Every morning, A wakes in a different person’s body, a different person’s life. There’s never any warning about where it will be or who it will be. A has made peace with that, even established guidelines by which to live: Never get too attached. Avoid being noticed. Do not interfere.
It’s all fine until the morning that A wakes up in the body of Justin and meets Justin’s girlfriend, Rhiannon. From that moment, the rules by which A has been living no longer apply. Because finally A has found someone he wants to be with—day in, day out, day after day.
With his new novel, David Levithan has pushed himself to new creative heights. He has written a captivating story that will fascinate readers as they begin to comprehend the complexities of life and love in A’s world, as A and Rhiannon seek to discover if you can truly love someone who is destined to change every day.
The author sent us a special bonus message for all the supporters of independent book stores:
Every Day Exclusive by David Levithan
Author’s Note
Every
morning, A wakes up in a different body and a different life. The novel EveryDay
starts on Day 5994 of A’s life. For this story, I wanted to go back to a
day in A’s life before Every Day. Think of this as A recounting a few
passing moments from his past.
As a child, I am baffled by inconsistency. Not my own inconsistency--I am used to waking up in a different body and a different life every morning. This makes sense to me. It is everyone else's inconsidstency that throws me.
It is a Saturday morning, and I am
seven years old. I know it’s a Saturday from the quiet of the morning, from the
fact that it’s nine in the morning and nobody is rushing me off to school or to
church. I like Saturday mornings because that is when I am allowed to watch
cartoons. Even in houses that don’t have all the channels, I can still find
cartoons.
I stumble from room to room, looking for the TV. At this
age, I don’t bother to access any memories of the house. I am happy to discover
everything by wandering through. My mother is in the kitchen, talking on the
phone. My father might be outside, or still asleep. The TV is in the den, which
has a shaggy rug and wood walls. I am late for my nine o’clock show, but I can
watch the end and then see the whole nine-thirty show. This is what I did last
week, and the week before. I was in different houses, but once the TV was on,
it was almost like they were the same place. Last week I had brothers and
sisters, but this week I don’t think I do.
I switch on the TV and it’s too loud. I find the volume
control and turn it down. It’s a commercial. I don’t really care about
commercials, because even if I get things, I don’t have them for very long.
I sit on the shaggy rug and lean against the couch. This
show has talking animals, and when it comes back on, the moose is arguing with
the aardvark about the price of a ferry ride. The parrot keeps repeating the
things they’re saying in a really funny voice, and I laugh.
“What are
you doing?”
I have only been watching for five minutes, but already
I’m so absorbed in what’s happening that I don’t hear her at first. Then she
grabs my arm and pulls me up, and I know right away I am in trouble, big
trouble, and I don’t know what for. Was I laughing too loud? Was I not supposed
to sit on the carpet?
Now that I’m up, she lets go and slaps the TV off. The
room is suddenly silent, and there’s nowhere to hide in that silence.
“How many times have I told you not to touch that? Did I
even say you could leave your room? You are not allowed to watch such garbage.”
I have so few words at age seven. I don’t know stern
or enraged or sanctimonious.
All I know is mad. My mother is mad at me. Her face
is mad. Her posture is mad. The sound of her words is mad.
“Go back to your room.”
I don’t hesitate. I don’t want to be in the presence of
her anger one moment longer. I go back to my room and sit on the bed, waiting
for her to come by, to tell me what my punishment is. But all she does is come
by and shut the door. There is enough light coming in through the window to
make everything in the room seeable, but the air still seems tinged in shadow.
I sit there and sit there. Time feels horizonless.
Feeling someone else’s anger is bad; being left alone is
worse.
At first I am too afraid to move. But eventually I have
to. There are very few books in my room, and all of them are for little kids.
So I pick up the dictionary, because it is the longest book in the room, and I
know it’s going to be a long day.
I learn a few words. I would rather be
outside the room, using them.
There’s no reprieve until lunchtime.
When my mother opens the door, she eyes the dictionary in my lap with
suspicion. I’ve had time to close it, but not the time to put it on the shelf.
At the very least, I don’t look comfortable.
“Have you learned your lesson?” she asks.
I nod.
“Well,” she says, “we’ll see about that.”
I don’t know where my father is. His
things are all around the house, so I know he has to be somewhere. He’s
just
not here right now.
I don’t feel I can ask where he is.
She gives me a chicken sandwich—leftovers from dinner
last night, put between bread. I know to eat it all, and not to ask for more.
Not because I access the thoughts of the life I’m in, but because my mother is
so easy to read.
We don’t talk. We stare at other parts of the kitchen. I
try to find things to read. Buttons on the microwave. The brand of the
refrigerator.
I rarely feel like I’m a prisoner in a body, but I have
felt like a prisoner in a house. I definitely feel like I’m a prisoner here.
And I am a prisoner because, as my mother’s expression makes clear, she feels
she is a prisoner to me, too.
I am not allowed television. I am not
allowed to go outside. I am not given conversation. Eventually I am given
dinner, but that is silent, too. My father never comes home.
The only thing I am allowed, the only thing I am given,
is myself. It is enough, but only barely.
Some days are like this. And the only way to get through
them is to remember that they are only one day, and that every day ends.
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