“The Statement of X--- Y--- Z---" Part 2

by Seuzz

I didn't tell you last time how much I enjoy the view from here. You have a very nice place.

No, I don't have anything more to say about Billy Resch. I'm suppose I'm sorry that he-- No, never mind, I'm not sorry. It was a very long time ago, and we were both just kids. Neither of us knew better. I don't feel anything about him. Does that make me a sociopath?

Yeah, okay, be cagey.

Well, it was a long time before I tried crawling anyone again. I wasn't even sure I had done it, whatever "it" was. It had seemed like a dream, being inside Billy, being him, making him do ... things. It was like a fantasy I didn't know I'd wanted to have.

No, not if you mean, did I fantasize about doing to other kids what I did to Billy. But sometimes I would imagine what it would be like being them. When I was bored in class I'd imagine myself being behind their eyes, looking at the world from behind their desks, having people talking to me like they thought I was them. What I would say back, how I would feel.

I guess Stephen Ketchum was the one I thought most about. He was a boy in my fourth and fifth grade classes. He was a popular kid, especially with the other boys. He played basketball, had a nice bike. Smart, too. Good at math. Sometimes I daydreamed about how I could get into him, like I'd gotten into Billy. The easiest way, of course, would be to invite him over to my house. He lived in my neighborhood. I could get him in my bedroom, shove myself into him, then go back to his house like ... Well, like I was Stephen Ketchum. But that never occurred to me. Instead, I kept thinking of ways I could trick him into inviting me over to his house.

Well, when you're a kid you're not good at thinking through the mechanics of things. I mean, you can come up with all kinds of bizarre and complicated schemes. Like, if I could get his friend Aaron to invite me over to his house, and then arrange for Stephen to invite Aaron over on the same day, so that I'd have to tag along-- Silly stuff.

I think maybe in Stephen's case-- I think I didn't really want to crawl him. I just wanted to be friends with him, and that's why I wanted him to invite me over.

No, I had friends. Greg Byerly and Todd Mack. My summer afternoons weren't empty. But Stephen was popular and Greg and Todd and me weren't.

In fact, I stopped thinking about crawling, even in the abstract, for a while. I don't remember thinking much about it much when I was in the sixth grade. The seventh grade, though, we moved. It wasn't a bad school, but the jump into junior high with totally new classmates in a new city. It was ... unsettling. And I was getting older. I was getting interested in ... in other people's bodies.

Well, like any healthy kid, I guess, I was starting to notice how they were built. The aesthetics, you might say. I noticed the girls' boobs and hair, of course. But I was also sizing up the guys. You know, the competition.

Yeah, that was when I did my second crawl. Tommy DiMarco was his name, this twelve-year-old kid. He was Italian, played baseball in the sun a lot, so he was dark complected. His mom ran a beauty shop, so his hair was-- Oh, it was a nice haircut. Lotsa thick, dark hair, trimmed and combed in these waves. He liked to run, so he was lean. Had a bright white smile. All the guys liked him, because he had energy but was real easy-going. And all the girls were in love with him. For me, at first, it was like Stephen Ketchum all over again. I wanted to be friends with him. But I was totally in awe of him, because he so totally outclassed me. I couldn't talk to him. He was an alpha, I was ... I was nobody.

And I didn't even think about crawling him. Until it just happened.

See, I wasn't even sure I could do it anymore. But then one afternoon-- Okay, so I have PE with him. And one day I'm late for I don't remember what reason, and everyone is dressed out when I get to the gym, so I have to run into the locker room. And there's Tommy, because he's also running late. He's standing with his back to me. He's in his underwear, and he's about to put on his shirt. And I saw his back and his legs and that haircut and--

I don't even remember walking over to him. It was like I was floating. And I just reached around him and covered his mouth. I felt him stiffen, and then I felt like I was fainting. My hands seemed to be melting into putty, and I didn't have any feeling in my arms or my legs. I was sinking.

Yeah, it was a lot easier than it had been with Billy Resch. I guess that was part of puberty in my case, that the transformation went faster, more liquidly. Anyway, next thing I knew I was pulling myself up onto one of the benches in front of the locker. I was shaking, a little, I remember. I was wearing nothing but these tidy whities, and I looked down and they were definitely Tommy's legs. It was a real shock. I mean, it was only the second time I'd done it, and the first time was years before. And again, I felt that tap on the back of the head, like he was behind me, trying to get my attention. And I jerked and looked around, but it was just me in the locker room. I took a deep breath and I relaxed, and it was like falling backward into a deep pool of really warm water. All his memories and everything flooded around me and soaked into me.

I'm glad no one was in there watching me when I did what I did next. I pulled on his flannel shorts quick and snapped the elastic as it settled around my waist. I sat down and pulled on the socks and the sneakers just as fast, yanking the dirty laces tight. I snatched the smelly t-shirt out of the locker and whipped it down over my head, then tugged at the front so it'd settle. Raised a foot behind me and grabbed it and stretched my leg, then stretched the other one, then put my hands behind my back, you know, one over your shoulder and the other up behind your waist, and clasped hands and stretched my arms. Ran my fingers fast through that mop of hair and tossed it back. He took care of it, but he liked to look like he didn't.

I was glad no one was watching, because, you see ... I was totally being Tommy while doing it, but the whole time, I had this queer little smile on my face. I was watching myself as I was doing those moves, feeling how easy and right all the little flourishes and gestures were. I was moving his body, but I was totally synched up with his instincts. But if anyone'd seen that smile I had, they'da known something was really wrong. Because it wasn't a natural smile, I'm pretty sure.

But I relaxed that creepy smile into big ol' grin as I trotted out into the gym and I called to my friends-- His friends, but now mine. And they tossed me the basketball. It felt so smooth and comfortable in my hands. I'd never been better than what you might call adequate with a basketball, but now I was Tommy, and I could make it do whatever I wanted. And me and those friends were shouting and running and laughing with it. I made a couple of layups and I missed a couple, and I yelled at the guys, and I'm grinning the whole time, and there's nothing queer or sinister about that grin, it's just me, Tommy DiMarco, having a great time like I always do at PE.

And then I hear one of the guys call out, asking where I am. Not asking where Tommy is, he's asking where I am. I guess coach was asking about me, because no one ever really paid attention to me. I remember I had the ball in my hands, and I froze for just an instant, and someone stole it from me. And I cursed and turned and chased him down, though of course I was laughing. But all the time I also had this little wheel running inside my head. Well, two of 'em.

One is saying "I'm inside Tommy DiMarco, I am Tommy DiMarco, I'm nowhere, it's just me, and I'm Tommy DiMarco. Forget about me, there is no me, there never was a me, there's just Tommy DiMarco and that's all I've ever been."

And the other is Tommy DiMarco's brain. It hears my name and it goes-- "Huh? Who? Oh yeah. Him. Whatever." Which is kind of a kick in the stomach. His brain--my brain now--the reflex is-- He knows who I am, but he doesn't care about me. Pfft. I'm just that quiet kid no one really pays attention to. That he never paid attention to.

You'd think that, wouldn't you. That that'd make me mad.

Actually, funny you ask. You got a folder on Tommy too, next to Billy Resch's?

That's too bad. I don't Google many people. I gotta say, I'm real curious to know what happened to him after-- Well, let's just say "after."

But I see the hour is up. I guess this one ends on a cliffhanger.