Yesterday Is History

by Kosoko Jackson

  He looks over at the clock. “Almost twenty-four hours exactly. Long enough for me to calm down and understand how stupid I was.”

  I take a slow drink of water, and the cool liquid feels like heaven against my burning throat. It takes effort to drink—something I’ve never experienced before—and it makes me envious of each time that breathing, talking, thinking came easily to me.

  “You have nothing to be sorry about,” I say once I put the water down. “I said things I shouldn’t have said too.”

  He grins—that adorable, charming lopsided grin. “So we’re both idiots, then, huh?”

  “I can agree to that.” I smile back.

  His hand doesn’t move from my cheek, stroking it soothingly. It’s nice, I have to admit. It almost makes me forget why I’m here, why I came all this way, why I risked this.

  But even as I look at Michael, all I can think about is Blake.

  “Do you need more water?” Michael asks, seeing that I’ve finished it. “Or do you want something else, something harder?”

  “Probably not the best idea.”

  “No…” A beat passes. “Probably not.”

  He doesn’t move from his position kneeling in front of me, but slowly, he pulls back his hand. “You never answered my question.”

  No, I didn’t. Is it because I don’t want to? Is it because I’m afraid that, once I do, it’ll all be real, and I can’t take it back? As I sit here in the past with Michael, I can imagine a future. No, not imagine. That future could still be a reality. A possibility we both can have, no matter how small the chance.

  Once I do what I’m here to do, that door closes. But maybe, just maybe, that’s not a bad thing.

  I pat the spot next to me on the couch. Slowly, Michael slides up and sits. There’s no space between us, my right leg and his left one touching. I think he needs that connection. I think, deep down, he knows something is coming. Something he’s not going to like.

  Maybe that’ll make this easier.

  “There’s something I need to tell you,” I say slowly. “No, that’s not right. There are some things I need to tell you.”

  “Well, at least you didn’t start this conversation with ‘we need to talk.’” He grins nervously.

  I force a smile on my face, but I’m not sure it’s convincing. I’m not really sure of anything right now. Am I making the right choice? Am I taking the easy way out? Is there another solution?

  Maybe if I had more time. Maybe if there wasn’t so much at stake, I could find another solution. I could research, I could experiment, I could do so many different things.

  But, if I’ve learned one thing from all of this, it’s that I’m not a scientist. No matter how much my parents want me to be one or how good I am at science or any of those logical reasons and pieces of evidence that point to it, that’s not who I am.

  And it’s time for me to stop thinking like that and to start thinking the right way, the only way I should be thinking: Andre’s way.

  “I want you to know I love you, Michael,” I say. I think that’s important to start with. “I love you so much. The few days—”

  “Years,” he says, correcting me—again with that lopsided smile. Except this time, he nudges my leg with his own to remind me that he’s joking. I make sure to nudge back.

  “Years,” I repeat. “The past few years have been amazing, Michael. Some of the best years I’ve ever had.”

  “Me too,” he agrees. Slowly, he slides his hand across the space between us and intertwines his fingers with mine, squeezing them. The connection grounds me, and in that fraction of a second, everything else fades away, and only Michael sits in front of me.

  I swallow the discomfort that feels like trying to swallow smoke or water, and I say the thing I’ve come here to say.

  “This is the last time I can see you.”

  The words, all nine of them, feel like bullets leaving my mouth. I watch as they strike Michael.

  “What do you mean?” he asks. “You’re here with me right now. Are you still planning on going through with saving Dave? Even if you do, maybe we can still be with each other. Don’t you think there’s a way?”

  “Maybe…but not for us.”

  “Love is never simple,” he argues. “You have to fight for it, Dre. It’s not just going to present itself to you and be perfect all the time. It’s a struggle.”

  “If I had a choice, I’d be with you. I need you to remember that. No matter what, even if you’re angry with me for the rest of your life, I need you to know that if it was just about how much…how much I love you, then I would stay.

  “But that’s not the only factor here.” I raise my shirt a bit, showing him my scar. It’s red, and when I bring his hand over to touch it, his fingers recoil from the warmth.

  “What…”

  “Jumping is tearing me apart, Michael,” I admit. “I don’t know how. I don’t know why. But it is.”

  Slowly, his fingers trace the jagged scar, with soft palpations. The flesh is sore, but I don’t make a sound or react. This might be the last time he touches me.

  “How bad does it hurt?” he mutters.

  Part of me thinks about lying, but the truth will set you free, right?

  “A lot.” I don’t tell him that I don’t know what will happen when I jump back. This jump felt like I was being ripped between the past and the present. The next one…

  I can’t think about that right now. It doesn’t help anyone to dwell on that. This moment is about Michael. It’s about me. It’s about saying goodbye.

  “And this happens each time you jump?”

  I nod. He’s putting two and two together. I can see the gears turning behind his eyes. He’s understanding what this means for me. He’s weighing the pros and cons of selfishness, thinking about what will happen if he asks me to stay.

  And I hope he doesn’t. But at the same time, I hope he does.

  Because if he does, I’ll find a way to stay. I know I will, no matter how stupid it is.

  “I want you to know that if there were any other way, I would stay,” I whisper, feeling my throat close, like it’s trying to keep me from continuing to say what I know I have to.

  “I know,” he whispers, squeezing my hand in his. “I’m not mad.”

  “You should be.”

  “Why?” he asks. “I wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself for me, Dre. What type of person would that make me? When you care about someone, you want what’s best for them. You want them to be safe and happy.”

  “I am happy when I’m with you,” I argue.

  “Oh, babe,” he whispers, stroking my cheek again. He presses his lips gently against my forehead. His lips stay pressed against my flesh, like he’s marking my skin with his touch. “Do me a favor,” he says when he pulls back. “Just one thing.”

  “Anything,” I promise.

  “Be happy. Find a way to be happy. Don’t stop living. Don’t wallow or stay in bed or whatever you boys do in the future. Promise me that.”

  “I promise,” I swear. “But you have to promise to do the same. Keep up with your music. Write a book. All of those things. Live your life. Whatever form it takes.”

  “Oh, I most definitely will,” he says confidently. “I mean, who knows, maybe in school you’ll be assigned to read my great American novel. See what you’re passing up on, Dre? The next…”

  “Joan Didion?”

  He grins and nods slowly. “Exactly.”

  “I’m serious, Michael. You have to promise me that no matter what happens, you’ll keep working hard,” I urge. “I’ve seen your—”

  Michael holds his hand up. “If you’re going to say you’ve seen my future, I don’t want to know.”

  “But—”

  He shakes his head. “No, Andre. Seriously. That’s for me to find out, not for
me to know. And who knows, maybe it won’t happen. The future isn’t set in stone, right? And I’m pretty sure you shouldn’t be trying to change the past anyway, yeah?”

  “Rule number three,” I recite.

  “Exactly. So how about this? You let me walk my path. You’ll walk yours. And we’ll just enjoy this moment and not worry about the future. Deal?”

  “Deal.”

  This moment is all that matters. We don’t need anything else. Well, we need more time. But we can’t have that. This, though? This is good.

  “We’ll see each other again, yeah?” I ask. “Even if you’re in your seventies. I’ll still visit you.”

  “Oh God, no.” He laughs. “You are not going to visit me in a nursing home. I forbid it. Part of being happy is living your life, Dre. Not waiting until you can see me. You don’t need that. Keep our memories close. Cherish them. Let them fuel you to do whatever you want to do. But don’t let them fester. Memories shouldn’t be a poison.

  “Here,” he says, getting up. “I’ll help you.” Michael walks over to his record player. He sifts through a dozen records before finding one and putting it on. Slowly, music fills the air as he comes back over. He sits and grabs my shoulder, guiding my head into his lap.

  “Who is this?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” he says. “From now on, it’s our album. And once the album is over, you’re going to leave, okay? Go and live your life like you promised. And I will do the same, okay?”

  I can’t answer. I want to answer. I want to agree. But nothing comes out of my mouth. Because once I say “okay,” it’s true.

  “Okay?” he repeats.

  Finally the word forms. “Okay.”

  Michael and I sit quietly. We listen to the music, let it flood our bodies. For the whole album, easily an hour long, neither of us speak. His fingers trace through my short ’fro. My fingers stroke his thigh.

  And it’s perfect. It’s absolutely perfect.

  Until the record ends, and the air falls silent.

  “Time to go,” he whispers, gently sitting me up. His fingers smooth my shirt, adjust my collar, and run through my hair one more time. I look at his face for the first time since he put my head down, and for the last time…

  And I notice that he’s crying. Not loud, sobbing tears, but silent ones, soft trickles. Streaky lines on his face tell me he’s been crying for a while.

  “Time to go,” I repeat.

  Something tells me I should kiss him. That’s probably the right thing to do when you’re not going to see someone again.

  But instead, we hug, wrapping ourselves around each other as tightly as possible.

  “Before I go, I want to say one—”

  “I know, Andre Cobb from Boston, I know,” he says before I can say it.

  We stay in that position, just holding each other, for I don’t know how long. I don’t care either. Instead, I focus on the feeling of his skin against mine. His scent. His breathing. Anything and everything I can hold on to. I want to remember it, to cherish it, to never forget.

  My heart is pounding in my chest so hard that I think I’m going to pass out. This doesn’t feel the way a jump feels; this feels different. This feels like an emotional high. Like joy and anger and hurt and fear all at once.

  It feels good and bad and real and false and like something I want and something I want to stay as far away from as possible.

  And it’s exactly what I need to push through the pain that erupts the moment I think about jumping back to the present. My present.

  It’s what I need to go home. My home. My real home. My real life.

  And to live it like Michael did: to the fullest.

  And that’s exactly what I’m going to do.

  When I return, Blake is still on my bed.

  That was, and most likely will be, the most important seventy-five minutes of my life.

  I wonder if it will be the most important seventy-five seconds of his.

  Blake looks up, smiling nervously. “Hey,” he whispers. “You okay?”

  I don’t think okay is the right word. There are so many other appropriate expressions to describe how I feel.

  Broken.

  Shattered.

  Exhausted.

  Defeated.

  But none of those come out. Instead, I wrap my arms as tightly as I can around Blake, as if to test whether he’s real, and I cry—I cry so hard my whole body shakes.

  And Blake? He just holds me, and he doesn’t say a word.

  10 Months Later

  Thirty-Two

  “Babe! Come on! I swear to God, if you don’t come out here right now, I’m going to watch the season finale of Heroes without you!”

  I roll my eyes. There’s no way to know if Blake is telling the truth or not, but something like that? He might just do it. And he knows I’ve been dying to get his reactions to a show he barely understood. Watching his face and having to pause the show every five minutes to explain what was going on was more fun than actually watching the show.

  But, this is his graduation party, and it is, after all, his day. What the prince wants, the prince gets.

  “I need to go see what he wants,” I tell Isobel, giving her the rest of my cake as I jump off the stool. “Finish this for me?”

  Isobel shakes her head, her bangles clicking. “Absolutely not. I’m not going to eat all those carbs right before I leave for my internship in Italy! It’s like you don’t even know me!”

  “I know you always have and always will look beautiful.”

  “You’re supposed to say that. You’re my best friend, and you know that if you’re not nice to me before I leave for Milan and my plane crashes and I die, you’ll hate yourself forever.”

  I pause, staring at her. “After all these years, I still feel like I don’t know you.”

  She flips her hair teasingly. “I’m a puzzle, darling. Besides, your job as my best friend is just to understand me and accept me for who I am, not judge me or fix me or give me advice. That job is for a therapist or a psychiatrist, which you are not.”

  “Not yet.”

  “You don’t even want to be a doctor anymore!”

  I shrug. Who knows what life will bring? I’ve become more comfortable with that reality. Finding solace in the unknown. “Still. Did you hear what you just said? You’re going to Milan, not a war zone.”

  “Honestly, biotech can be a cutthroat business.”

  I roll my eyes and hold up my index finger, telling her I’ll be back in a minute, before weaving through the McIntyre house. There are a lot of people here—mostly Blake’s family, some friends from both of our schools, and fellow time travelers who know the McIntyres. They nod to me, tip their glasses, squeeze my shoulder—small signs to let me know that they know who I am and what I’m about.

  It’s almost as if they’re on my side. Maybe they are, and I feel a sense of weightlessness knowing that.

  I move into the backyard, where music is playing. Mom and Dad are talking to Mr. and Mrs. McIntyre, chatting in what seems like a friendly way.

  “Took them long enough,” I mutter, waving to them as I walk out. Mom smiles. Claire raises her glass. Dad and Greg just nod. When I walk by them, I pick up a bit of their conversation.

  “Brown has a good history program,” Greg says. “Maybe Andre would be interested in that? I can put in a good word.”

  “Would you? That would be great. We’ve been thinking about taking a few college tours. Andre’s shown interest in political science and sociology too. We’re trying to put together a good list of schools for those programs.”

  “Harvard and Tufts both have great programs.”

  “I know, but I think he wants to make his own choice on this one. If he wants to stay close to home, that’s great. But we’re not going to force him.”

&n
bsp; I don’t expect they’ll be throwing any joint parties anytime soon, but at least Mom is willing to put up with them. She still blames them for me not finishing my summer school classes, which is the reason I’m being held back a year. She blames Blake for being the reason why I’m no longer interested in medicine, but she understands, finally, that it’s my choice and that my future is my own.

  Of course, she can never know the truth, and everyone has chosen to respect that. Sometimes a small lie is the best option.

  “Dre!” Blake screams from the yard.

  Oh my God! “I’m coming, I’m coming, Jesus.”

  “I’m not Jesus, but…”

  “Blake, if you finish that sentence…” warns Claire.

  I take the steps from the porch two at a time and meet him in the grassy yard. Blake and his cousins, who are at least half his age, are playing some modified game of tag that doesn’t make any sense at first glance. But when one of the curly-haired boys touches me, the other kids gasp.

  “You’re the monster now!” says a girl with half her teeth missing.

  “The what?”

  “The monster, Andre,” Blake says, not clarifying things at all. “Come on, learn the rules. You know. The monster.”

  The girl pulls back and starts running wildly, with no reasonable pattern to her movements. The other kids do the same thing.

  “This is what you called me over for?”

  Blake crosses his arms over his chest in that indignant way and scoffs. “I’ll have you know, Monster is a very important game.”

  Before I can say anything, his arms slip around my waist, and he pulls me close. Our lips collide and find their familiar place against one another. It’s been ten months, and his kisses still make me shiver.

  “You never have a problem when I’m a monster in bed,” he whispers against me.

  “Blake!” I roar, shoving him to put some space between us before lunging at him, aiming my hands at the secret ticklish spots I’ve learned over the life of our relationship. Smirking, he jumps just out of reach. I don’t need him to tell me that my cheeks are burning. I can feel it.

  Thank God for being Black.