Every Day

There’s nothing in Finn’s memory that leads me to believe that he’d be upset about missing school, but I go anyway. I’ll let him save his absences for when he’s actually conscious of them.

Because of the size of this body, I must concentrate much harder than I usually do. Even the small things—my foot on the gas pedal, the amount of space I have to leave around me in the halls—require major adjustment.

And there are the looks I get—such undisguised disgust. Not just from other students. From teachers. From strangers. The judgment flows freely. It’s possible that they’re reacting to the thing that Finn has allowed himself to become. But there’s also something more primal, something more defensive in their disgust. I am what they fear becoming.

I’ve worn black today, because I’ve heard so often that it’s supposed to be slimming. But instead I am this sphere of darkness submarining through the halls.

The only respite is lunch, where Finn has his two best friends, Ralph and Dylan. They’ve been best friends since third grade. They make fun of Finn’s size, but it’s clear they don’t really care. If he were thin, they’d make fun of him for that, too.

I feel I can relax around them.

I go home after school to take another shower and change. As I’m drying myself off, I wonder if I could plant a traumatic memory in Finn’s brain, something so shocking that he’d stop eating so much. Then I’m horrified at myself for even thinking such a thing. I remind myself that it’s not my business to tell Finn what to do.

I’ve put on Finn’s best clothes—an XXXL button-down and some size 46 jeans—to meet up with Rhiannon. I even try a tie, but it looks ridiculous, ski-sloping off my stomach.

The chairs are wobbly underneath me at the bookstore’s café. I decide to walk the aisles instead, but they’re too narrow, and I keep knocking things off the shelves. In the end, I wait for her out front.

She spots me right away; it’s not like she can miss me. The recognition’s in her eyes, but it’s not a particularly happy one.

“Hey,” I say.

“Yeah, hey.”

We just stand there.

“What’s up?” I ask.

“Just taking you all in, I guess.”

“Don’t look at the package. Look at what’s inside.”

“That’s easy for you to say. I never change, do I?”

Yes and no, I think. Her body’s the same. But a lot of the time, I feel like I’m meeting a slightly different Rhiannon. As if each mood presents a variation.

“Let’s go,” I say.

“Where to?”

“Well, we’ve been to the ocean and to the mountain and to the woods. So I thought this time we’d try … dinner and a movie.”

This gets a smile.

“That sounds suspiciously like a date,” she says.

“I’ll even buy you flowers if you’d like.”

“Go ahead,” she dares. “Buy me flowers.”

Rhiannon is the only girl in the movie theater with a dozen roses on the seat next to her. She is also the only girl whose companion is spilling over his chair and into hers. I try to make it less awkward by draping my arm around her. But then I’m conscious of my sweat, of how my fleshy arm must feel against the back of her neck. I’m also conscious of my breathing, which wheezes a little if I exhale too much. After the previews are over, I move over a seat. But then I move my hand to the seat in between us, and she takes it. We last like that for at least ten minutes, until she pretends she has an itch, and doesn’t return her hand to mine.

I’ve chosen a nice place for dinner, but that doesn’t guarantee that it will be a nice dinner.

She keeps staring at me—staring at Finn.

“What is it?” I finally ask.

“It’s just that … I can’t see you inside. Usually I can. Some glimmer of you in the eyes. But not tonight.”

In some way, this is flattering. But the way she says it, it’s also disheartening.

“I promise I’m in here.”

“I know. But I can’t help it. I just don’t feel anything. When I see you like this, I don’t. I can’t.”

“That’s okay. The reason you’re not seeing it is because he’s so unlike me. You’re not feeling it because I’m not like this. So in a way, it’s consistent.”

“I guess,” she says, spearing some asparagus.

She doesn’t sound convinced. And I feel I’ve already lost if we’ve gotten to the convincing stage.

It doesn’t feel like a date. It doesn’t feel like friendship. It feels like something that fell off the tightrope but hasn’t yet hit the net.

Our cars are still at the bookstore, so we head back there. Instead of cradling her roses, she dangles them at her side, as if at any moment she might need to use them as a bat.

“What’s going on?” I ask her.

“Just an off night, I guess.” She holds the roses up to her nose, smells them. “We’re allowed to have off nights, right? Especially considering …”

“Yeah. Especially considering.”

If I were in a different body, this would be the time I would lean down and kiss her. If I were in a different body, that kiss could transform the night from off to on. If I were in a different body, she would see me inside. She would see what she wanted to see.

But now it’s awkward.

She holds the roses to my nose. I breathe in the perfume.