And she just stands there, sopping dish towel in her hand.
So I do what I would’ve done to my own mom.
I close the gap.
I rest my head against her shoulder.
And she rubs the side of my scalp. “You’re still a knucklehead.”
“I love you too.”
20
“So, even though I basically bungled this whole thing . . .”
Whit interrupts me. “It coulda been way worse!”
“True, and thank you for your enthusiastic support, but I was just gonna say that the good news is, Q’s still talking to me. And his mom doesn’t want to murder me and my unborn children.”
“Wow. That’s a relief.”
“Yeah, she’s gonna spare my children. I thought that was really nice of her.”
“But if you’re dead . . .” Whit’s voice trails off.
“Ohmigod, Whit, stop setting fire to my silver linings. Damn.”
Whit shakes her head. “Your heart was in the right place. That counts.”
I shrug. “Unfortunately, my good intentions can’t seem to stop the ongoing reverberations of my initial crappiness. You think Ms. Barrantes cares that I meant well? You think Q’s consoling himself with Jamal might’ve ruined any peace I might’ve had these last few days on earth but that heart, tho?”
“Jamal.”
“If the first eighty minutes of a movie are amazing but the last twelve are a dozen pieces of shit on fire, is that movie a masterpiece? Do you excuse the ending because the beginning had so much promise, the middle was pure potential?”
Whit opens her mouth but says nothing.
“Exactly,” I say. “Which is why I gotta make this right. No crappy endings allowed.”
“Jamal, I applaud your exuberance, but I’m not sure this is something you can fix. Or that you should even try. Maybe the lesson from all of this is, sometimes what we see as broken, isn’t. And our fix is the thing that breaks it.”
“I just wanna atone for my mistakes. Is that so bad?”
“It’s not. It’s the opposite. But the best way to make things right is to ask the person how you can. And then follow through on that. You’re only helpful to someone if what you do actually helps. Otherwise you’re just making yourself feel better and that’s what ice cream’s for.”
“Wow, that’s kinda deep.”
Whit shrugs. “Well, I’m kinda deep, so it makes sense.”
And sure, we’re talking about Q.
About Ms. B.
But really, we’re talking about all the people who love me.
Who’ve put up with me.
Who did everything they could to help me, even when I refused to help myself.
When I hurt them in the process.
No one knew this more than the person standing in front of me.
“What’s on my face?” Whit asks.
“Huh? What are you talking about?”
She wags her finger. “You’re looking at me funny. What is it?”
“There’s nothing on your face. Dang, can’t a brother look at his sister lovingly without arousing her suspicion?”
She laughs. “I’m sure a brother can, yeah. But we’re talking about you, right?”
“Whit, I’m so sorry. Here I am thinking about everyone else and . . .”
“Huh? Now what are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about how for the last two years I’ve been the biggest pain in your butt. I made everything about me. I lied. I broke promises. All of the stuff I’ve done these last few days, the stuff I’m scrambling to fix, are things I’ve done to you all this time. You, the only person who truly understands me. Who’s been with me from the beginning beginning.”
“Jamal, we don’t have to do this . . .”
“No, we do. I do,” I say, taking her hands. “I’ll probably have to spend the rest of my life making this up to you, but however long it takes, I’ll do it.”
Whit shakes her head. “Don’t you get it? There’s nothing to make up to me. I chose this life with you. I want this life with you.”
“I want it with you too. I’m just sorry I haven’t shown that.”
“Jamal, I know you love me. I feel it. You tell me. You do things that show me. But . . . sometimes you treat me like the enemy. Like you think I enjoy harassing you about school. Like I live to micromanage your life. When in reality, I just want you to be happy. And I want you to have all of the things we would’ve had with Mom and Dad.”
I squeeze her hands. “I want you to have those things too.”
“I need you to work harder. To be consistent. I need you to stop walking around like you don’t care, when we both know you’re the most emotional person in this whole town.”
I laugh, a few tears rolling down my face. “I’m gonna work harder. And you’re right, I do care. I care a lot. And I know you’re only trying to help. I know that.”
“But that can only happen if you let me in there,” she says, letting go of my hands and tapping my chest.
I wipe my face. “You sure you want in? It can be pretty dark in there.”
“Smelly too,” Whit says. “But yeah, I’m still game.” She leans her head into my shoulder. “Okay, between you and this kid inside me, I need ice cream and I need it now.”
“Coming right up,” I say. And she takes a seat at the table while I raid the freezer.
“How come they don’t tell you that pregnancy makes you super vulnerable to the power of suggestion? I mention ice cream ten minutes ago and now it’s all I can think about.”
I laugh. “Are you really saying you’re vulnerable to your own suggestions? That’s like laughing at your own jokes and being like damn I hate being so funny.”
I drop the rocky road carton in front of her and hand her a wooden serving spoon.
“Where’s my bowl?”
“No bowl,” I say.
“But you hate it when I eat from the carton.”
“Yeah, well, we’ve already established I don’t know anything, so.”
“True,” she says, and scoops what basically amounts to an entire bowl of ice cream.
“Also, what’s so wrong with laughing at your own jokes? What if your jokes happen to be exceptionally funny?”
“Okay, I appreciate we just had a moment, and I don’t want to ruin it, but I really hope you’re not pretending like you’re funny.”
“Ha.” She sticks out her tongue. “Face it, bro. I’m the funny one in the family. I mean, in another life, I would’ve been a killer comedian.”
“Yeah, well, maybe you should . . . ohmigod.” I stop.
“Wait, what’s happening? Is this supposed to be some kind of cliffhanger? Because I’m not all that intrigued.”
I snap my fingers because that’s what you do when you’ve got an awesome idea. “Ohmigod, that’s it. Why didn’t I think of that before? You’re a freaking genius, Whit! Ohmigod, thank you! Thank you! If your belly wasn’t so huge, I’d attempt to kiss you.”
“You see I’m armed, right,” she says, holding up the spoon. “You better watch yourself.”
I kiss her anyway. And then I dance around the kitchen like a soulful madman because ohmigod, that’s it. That’s! It!
Day 4
<32 Q Hours Left
19
I prepare my argument.
Try my best to predict each possible objection, prime for all of them.
I know it’ll be a fight.
I know they’ll resist my plan.
It’s gonna be a struggle.
My only hope is that they understand why this is so important.
Why this is the only way for everyone to win.
For, most of all, Q to win.
I deliver my speech and steel myself for the missiles of rejection.
But nope. I get none of that.
I get enthusiasm.
I get jumping up and down.
I get a few sobs, but even those are joyful.
And then we’re turning on music and bumping hips in Q’s living room because yeah. Because this is how you love.
Because everyone gets my I’ve got it.
And I’d nearly forgotten how good it feels to make other people happy.
It’s a seven-hour drive to New York City.
“Except we don’t have that kind of time,” Ms. Barrantes says. “Right now, every hour might as well be a bag of gold.”
Whit nods.
I nod.
Q nods.
Autumn nods.
I suppose I could’ve said we all nodded, but I looked everyone in their eyes as they affirmed, so it felt right to acknowledge their agreement individually.
“Whit, you’re thirty-six weeks?”
“Thirty-four. It’ll be thirty-five in two days.”
“So, you’re safe to fly, but how do you feel about it?”
“Umm, under any other circumstances, it would freak me the hell out. But this, I can’t miss this. Plus, I’d be traveling with an OB nurse.”
“Maybe you’ll deliver on the plane,” Q says. “Wait, if we’re flying over Pennsylvania, then would the baby still be an Ohioan?”
Autumn smiles. “You’re thinking of what happens when you’re born in a different country.”
Q laughs. “Oh yeah.”
“I’m buying the tickets now. If we hurry, we can make the red-eye.”
Whit pulls out her credit card. “How much are the tickets?”
But Ms. B’s face is thirty-nine levels of offended. “Never ask how much a gift costs.”
“I’m not letting you pay for everyone,” Whit argues. “The tickets must cost a small fortune.”
But Ms. B isn’t having it. Tears snagged in her eyelashes, she gets all this is how it’s gonna be. “If I don’t spend my money on this, where will I spend it after? What good is money if you don’t have your loved ones to enjoy it?”
Which makes sense.
Which makes sad.
“We leave in three hours,” Ms. B confirms. “Just enough time to pack and get to the airport.”
And then it’s like we’re a basketball team coming out of a time-out, breaking our huddle and then hurrying to our respective positions on the court.
Ms. B and Q race home to get a few things.
“Nana’s okay with you just picking up for NYC?” I ask Autumn, as I rifle through the dryer for clean socks.
“No. But she’s okay with me spending as much time with Q as I can . . .”
I slip a sock over my hand, pinch my thumb against my index finger and say, “I’m glad you’re here. Thank you.” I open and close my fingers like the sock’s talking.
Autumn pulls a sock over her hand. “He’s lucky to have you.”
I shrug. “I wish he was luckier.”
18
Plane tickets, check, but we still need Later Tonight tickets.
“No way there are any seats left for tomorrow,” I say, tapping the keyboard.
Autumn wags her head. “Paging Downer. Debbie Downer?”
I don’t bother retorting I’m a realist. I don’t bother saying what we both know, what all five of us know.
That it’s likely impossible we’ll get tickets to tomorrow’s taping.
That, spoiler alert, Q is 100 percent not gonna be on Later Tonight.
“The point is we try,” Autumn reminds me.
I scour the Later Tonight website for help.
There’s no mention of how to meet Kendrick or even how to audition for the comedy showcase.
But there is an email address.
For general inquiries contact us here: [email protected].
Okay, a very generic address, but still it was something.
A single bread crumb on a spotless floor.
“You think our inquiry’s general enough?” I ask Autumn.
“Do I think you’re corny enough?”
“So is that a yes or a no?”
She reaches past me, taps the link, and an empty email opens.
I type before I can second-guess myself.
A few moments later an email pops back and my stomach yips.
Thank you for contacting us.
No problem, thanks for being contactable.
We will make all effort to reply . . .
Okay, I like the sound of all effort. Most of the time we don’t even make minimal effort, so.
. . . within two weeks of receipt.
That sound you heard? Air whooshing from my sails.
We have less than thirty-two hours.
Which means, this is a good time to activate plan B.
You know, if plan B existed.
“So, what do we do now?” Autumn asks, or maybe my brain asks—hard to say.
“If we can at least get into the audience tomorrow, I can figure out the rest.”
Autumn nods. Takes the keyboard. Screens opening and closing in such rapid sequence I barely register the blinking, flitting arrow.
“So, when are you gonna admit you work for a shadowy government agency?”
She laughs. “Why is every government agency shadowy?”
“Shady?” I offer up.
She grins. “Shady works.”
“Check out what I found on my dad’s computer. I forgot about these.”
Autumn strains to see. “What is it?”
I tap a couple of keys. “Home videos. There’s, like, at least a hundred clips.”
“Oh, wow, that’s like a family diary or something.”
“I hadn’t thought of it that way, but you’re right.” I scroll through the list. “You think it’s weird if I download them to my phone?”
“Umm, I think it’s weirder if you don’t.”
I keep scrolling, looking for a good place to start.
“Let’s watch one.” She tilts her head. “If you’re up for it.”
I tap Play.
Dad: I’m just trying out my new camera. Trying to get a feel for it.
Jamal: Funny because it’s giving me the same feelings as your last camera.
Dad: Hahaha, cute, Jamal. Now turn around and look at me. You too, Quincy.
Mom: Andre, would you please let these boys finish their homework.
Dad: You’re right, baby. School comes first. I’ll turn it off.
Jamal: Yayyy!
Dad: AFTER you two answer one question.
Jamal: Ohmigod, Dad.
Quincy: It’s one question, Jamal.
Dad: See, Q’s reasonable. Thank you, Q. If you ever need a place to live . . .
Whit: Dad’s back at it.
Jamal: Why are you in my room, Whit? And where’d you even come from?
Whit: I could sense someone was being tormented, so I had to come see.
Jamal: Well, you’ve seen, now you can crawl back to your hovel.
Mom: Jamal! Apologize to your sister! And I better not hear you say something like that again, you hear me?
Jamal: Mom, she says way worse to me. And she never lets me in her room so how come I gotta let her in mine?
Mom: Jamal.
Jamal: Okay, I’m sorry, Whit . . . [quietly] that you trolls live in hovels.
Dad: Guys.
Whit: I don’t let you in my room because you refuse to use deodorant.
Mom: Jamal, we talked about hygiene.
Dad: Guys.
Jamal: Mom, she’s lying! Smell my pits! Smell me! Quincy, stop laughing!
Quincy: Your family’s hilarious. I can’t help it.
Dad: GUYS! DO YOU WANNA HEAR MY DAMN QUESTION OR NOT?
Mom: Language, Andre.
Dad: I only said damn, baby. That’s hardly—
Mom: Andre Alexander Anderson.
Me: Awww shoot, Dad’s in trouble.
Dad: What else is new? Okay, here goes: What do you want to be when you grow up? Jamal, you go first.
Jamal: Why me?
Dad: ’Cuz you’re my child and because I like Q better.
Whit: Dang, Dad.
All of us: *laughing*
Dad: Okay, so whaddya gonna be?
Me: Fine. Uh. When I grow up I wanna be . . . a llama.
Dad: Boy, can’t you be serious for thirty seconds?
Me: Thirty’s pushing it. I can do ten, though.
Dad: Q, how about you? What do you wanna be?
Me: Oh, that’s easy, Mr. Anderson. I wanna be the host of Later Tonight.
Dad: Wow. Now see, that’s how you answer the question. That’s great, Q. I can definitely see you on that stage, mic in your hand.
Me: Me too. I see it too.
When the video stops, Autumn looks at me, says, “Wow. That was cool.”
I nod. “I can’t wait to show Whit these. Our family journal.”
Autumn kisses my cheek.
A handful of minutes later there are five e-tickets for tomorrow’s taping on Autumn’s phone. She found them on one of those buy-or-sell sites, which of course meant we paid handsomely for what are normally free tickets, but.
“Don’t tell Q we paid for these,” Autumn says.
“Of course not,” I say. “Why would I tell him we . . .” But I manage to snag the joke before it completely sails over my head. “I hate you,” I tell her.
“Couldn’t if you wanted to,” she sings.
She taps her phone screen and then a beat later my screen lights, chimes. “Sent everyone their ticket,” she says. I pick up my phone, but she takes it from my hands, sets it back on the kitchen table.
And I won’t tell you that right now the pull of Autumn’s brown eyes is stronger than the stingiest black hole, or that I am instantaneously, wholly swallowed by them, or that at their center I see the entirety of our joint future, spiraling in either direction like a double helix.
That would be beyond cheesy.
She licks my bottom lip, and I kiss her. She bites my bottom lip, and pain never felt so good. I kiss her back, kiss her deeply, as if our kissing is preventing the world from nuclear destruction, and I open my eyes to see if her eyes are open and they weren’t, but then they open and she catches me and she smirks. “Damn, stare much?”
I nod. “When something’s worth staring.”
The corner of her mouth pulls back into a smirk, like a slingshot. “Do those lines ever work?”
Early Departures Page 22
