Within/Without

chapter three.

Simon

Mr. Ripley's office smells awfully like old cheese. I'm not sure why, as he decided to go vegan last year, but regardless, I'm sitting in the worn, green-upholstered chair in his narrow office and can't help but sense the faint odor of aged gruyere.

    He's lecturing me. At this point I'm pretty sure this happens at least once a week, and the face I'm wearing during this weekly occurrence varies. The first time he caught me I was my default, redheaded self, but today there was a science olympiad competition, so I'm dark-haired Oliver Bonavich, reigning science master since seventh grade. I was also Oliver Bonavich the first time Val and I ever met, in sixth grade. We don't talk so much anymore.

    Finally, Mr. Ripley exhales, though his face remains a purplish-red, like a strangled tomato. He combs a hand back through his thinning hair and then rests his fidgety hands on the desk, glaring at me in silence.

    I look back at him. "Everything alright, Mr. Ripley?"

    He adjusts the plaque on his desk, which reads John B. Ripley, Upperclassman Advisor. "You can't keep doing this, Simon."

    "It's Oliver today, actually," I say, gesturing towards my face. Oliver has a skinnier nose and less freckles and his eyes are blue. Which is to say I have all these things, as this face is mine, but I've just assigned a different name to it. Oliver's driver's license is in the glove compartment of my car, along with everyone else's: Iggy's, Eli's, Kenzo's, Simon's, and some other random ones for when I'm in a fix.

    "Yeah, not to me, Simon," he says. "Look, I—God, can you just talk to me, please?"

    "Am I not talking right now?"

    "No. Talk to me. I mean—please just tell me you have a plan."

    I'm not sure I like the direction this is going. I'm not sure I ever like the direction these conversations with my advisor go, but nevertheless, they are conversations that must be had if I'm planning to get out of college alive.

    I shift my weight uncomfortably in my seat. "A plan?"

    "For what you're going to do," says Mr. Ripley impatiently, "in the future."

    The future. One of the most terrifying words in the entire English language, if you ask me. It's especially terrifying for me, because I don't have just one future to worry about. I've thought about it before, and God knows my parents and my brother have asked me about it before. How long are you going to keep this up? Juggling all your appearances? Aren't you afraid?

    No one ever finishes that last question, but I know what it says. Aren't you afraid you'll disappear?

    I'm not afraid if I don't think about it. So I don't think about it.

    "You're getting sloppy, St. John. All of your...selves are falling behind in their classes. You're never punctual. There's been at least two or three reports of guys going into the bathroom and never walking out again." Mr. Ripley pauses then, eyebrows slightly risen. "Do you know what this means?"

    I sink down in my seat. I knew it was bad. I didn't know it was this bad. "I thought I was figuring it out."

    "Well, you're not. And soon enough we're going to have to offer an explanation," Mr. Ripley tells me. He plucks a pen from a plastic cup at the edge his desk and taps it against his wrist rhythmically, so rhythmically I start to hate it. "Is that what you want, Simon? To be exposed as a freak?"

    "I'm not a freak."

    "You're not normal."

    "Obviously not. Who'd ever want to be?"