Kitabı oku: «Every Day», sayfa 2

But with Rhiannon I can’t resist.

She continues. “So I had my wannabe prom dress. And then it was Mom’s turn. She surprised me, because she went for the dresses too. I’d never really seen her all dressed up before. And I think that was the most amazing thing to me: It wasn’t me who was Cinderella. It was her.

“After we picked out our clothes, they put on makeup and everything. I thought Mom was going to flip, but she was actually enjoying it. They didn’t really do much with her – just a little more color. And that was all it took. She was pretty. I know it’s hard to believe, knowing her now. But that day, she was like a movie star. All the other moms were complimenting her. And then it was time for the actual show, and we paraded out there and people applauded. Mom and I were both smiling, and it was real, you know?

“We didn’t get to keep the dresses or anything. But I remember on the ride home, Mom kept saying how great I was. When we got back to our house, Dad looked at us like we were aliens, but the cool thing is, he decided to play along. Instead of getting all weird, he kept calling us his supermodels, and asked us to do the show for him in our living room, which we did. We were laughing so much. And that was it. The day ended. I’m not sure Mom’s worn makeup since. And it’s not like I turned out to be a supermodel. But that day reminds me of this one. Because it was a break from everything, wasn’t it?”

“It sounds like it,” I tell her.

“I can’t believe I just told you that.”

“Why?”

“Because. I don’t know. It just sounds so silly.”

“No, it sounds like a good day.”

“How about you?” she asks.

“I was never in a mother-daughter fashion show,” I joke. Even though, as a matter of fact, I’ve been in a few.

She hits me lightly on the shoulder. “No. Tell me about another day like this one.”

I access Justin and find out he moved to town when he was twelve. So anything before that is fair game, because Rhiannon won’t have been there. I could try to find one of Justin’s memories to share, but I don’t want to do that. I want to give Rhiannon something of my own.

“There was this one day when I was eleven.” I try to remember the name of the boy whose body I was in, but it’s lost to me. “I was playing hide-and-seek with my friends. I mean, the brutal, tackle kind of hide-and-seek. We were in the woods, and for some reason I decided that what I had to do was climb a tree. I don’t think I’d ever climbed a tree before. But I found one with some low branches and just started moving. Up and up. It was as natural as walking. In my memory, that tree was hundreds of feet tall. Thousands. At some point, I crossed the tree line. I was still climbing, but there weren’t any other trees around. I was all by myself, clinging to the trunk of this tree, a long way from the ground.”

I can see shimmers of it now. The height. The town below me.

“It was magical,” I say. “There’s no other word to describe it. I could hear my friends yelling as they were caught, as the game played out. But I was in a completely different place. I was seeing the world from above, which is an extraordinary thing when it happens for the first time. I’d never flown in a plane. I’m not even sure I’d been in a tall building. So there I was, hovering above everything I knew. I had made it somewhere special, and I’d gotten there all on my own. Nobody had given it to me. Nobody had told me to do it. I’d climbed and climbed and climbed, and this was my reward. To watch over the world, and to be alone with myself. That, I found, was what I needed.”

Rhiannon leans into me. “That’s amazing,” she whispers.

“Yeah, it was.”

“And it was in Minnesota?”

In truth, it was in North Carolina. But I access Justin and find that, yes, for him it would’ve been Minnesota. So I nod.

“You want to know another day like this one?” Rhiannon asks, curling closer.

I adjust my arm, make us both comfortable. “Sure.”

“It was our second date.”

But this is only our first, I think. Ridiculously.

“Really?” I ask.

“Remember?”

I check to see if Justin remembers their second date. He doesn’t.

“Dack’s party?” she prompts.

Still nothing.

“Yeah . . .” I hedge.

“I don’t know – maybe it doesn’t count as a date. But it was the second time we hooked up. And, I don’t know, you were just so . . . sweet about it. Don’t get mad, all right?”

I wonder where this is going.

“I promise, nothing could make me mad right now,” I tell her. I even cross my heart to prove it.

She smiles. “Okay. Well, lately – it’s like you’re always in a rush. Like, we have sex, but we’re not really . . . intimate. And I don’t mind. I mean, it’s fun. But every now and then, it’s good to have it be like this. And at Dack’s party – it was like this. Like you had all the time in the world, and you wanted us to have it together. I loved that. It was back when you were really looking at me. It was like – well, it was like you’d climbed up that tree and found me there at the top. And we had that together. Even though we were in someone’s back yard. At one point – do you remember? – you made me move over a little so I’d be in the moonlight. ‘It makes your skin glow,’ you said. And I felt like that. Glowing. Because you were watching me, along with the moon.”

Does she realize that right now she’s lit by the warm orange spreading from the horizon, as not-quite-day becomes not-quite-night? I lean over and become that shadow. I kiss her once, then we drift into each other, close our eyes, drift into sleep. And as we drift into sleep, I feel something I’ve never felt before. A closeness that isn’t merely physical. A connection that defies the fact that we’ve only just met. A sensation that can only come from the most euphoric of feelings: belonging.

What is it about the moment you fall in love? How can such a small measure of time contain such enormity? I suddenly realize why people believe in déjà vu, why people believe they’ve lived past lives, because there is no way the years I’ve spent on this earth could possibly encapsulate what I’m feeling. The moment you fall in love feels like it has centuries behind it, generations – all of them rearranging themselves so that this precise, remarkable intersection could happen. In your heart, in your bones, no matter how silly you know it is, you feel that everything has been leading to this, all the secret arrows were pointing here, the universe and time itself have crafted this long ago, and you are just now realizing it, you are just now arriving at the place you were always meant to be.

We wake an hour later to the sound of her phone.

I keep my eyes closed. Hear her groan. Hear her tell her mother she’ll be home soon.

The water has gone deep black and the sky has gone ink blue. The chill in the air presses harder against us as we pick up the blanket, provide a new set of footprints.

She navigates, I drive. She talks, I listen. We sing some more. Then she leans into my shoulder and I let her stay there and sleep for a little longer, dream for a little longer.

I am trying not to think of what will happen next.

I am trying not to think of endings.

I never get to see people while they’re asleep. Not like this. She is the opposite of when I first met her. Her vulnerability is open, but she’s safe within it. I watch the rise and fall of her, the stir and rest of her. I only wake her when I need her to tell me where to go.

The last ten minutes, she talks about what we’re going to do tomorrow. I find it hard to respond.

“Even if we can’t do this, I’ll see you at lunch?” she asks.

I nod.

“And maybe we can do something after school?”

“I think so. I mean, I’m not sure what else is going on. My mind isn’t really there right now.”

This makes sense to her. “Fair enough. Tomorrow is tomorrow. Let’s end today on a nice note.”

Once we get to town, I can access the directions to her house without having to ask her. But I want to get lost, anyway. To prolong this. To escape this.

“Here we are,” Rhiannon says as we approach her driveway.

I pull the car over. I unlock the doors.

She leans over and kisses me. My senses are alive with the taste of her, the smell of her, the feel of her, the sound of her breathing, the sight of her as she pulls her body away from mine.

“That’s the nice note,” she says. And before I can say anything else, she’s out the door and gone.

I don’t get a chance to say goodbye.

I guess, correctly, that Justin’s parents are used to him being out of touch and missing dinner. They try to yell at him, but you can tell that everyone’s going through the motions, and when Justin storms off to his room, it’s just the latest rerun of an old show.

I should be doing Justin’s homework – I’m always pretty conscientious about that kind of thing, if I’m able to do it – but my mind keeps drifting to Rhiannon. Imagining her at home. Imagining her floating from the grace of the day. Imagining her believing that things are different, that Justin has somehow changed.

I shouldn’t have done it. I know I shouldn’t have done it. Even if it felt like the universe was telling me to do it.

I agonize over it for hours. I can’t take it back. I can’t make it go away.

I fell in love once, or at least until today I thought I had. His name was Brennan, and it felt so real, even if it was mostly words. Intense, heartfelt words. I stupidly let myself think of a possible future with him. But there was no future. I tried to navigate it, but I couldn’t.

That was easy compared to this. It’s one thing to fall in love. It’s another to feel someone else falling in love with you, and to feel a responsibility toward that love.

There is no way for me to stay in this body. If I don’t go to sleep, the shift will happen anyway. I used to think that if I stayed up all night, I’d get to remain where I was. But instead I was ripped from the body I was in. And the ripping felt exactly what you would imagine being ripped from a body would feel like, with every single nerve experiencing the pain of the break, and then the pain of being fused into someone new. From then on, I went to sleep every night. There was no use fighting it.

I realize I have to call her. Her number’s right there in his phone. I can’t let her think tomorrow is going to be like today.

“Hey!” she answers.

“Hey,” I say.

“Thank you again for today.”

“Yeah.”

I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to ruin it. But I have to, don’t I?

I continue, “But about today?”

“Yeah? Are you going to tell me that we can’t cut class every day? That’s not like you.”

Not like me.

“Yeah,” I say, “but, you know, I don’t want you to think every day is going to be like today. Because they’re not going to be, all right? They can’t be.”

There’s a silence. She knows something’s wrong.

“I know that,” she says carefully. “But maybe things can still be better. I know they can be.”

“I don’t know,” I tell her. “That’s all I wanted to say. I don’t know. Today was something, but it’s not, like, everything.”

“I know that.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

I sigh.

There’s always a chance that, in some way, I will have brushed off on Justin. There’s always a chance that his life will in fact change – that he will change. But I have no way of knowing. It’s rare that I get to see a body after I’ve left it. And even then, it’s usually months or years later. If I recognize it at all.

I want Justin to be better to her. But I can’t have her expecting it.

“That’s all,” I say. It feels like a Justin thing to say.

“Well, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yeah, you will.”

“Thanks again for today. No matter what trouble we get into tomorrow for it, it was worth it.”

“Yeah.”

“I love you,” she says.

And I want to say it. I want to say I love you too. Right now, right at this moment, every part of me would mean it. But that will only last for a couple more hours.

“Sleep well,” I tell her. Then I hang up.

There’s a notebook on his desk.

Remember that you love Rhiannon, I write in his handwriting.

I doubt he’ll remember writing it.

I go on to his computer. I open up my own email account, then type out her name, her phone number, her email address, as well as Justin’s email and password. I write about the day. And I send it to myself.

As soon as I’m through, I clear Justin’s history.

This is hard for me.

I have gotten so used to what I am, and how my life works.

I never want to stay. I’m always ready to leave.

But not tonight.

Tonight I’m haunted by the fact that tomorrow he’ll be here and I won’t be.

I want to stay.

I pray to stay.

I close my eyes and wish to stay.

DAY 5995

I wake up thinking of yesterday. The joy is in remembering; the pain is in knowing it was yesterday.

I am not there. I am not in Justin’s bed, not in Justin’s body.

Today I am Leslie Wong. I have slept through the alarm, and her mother is mad.

“Get up!” she yells, shaking my new body. “You have twenty minutes, and then Owen leaves!”

“Okay, Mom,” I groan.

“Mom! If your mother was here, I can’t imagine what she’d say!”

I quickly access Leslie’s mind. Grandmother, then. Mom’s already left for work.

As I stand in the shower, trying to remind myself I have to make it a quick one, I lose myself for a minute in thoughts of Rhiannon. I’m sure I dreamt of her. I wonder: If I started dreaming when I was in Justin’s body, did he continue the dream? Will he wake up thinking sweetly of her?

Or is that just another kind of dream on my part?

“Leslie! Come on!”

I get out of the shower, dry off and get dressed quickly. Leslie is not, I can tell, a particularly popular girl. The few photos of friends she has around seem half-hearted, and her clothing choices are more like a thirteen-year-old’s than a sixteen-year-old’s.

I head into the kitchen and the grandmother glares at me.

“Don’t forget your clarinet,” she warns.

“I won’t,” I mumble.

There’s a boy at the table giving me an evil look. Leslie’s brother, I assume – and then confirm it. Owen. A senior. My ride to school.

I have gotten very used to the fact that most mornings in most homes are exactly the same. Stumbling out of the bed. Stumbling into the shower. Mumbling over the breakfast table. Or, if the parents are still asleep, the tiptoe out of the house. The only way to keep it interesting is to look for the variations.

This morning’s variation comes care of Owen, who lights up a joint the minute we get into the car. I’m assuming this is part of his morning routine, so I make sure Leslie doesn’t seem as surprised as I am.

Still, Owen hazards a “Don’t say a word” about three minutes into the ride. I stare out the window. Two minutes later, he says, “Look, I don’t need your judgment, okay?” The joint is done by then; it doesn’t make him any mellower.

I prefer to be an only child. In the long term, I can see how siblings could be helpful in life – someone to share family secrets with, someone of your own generation who knows if your memories are right or not, someone who sees you at eight and eighteen and forty-eight all at once, and doesn’t mind. I understand that. But in the short term, siblings are at best a hassle and at worst a terror. Most of the abuse I have suffered in my admittedly unusual life has come from brothers and sisters, with older brothers and older sisters being, by and large, the worst offenders. At first, I was naïve, and assumed that brothers and sisters were natural allies, instant companions. And sometimes, the context would allow this to happen – if we were on a family trip, for example, or if it was a lazy Sunday where teaming up with me was my sibling’s only form of entertainment. But on ordinary days, the rule is competition, not collaboration. There are times when I wonder whether brothers and sisters are, in fact, the ones who sense that something is off with whatever person I’m inhabiting, and move to take advantage. When I was eight, an older sister told me we were going to run away together – then abandoned the “together” part when we got to the train station, leaving me to wander there for hours, too scared to ask for help – scared that she would find out and berate me for ending our game. As a boy, I’ve had brothers – both older and younger – wrestle me, hit me, kick me, bite me, shove me, and call me more names than I could ever catalog.

The best I can hope for is a quiet sibling. At first I have Owen pegged as one of those. In the car, it appears I am wrong. But then, once we get out at school, it appears I am right again. With other kids around, he retreats into invisibility, keeping his head down as he makes his way inside, leaving me completely behind. No goodbye, no have-a-nice-day. Just a quick glance to see that my door is closed before he locks the car.

“What are you looking at?” a voice asks from over my left shoulder as I watch him enter school alone.

I turn around and do some serious accessing.

Carrie. Best friend since fourth grade.

“Just my brother.”

“Why? He’s such a waste of space.”

Here’s the strange thing: I am fine thinking the same words myself, but hearing them come out of Carrie’s mouth makes me feel defensive.

“Come on,” I say.

“Come on? Are you kidding me?”

Now I think: She knows something I don’t. I decide to keep my mouth shut.

She seems relieved to change the subject.

“What did you do last night?” she asks.

Flashes of Rhiannon rise in my mind’s eye. I try to tamp them down, but they’re not that easy to contain. Once you experience enormity, it lingers everywhere you look, and wants to be every word you say.

“Not much,” I push on, not bothering to access Leslie. This answer always works, no matter what the question. “You?”

“You didn’t get my text?”

I mumble something about my phone dying.

“That explains why you haven’t asked me yet! Guess what. Corey IM’d me! We chatted for, like, almost an hour.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah, isn’t it?” Carrie sighs contently. “After all this time. I didn’t even know he knew my screen name. You didn’t tell him, did you?”

More accessing. This is the kind of question that can really trip a person up. Maybe not right away. But in the future. If Leslie claims she wasn’t the one who told Corey, and Carrie finds out she was, it could throw their friendship off balance. Or if Leslie claims she was, and Carrie finds out she wasn’t.

Corey is Corey Handlemann, a junior who Carrie’s had a crush on for at least three weeks. Leslie doesn’t know him well, and I can’t find a memory of giving a screenname to him. I think it’s safe.

“No,” I say, shaking my head. “I didn’t.”

“Well, I guess he really had to work hard to find it,” she says. (Or, I think, he just saw it on your Facebook profile.)

I immediately feel guilty for my snarky thoughts. This is the hard part about having best friends that I feel no attachment to – I don’t give them any benefit of the doubt. And being best friends is always about the benefit of the doubt.

Carrie is very excited about Corey, so I pretend to be very excited for her. It’s only after we separate for homeroom that I feel an emotion kicking at me, one I thought I had under control: jealousy. Although I am not articulating it to myself in as many words, I am feeling jealous that Carrie can have Corey while I can never have Rhiannon.

Ridiculous, I chastise myself. You are being ridiculous.

When you live as I do, you cannot indulge in jealousy. If you do, it will rip you apart.

Third period is band class. I tell the teacher that I left my clarinet at home, even though it’s in my locker. Leslie gets marked down and has to take the class as a study hall, but I don’t care.

I don’t know how to play the clarinet.

Word about Carrie and Corey travels fast. All of our friends are talking about it, and mostly they’re pleased. I can’t tell, though, whether they’re pleased because it’s a perfect match or because now Carrie will shut up about it.

When I see Corey at lunchtime, I am unsurprised by how unremarkable he is. People are rarely as attractive in reality as they are in the eyes of the people who are in love with them. Which is, I suppose, as it should be. It’s almost heartening to think that the attachment you have can define your perception as much as any other influence.

Corey comes over at lunch to say hi, but he doesn’t stay to eat with us, even though we make room for him at our table. Carrie doesn’t seem to notice this; she’s just giddy that he’s come by, that she didn’t dream the whole IM exchange, that chatting has escalated into speaking . . . and who knows what will happen next? As I suspected, Leslie does not move in a fast crowd. These girls are thinking of kissing, not sex. The lips are the gates of their desire.

I want to run away again, to skip the second half of the day again.

But it wouldn’t be right, without her.

It feels like I am wasting time. I mean, that’s always the case. My life doesn’t add up to anything.

Except, for an afternoon, it did.

Yesterday is another world. I want to go back there.

Early sixth period, right after lunch, my brother is called down to the principal’s office.

At first, I think I might have heard it wrong. But then I see other people in class looking at me, including Carrie, who has pity in her eyes. So I must have heard it right.

I am not alarmed. I figure if it was something really bad, they would have called us both. Nobody in my family has died. Our house hasn’t burned down. It’s Owen’s business, not mine.

Carrie sends me a note. What happened?

I send a shrug in her direction. How am I supposed to know?

I just hope I haven’t lost my ride home.

Sixth period ends. I gather my books and head to English class. The book is Beowulf, so I’m completely prepared. I’ve done this unit plenty of times.

I’m about ten steps away from the classroom when someone grabs me.

I turn, and there’s Owen.

Owen, bleeding.

“Shh,” he says. “Just come with me.”

“What happened?” I ask.

“Just shh, okay?”

He’s looking around like he’s being chased. I decide to go along. After all, this is more exciting than Beowulf.

We get to a supply closet. He motions me in.

“Are you kidding me?” I say.

“Leslie .”

There’s no arguing. I follow him in. I find the light switch easily.

He’s breathing hard. For a moment, he doesn’t say anything.

“You were going to tell me what happened?” I say.

“I think I might be in trouble.”

“Duh. I heard you called to the principal’s office. Why aren’t you down there?”

“I was down there. I mean, before the announcement. But then I . . . left.”

“You bolted from the principal’s office?”

“Yeah. Well, the waiting room. They went to check my locker. I’m sure of it.”

The blood is coming from a cut above his eye.

“Who hit you?” I ask.

“It doesn’t matter. Just shut up and listen to me, okay?”

“I’m listening, but you’re not saying anything!”

I don’t think Leslie usually talks back to her older brother. But I don’t care. He isn’t really paying attention to me, anyway.

“They’re going to call home, okay? I need you to back me up.” He hands me his keys. “Just go home after school and see what the situation is. I’ll call you.”

Luckily, I know how to drive.

When I don’t argue, he takes it as acquiescence.

“Thanks,” he tells me.

“Are you going to the principal’s office now?” I ask him.

He leaves without an answer.

Carrie has the news by the end of the day. Whether it’s the truth doesn’t really matter. It’s the news that’s going around, and she’s eager to report it to me.

“Your brother and Josh Wolf got into a fight out by the field, during lunch. They’re saying it had to do with drugs, and that your brother is a dealer or something. I mean, I knew he was into pot and everything, but I had no idea he dealt. He and Josh were dragged down to the principal’s office, but Owen decided to run. Can you believe it? They were paging him to come back. But I don’t think he did.”

“Who’d you hear it from?” I ask. She’s giddy with excitement.

“From Corey! He wasn’t out there, but some of the guys he hangs out with saw the fight and everything.”

I see now that the fact that Corey told her is the bigger news here. She’s not so selfish that she wants me to congratulate her, not with my brother in trouble. But it’s clear what her priority is.

“I’ve got to drive home,” I say.

“Do you want me to come with you?” Carrie asks. “I don’t want you to have to walk in there alone.”

For a second, I’m tempted. But then I imagine her giving Corey the blow-by-blow account of what goes down, and even if that’s not a fair assumption to make, it’s enough to make me realize I don’t want her there.

“It’s okay,” I say. “If anything, this is really going to make me look like the good daughter.”

Carrie laughs, but more out of support than humor.

“Tell Corey I say hi,” I say playfully as I close my locker.

She laughs again. This time, out of happiness.

“Where is he?”

I haven’t even stepped through the kitchen door and the interrogation begins.

Leslie’s mother, father and grandmother are all there, and I don’t need to access her mind to know this is an unusual occurrence at three in the afternoon.

“I have no idea,” I say. I’m glad he didn’t tell me; this way, I don’t have to lie.

“What do you mean, you have no idea?” my father asks. He’s the lead inquisitor in this family.

“I mean, I have no idea. He gave me the keys to the car, but he wouldn’t tell me what was going on.”

“And you let him walk away?”

“I didn’t see any police chasing after him,” I say. Then I wonder if there are, in fact, police chasing after him.

My grandmother snorts in disgust.

“You always take his side,” my father intones. “But not this time. This time you are going to tell us everything.”

He doesn’t realize he’s just helped me. Now I know that Leslie always takes Owen’s side. So my instinct is correct.

“You probably know more than I do,” I say.

“Why would your brother and Josh Wolf have a fight?” my mother asks, genuinely bewildered. “They’re such good friends!”

My mental image of Josh Wolf is of a ten-year-old, leading me to believe that at one point, my brother probably was good friends with Josh Wolf. But not anymore.

“Sit down,” my father commands, pointing to a kitchen chair.

I sit down.

“Now . . . where is he?”

“I genuinely don’t know.”

“She’s telling the truth,” my mother says. “I can tell when she’s lying.”

Even though I have way too many control issues to do drugs myself, I am starting to get a sense why Owen likes to get stoned.

“Well, let me ask this, then,” my father continues. “Is your brother a drug dealer?”

This is a very good question. My instinct is no. But a lot depends on what happened on the field with Josh Wolf.

So I don’t answer. I just stare.

“Josh Wolf says the drugs in his jacket were sold to him by your brother,” my father prods. “Are you saying they weren’t?”

“Did they find any drugs on Owen?” I ask.

“No,” my mother answers.

“And in his locker? Didn’t they search his locker?” My mother shakes her head.

“And in his room? Did you find any in his room?”

My mother actually looks surprised.

“I know you looked in his room,” I say.

“We haven’t found anything,” my father answers. “Yet. And we also need to take a look in that car. So if you will please give me the keys . . .”

I am hoping that Owen was smart enough to clear out the car. Either way, it’s not up to me. I hand over the keys.

Unbelievably, they’ve searched my room too.

“I’m sorry,” my mother says from the hallway, tears in her eyes now. “He thought your brother might have hidden the drugs in here. Without you knowing.”

“It’s fine,” I say, more to get her out of the room than anything else. “I’m just going to clean up now.”

But I’m not quick enough. My phone rings. I hold it so my mom can’t see Owen’s name on the display.

“Hi, Carrie,” I say.

Owen is at least smart enough to keep his voice down so it won’t be overheard.

“Are they mad?” he whispers.

I want to laugh. “What do you think?”

“That bad?”

“They’ve ransacked his room, but they haven’t found anything. They’re looking in his car now!”

“Don’t tell her that!” my mother says. “Get off the phone.”

“Sorry – Mom’s here, and not happy about me talking to you about this. Where are you? Are you at home? Can I call you back?”

“I don’t know what to do.”

“Yeah, he really does have to come home eventually, doesn’t he?”

“Look . . . meet me in a half-hour at the playground, okay?”

“I really have to go. But, yes, I’ll do that.”

I hang up. My mother is still looking at me.

“I’m not the one you’re mad at!” I remind her.

Poor Leslie will have to clean up the mess in her room tomorrow morning – I can’t be bothered to figure out where everything goes. That would take too much accessing, and the priority is finding which playground Owen means. There’s one at an elementary school about four blocks from the house. I assume that’s the place.

It’s not easy to sneak out of the house. I wait until the three of them return to Owen’s room to tear it apart again, then skulk out the back door. I know this is a risky maneuver – the minute they realize I’m gone, there will be hell to pay. But if Owen comes back with me, that’ll all be forgotten.

I know I should be focusing on the matter at hand, but I can’t help but think of Rhiannon. School’s now over for her too. Is she hanging out with Justin? If so, is he treating her well? Did anything about yesterday rub off on him?