body isn’t easy. I’ve been slipping out of my flesh for eleven years and I still move like I’m drunk. Plus, I never know how long I have before I’m sucked back into my skin. That’s the worst part. The not knowing when it will happen and when it will stop.
I move towards the window and race through the wall instead, right through the layers of plaster and wood. It feels like going through a puff of steam.
Outside it’s humid, and I feel the stickiness instinctively rather than physically. I bask in the night air, taking in the way reality is amplified when I’m not in my body. The whole experience is like it used to be, when I was happy and didn’t encounter the shadows: it’s soothing and lovely. The moon is honey gold, and paints the roofs with its glow. Fireflies create a light show in the darkness while crickets provide the background music. All the pain I felt earlier melts like chocolate in the palm of my hand.
I’m free and light and calm.
Sometimes this out-of-body stuff is a major affliction.
But sometimes, it’s a gift.
Eight
A Memory: The Truth, Nothing but the Truth
Age thirteen was the year of sleepovers for me and Cass. I’m not sure why, except maybe because right after catching us in the backyard my mom was vigilant. The only way for us to have midnight conversations was to invite each other over to sleep, since no way in hell would Mom authorize a cell phone for me until high school.
It was also the year of “Truth or Dare.” We did everything, from stealing gulps of Cassie’s parents’ gin to switching Mom’s Magic Masseur almond massage oil with motor oil (to this day, Mom steers her clients away from that brand). And, of course, we delved into each other’s deepest secrets. From Cassie’s theft of a mounted butterfly from the Milwaukee museum, her first in a collection of many (butterflies, that is, not thefts), to my horrid fascination with HR Giger’s art (Dad wrote an article on him. Scary stuff, but the guy can draw), to Cassie’s birthmark on her left butt cheek, to how my allergies made my skin itch —everywhere. And of course we discussed how much I loved Kevin and how much she loved her boy-of-the-month (who never noticed her back then, just like Kevin never noticed me).
We knew everything about each other. Almost.
“Truth or dare?” I asked one April night, flashlight under my chin. We were at Cassie’s so technically, we didn’t need the flashlight: her parents didn’t care what time we went to sleep or if we left the light on. But it was more fun this way.
“Truth.” Cassie was huddled inside her princess sleeping bag. Good thing she didn’t get asked to any other girls’ sleepovers because they would have laughed her out of the house with that sleeping bag. I never got invited anywhere else, either, but I was equipped, just in case. My bag was plain old navy blue.
I turned the flashlight onto her, since she was in the spotlight. But mostly it was because I didn’t want her to see the nervousness in my face. “Have you ever ... left your body?”
She stuck her head out of her cocoon and lifted an eyebrow. “What kind of question is that?”
“Just a question. Have you ever felt like, well, like maybe you weren’t actually in your body? Even for a second or so?”
She blinked at me, her pupils tiny dots in the brightness of the flashlight. “Does getting drunk count?”
“Yeah, if you leave your body,” I said. “But you don’t ever get drunk.” When we drank her parents’ booze, it was never to get loaded, at least not for Cassie. She did it to get even.
“Whatever. The answer is no.” She raised herself up onto her elbows. “Why did you ask that?”
I moved the flashlight and my eyes followed the yellow circle of light around the room. “Truth?”
She just waited.
“I think that’s what happens ... when I ‘faint.’” I’d accidentally left my body a few times in front of her. And like everyone else, she’d
I move towards the window and race through the wall instead, right through the layers of plaster and wood. It feels like going through a puff of steam.
Outside it’s humid, and I feel the stickiness instinctively rather than physically. I bask in the night air, taking in the way reality is amplified when I’m not in my body. The whole experience is like it used to be, when I was happy and didn’t encounter the shadows: it’s soothing and lovely. The moon is honey gold, and paints the roofs with its glow. Fireflies create a light show in the darkness while crickets provide the background music. All the pain I felt earlier melts like chocolate in the palm of my hand.
I’m free and light and calm.
Sometimes this out-of-body stuff is a major affliction.
But sometimes, it’s a gift.
Eight
A Memory: The Truth, Nothing but the Truth
Age thirteen was the year of sleepovers for me and Cass. I’m not sure why, except maybe because right after catching us in the backyard my mom was vigilant. The only way for us to have midnight conversations was to invite each other over to sleep, since no way in hell would Mom authorize a cell phone for me until high school.
It was also the year of “Truth or Dare.” We did everything, from stealing gulps of Cassie’s parents’ gin to switching Mom’s Magic Masseur almond massage oil with motor oil (to this day, Mom steers her clients away from that brand). And, of course, we delved into each other’s deepest secrets. From Cassie’s theft of a mounted butterfly from the Milwaukee museum, her first in a collection of many (butterflies, that is, not thefts), to my horrid fascination with HR Giger’s art (Dad wrote an article on him. Scary stuff, but the guy can draw), to Cassie’s birthmark on her left butt cheek, to how my allergies made my skin itch —everywhere. And of course we discussed how much I loved Kevin and how much she loved her boy-of-the-month (who never noticed her back then, just like Kevin never noticed me).
We knew everything about each other. Almost.
“Truth or dare?” I asked one April night, flashlight under my chin. We were at Cassie’s so technically, we didn’t need the flashlight: her parents didn’t care what time we went to sleep or if we left the light on. But it was more fun this way.
“Truth.” Cassie was huddled inside her princess sleeping bag. Good thing she didn’t get asked to any other girls’ sleepovers because they would have laughed her out of the house with that sleeping bag. I never got invited anywhere else, either, but I was equipped, just in case. My bag was plain old navy blue.
I turned the flashlight onto her, since she was in the spotlight. But mostly it was because I didn’t want her to see the nervousness in my face. “Have you ever ... left your body?”
She stuck her head out of her cocoon and lifted an eyebrow. “What kind of question is that?”
“Just a question. Have you ever felt like, well, like maybe you weren’t actually in your body? Even for a second or so?”
She blinked at me, her pupils tiny dots in the brightness of the flashlight. “Does getting drunk count?”
“Yeah, if you leave your body,” I said. “But you don’t ever get drunk.” When we drank her parents’ booze, it was never to get loaded, at least not for Cassie. She did it to get even.
“Whatever. The answer is no.” She raised herself up onto her elbows. “Why did you ask that?”
I moved the flashlight and my eyes followed the yellow circle of light around the room. “Truth?”
She just waited.
“I think that’s what happens ... when I ‘faint.’” I’d accidentally left my body a few times in front of her. And like everyone else, she’d
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