She studies my face. “Okay, I’ll play. What do I see? Hmm. How about there’s no greater honor than fighting for others, even at great personal sacrifice?”
I shake my head. “No offense, but that sounds stupid.”
A few kids oooooooooh.
“Nah, for real. He was a hero, right, but when he needed his people the most, everyone except Wiglaf abandoned him. All that time he was loyal, kept his word. So, where were they when he needed them, huh? They were back at the crib watching some bullshit on Netflix.”
More laughs.
“So, you shouldn’t do anything for anyone, Jamal?” Ms. Taylor challenges me with a smile. “You should just keep to yourself? You’d rather live longer and die alone than die sooner alongside your friend, for what you believe in?”
“This ain’t about me.” I slide down in my chair.
She folds her arms. “No, you’re right, Jamal. It’s not. But I’m interested in what you think. In what we all think.”
I don’t say a word. She stands there, in my aisle, our eyes locked.
And okay, if this is what she wants, fine. “I’m saying Beowulf played himself. Those dudes didn’t leave him when he fought the dragon. They were never with him. He was always alone. And in the end, he got the dragon, and the dragon got him.”
I glance over at Q, to see if he’s following, but nah.
He’s smiling at his phone.
And okay, maybe I feel the smallest tinge of jealousy for whatever’s making him grin so hard. And okay, maybe I tell myself it’s an old Jauncy video.
And maybe that conjures up memories of a different time.
A better time.
Because what if Beowulf and the dragon had put aside their differences and become a renowned comedy duo?
55
Two Years Before the Funeral
I clicked an inactive tab on Q’s laptop.
We were supposed to be researching sea lions for science class, but of course we were watching highlights from last night’s NBA games.
“Yo, what’s this?” I asked, as I took a bite into some leftover tostadas Mr. Barrantes had made the night before. “Q’s Comedy Hour?”
And Q’s face had erupted in panic. “Don’t click that . . .”
But it was too late.
It was a TuberOne video he’d posted.
And it was just Q in front of the camera, sitting at his desk, telling jokes. And listen, I always knew Q was funny, but this . . . this was different.
He was beyond funny.
He was freaking hilarious.
“You kinda remind me of Donald Glover,” I told him. “Like his old stand-up stuff.”
And his face lit up. “Yeah? You don’t think it’s corny?”
I shook my head. “Nope.”
“Donald’s funny, but I was kinda going for someone else.”
“Well, I was gonna say Kendrick Fallon, but I d—”
Q grinned extra wide. “You got it.”
“You wanna host a TV show?”
Q shrugged. “Maybe. Or, I don’t know, maybe write jokes for Kendrick. I heard an interview where he said that’s how he got started in comedy. Writing jokes for other people.”
I smiled. “I could totally see you doing this.”
“Yeah? You just saying that?”
“Bro, I don’t just say stuff. You know me.”
And then Q had gotten this weird look in his eyes. “Well, I’m glad you feel that way because I was thinking you’d want to team up together. Be a comedy duo.”
“I’m not nearly as funny as you.”
Q laughed. “We’re just different funny. You’re like observational humor. But that’s still funny.”
I still wasn’t sure. I wasn’t seeing it. “I don’t know, Q. What if kids at school find our videos and think we’re stupid?”
“No one will ever find them. I’ve made thirty already and you had no idea.”
He had a point. It was almost like this secret life Q’d been leading without me. Alter-ego Quincy.
“Okay, but if we’re gonna do this, we’ve gotta make it good. I mean, what if it went viral? Q, this could be your ticket. You could be Kendrick one day.”
“Let’s not get carried away, but . . . thanks, man.”
I took a giant bite of tostada, guac juice running down my chin. “So, what should we call ourselves?”
“Jauncy,” Q said with zero hesitation.
“Jauncy?”
“Yeah, Jamal plus Quincy. Jauncy.”
“I guess I don’t hate it. I mean, that first part, Ja, sounds great, so.”
Q pretended to pinch my cheek. “Awww, look at you! Already got jokes!”
I always imagined that one day, when Q was famous and, like, hosting the Academy Awards, he’d tell that story in an interview. The interviewer would say, hey, so look what we have here, we’ve gotten our hands on THE original Q comedy shows Jauncy.
And then they’d play a couple of our most famous skits.
A few seconds of our funniest moments.
And I’m not a toot-your-own-horn-often kinda guy, but we made a great team.
We had a great run.
The same way I was the basketball expert, helping us perfect our pick and rolls and our pick and pops, Q was our comedy guru.
I’d assumed we’d just film ourselves being crazy, but nope, Q took it all seriously.
“There are no rules in comedy,” he said. “But rule number one is this, everything’s always funnier when it’s true. Even stuff that might not be funny funny is still funny when it’s something people relate to. Yeah?”
It made sense.
“Rule number two, just go with it. Commit to the joke, especially when you’re in a group situation, like improv, or in our case, a comedy duo.”
“A dynamic duo,” I sang, pointing upward, as if to suggest we could fly. “So, how many rules are there?”
Q smiled. “Only one more. Rule number three, have fun.”
54
Mrs. Sweat tents her hands. “Whitney, Jamal’s truancy is not our only concern. We’re equally . . .” She stops, slides a manila folder across her desk. “Here. See for yourself.”
Whit flips it open.
“Those are Jamal’s grades for the quarter. He’s failing or nearly failing four of his six courses.”
“Jamal,” Whit says, her voice like a gasp. A sound that says how could you not tell me? How could I not know? She tries to meet my eyes, but I look away. She turns back to Mrs. Sweat. “Isn’t your job to . . . aren’t you also failing him? Last semester, we got him tutoring and an individualized learning plan and . . .”
Mrs. Sweat motions to the papers in Whit’s hand. “On average, he’s missing a day every week. And that’s not counting the classes he’s skipping.”
“I’ve been sick,” I say. “I have doctor’s notes.”
Whit rubs her nose with her sleeve. A few tears drop onto her jeans. Whit says my name again, softer, quieter. “He’s had a hard time. We’ve had a . . .”
Mrs. Sweat frowns. “Look, we all know Jamal’s . . . not had an easy go of it. But I’m afraid that despite our best intentions, this school’s been complicit in Jamal’s failure. We’ve let him slip for two years. But now, it’s clear to us that if we let him slip anymore, it’ll be through our fingers. Through the cracks.” She pauses, her voice the right percentage of firm. “We’re of the mind that Jamal needs more help than what’s available at our institution.”
“Wait, you’re kicking him out?” Whit asks.
I sit up in my chair. “Wait, what? You can’t kick me out.” I look from Mrs. Sweat to Whit back to Mrs. Sweat. “Can you?”
She opens her drawer, pulling out a glossy trifold pamphlet and handing it to Whit. “It’s my strong recommendation that Jamal transfer to Elytown Prep.”
“What? The school for problem kids? That’s not me!”
And I won’t lie, Mrs. Sweat seems genuinely sad. The face she’s giving me right now—
I’ve seen that from a lot of adults these last couple of years.
I’ve seen it from Whit. From Autumn.
“So, he has a choice, though?” Whit asks. “He doesn’t have to leave Elytown High?”
Mrs. Sweat shakes her head. “Honestly, I don’t want to see Jamal go. I want Jamal to stay here and succeed the way we all know he’s capable of. But I don’t want to lose you entirely, Jamal.”
“Lose me? I’m skipping school, I’m not participating in organized crime.”
“No, Jamal. I don’t want to lose you to grief.” She frowns. “I can’t watch you get eaten whole. Not anymore. I have to do something. We have to do something.”
I sit back in my chair.
I’d never thought of it that way.
That I’m being swallowed by grief.
But maybe it’s true.
Except it’s not exactly like Mrs. Sweat thinks.
I wish I’d been swallowed whole. That would’ve been a mercy.
Because the way I feel? It’s like being eaten slowly. Like I’m being gnawed.
We spend another twenty minutes dialoguing about my academic future.
In short: I can stay at EHS. But I’m on probation. No more skipping school, or even a class. And my grades have to show improvement.
Which, ugh.
But fair.
And then we’re out of Mrs. Sweat’s office.
Out of the main office.
Out the school foyer.
Out onto the front lawn.
Nearly out into the visitor lot.
But then I’m running back toward the north end, Whit calling after me.
And was this the best post-probationary-meeting choice I could make?
From the outside, not even close. But it was something Mrs. Sweat had said—despite our best intentions. In the end, it doesn’t matter what you were trying to do.
Only what you did.
And now I’m jogging down the side of the humanities building, running my fingers along the brick facade, glaring into each of the open rectangular windows.
And then I see my calculus teacher seated at her desk, and she meets my eyes, but I’m looking past her, I’m looking at the kid who, when I sprained my ankle playing neighborhood football, carried me off the grassy knoll and the entire quarter mile home.
The kid who’d seen me at my worst but had still wanted to stay.
The teacher walks over to the window. “Jamal, you can’t disrupt our club meeting. In fact, why aren’t you headed home already?”
“Excellent question, Ms. Haddish,” I say. “One that deserves a considerate answer.” I poke my head inside the window frame so she can’t close it.
“Jamal, please move along. You can’t cause a disturbance. Now if you don’t wanna be here, fine, we can’t force you to stay, but . . .”
I shake my head. Because why did everyone think that?
That I didn’t want to be in the places I was at?
Why had no one ever asked me why I didn’t want to be here? Instead of just deciding oh well, it’s your loss.
Maybe Mrs. Sweat was righter than she knew.
Maybe I was being swallowed up.
Maybe I’d forgotten how to be me. The old carefree Jamal. Silly, fun-loving Jamal.
“You’re right, Ms. Haddish. And I’m really, truly sorry for interrupting your club, and I promise I’m gonna leave in like fifteen seconds, but please, please let me just say one thing first.”
She crosses her arms. “Jamal.”
“Please,” I beg, tenting my hands together in prayer. “Fifteen seconds. That’s it. I just need to tell my old pal Q something.”
“Jamal, if this is some kind of vendetta or . . .”
“It’s not that.” I wave my arm in Q’s direction. “Hey, man, are you . . . hey, c’mon, can you just look at me for a second?”
But Q keeps staring straight ahead, as if he can’t hear or see the guy flagging him down in the window.
Ms. Haddish sighs. “Q, will you please just . . .”
Q turns my way.
“Q, I . . . I don’t know how to start this, but I’m just gonna . . . I’m just gonna try . . . okay, it doesn’t matter . . .”
Ms. Haddish taps her watch. “You have like five seconds left.”
I shake my head. “Okay, look. I’m sorry, Q, for treating you like crap when . . . when my parents died. You didn’t deserve that. I know that. And I’m sorry it’s taken all this time for me to tell you as much. I’m sorry that you had to . . .”
Whoa, Jamal, easy, boy. You nearly spilled the reanimation beans.
“You see, the truth is . . . the truth is . . . I blamed you, Q. I blamed you for what happened.”
Q’s face twists in confusion, but he says nothing.
“Yeah, I did. You called that morning to tell my parents happy anniversary. I don’t know if you remember.”
And I can’t be sure, but I think Q’s head dips in the smallest nod.
“And maybe you don’t remember, but I know you remember how terrible Dad was with technology,” I say. And now I feel my eyes beginning to water. And I want to stop this whole thing in its tracks. Because I can’t fall apart here, in front of a school that’s wiping its hands of me, in front of kids who still whisper about why I’m so messed up. I should just leave. Do what I do best. Turn and sprint to safety, but—
I’m here.
And I want to be here.
I wipe my eyes. “Anyway, just as we . . . just as we pulled out . . . you called, and Dad’s phone was connected to the Bluetooth and . . . and . . .”
I look down and away.
I take a deep breath and a step back, ducking out of the window.
Just say it, Jamal. Say the words and let them go.
I look back up and now Q’s standing in front of the window.
And I force a smile, because I appreciate what he’s doing.
That he gets it.
What I’m trying to do.
And he’s meeting me halfway.
He’s meeting me where I stand.
I nod. “Thank y—”
But I don’t get the you out before Q sticks his arm out through the open window.
And this is unexpected—he wants to bump fists with me. Or possibly pull me into a bro-hug. Which is even better. Means even more.
I smile, and this time, it just happens.
“Hey, Q, I really am happy you—”
Except Q isn’t reaching out for a hug.
Or to hear my apology more clearly.
Or to prepare to deliver his own apology in return.
No. I watch, Ms. Haddish watches, her entire after-school club watches, as Q’s fingers wrap around the window handle and pull the window closed, all while maintaining perfect eye contact with me.
And for the briefest moment I think he’s joking as he fumbles with the window, rattling the glass pane.
That it’s stuck but he’s about to push it back open.
That this is his way of sticking it to me a bit.
That he can’t just let me off easy.
But I couldn’t have been more wrong.
The latch was stuck, but he wasn’t trying to reopen the window, Q’s locking the window in place.
And when the lock finally clasps, he’s still looking right at me.
The whole episode, he barely even blinks.
And well, reader, I wish I could tell you that’s how things ended.
That I chose the emotional high ground.
But, uhhhh—
“What, you don’t wanna hear me say how you killed my parents, Q? What’s the matter? You still too much of a punk to admit what you did? You killed my parents, Q! You, man! You did that! Not the dude driving the other car! It was you and only you! And you wanna know what the stupidest thing is?” I pause to laugh and rub my belly the way you do when something’s epically hilarious. “Like, this is the real zinger, bro. You’re gonna love it. Haha. Listen. Ms. Haddish, you guys can hear me in the
re, right? Everyone, check this out. It wasn’t even their anniversary. You get it? He called to wish my parents a happy anniversary, and not only was he wrong, he was soooo wrong. If his wrong was a grenade, it would still be so far from the truth, it would inflict zero damage. Because, get this. This kid, my former best friend, wait for it . . . he had the wrong fucking month! He called them on June seventh, but their anniversary was July seventh.” I squeeze my face together, like I’m so mortally embarrassed for him. “So, wow, egg on his face, right? How freaking embarrassing for Q, huh, guys? He killed my parents for absolutely no reason. So, yeah, fun.”
And then Whit’s materializing at my side, and she’s tugging my arm, and I’m resisting at first, not in an I’m doubling down on my assholery way, but because for a moment everything in the world has fallen away, like I’m the last living thing on earth, and it doesn’t feel good, and it’s terrifying, but she’s saying over and over again that’s far enough, Jamal, Jamal, that’s enough, and she’s right, she’s so right, it is too much, I am too far gone, it’s enough, it’s enough.
All of it, everything, more than enough.
And then we’re finishing what we started—we’re out.
Out the school grass.
Out the parking lot.
Out the premises.
We’re out.
All the way out.
53
Our drive home quieter than death.
52
I lock my door, fall onto my bed.
Wake my phone, tap Videos.
Scroll to the hidden folder.
I promised Whit I wouldn’t watch it anymore.
Swore I’d deleted it.
Dr. Ocean warned me to be careful. Your obsession with this video isn’t healthy, Jamal. There are better ways to address your feelings.
But I’m not looking for better.
I slip in my earbuds.
I tap Play.
51
I zoom in on Mom’s face and she blocks her eyes with her hands. Behind her, about twenty yards from the road, the electronic Elytown Greenhouse Emporium sign spells out WELCOME in white pixelated animation.
“It won’t kill you, Jamal.” Mom says this matter-of-factly, like she just wormholed here from the future. Dad, wearing a flannel shirt for probably the first time ever, nods his agreement. The three of us made fun of him the entire ride here. Wait, are we buying trees or chopping them down, we joked. And we called him “Paul Bunion” until he blasted the radio to drown us out.
Early Departures Page 12
