Page 2 of Switch!
I’d like to give that genie lamp another rub, because I don’t like this. Nothing feels the same. My long-distance vision isn’t as good, I’ve got a funny taste in my mouth like cheese crackers, and the heart pounding in my padded chest feels like it’s going to explode. I want nothing more than to return to my own body, but looking at it again, I’m pretty sure that it’s dead, meaning I’m trapped here forever. Although if they’re quick enough, maybe someone could do CPR. Hell, maybe I could! I intend to reach across the aisle to basically make out with myself, when my stomach—or Melvin’s stomach, I don’t know—turns over as something hits me from the side.
This time I’m sure that a semi-truck plowed into the bus. My vision goes black for one terrifying moment, and when I can see again, blood is hammering in my ears. I press my hand over my chest, worried that I’m giving Melvin a heart attack, but I don’t feel an insulating layer of fat. Just skin and bones. The light from the window is on my left again, where it’s supposed to be. A book no longer rests on my lap. My hands are scrawny and shaking. I’m inside my own body again.
Who am I kidding? I never left. I look over, sure that I’ll find Melvin nose deep in his book as always. Instead he’s starting right back at me, his face pale like he’s seen a ghost. Even when the bus jerks to a stop.
“Getting off?” the driver shouts.
Melvin looks around, shakes his head, and stands. I glance out the window. This is his stop. When I look back to the aisle, Melvin is walking down it toward the front. I expect him to glance back at me before he disembarks. He doesn’t. When I move to the window on his side of the bus, I see him ambling down the street, the book open in his hands, as if he doesn’t have a care in the world.
The only explanation I can think of is that I’ve lost my mind. It’s either that… or this is the beginning of my life as a superhero.
Two ↔ Chapter
Imagination is humanity’s greatest gift, allowing us to envision what doesn’t exist so that we can make it a reality. Personally, I’ve always been more interested in what is truly impossible. I often imagine what it would be like to be a superhero, picturing myself flying after Caleb while scorching his feet with my laser vision to make him yelp and run.
I never considered body-swapping as a superpower, but I sure like the idea. I have a spring in my step during the walk home, despite not being sure if I’m going crazy or not. Did I really just switch places with Melvin Garcia? Or was it all a stress-induced hallucination? I don’t really care either way, too delighted by the possibilities. I imagine myself possessing Caleb during lunch and making him pour chocolate milk over his own head while standing on the table, so the entire cafeteria could see. The videos of it would go viral. Half a million of the views would be me watching it on repeat. Please please please let this be real! I can’t think of anything I’d like to see more. Other than another season ofFirefly.
I feel positively giddy when opening the door to my apartment, thinking about all the ways I’d use my powers. For good, of course. Erm… Mostly.
I go to the fridge and pour myself a glass of orange juice, replaying the experience in my mind while taking sips, and make myself calm down enough to consider the facts. Instead of wondering if I’m losing it, I try to come up with any evidence to support what I just experienced. Such as Melvin’s expression when I seemingly switched back to my body. If I was, in reality, slouched over and staring at him while in psychotic daze, wouldn’t he have appeared confused or even irritated by my behavior? Instead he looked shocked, like he experienced something too. If that was the case, why did he seem so nonchalant when leaving the bus?
I’m too jittery to have my usual snack, so after my thirst is quenched, I walk through the apartment and start my daily ritual of cracking windows and emptying ashtrays. My mother is a chain smoker. Now that she’s dating a guy who smokes too, the stench has really gotten bad. Once it’s easier to breathe, I grab my laptop and sit on my bed, intending to do research on body-swapping. Except my web browser displays a message about not being able to connect. I groan, because this happens way too often. I switch on the small second-hand television in the corner of my room for confirmation, since the cable company also provides our bandwidth, and sure enough, I discover a message telling me to contact customer service. I don’t, already knowing what they’ll say. The bill hasn’t been paid.
Cut off from the digital paradise, I turn instead to my bookshelf for analog entertainment, running my fingers along the spines and remembering the imaginary people and places contained within. Each story is intimately familiar, like revisiting my own memories. I’ve done a lot of vicarious living through these books. I spend most of my evenings, weekends, and summers between their pages. Any stolen moments at school too, when I can get away with it. I attempt to choose a book that I don’t remember well, craving something fresh, but I’ve read them all too often. I force myself to start one about a fantasy land where each person is born with a unique magical talent, but all that does is make me think of the weird experience I just had.
I hate that I can’t go online to do research. I don’t even have the option of using my phone, since that was crushed beneath Caleb’s heel last year. My mother can’t afford to buy another one. I never asked her to, or told her that the phone had been destroyed. It’s not like anyone calls me anyway, even her, since I’m usually holed up in my bedroom. The only other place I go is an enchanted building where the books never run out and the bandwidth flows like wine. God how I wish I was there now!
When I hear keys jingling outside the apartment door, I leap up to let my mother in. She has a bag of groceries cradled in one arm and a cigarette hanging from the corner of her mouth.
I take the groceries from her, and ask, unable to wait, “Can I borrow the car?”
“I need it,” she says, removing the cigarette from her mouth and flicking it over the ashtray on the coffee table. “I’m going out with Raymond tonight. Guess who gets to be the designated driver?”
Raymond is her new boyfriend. He not only smokes, but he drinks too much. I’m sure she can do better.
“I need to go to the library,” I explain. “I won’t be long.”
My mother takes a long drag, her eyes narrowing. “I’ve heard that before.”
I do tend to lose track of time while there, but hey, it’s a library, a place people go to better their minds. She should be thrilled that her son is such a bookworm. Although to be honest, I do spend most of my time there playing on the computer. “Please? I need to study for an assignment, but the internet is down again. And I want to look for a job.”
Little white lies, but they do the trick. Sort of.
“I can drop you off if you’re that determined,” my mother says, shaking her head like I’m being foolish. “Don’t you have any friends you’d rather hang out with?”
Nothing is more embarrassing than your mom calling you out for not having a social life. I know she means well, but it’s not like I’ve been turning down offers of friendship all these years. “Not really,” I answer, my cheeks flushing.
“Then you should make some.”
“I’ll be sure to ask the librarian if she’d like to have a sleepover,” I reply before carrying the groceries to the kitchen.
Not that long ago, my mom didn’t seem to mind my lack of friends. Especially after she divorced my father. We felt closer then, like equal partners as we adjusted to life without him. I took on more responsibilities, and she confided in me more. The older I get, the more that seems to change. A distance has grown between us. The choice wasn’t mine. I remind her too much of my father. I can see it in the way she looks at me sometimes, as if I’m somebody else. Lately she’s been on a warpath to find a relationship that will stick. I try to stay out of her way and not complain, wanting her to be happy. She hasn’t abandoned me or anything, but I do miss how we used to be.
“I’ll make dinner,” my mother says, helping me unload. “Something simple you can take with you, in case you’re late.”
“A sandwich is fine,” I reply, not wanting to be any trouble.
“You need to eat more than that. Move over and tell me about your day.”
