The Other Me

I didn’t find out it had been a joke until I was fourteen-years-old. “Joke” isn’t exactly the right word - more like parental trauma for the sake of keeping me in line. That was normal wasn’t it? Parents did that all the time.

“If you don’t go to sleep, the Boogeyman is going to eat you.”

“If you don’t behave, Santa won’t bring you presents on Christmas.”

“Behave! Or we’ll have to replace you with the Other You.”

Didn’t everyone’s parents tell them that? Didn’t everyone have a spare version of themselves just in case they had to be replaced after they misbehaved.

“The other me?” I asked my mom when she mentioned this small detail to me. I was just about five at the time.

“Yes, you know...when you see yourself in the mirror? That’s actually the Other You. He’s always watching you. That way, if you ever misbehave, we’ll have him to keep us company until you’ve learned how to behave. Then, he'll go back into the mirror once you've proven you can be good. Do you want your peanut butter and jelly cut into triangles or squares?” She asked just as casually as she broached the topic.

Who wouldn’t freak out at the thought of another version of themselves watching from the other side of the mirror? I made sure to behave after that - always putting my toys back where they belonged, helping my mom clear the table after supper and I never fussed over bed and bath time.

There was always a part of me that thought maybe it was all bullshit - just a little tall tale to make sure I stayed in line. But I also figured it was better to be safe than sorry.

At first, I tried to catch him doing things just slightly different from me - whether or not he faltered at all when we brushed our teeth, or if he didn’t turn to face me as quickly when I looked into the mirror. He was always smooth, mimicking my every move without missing a single action.

Almost always. There were a few times when I could have sworn I still felt him staring at me when I looked away from the mirror for a second, or saw him lingering in the corner of the mirror right as I stepped out of the shower. But he always managed to fall back into place immediately, wrapping his towel around his waist just as I did mine and combing his hair with the utmost precision in perfect time right along with me.

I was twelve when it was brought to my attention that it wasn’t normal to have a replica of yourself living in your mirror.

“Dude, what are you doing?” My friend, Kyle, asked me one day when he saw me staring intently into my reflection, looking away from the mirror and turning back to it quickly as I once again tried to catch the Other Me in action.

“Oh…um…you know? The Other Me.”

Kyle raised his eyebrows in confusion. “The ‘other you?’”

“Yeah? You know…the good version of you. The one your parents replace you with when you’re bad?” I said, not knowing what was so difficult for him to understand.

“Duuude. That’s just…you. Your reflection. There is no ‘other you’ inside the mirror. Where did you even get that?”

“My mom,” I said with a shrug. “Have your parents never told you about the Other You before?”

He gaped at me, his mouth wide open in horror. Suffice to say, I didn’t see him much after that.

When I finally asked my parents about it at age fourteen, they were just as confused as Kyle had been. My dad choked on his drink at dinner when I asked, “Do you guys still keep the Other Me in my bathroom mirror upstairs?”

“The ‘other’ you?” my dad asked with a raised eyebrow.

“Y-yeah…you know? The other version of me you keep around in case I-I…misbehave.” Even as I was saying it, I realized how ridiculous it sounded.

My mom burst into laughter. “Oh…oh, honey. You still believe that?” she asked, as she failed to reel in her amusement. “I thought for sure you stopped believing that a long time ago! I mean you haven’t even believed in Santa Claus or the Easter Bunny in years!”

“What is this all about?” my dad asked.

“Oh, well…when he was little, I used to tell him that there was another version of himself in the mirror and we kept that other version around just in case he misbehaved and then we would…replace him with the…‘other him.’”

My dad was silent for a moment. “Regina…that is downright horrifying,” he said.

Mom laughed again. “I know, but you remember how ornery he used to be!”

Seconds later, Dad also laughed. “Well, I guess that explains why he was suddenly so well-behaved.”

I couldn’t help it, I laughed too. How silly was it that I believed my parents had another version of me hidden in the mirror? How was such a thing even possible? But, if that was all just a joke, why didn’t I feel any sense of relief when I looked into the mirror that night before bed? And that night, I could have sworn my reflection smirked at me even though I was stone-faced.

It wasn’t until two more years after the “there is no ‘other you’” chat with my parents that I actually misbehaved for the first time in years.

Since there was no other version of myself waiting to slide into my spot if I acted out, I figured I was owed the chance to be a rebellious teenager for once in my life. Sneaking out for one night to a party that was being thrown partially in my honor after winning our first basketball game of the season was a fair trade for eleven years of never even rolling my eyes at my parents.

When I returned later that night - or, early the next morning, I should say - I gracelessly climbed up to my second story bedroom. Climbing up was much more difficult than climbing down was. I was making so much noise, I was certain I was going to wake up my parents. They’d ground me for sure. I’d get my phone taken away and I could definitely say goodbye to any social interaction outside of school for at least two weeks.

I panted out a sigh of relief when I finally reached the overhang by my bedroom window. All I had to do was slide the window open and -

I grunted, frustrated as I struggled to open my window. My fingers squeaked as I struggled against the glass to open the window, leaving smudged fingerprints and blurring out what little visibility remained as I tried to peek into my bedroom. The window was jammed. It had to be. I checked to make sure I had left the window unlocked three times before I left that night.

I huffed and leaned my forehead against the glass, its cool temperature making everything a bit clearer to me. I was so screwed. I hadn’t even brought the key to the front door. I had stupidly planned on coming back in the same way I left. I was going to have to wake up my parents at three-thirty in the morning and have them let me inside. At this rate, they would probably have me hold off on getting my driver’s license next week, too. Not only had I sneaked out, but I wasn’t exactly sober, either.

I peeled my head off the glass, preparing myself to climb back down and go ring the front door to have my parents let me back in and kiss some serious ass - maybe even cry.

When I pulled away from the window, it took me a few seconds to process what I saw. At first, I thought it was just my own reflection, until I realized my “reflection” wasn’t wearing the same clothes as I was - I, in my letterman’s jacket and jeans and he in my Chicago Bears shirt and plaid boxers. Those were the same clothes I had put on when I told my parents I was going to bed and instead waited patiently for them to fall asleep so I could sneak out to the party.

I squinted my eyes, trying to make sense of it. Was it real or was it just my impaired brain playing tricks on me? When my reflection smirked back, my stomach filled up with dread. This was him - the Other Me. And standing behind him, glaring at me in disapproval over his shoulder, was my mother.