Читать книгу Someday - Дэвид Левитан, Рэйчел Кон, David Levithan - Страница 16
ОглавлениеI used to think nobody could see me. The body I was in was impenetrable from the outside—no one else would ever expect I was there, and therefore even when I slipped up, it would be written off as the action of the person whose life I was borrowing. No one is entirely predictable—we all have surprising bursts. I hid behind that.
I got better at hiding over time, once I figured out what was going on. As a kid, I was a poor mimic, but because kids produce surprising burst after surprising burst, nothing I did ever seemed so out of character that any parent, teacher, or friend suspected the truth. Around ten or eleven, I better understood the ways to disappear, even if I still didn’t understand why I was so different from everyone else. The past couple of years, I treated it like a test I was passing. I stopped wondering what I sounded like, because the sound of my thoughts was enough. I stopped wondering what I looked like, because whatever I looked like that day was enough. I stopped wanting people to see me, because to have them see me would be the ultimate failure of the test.
I took the roles I played to heart because I didn’t have a heart of my own. I only showed anger when I thought I was meant to show anger. I only showed affection when I felt it was my obligation to show affection. I didn’t know what most of these emotions actually felt like, because I never got to express them purely. Only sorrow appeared unfiltered, because what made me cry was often the same as what would have made anyone else cry. Joy, though, was the opposite, because my joy was always edged by the fact that it wasn’t really mine.
Only with Rhiannon did I get to be directly myself. Now, after, I fear a part of the impulse has lingered. I fear I am beginning to show through.
On Monday, my (temporary, one-day-only) best friend tells me she senses there’s something I’m not saying, something I want to say. I tell her no, I’m just a little tired, a little lost in my own mind. I don’t think she believes me, and for a second, I have the desire to tell her everything, to tell her about Rhiannon and ask her what I should do.
On Tuesday, two guys in class give me a hard time because they were expecting me to agree that America is better off with closed borders, and that most of the problems facing America today can be traced to immigration. You’re totally reversing your opinion, they tell me, disgusted. I know I should not be deviating from what he would normally say. But I can’t force myself to repeat something I know isn’t true.
On Wednesday, my (not really my) girlfriend must use the same shampoo as Rhiannon, because every time she comes close to me, it’s like a trapdoor. When she kisses me, I trick myself into being in the past, imagining it can be the present. I must put a lot into it, because when she pulls back, she says, Well, Tara, that was enthusiastic. And I tell her, I love the way you smell. She says, I don’t smell like anything. I want to say, You smell like Rhiannon. But what I say is, You smell like Rhiannon you.
On Thursday, I’m on crutches that I barely know how to use. After first period, a friend takes my backpack from me and says, You need to let me help you. I have a feeling the boy I’m in has turned down her help before. But this time, I welcome it.
When Friday comes, I wake up in the body of a girl named Whitney Jones. She gets up at 5:32 a.m. for swim practice, and I force myself to go, even though I know her performance is going to be off. It takes me about two periods in school to realize she’s one of the only black girls in class—a point brought home in third-period history, when both the teacher and other students keep looking at her when they’re talking about Selma, as if her skin color makes her an expert on something that happened decades before she was born. I would guess they don’t even realize they’re doing it—when people are thinking about a difference, their eyes will usually wander to someone they think embodies that difference. It always makes me feel strange, because I’m not nearly as used to it as the people I’m in are. I try to take the scrutiny on the surface level on which it’s intended—they’re looking at Whitney while they talk about John Lewis because their minds are thinking, Black people. But now, paranoid, I wonder if they also see me, a different kind of different one, underneath.
Whitney’s best friend is named Didi, and they have plans to hang out after school at Didi’s apartment. It soon becomes obvious that Didi is obsessed with a popular series of online videos on a site called Truth Serum, created by a woman named Lorraine Hines, whose catchphrase (it’s all over the site) is Truth IS the Serum. Each video on the site is like a public confessional, only confession isn’t really the right word for all of them. Some of the truths are more political—a woman telling how she really feels about being ogled on the subway, a man talking about trying to explain the concept of race to his biracial children. Most of the truths are very, very personal—people not just admitting affairs, but explaining why they think the affairs happened, or people confronting the pain of their childhoods, including (sometimes) their own culpability, or (more often) the culpability of the people they trusted and loved. There’s no narrative imposed, no set structure. The truth unfolds into whatever shape it takes when it’s exposed to the air.
Some videos are five minutes long and reduce me to tears. Others are ten minutes long and make me laugh at how true they are. Didi and I watch five, then ten of them. Sometimes, when Lorraine Hines thinks the person needs to be talking to someone in order to release the truth, she’ll ask some questions. But most of the time, she’s off camera, and the only person you see is the person telling the truth.
“I swear, I could watch this all day,” Didi says after we’ve watched a sixty-year-old man talk about how he’s never been interested in sex, and feels like he’s had a completely full life without it. “Although afterwards I’m always torn between wanting everyone to be truthful like this in real life and thinking that it would be a bad, bad idea. Because it’s one thing to watch people do it, and another to have people do it to your face, right?”
I nod.
She continues. “Like, how long do you think we could make it, only telling the truth?”
“Two minutes?” I say. This may or may not be the truth.
“Let’s try it!” she says energetically, as if she just suggested we sneak some chocolate from the kitchen.
I laugh.
“What?” she asks. “Nervous?”
There’s no way to tell her that no, that’s not why I’m laughing. I’m laughing because for a second I was thinking I could actually play the truth game—that any answer Whitney gave could be truthful when I’m doing the speaking.
“You go first,” I say.
“Do a starter question. Like . . . how was your day?”
“Okay. How was your day?”
“It doesn’t have to be—Oh, okay. It’s so funny, because even though I know we’re doing truth serum, my first impulse was to say that my day was fine. And that’s not a lie, really. But I guess there’s more to it than that. I was looking forward to this part all day, because I knew it would be the best part. When I’m in class, I’m paying attention, right? But I’m also kinda not there. Not in the way I’m here, hanging out. I don’t enjoy school. I think you do, at least some of the time. I think when you get an answer right or get an A on a paper, you get a kick out of that. But I think of it as something that means a lot to other people, not to me. You know what I mean? Like, if I get an A, that means a lot to my parents and it will mean a lot to whoever looks at my college applications. But to me? It’s not what matters. How about you? How was your day?”
I think I can answer this one, since it’s the part of Whitney’s life I know best. “I’m still tired from swim practice, which seems designed to ruin you for the whole day. It’s a lift during, but then the buzz wears off and it’s like, shit, there are still thirteen more waking hours to go. I had the usual Token Black Girl experience in history class. I know my life is completely informed by this country’s racial history, but that doesn’t mean everyone has to talk to me like I am the class’s representative of that racial history—as if every white kid in there hasn’t been molded by the very same things! That’s exhausting. And then even at lunch, I have to wonder whether people notice me because of me or because of the way I look. Exhausting. So I guess, coming from another direction, I agree with you: This right now is definitely the best part of the day. I think some of the people on those videos are doing it because they like the sound of their own voices, but I think others genuinely seem to have no idea why they’re telling the truth to a world of strangers—and that is, to me at least, much more truthful. When you’re telling the truth, you should look terrified and exhilarated at the same time, because telling the truth is navigating both of those feelings at the same exact time.” I stop. “Is that truthful enough for you?”
Didi looks like she needs to catch her breath. “I mean—yes. That was great. But what do you mean, Token Black Girl ? That’s not how I see you at all. You’re just . . . Whitney.”
It occurs to me that Didi might have been in my history class. I might not have noticed her there, since we hadn’t had lunch together yet, so I hadn’t identified her as my best friend.
“Not you,” I say. Not because I know it’s true, but because it makes the moment easier. “More Mr. Snyder.”
“Snerder.”
“Didn’t I say Snerder?”
“No, you said Snyder.”
She’s looking at me like I just spit some truth serum out on her floor instead of swallowing it.
“Are you okay?” she asks.
In response, I give her the same words I’ve given so many other people, without any of them ever understanding what I really mean.
“I’m not myself today.”
This defuses the situation somewhat.
“I think watching too much Lorraine Hines will do that,” Didi says. “You probably said Snerder. And he can be a total dick. No matter what color you are.”
I must remember that I am Whitney. I must remember that Didi is her friend. I must remember that if Whitney wants to call Didi on her assumptions, that’s Whitney’s decision, not mine. So instead of telling her what I really think, I say, “All this truth serum’s made me hungry. Do you have any popcorn in the kitchen?”
“Let’s check,” she says, leaving the conversation as fast as she can leave the room.
For the rest of the afternoon, until I can plead a dinner excuse, I go through the motions.
Meaning: I could be anyone.
Also meaning: I am no one at all.
Later that night, alone in Whitney’s room, I try not to think about Didi, and wonder some more about the people in the videos. I head to the Truth Serum website, which is arranged to look like a truth-themed lifestyle magazine, with Lorraine Hines front and center. It’s a little off-putting, how thrilled she seems by other people laying themselves bare. But when you filter her out and focus on the truth tellers themselves, there is something magnetic about the bareness, and the bravery of the ones who wear the terror and exhilaration so clearly.
I watch some more videos. A pastor questioning God. A teenager describing his suicide attempt and why he’s grateful his stomach was pumped in time. A grandmother whose big truth is that she has been happy with her life, and how she feels that in a culture of complaint, it is frowned upon to talk about a life that’s gone well.
The more I hear these truths, the more I can feel my own growing restless. Why do these people get to lay it all out while I have to remain silent? Why can’t I be with the only person who took my truth seriously? If I went on this site and posted a video, there would be two options, both of them bad:
People wouldn’t believe me. Or they would.
People would treat me as a lunatic. Or they would take me at my word—and hunt me down to understand how I came to be how I am.
Also, if I made a video, it wouldn’t be me they saw. And whoever’s life I borrowed would have to bear the stigma of my presence for the rest of their future.
So . . . definitely not an option.
I go back to the Truth Serum home page and see a button labeled Anonymous Truth. I click on it and Lorraine Hines appears.
“For many of us, the truth can only be said if there’s someone listening. But often the truth becomes harder if the person listening is someone we know. We here at Truth Serum want to provide a safe forum for you to share your truth with someone you don’t know. Just click the link below and you will be paired at random with a person who will witness your truth without judgment.”
I don’t know that I believe anyone can ever listen without judgment—but still I click on the link. There’s no risk that I can see. I will be elsewhere in the morning.
I am put in a chat box with someone who goes by the initials WL. I am reminded before WL comes into the chat that our conversation will be anonymous. I enter the initials AA.
I feel the skittish foolishness that comes from relying on my own anonymity, even though WL can’t see me, complicated by the fact that I already feel I’m hiding behind Whitney’s body.
WL: Hello. I am WL (not my real initials) and I will be your truth listener today. Please, tell me your truth.
I’m disappointed by how rote this is. I’m probably talking to some cut-rate artificial intelligence—artificial semi-intelligence. I almost log off. But then I decide, no, I might as well acknowledge my reaction, in the spirit of telling the truth.
AA: That seems abrupt. And vague.
I figure this is the part when it will become obvious if it’s a computer I’m talking to.
WL: It is. But that’s how this works.
AA: But what do you mean by “your truth”? Don’t we have many? I mean, I’m wearing a red shirt right now. That’s a truth.
WL: That isn’t the truth you came here to talk about, though, is it?
AA: No. It isn’t.
WL: So tell me that truth. The one that brought you here.
Why am I here? Maybe to be forced into this question. Because that’s the thing about my life—nobody asks me anything. And if nobody’s asking, it’s easy to keep all the answers on the shelf, gathering dust. I can forget they exist. I can avoid them.
The reason I’m here isn’t because of what happens to me every day. The reason I’m here is . . .
AA: I am in love with someone I can’t be with.
I exhale. It is an effort to admit this, even to a stranger. It is an effort to admit it to myself.
WL: Why not?
AA: Because she isn’t here.
WL: Where is she?
AA: 1500 miles away. I left her. I had to.
WL has no idea how old I am. WL has no idea what I look like. WL has no idea where I am.
In many ways, WL knows me better than anyone in front of me ever does.
WL: Why did you have to leave?
AA: Because there was no way for me to stay.
WL: Why?
AA: Because I have a condition that prevents me from being able to stay with her.
This is the closest I can come to explaining it. I know it isn’t entirely truthful. But even with WL, I have to draw a line. I can only trust so far. I can only expect understanding to a certain degree.
WL: A medical condition? A psychological condition?
Same thing, I want to tell WL.
AA: A medical condition.
But this doesn’t feel like the truth. I keep typing.
AA: No, that’s not right. It’s who I am. Neither medical nor psychological. Or even spiritual. It’s just . . . the way my life is.
WL: What about your life is preventing you from being with her?
AA: I just can’t be with her.
WL: Fear of commitment?
“No,” I say to the screen. It’s not fear of commitment. It’s a knowledge that commitment is impossible. I don’t fear it at all.
AA: No. I travel a lot. I mean, I have to travel a lot. There’s no way out of it.
WL: So you can’t be home for her?
AA: I would love to be. But I can’t.
WL: And have you talked this over with her?
AA: Yes.
WL: And she agrees that it cannot work?
Be truthful, I tell myself.
AA: I think so.
WL: You think so?
AA: She knows about my condition. I think she would try to love me anyway. But because I’m the one who’s lived with it my whole life, I know better than her that it will never work.
WL: Is that true?
AA: Yes. Of course it’s true.
WL: Are you sure? You are meant to be telling your truth here.
AA: I know that it’s true.
WL: “Know” is a strong word. You believe. You suspect. But can you really know?
Calmly, I type:
AA: By any rational measure, she and I cannot be together.
WL: What does your heart say?
AA: My heart wants it to be possible. But the universe isn’t governed by wants. Or even needs. Some things don’t work, no matter how much you want them to.
WL: That is not truth. That’s theory. What do you want?
AA: To be able to be with her.
It hurts to say that. Fool fool fool.
WL: What does she want?
AA: I don’t know. I’m not her.
WL: Why don’t you ask?
AA: Because she’s there, and I’m here, and it’s better for us not to torture one another.
WL: Did she tell you it’s better?
I didn’t give her a chance. I didn’t want it to be a prolonged argument. I didn’t want the ending to ruin everything that came before. I wanted to leave her in the arms of someone who might love her for who she is—and who could love her day after day.
AA: No. I left before she could.
WL: That is an interesting truth.
I feel my listener doesn’t like what they’re hearing. I try to trick myself into thinking that it’s WL’s disapproval I’m concerned with, and not the nagging disapproval in my own thoughts.
AA: There are other factors.
WL: What are they?
AA: I can’t tell you.
I expect WL to fight this, but instead I get:
WL: I respect that. Have you told her?
AA: About the other factors? Yes.
WL: All of it?
AA: Yes.
WL: And what was her reaction?
AA: She didn’t believe me. And then she did.
WL: And how did that feel?
AA: Beautiful.
WL: Why would you stop, then?
AA: Because it can’t work.
WL: But even if you’re not together, you can still talk. Why did you stop?
AA: Because I didn’t want to hurt her. Because I don’t want to be hurt. Because I’m afraid. Because wanting to change the things you can’t change—that is so devastating.
WL: But still—you want to talk to her.
AA: Of course.
WL: There’s your truth.
I am formulating my response to that when another message appears.
WL has logged out.
The chat box doesn’t close. As if I may still want a transcript of my truths. As if I won’t remember where this has led me.
I push back from the desk, and it’s only when I do this that I remember I am Whitney right now. I am in Whitney’s body. For a moment there, I completely forgot. I became the bodiless self I imagine everyone becomes when they’re engaged entirely in thought and words.
I should turn off the computer. But there’s a part of me that doesn’t want to put the answers back on the shelf, that doesn’t want to walk away.
I pull myself back to the keys. Before I can stop myself, I go on Facebook, type in her name. It’s an immediate gut punch to see her picture, to have her exist in a form other than memory.
I have to see more.
I click on her name and her page comes up. The profile picture is bigger now—her alone, smiling in front of a movie theater. The photo is recent, from a week ago. I know I should stop myself, that no good can come of this, but I click on the photos tab. I want to see more.
And there he is. Alexander. Who got to stay. Who got to be with Rhiannon.
My instincts must have been right, because the two of them look happy.
Even if he’s not in the profile photo, he must be the person she’s smiling at.
I jump back out to the overall photo page, the mosaic of the photographic past. The first few rows are mostly them as a couple. Then there are pictures of her alone. Some with family. Some with friends. I don’t remember the friends’ names. I don’t recognize most of them. Justin, her evil ex, is nowhere to be found. Which is a relief.
Her recent life is laid out in front of my eyes. But it’s not life, I tell myself. It’s only a representation of life. I am telling myself this, but the sadness is gripping me. I am telling myself this is not real, but the weight of it is real. The truth. The hard truth.
There are no pictures of us.
Not because she deleted them.
There were never any pictures of us.
Never any record.
We were never a part of the shareable present, so we are not a part of the shareable past.
This hurts. This hurts so much that the feeling transfers to Whitney’s body, because my sorrow, my anger, my helplessness are more than just the mind can hold.
I go back to Rhiannon’s home page. I am staying wide of the message button. I am not going to message her.
I suppose I should be grateful. Years ago, there would have been no way to do this. I would have been a submarine without a periscope. Leaving would have meant leaving completely behind. Out of sight, out of reach.
But now she is within reach—and I can feel myself reaching. There is the illusion that she can feel me doing this.
She cannot feel me doing this. She cannot sense me seeing her. She cannot know. Because I cannot be seen like she can be seen.
I start to scroll down. Most of the posts are ones she’s been tagged in—now that I see the friends’ names, I remember them. Preston likes to share cat videos. Rebecca comments about how much she doesn’t like cat videos. Alexander posts artwork he likes—Hockney mountains and Sugimoto horizons.
And Rhiannon . . .
Rhiannon posts a song.
At first I gloss over it. Then I realize what it is. What it means. No—what it could mean.
I am back in the car, singing along at the top of my lungs.
No, not my lungs. Justin’s lungs.
It doesn’t matter. Once Rhiannon knows I am there, I am there. I am singing with her. And again in that basement. As Nathan.
I am so happy, thinking about it. And sad.
We were so happy then. And sad.
There’s no way this is an accident. There’s no way this wasn’t intended. I scroll down and see, in the comments section, another song. Not our song. But still—irrefutable.
“I Still Miss Someone.”
Is it meant for me to see? Or is it just how she was feeling, her own in-joke to herself ?
The message button is calling to me.
But it is a siren. I know it is a siren.
The lines between I cannot do this and I should not do this and I will not do this are all confused. I almost wish the window with WL were still open, so I could ask WL what to do. To which WL would no doubt ask back: Which of the three above statements is the truth?
And I would respond: They are all the truth.
Then: None of them are the truth.
I don’t know if I’m looking for a barrier, but I find one. I am, of course, using Whitney’s account. Right now, I cannot message Rhiannon. Only Whitney can. Rhiannon would know it was me. But that would still leave Whitney. I could hijack her account—change her password, message from it secretly until Whitney took it back. But what kind of person would I be if I did that to her? Not one worthy of Rhiannon.
It will have to be enough to know she is there.
For now.
Before I can spend too much time scrutinizing photos that were never meant to be scrutinized . . . before I can spend too much time debating the words I won’t allow myself to type . . . I log out. Clear history. Shut everything down.
I know it’s wrong for me to think it, but Rhiannon feels closer now.
