Six Earlier Days by David Levithan Page B

swimming pool waits, its water the color of melted blueberry ice.
    Mrs. Judge looks at her watch and tells us we have an hour. Laura thanks her, and I thank her, too. We don’t move until she’s gone.
    “Come on,” Laura says, pulling off her jeans.
    In no time, we are down to our swimsuits and plunging into the warm water. Mrs. Judge’s presence hangs in the room, so we don’t splash or even giggle. Instead, Laura makes like a mermaid, diving underwater and staying under as long as she can. I do the same, eyes open. We start to do it together, circling, using our limbs to call and respond. When we surface, we look at one another briefly, then arc down again.
    After about ten minutes of this, Laura lifts herself into a backstroke.
    “Free swim!” she calls out.
    This time when I submerge myself, I close my eyes. I let myself be weightless, anonymous. I hear the thrum of the water, feel how it lifts and twists my hair. I am drawn down to my childish, essential heartbeat. I don’t think of it as Cara’s. I think of it as my own.
    I start to swim. I pull myself forward, kick myself forward. To swim is to transform yourself into an unnatural creature, to take on an element that should not be your own. To swim is to experience the world differently, or to experience a different world temporarily.
    I do not know any of this. I do not think about swimming or what it means. I do not marvel at the fact of swimming, that a human body can do such a thing. Instead, I marvel at the sensations. I immerse myself in water because it makes me feel like I, too, am liquid. And then I push against it and feel solid again. I do not have thoughts; in their place, I have the thrum thatthe body creates in the absence of thoughts. I feel more like myself than I usually do, because as I swim, I don’t need to fully exist.
    I lose track of time and time loses track of me. I don’t notice when Laura steps out of the pool and dries herself off. I don’t feel her looking at me until I open my mouth at the wrong time and take in too much water. I cough myself back to reality and find her sitting on the edge of the pool, her ankles and feet dangling through the surface.
    “Are you okay?” she asks.
    I nod.
    “We need to go soon. It’s almost an hour. And if Mrs. Judge thinks we’re not listening to her, we’ll never be allowed in here again.”
    The air is chilly after I emerge. Laura jumps up and gets me a towel. I dry myself off but can still feel the water clinging to me. It is no longer liquid. Now it is a scent, a drying memory, an echo.
    “Don’t tell them,” Laura says as we head back to our house.
    I don’t ask her why our parents can’t know. I only promise that they won’t.
    Since my friend party isn’t until Saturday, my birthday dinner is just the five of us. My brother, older than Laura, has gotten me a Hello Kitty change purse. My parents have gotten me games and clothes. Laura’s gotten me music from a band she likes and wants me to like, too. I am amazed that no one else in our family can smell the afternoon on us, can understand what my birthday has really brought.
    There is cake. There are more candles. I am to get another wish. I am serenaded with the same song that I have been serenaded with in so many bodies, over so many years. I am told to close my eyes.
    Again, I do not wish. But this time I don’t leave myself a blank. Instead, I make myself a promise. I mark the date in my head, and I vow that from now on, this will be my birthday. Whether or not anybody in my life that day knows it, I will know it. I will celebrate. I will give myself that, as I swim through the years.

Day 2919
    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 inconsistency 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