My eyes fall onto Q’s laptop.
What if they were watching me, listening to me, through the laptop camera?
Q’s left eye twitches, or maybe I imagine it. Maybe it’s my eyes flickering. It’s hard to know what’s real anymore.
Q’s eyes flutter but don’t open, like flicking a lighter that won’t stay lit.
He sits up, turns his head toward me, eyes still closed, his mouth opening and shutting, but soundless.
Like watching Frankenstein wake with the volume muted.
And then Q suddenly falls backward, head thudding against his pillow, arms falling to either side, all ten fingers twitching.
He does this several times.
Rising, falling.
Like he’s installing a new update, rebooting after each cycle.
I remember another video line: “Likely, there will be false starts. Several,” she’d said. “Don’t be alarmed.”
Don’t be alarmed when your dead best friend tries to come back to life, sputtering like an old mower.
The third time it happens, Q doesn’t stay upright, just snaps up and back like a tripped mousetrap, and, startled, I fall out of the chair, bump into his desk, his laptop waking.
Which is symbolic, right?
Or at least kinda ironic.
I pull myself up, ready to resume my focus on Q’s bed routine, except the cursor’s blinking at me from the password screen. Almost like it’s talking to me. Like it’s saying, try-metrymetryme.
And I wonder if he changed it.
Not that I’m gonna know, because I’m not even gonna try it.
Breaking into my ex–best friend’s laptop, even for a semigood reason, is still an invasion of his privacy. Another betrayal to add to the list.
I look back at Q, waiting for him to spring to life any minute.
If he woke up and saw me . . .
But I have to know. Because if it’s still JAUNCY19, that means something, yeah?
I slide the laptop closer, my hands hovering over the keys.
I have to know.
I type.
Press Enter.
The screen flashes.
The browser comes into view, and there are a hundred open tabs, because Q can’t let anything go. But the current tab is what gets me.
Q’s vlog. I read the description beneath the video, and I can’t resist.
I click.
61
* * *
JAUNCY IN THE STREETS
TuberOne
1,812 views 192 9 | JAUNCY COMEDY DUO | SUBSCRIBE 272
* * *
Quincy: Hey guys! We’re back with your new favorite segment here at Jauncy.
Jamal: That’s right! It’s time for . . .
Q and J: Jauncy innnn the STREEEEEETSSSS!
J: The segment where we take Jauncy to the streets . . .
Q: Uh, J, that’s kinda why it’s called Jauncy in the Streets. Kinda feels . . . self-explanatory.
J: Umm, maybe if you’d let me finish, friend. The segment where we take to the streets AND ask people questions about things they apparently know nothing about.
CUT TO: a skateboard park
Q: Hey, man, mind if we ask you a question?
Sixteen-Year-Old Skater: Sure. You’re not gonna make me look stupid on camera, though, are you?
*Q looks straight into camera and grins*
Q: I promise you, man, we’re not gonna make you look stupid on camera.
Skater: Good.
Q: Okay, these questions are all about how well you know the Constitution, okay?
Skater: This is like that Kendrick show.
Q: You got it. You ready?
Skater: Let’s do it, bro.
Q: Okay, name any one article of the Constitution.
*Skater looks seriously perplexed*
Skater: Article? Bro, the Constitution, I’m pretty sure, isn’t like a newspaper. There aren’t any articles. It’s just laws.
*A buzzer sounds and WRONG flashes on the screen*
*Q looks back into the camera, camera zooms in on his face*
CUT TO: an ice cream stand
J: Hi, ma’am, is it okay if we ask you a question about the Constitution?
Forty-Something-Year-Old Woman Eating Fro-Yo: Okay?
J: Name one of the individuals responsible for penning the Constitution.
Fro-Yo Woman: Well, I know they’re all white dudes.
*J glances over his shoulder and gets an off-screen confirmation from Q, then turns back to the woman*
J: We’ll take it!
*A chime plays and CORRECT flashes on the screen*
*Jamal holds up Fro-Yo Woman’s arm in triumph and Fro-Yo Woman blesses them with a victory dance*
Fro-Yo Woman: C’mon, now, dance. You can’t let me dance by myself.
*Jamal looks into the camera, shrugs, then joins the woman, the two of them doing the running man side by side*
60
I don’t have time to cycle through the questions now orbiting my brain—e.g., why had Q been watching this old video of us—because there’s movement on the bed.
And when I turn around, Q’s eyes are still flickering, except ten times faster, and then boom—his eyes pop open.
I wait for them to close again.
But they don’t.
Q stares up at the ceiling.
Oh my God, Q’s head . . . he’s turning . . .
He’s turning his open-eyed face toward me.
What should I do?
His body jerks back, his eyes pop, and his mouth plunges into a frown before snapping off into startled confusion. “Yo, what the hell are you doing here?”
And I don’t know how to answer—not because I’m incapable, but because nothing prepares you for seeing your friend come back to life.
It will be a surge of emotions. It is completely natural to feel overwhelmed.
But this isn’t a surge.
This isn’t overwhelming.
This is a goddamn tsunami and hurricane falling in love and having quintuplets.
This is everything that ever was, anything that ever will be, swallowed by torrential downpour and knock-you-off-your-feet wind, and monstrous claim-everything waves, everything rushing, rushing.
“For real, why are you in my room, man? And staring at me like while I sleep? Are you drooling, bro? What time is it? Yo, did you spike my ginger ale at the party? And why won’t you freaking answer me?”
And I don’t know what to do.
With my hands.
With my face.
With my voice.
And I’m glad it’s dark because my eyes start doing that thing that eyes are sometimes prone to do . . . you know, that go-blurry-because-whatever thing.
But honestly I don’t even care, because, Q—
Q.
You’re . . . alive, man.
YOU’RE ALIVE.
“Are you okay?” I ask him. “You’re feeling, like, not weird, or whatever?”
“Other than the fact that you’re staring at me like you’re deciding whether to have my babies or to stab me in my throat, yeah, I feel great.”
And this normally would’ve been funny.
But it’s too much.
Everything is too much.
All of this, especially this, is a mistake.
And so I do what I do best.
The thing I’m arguably most proficient at.
I stand up.
I smile.
And then I run as fast as I can.
I nearly crash into Ms. B as I fling open Q’s bedroom door, and she calls after me as I race down the stairs and out the glass front door and down the block, down, down, down. And I may never slow because I’m not only a proficient sprinter, I have stamina for days. I run fast and I run hard and I never stop.
I can’t stop.
59
I’m sitting in an empty parking lot when she rolls to a stop, lowers the window.
“I didn’t think you’d com
e.”
She shrugs. “I wasn’t going to. Still not sure I should’ve.”
After we hung up, I wondered how it would be to see her. This would be the first time since the beach.
Normally, she would’ve bounded from the car when she saw me, and we’d race to meet in the middle of this street like it was some grassy knoll.
Normally, her sandpaper eyes would tractor-beam me into her body and her wide-open arms would finish me off.
But nothing’s normal anymore. Only an hour ago, I fled Q’s reanimation.
“So, you getting in, or you wanna walk beside the car?”
I fasten my seat belt. “Autumn, I’m . . .”
But she shakes her head and it’s a silent twenty-minute drive to the lake.
She gets out first, and I watch her walk toward the water so resolutely I half expect her to walk right in. But she stops at the edge.
Stands there like she’s waiting for me to join her.
Or waiting for me to disappear.
And then she’s stooping low, gathering stones from the grass-pocked sand, using the bottom of her shirt like a basket. I climb out, dig until I find a cat’s-eye. I hold it out to her, but she walks past me back toward her car, her collection of stones like rain on tin as they tumble onto the car hood. I watch her scoot herself up; she loses one of her sandals to the ground.
When I bend down to pick it up, she kicks off the other.
It’s not funny but I nearly laugh.
I can’t help but appreciate her dedication to reminding me how little she needs me.
I slide onto the car, the rocks dividing us.
This part of the beach is nearly always deserted, save an occasional flurry of kids searching for sea glass or chasing their runaway dog.
Autumn reaches into the pile, flings a stone into the water. I track it, watch it plop and disappear below.
And it occurs to me just how much time we’ve spent here.
On the water.
In the sand.
Listening to the waves like a favorite song.
She makes a face when I steal one of her rocks. I hurl it as hard as I can, but I lose it in the sun.
“Autumn, I’m sorry,” I say finally.
Because it’s true.
Because the only thing worse than her being angry with me is her being angry with me while with me.
A few more rocks sail from her hand.
“What are you sorry for?”
And I nearly say everything. But this is a moment for specificity.
“For how I behaved on the beach. For being an idiot. For making you feel like I’m taking you for granted.” I scoot closer. “Because the thing is, I don’t take you for granted. Every day, I wonder how long before you realize how far out of your league I am.”
“You know I hate when you say stuff like that.” She shakes her head. “There are no leagues. There’s you and there’s me and we’re both here. And either we’re here together or we’re not, Jamal. That’s it.”
I nod. “No, you’re right,” I say. “But can I ask you something?”
She shrugs.
“Have you ever felt like I didn’t love you?”
She turns toward me. Looks me right in my face. “Have you ever felt like telling me?”
“What? Yes. Of course, but . . .”
“But what, Jamal? There should be no buts.”
She turns away, back to lake-gazing.
“It’s not that I don’t feel that way about you. Because I do. I do hard. You’re . . .” I reach for her arm, expecting her to jerk away, and she does move, but slowly, like she’s deciding how it feels, considering it. “Autumn, you’re my person. And I hate that I made you feel anything less than amazing, because that’s how I feel when I’m with you. Because that’s how I feel about you. Honestly, I’m not even sure I knew what love was until you came along.”
“Don’t be stupid. What about your parents? Whit?”
“I mean, yeah, but . . .”
“And you loved Q, right?”
“I guess. Maybe.”
“Why’s it so hard for you to admit what’s in your heart?”
“Truthfully? Because . . . because it’s like if I put it out into the atmosphere, I can never reel it back in.”
She makes a face. “Why would you wanna reel it in?”
“Because . . . I’m dumb?”
“Jamal.”
“Because then . . .” My throat clenches. “Because then maybe it won’t hurt as bad when it’s over.”
She frowns. “Why does it have to be over?”
I shrug. “Because everything ends.”
“It doesn’t have to.”
I shake my head. “Yeah, well, it’s the only version I know.”
“Yeah, well, maybe it’s time you take responsibility for that.”
“What’s that mean?”
She turns to face me. “It means maybe you’d still have a few good things if you weren’t so determined to be an asshole to everyone.”
I nod. “I’m sorry I lied. I guess I wanted to erase Q from my brain. I didn’t want to acknowledge he’d ever meant anything to me.”
“You can’t change that. And even if you could, what good would it do? You’re only hurting the people who’ve stuck by you. And you’re only hurting yourself.”
“You’re right.”
“Pain’s never a reason to be shitty. And I’m telling you, right now, if you ever treat me like that again, it’ll be the last time you see me.”
“I know. It won’t happen again.”
“It better not.”
“So, does this mean you forgive me?”
“It means you’ve got some work to do.”
I scoot closer. “Autumn, I . . .”
But she puts her finger to my lips. “No,” she says. “Don’t say it. Not now.”
“But I . . .”
She slips my arm over her shoulders. “Wait until it’s right. When you want to say it.”
Her cheek falls into mine.
“Okay,” I say, even though right now feels right.
“But don’t wait another two years, or honestly another two weeks, because you will be saying it to yourself at that point.” She pulls her head away to see my eyes. “You got me?”
I stare right back. “I got you. Always.”
I slide over a bit more, and this time she does too. Meets me in the middle, which is all anyone can ask for.
She slowly lowers her head to rest against mine, like she’s not certain it belongs there anymore.
“You scared me, Jamal. When they pulled you from that water, I . . . I . . .”
“I know,” I say, squeezing her tighter.
“You can’t scare me like that again, okay? Like ever.”
And of course, we both know there are things beyond our control. Things we can’t truly promise away.
But also, sometimes, that’s not the point. “I won’t.”
With her free arm, she flings another rock—but attached to me, she can’t get the same velocity, the same arc, and it just barely finds the water.
Which, sorry, but uh, can you say metaphor?
Sure, you might sail faster, farther, alone.
But what was the point of accomplishing anything if you had no one to share it with?
Whether you plunked into the middle of the lake or you barely cleared the edge, you were in the water.
“Tell me about Whittier again,” I ask her.
She makes a face. “For someone who claims he prefers spontaneity, you love talking about the future.”
And she’s smiling, of course, she’s teasing me, but she’s also right. I do love talking about the future, but more so, I love hearing other people talk about it.
As if somehow the fact that other people see me, see us, together, in their imaginations meant it was more likely to happen.
She finds my hand, interlaces our fingers. “Well, we’ll both be at Whittier or maybe U of Chicago, and natur
ally, you’ll be undeclared for three years, while I double major in business and urban planning, so that, you know, I can . . .”
“Save the world,” I interject.
She punches me, laughing. “No, so I can do my part to preserve the planet. You do realize, at our current rate, even if we focus only on the ozone, this place will be radically different in less than a decade?”
“So I’ve heard,” I say, because she’s forever reminding me—the earth’s dying a slow, painful death, Jamal, and all of us are guilty.
But aren’t we all dying slowly, painfully? Why should the earth be exempt?
But I don’t say these things. Ask these questions. Because they’re not real.
They’re just by-products of heartache and regret, anger and disappointment.
Because I believe in Autumn and her dreams, maybe, probably, even more than my own. Because at least she dares to dream. And who was I to punch holes in them?
“Okay, so while I try to help save the planet, you’ll be finding yourself, and we’ll get an apartment together off campus, and we’ll cook together, and have movie marathons, and take long walks along the shore.”
I grin. “So, basically, we’ll keep doing the things we already do.”
“Except we don’t live together, silly.” She sticks out her tongue. “But, if you want any of that to actually happen, you’re gonna have to pick your grades up, and you know, maybe fill out some college applications.”
I barely resist rolling my eyes. Jamal’s Lack of Academic Ambition, another favorite Autumn topic. Although, to be fair, she’s not alone.
Between her, Whit, and seemingly anyone even remotely affiliated with Elytown High, the Get Yourself Together, Jamal chorus was singing louder and louder.
“College isn’t the only way you can be successful,” I argue.
She nods. “No, that’s true. So, you have a noncollegiate plan mapped out for your success?”
“Yep.”
Her forehead creases, eyes squint, as she taps her chin. “And remind me, babe, because you know how shaky my memory can be . . . umm, what exactly do you intend to be successful doing?”
She waits because this is normally where my defense falls apart.
Except, I don’t know, it’s like spending that time in Q’s room woke up something in me, too. I shrug. “I was thinking I wanna start writing again. Maybe, and don’t laugh . . . but maybe I take some improv classes.”
Early Departures Page 10
