"Hike!"
At that word, the football flew to the assigned quarterback of the offensive team of an after-school game of fifth grade suburban students. They weren't wearing uniforms; the game was being played just for fun, though the boys took it seriously. As the quarterback got the ball, the two teams clashed. One was trying to get the ball; the other was trying to score with it.
The quarterback threw the ball to a teammate who had slipped past the defensive line. He caught it and made a beeline to the other team's goal. The defensive line broke up and the players went after him. The defensive team player closest to the offensive player with the ball was a brown-haired, lean (but not skinny) youth who did not really stand out from his peers in looks. He was right behind his opponent and closing in. I'm going to make it!, he thought to himself. He just about to tackle his quarry, then he suddenly fell to the ground unconscious.
The next thing the boy knew was that he was in a bed in a small bed- room. It was the middle of the night. A window allowed a street lamp to let a little light in. It was just enough for the boy to see a poster, printed in Russian, on the wall. There was also a mirror that showed instead of regular clothes, he now wore pajamas. But the most important change was that he now had black hair and a similar, but different, face than on the football field.
"Oh no!" the boy spoke to himself. It was English, but with a slight accent, "Not now! Not now!"
"Anton!" a man's voice shouted from the other side of the wall. It was Russian, "Be quiet and get to sleep!"
The boy was exasperated as he rested in the bed and waited. It was not a long wait. After thirty seconds, he found himself lying down on the football field with a big pain in his side. His teammates had gathered around him; the one closest to him was taking his foot back after apparently kicking him.
"You didn't have to do that!" another player told the kicker.
"He deserved it!" the kicker answered, "The sissy jerk lost the game!"
"You know he's epileptic!"
The youngster on the ground was far more angry than hurt. He jumped on the kicker, knocking him on the ground. Although the kicker was bigger than he was, he began to beat him up. The other teammates cheered them on. Finally, the two fell apart from each other. The kicker had clearly come out the loser, and tensely retreated.
"Hey Jerry," the sympathetic teammate spoke to the winner, "you okay?"
"No," Jerry grumbled, still angry over his failure to tackle the player with the ball, "I don't feel like playing any more." He slowly walked away. Some of his teammates noticed the slight accent in his voice, but said nothing.
"Why did it have to happen now?" he muttered to himself, "Why did it have to happen now?"
A few hours later, Jerry was in his house watching television. He had put aside his loss earlier, but something else was on his mind. When the program ended, his parents were about to remind him of something, but he then said good night to them and they left him alone. He went to his bedroom, turned out the lights, set the digital alarm clock, laid down on and glanced at the walls. They were blank but for a window that showed it was getting dark, and a world map with the Americas in the center. He was wearing a digital wristwatch, accurate to the second. He kept a close eye on it, and soon started counting to himself, "Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one....."
The next thing he knew, he was back in the other bedroom with the bells of an alarm clock ringing. The window was letting the morning sunlight in. He turned the alarm clock off and got up, scratching his now black hair. After he dressed, he walked through the small house to the kitchen. His Russian parents were there waiting for him. They said good morning to each other, but the father was in a grouchy mood.
"Why were you talking last night, Anton," he spoke to the boy, "when you were supposed to be sleeping?" It was in Russian of course.
"I ..... had a bad dream." the youngster answered. It was also in Russian, but there was a slight American accent.
"Dreaming about America again?"
"Well....."
Anton's father slammed his fist on the table, "I want you to stop!"
"Yuri," Anton's mother spoke reassuringly to her husband, "you know he can't help it."
"Bah! He got us into a lot of trouble as a toddler, speaking American as well as Russian; he still has an accent. Then he began talking about an 'other place': America. First the authorities think we're spies; then they kept him in the looney bin for a couple months. I sometimes wonder if it was worth getting him out. He still dreams about America and questions what we say about it. Twice when I was due for a promotion, they brought the issue up and that was the end of the interview. This is an American plot to keep the Party on innocent folks like us, and away from real business!"
The man then stormed to the refrigerator, got a bottle of vodka, took a few swigs of it, then put it back and left the house still in a rage.
Anton had paid little attention to his father's outburst or his drinking. He just looked down at his feet. As soon as his father left, the boy's mother spoke to him, "Anton?"
"Yes Mother?" the youth replied meekly.
"I want you to make a promise, to me and yourself."
"Yes?"
"Don't ever touch any liquor. I don't want you to make the same mistake your father did."
Anton didn't say anything. He simply walked over and embraced his mother.
The boy, known as Jerry in America and Anton in Russia, had the problem of sharing two bodies and two lifestyles since birth, the two bodies being born within a few hours of each other twelve time zones apart. When one body slept, the mind went to the other body. He had never dreamed. Naturally, this had caused problems as he developed. He had accents in both places, and suffered from slight depression. He almost never talked to his two sets of parents about his dual identity after his pre-school years; and when he did, he described it as a dream.
In America, he had been to a child psychologist a few times, but there his problem was not usually serious for him because of his two loving parents. In Russia's restrictive society, however, it was a different and sadder story.