She runs down the ride exit ramp and I chase her.
Your favorite amusement park and your favorite person, what could be better?
And then we’re in line for our favorite loaded fries, and I’m like, okay, Universe, out here trying to make amends, I see you.
But then a voice calls my name from behind and I wave my fists at the sky because, nope, still up to your same tricks.
42
I can’t believe my eyes.
What were the odds?
“You’re not here to physically delete your number from my phone, are you?”
And I try to smile, but it’s hard when all you feel inside is terror.
What if he is here to delete his number?
Or to kick me to Jupiter?
Or . . .
Q closes the gap between us, slaps his meaty hand on my shoulder. “Bro, do you wanna talk or not?”
“Huh?” I say. “Wait, you want to talk?”
He shrugs. “What, you thought this was like the movies where two principal characters get into a seemingly impossible-to-resolve conflict, effectively severing their relationship not only emotionally but also physically, until lo and behold, they run smack-dab into each other in the least coincidental but ultimately super-conveniently super-cool setting, i.e., an amusement park?”
“That’s exactly what I thought, yes.” And then I finally get it. And I stare into Autumn’s eyes, and then Q’s eyes, and then back to Autumn’s, then back to Q’s.
“I smell a conspiracy. You two set this up, didn’t you?”
And I barely pin the question mark on my sentence’s end when the two of them, in unison, shout: “OH MY GOD! YES, JAMAL!”
41
Q isn’t making a blink of eye contact.
His hands are on the back of his head, like he’s chilling in a hammock as opposed to sitting outside the park’s petting zoo with his former best friend.
And initially, I was fully prepared to begin this conversation.
But when I began, he waved me off.
So, here we sit. Silently not looking at each other.
And then finally: “I kept waiting for you to come. I knew you would. But my dad kept getting sicker and sicker and you were nowhere to be found.”
“I know,” I say, because it’s true. Because the only thing to say is: “I’m so sorry.”
“Why?”
“Because I was angry. Because I blamed you for . . .” I look away but force myself to turn back. I hear Autumn’s voice. Accept responsibility, Jamal. “I blamed you for the accident. I convinced myself that if you hadn’t called, they’d still be alive.”
“I can’t believe you’d . . . wow, that really hurts. I loved them like my own parents.”
I nod. “I know. I was wrong.”
“Yeah, you were.”
“I blamed my dad too.”
“Why?”
I shrug. “Because he was trying to answer your call, but he couldn’t figure out how.” My voice breaking. “But that’s just as wrong. Those were lies I told myself because I was angry, and I was afraid.”
“What were you afraid of?”
“A lot of things. Suddenly, I realized how little control I had over so many things. That the massive amounts of love you have for someone didn’t protect them from being hurt. I was afraid to be hurt again. I decided . . . I decided that if I could stop feeling, then nothing could ever make me feel that bad again.”
Q shakes his head. “And I get all that, but still, I wouldn’t have done that to you. I didn’t do that to you.”
“Q . . . I . . .”
Q’s finger jabbing into my chest. “You think you’re the only one who’s ever hurt, Jamal?”
“That’s . . . that’s . . . not . . .”
“No one knows pain like Jamal. No one hurts as deeply as Jamal hurts. Your parents, they were only your parents, not Whit’s, too, right? Only you felt that loss? And you feel bad because your sister, what, wanted to be there for you? You think she took a goddamn deferment at her dream school so you could flush your life away? That’s how you thank her? That’s how you honor your parents’ legacy?”
I try to slow this down, because it’s going too far too fast, but Q’s showing no signs of braking, of letup.
“Q, listen to me . . . you don’t understand . . .”
His finger back into my chest. “You have no clue what I understand. Or Whit. Or my mom. Or anyone. And how could you, Jamal? For two years, you’ve only cared about you.”
“Q . . .”
“Contrary to what you think, we aren’t born to sit and wait for the bad stuff to happen. We aren’t born to die. But . . . but it happens to all of us. And what that means is we’re gonna lose people along the way, people that matter a whole lot, people we can’t imagine living without. We die, Jamal. And it’s okay. You can talk about it. We can talk about it. Otherwise, it’s gonna eat you whole, man. Instead, we need to be living the best we can. Without fear, when we can help it. Without anxiety, when possible. And carrying as little grief as humanly possible, okay?” He grabs my shoulders. “But you gotta stop walking around like you’re dead because you are killing everyone, man. Because all of us are tired of watching you self-sabotage and self-destruct. Because it’s awful wondering when you’re gonna finally succeed and blow up into a gazillion pieces. Because your pieces are great, J. Because when your pieces are clicking . . . when they’re really humming . . . they’re some fucking rad pieces, man. They are. You are alive. And it’s okay. It’s more than okay. It’s great. Let it be great.”
And I can’t hear any more, but also I want to hear it all again.
And I grab Q and at first he’s pushing me, pushing me, but for the first time I can remember in forever I don’t just give up, I’m holding tight, tight, and he’s way stronger than me, but I’m feisty, I’m resilient when I need to be, when I want to be, and I hold on, man. I hold on tight. And he could flick me away easily if he wanted, but he doesn’t, and that’s something.
And then, after dozens of people give us weird looks as they pass by, he finally hugs me back.
Okay, more like he kinda pats my back.
With like the very tips of his fingers.
And we stand there.
Eliciting an innumerable amount of weird stares.
My arms locked around him, and him kinda fingertip-patting my back.
And no, I can’t tell you for how long.
Because duration—how long a good thing lasts—is never the point.
“Can I ask you one more thing before we end this therapy session?”
He gives me a look, like shoot.
“What made you change your mind? What made you come today?”
“Autumn told me that I wouldn’t have real peace until I forgave you.”
More confirmation I don’t deserve her.
“But really, that was the icing. This morning, after I sent you that text, I went down for breakfast. And like, on the surface, there’s nothing all that different than any other morning, right? Me and Mom a perfectly orchestrated routine. She’s making huevos rancheros, I’m making the coffee. And I’m not sure if you remember, but she’s not exactly a morning person.”
I nod. “You kidding? That was one of the best parts of sleeping at your house. She never woke up before ten.”
“True.” Q laughs. “Except this morning, she’s talking both my ears off. Says she was up all night, tossing and turning. Says she suddenly had this weird feeling she was supposed to find something.”
“Like what?”
“She didn’t know. Just had the feeling. So, she’s walking all over the house, and she’s standing in all the rooms, and she’s just looking for . . .”
“A sign.”
“I was gonna say message, but sign works. And then she’s in Dad’s old office, which she’s been slowly cleaning out. I know you remember Dad’s bulletin board?”
“Umm, I couldn’t forget that if I tried. That’s the most ins
pirational thing I’ve ever seen.”
And it is. When Q’s dad was first diagnosed, back when we were ten, he’d been feeling depressed, naturally. So he came up with the idea that he’d hang a bulletin board and he’d pin happy things up. The things he was thankful for. Things that made him smile. Or laugh. He pinned comic strips, poems, fortunes from fortune cookies, articles from magazines, and when he heard something he liked, he’d write it down and tack that up too. And then he asked Ms. B and Q to add whatever they wanted too. And then he moved it from his office to the living room, and anytime someone visited, a friend, a family member, coworker, even the delivery-truck guy, he’d show them the board and tell them the next time he saw them, he wanted them to add something to the board. And almost everyone did. There was even something from my parents on that board. The board was overflowing with slips of paper.
“Yeah, it’s great. Well, after Dad passed, she moved it back to his office. Honestly, I assumed it made her more sad than happy. Because after his cancer went into remission, Dad used to tell everyone it was the board that had fought it off. But then, of course . . . it came back. Anyway, Mom is standing in his office and she glances at this board she’s seen a million times and she’s walking back out when one of the fortune cookie slips catches her eye.”
“It was some thought-provoking phrase?”
“Nope, there was something written on the back.”
“Wait, for real?”
“Yep. A web address. In Dad’s handwriting. Mom had never noticed it before. So, she types it into her phone, and she says she’s instantly mesmerized. And that feeling she’d had is like changing inside her, and she knows this is it.”
“What was the website?”
“It was a TuberOne video. And I’m like, okay, I’ll watch it after school, because the thing is twenty minutes long and I’m still groggy. But then she’s plopping her laptop in front of me. And now I’m watching some video about living your life with no regrets. About generating good energy in life. About never taking time, or love, for granted.”
And for a second, I wonder if this is going where I hope it is, that she’s told him about the reanimation. But that’s not possible, right? No way he’s in such a generous mood, if he knew.
“And then the video ends, and I’m like, thanks, Mom, because I don’t know what else she wants me to say. But then just as she’s sliding two sunny-sides onto my plate, she puts her spatula hand on my shoulder and she says, ‘Quincy Michael, I want you to promise me one thing.’ And I say okay, what? And she says, ‘That this month, you’ll work doubly hard to live your life the way your father did. With grace and honor, love and mercy. That you will let go of any anger and hurt, and that every day you’ll do one thing that makes you happy.’”
“Oh, wow. That’s . . . that’s deep.”
Q nods. “Yeah. It just got me thinking, what would Dad do? What choices would he make? He used to invite strangers into our house because he believed there was something good in everyone. People loved him because dude abounded in positivity.”
And that couldn’t be any more accurate. Mr. B may have been the most genuinely joyful person I’ve ever met.
“So, here I am.”
“So, you’re saying it wasn’t really Autumn that made you come?”
“Dad loved everyone. But he really loved you. He wouldn’t want me to carry anything bad for you in my heart. But Autumn’s the one who kept blowing up my phone until I promised to come here. So she gets credit too.”
“Well, you gotta send me the link to this video. I wanna check it out too.”
Q nods. “It’s probably easy to find. It was by the Center . . .”
And my eyes nearly fall out of my face. “Did you say the Center?”
“Yeah, the Center for Orthopedics. I guess a bunch of bone doctors in Canada made it a few years back and it went viral.”
Okay, okay, so, maybe not the Center, but still, c’mon, that’s pretty dang close, and if that’s not at least a little meaningful, I don’t know what is.
Q grins. “Also, Autumn is very persuasive. And charming. And smart. And utterly gorgeous,” Q says. “Not sure what she sees in you.”
I push his smirking-laughing ass away, but I agree. “Whatever it is, I hope it never goes away.”
40
Autumn’s waiting for us at the entrance to Cursed Canyon.
When we’re close enough, I reach over and take Q’s hand, and it takes him a second to realize, and then he’s telling me he’s glad to see I haven’t wasted the last two years maturing. Autumn asks Q if he’s a hugger and then the two of them are embracing and I make a joke that I’m lonely, that I like hugs too.
And what could be better than this? My current favorite person with my former favorite person on either side of me, the best Jamal sandwich ever constructed.
And how could I not be happy when they’re both so happy?
We hit Battle Bayou, Annihilator II, Hedge’s Revenge, and we’ve got so much more on our roller-coaster horizon, but for now we’re waiting for fried cheese on a stick.
Q’s still pumped from Revenge, throwing air punches like he’s warding off the blue raiders. If he’s stopped smiling since we got off that first ride, I haven’t seen it.
Which is great.
But also, it makes me feel twenty-four types of crappy. Because I can’t help but think all this fun is balanced on a lie. That Q should know the truth. That no one’s ever owed anything more in the history of the world than me owing Q this.
I have to tell him.
Because friendship is someone willing to tell you the hard truth.
I throat-clear. “Hey, Q?”
“What up?” Apparently, the Hedge’s raiders are quite the foe—he’s ratcheted up his air-punching intensity several notches now.
“I was . . . uh . . . you . . . you’d want me to tell you if, uh, there was something kinda big and it was about . . .”
Q extracts his phone from his pocket, taps the screen, and slips out of line, holding his finger up at me like hold on, be right back.
“What are you thinking about telling him?” Autumn asks.
I shrug. “Nothing. Just being hypothetical.”
Q returns a few moments later.
“My bad, J. That was Mom.”
“Everything okay?”
“I guess. She didn’t know I was coming here and she’s acting all upset about me missing dinner.” He drops his phone back into his pocket. “Anyway, you were saying something?”
I shake my head. “You know what? It’s nothing that can’t wait.”
What? Give me a break, okay? Telling your friend he’s dead is something you have to build up to.
Autumn laughs. “Smash these cheese sticks and then Steel Throne?”
I groan. “Again?”
Q clasps his humongous hands together in prayer. “It’s my fave.”
I pull up the ride in the park app. “Homie, that line’s ninety-plus minutes right now.”
Hands still clasped, he drops to his knees. Autumn drops to her knees beside him.
“Okay, guys, get up.”
“You sure, because we’re not above groveling,” Autumn says.
“Actually, we kinda enjoy it,” Q adds.
But I’m only pretending to protest, because truthfully, I probably would’ve waited twice that long, Steel Throne’s that good.
I tell myself I’ll tell him while we wait; an hour and a half is enough time to try to explain the last two and a half days, right? But I can’t figure out how to start: hey Q, so you know how you think you’re alive right now, hahaha, funny thing, you’re gonna love this. But I don’t even get to bomb because there’s a DJ playing music for the crowd, and the girls in front of us start flirting with Q—oh my God, you’re so tall. How tall is your girlfriend—prompting Q to start telling jokes.
Seriously, he’s like doing this entire stand-up routine, and you’d think his dark skin was actual chocolate, the way they’re eating
him up.
Before I know it, we’re buckling our seat belts and bumping fists.
“You ready to do this, boy?”
“Let’s get iiiitttt,” I say as the ride squeals to life.
And I can’t help but wonder if it’s all a sign: first, the phone call from his mom, and then insanely loud wait-in-line music combined with the you’re so funny, are you gonna be a comedian girls. And then him and Autumn hitting it off so smashingly?
Was the Universe conspiring to tell me that this is the best thing for Q?
To let him enjoy his last days and not worry about what comes next?
And really, the main reason I’d tell him is because I want him to maximize his last days on the earth; to do everything he wants. To go on his own terms.
But can’t I make sure he gets all of that without telling him he’s on borrowed time? What if I could help manufacture the best days ever? Wouldn’t that actually be better?
When Autumn leaves us for the world’s longest bathroom line, I decide to prod Q a bit.
“Q, if you could do anything you wanted the next few weeks, what would you do?”
Q sucks the bits of cotton candy from his long fingers. “You already know this.”
“Okay, hmmm,” I say, but I’m drawing a blank. “Give me a hint.”
He does a voice, an impersonation, and it’s killer. Dead-on accurate, so I pretend to not know who he means until he’s just frustrated enough.
“The Kendrick Fallon thing? You still wanna host a late-night talk show?”
He shakes his head. “Arsenio Hall.” He pumps his fist.
“Who?”
Q gives me a look like I just asked him for a back rub. “Arsenio. Hall,” he says with emphasis.
“Ohhhhh, see, I didn’t get it the first time, but then you said it louder, and it clicked. Thanks.”
We crack up.
“The guy in the club scene of Coming to America who wasn’t Eddie Murphy.”
“Why didn’t you just say that?”
“He used to host a late-night show. Every star came on his show. Everyone loved that dude. Look him up. He’s like the perfect balance of humor and charm. Like, he’s not only the guy who invited you over, but he’s also the guy who makes you feel like he’s been waiting for you. He’s dope.”
Early Departures Page 14
