I hastily brush my teeth and pull on some clothes.
“A little more notice would be appreciated,” I grumble aloud, in case Mario can hear me. I know I don’t have to worry about how I look, since I’m changing bodies, but I don’t want her coming over to my morning breath and ratty pajamas.
At 7:13 exactly, I touch my hand to the mirror, and away I go.
I’m in the bathroom, and once again, I’m finding it hard to breathe in my new body.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I moan. Ugh. This Jessa is a runner. Who gets up this early in the morning to run without rabid animals chasing them or something? I’m coated in a thin film of sweat, and it’s clear I’ve been running for a while. I run track at school here, and I’m training for a 10K next month.
“Okay,” I say, giving myself a pep talk as I jog in place. “I can do this.”
I jog through the door and out onto the trail, circling around the path on the far side until I come up behind the girl on the bench. She has a pile of papers sitting next to her, and the book is perched on top of them. She’s staring at her phone, and she doesn’t even know I exist. I run by, bump into the bench, and knock the book off the pile onto the ground.
“Oh my gosh!” I say, trying to sound convincing. “I’m so sorry! There was a squirrel—it ran right in front of me!”
“Oh, it’s okay,” she reassures me. “I don’t like this book anyway.”
I crouch down, picking it up off the ground. I don’t recognize the title, and I know nothing about it.
“Yeah, it starts a little slow,” I improvise.
“You’re telling me.” She rolls her eyes. “Everybody loves it, but I just couldn’t get past that first chapter.”
“You need to!” I say with conviction. “Seriously. It’s so worth it. Don’t let the first chapter throw you.”
“Really?” she says skeptically.
“Really. It’s one of the best reads I’ve had in a long time.”
She takes the book from me. “Thanks. I guess I’ll give it another shot.”
“You won’t regret it,” I assure her. Then I take off jogging.
I’m jogging, I think. I can feel my legs stretching and the blood pumping in my veins. I’m moving at a pretty good clip, and the wind is rushing past my face. I feel like I could run for hours. This is amazing!
I loop the path twice more before I reluctantly head back toward the restroom. I can’t risk stomping a butterfly or something and wrecking things over here, but at the same time … I’ve never been an athlete before. Not that I’m horribly out of shape, but I’m also not the most coordinated person I know. And I don’t just run here … I dance. Oh, wow. I dance.
The memories burst inside me of recitals and competitions, spinning and flying through the air as my partners lift me or I leap impossibly high. I’ve got a performance next weekend, as a matter of fact.
I hesitate outside the restroom, and then I get a grip on myself and force myself to go back inside. There’s a woman there with a toddler, and I grab some paper towels, wet them down, and dab them to my face while I’m waiting. They finally clear out. I start to put my hand to the mirror, but I pause.
“Hold on,” I tell her. “Do you mind?”
She doesn’t seem to object, so I step back and kick off my shoes. I give one more glance at the door, and then I spread my arms wide. I set my feet apart, and with one strong kick off my right leg, I am turning. My head snaps around, and I spot perfectly as my body spins almost effortlessly on the tiled bathroom floor. Oh, I could do this all day.…
I snap to a stop, panting, red-faced, and exhilarated. I throw my arms around myself and laugh out loud. “Oh my God!” I say. “I can dance!”
I look at myself in the mirror.
“I can’t dance,” I say with a sigh. “You can dance. I get to sit on a couch with a bruised shoulder.”
Now I feel guilty. She’s probably miserable in my body. I touch my hand to the glass, and she does as well, but before we push through, I see her glance back one last time.
I’m standing in my mom’s room. She only works one job on Sundays, and today she doesn’t go in until later. She’s asleep in bed, and the covers are pulled down on one side. The other me had been lying there next to her, just watching her sleep. I’d curved myself into her, and she’d pulled me close, just like when I was little.
I shove my fist to my mouth, and tears blur my vision as the memories of another life fill my head.
My mom died four years ago in a car accident. Dad says if she’d been two minutes earlier getting onto the interstate, she would never have been part of the pileup.