
    This should make her feel special—it’s meant to make her feel special—but instead it seems to worry her.
    “You have to have parents, don’t you? I mean, we all have parents.”
    I shrug. “I have no idea. I would think so. But it’s not like there’s anyone I can ask. I’ve never met anyone else like me. Not that I would necessarily know.”
    It’s clear from her expression that she thinks this is a sad story I’m telling her—a very sad story. I don’t know how to convey to her that it hasn’t all been sad.
    “I’ve glimpsed things,” I say. Then I stop. I don’t know what’s next.
    “Go on,” she tells me.
    “It’s just—I know it sounds like an awful way to live, but I’ve seen so many things. It’s so hard when you’re in one body to get a sense of what life is really like. You’re so grounded in who you are. But when who you are changes every day—you get to touch the universal more. Even the most mundane details. You see how cherries taste different to different people. Blue looks different. You see