Opposite of Always

by Justin A. Reynolds

  “You can’t worry about what anyone else thinks,” I tell him. “You have to do what’s right for you.” Which I realize is easier said, but it’s true, even if it sounds like Afterschool Special Soup.

  “I just have a bad feeling.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He chews on his lip. “I don’t know. Like, something bad might happen.”

  “Then maybe you should tell Abuela no. That you don’t want him in the house.”

  Franny nods. “Will you come over still? You know, if he’s around?”

  I put my hand on his shoulder. “Since when do we let The Coupon decide anything for us?”

  “You’re right! The Coupon can kiss my ass.” He laughs. “Sometimes I forget that about you, man.”

  “What?”

  “That you’re the toughest nerdy guy I know.”

  It’s my turn to laugh. “Thanks, I think.”

  He stands back up, his shadow stretching out deep across the yard, throws a rock so hard, so far, I’m pretty sure it’s still climbing long after we walk away. “It’s definitely thanks, bro,” he says, looking away from me. “It’s definitely thanks.”

  I shove my hands into my pockets. “So, I’m on probation for the foreseeable future. And apparently, I’m also a dog wrangler now.”

  “That’ll teach you to steal your mom’s car.”

  “Hey, I asked!”

  Franny grins. “Jillian says Kate’s pretty hot. You really like this girl?”

  “Think so, yeah,” I say, playing it cool.

  “Yeah, well, you’re a good kid. Mostly,” he says, tousling my hair in that big-brother way that he sometimes assumes, even though technically I’m older by four months. “I’m sure your folks will let you off early for good behavior.”

  “They were pretty disappointed.”

  “Disappointment’s their job, man. As long as you can still practice, we’re all good.”

  “Right,” I say. “The band.”

  Some Joy for Your Toy

  You might not know from looking at us. If there’s a mold for this sort of thing, we probably don’t fit it. But the three of us are in band. No, not in a band (at least until just recently). In band. As in at school. You have Jillian on the big bad bass; Franny doing his thing on drums; and me holding down the trumpet. I won’t kid you, though. We mostly suck. Well, to be fair, I suck. Jillian is pretty good and Franny holds his own. But it’s not fair because Jillian comes from a musically inclined family, and Franny is one of those Good at Everything people.

  That said, what I lack in natural talent (a considerable deficit), I make up for in (near) tireless effort. And for the last three months, we’ve been practicing harder than ever. Because in just a couple months our own newly formed band, JoyToy, will have its world premiere performance.

  At my parents’ thirtieth anniversary party.

  Okay, so a limited world premiere.

  And with a yard full of fifty-year-olds, not necessarily our target demographic.

  But still.

  A hundred and twenty-five people are a hundred and twenty-five people, right?

  We’re pretty amped.

  But shhhh, whatever you do, don’t tell my parents that we’ve formed a three-piece band, that we’ve been practicing nonstop for months, and that it’s our way of saying thank you to two of the most awesome people this universe has ever produced.

  It’s a surprise.

  Compositions

  I consider texting Kate, but I remember something my mom once said, that my dad had “wooed her with long handwritten letters.” But my handwriting’s terrible, and I’d like Kate to get my messages sometime this year, so.

  I toss my laptop onto my bed. Click Compose.

  Heeeey Kate . . .

  Too informal.

  Delete.

  Wut up Kate,

  Nope. Trying too hard to be cool.

  Delete.

  Dear Kate,

  Classic, right?

  Dear Kate,

  How do you feel about student dances? Particularly high school student dances. And if you are not vehemently opposed to the idea, would you perhaps entertain the idea of attending one, say, with me? I promise you this will not be like in the movies where the high school loser shows up to the dance with some college knockout and is the envy of all his tormenters while simultaneously the king of the Soul Train dance line—where all of the cute, previously unavailable high school girls ooh and aah and wonder aloud when did Jack King become such a stud, while his best friends cheer him on, knowing that he had it in him all along.

  I am not popular, but I am not unpopular. I am squarely in the middle. Meaning, your attendance will draw little to no fanfare, because people rarely notice me. I am largely obscure.

  In case any of the above was unclear, what I am attempting to say is: Will you go to prom with me, Kate?

  Please (print out and) circle: YES/NO/MAYBE

  Best,

  JK

  PS While this will no doubt further remind you of my high-school-dom, aka I still live at home with my parents and as such am forced to abide by their rules, I would like to inform you that I am currently sentenced to community service. The community is my neighbor. The service is dog doody. And sadly, that’s no typo. Yes, doody, not duty. I’ll explain when I see you.

  Anyway.

  Please email me back soon, though, because otherwise I may die.

  That is all.

  * * *

  Dear Jack,

  I (mostly) like to follow instructions. Therefore, as you might imagine, I was super stoked to print out your last email, circle my decision, and then—

  Well, that was the part where things went south.

  You see, I do not have your mailing address.

  Sooooooo—

  My only choice was to save your email as a PDF file, open a PDF editor, circle my answer using one of their highlighter options, save the file again, upload it to my email, and then send it back to you. Hence, the attachment. I know, I know, we’re taught to be mistrustful of attachments. But please do not be afraid to open it, as it does not contain any malware and/or explosions. To my knowledge. At least at the time of me sending you this email. I cannot be held responsible for any alterations that might’ve happened after I hit Send.

  I will tell you this. I am not overtly opposed to dances, even the high school variety. But I am opposed to dancing. Rather, my body is. Contrary to stereotype, not all black people are born with incredible rhythm and timing. Most of what I do on the dance floor is a sad variation of the two-step, and even then I lose count. So, please keep this in mind when (and if) you extend any future invitations involving you, me, and music.

  Also, it sucks about your community service. But perhaps you can use this time to reflect on what led you down this criminal path (I’m guessing it has something to do with visiting me in your mom’s car??) and how you can regain your footing as a doody-ful citizen. I feel as though that would be a constructive use of your time, considering your propensity for breaking the rules. The car thing plus your reckless abandon of cereal-eating etiquette—you totally finished the last of the milk, dude!

  Okay, I have to end this because as I am writing you I am not studying, and not studying, while fun, is grade cyanide.

  All Best,

  Kate

  PS Did you know your initials spell JK? I bet you didn’t. (JK!)

  [File attached: YesNoMaybe.pdf—scanned with no viruses detected]

  I download Kate’s attachment and this is what I find:

  * * *

  In case any of the above was unclear, what I am attempting to say is: Will you go to prom with me, Kate?

  Please (print out and) circle: YES/NO/MAYBE

  * * *

  How Not to Be So Alone in This World

  Although my parents are disappointed in me (no, not in you, honey—in your actions. We love you, Jackie Bear) and despite my well-documented probationary status, they still let Franny
sleep over on Friday. No, this is not the mixed signals mistake that parents sometimes make—when they tell you one thing but then almost immediately contradict themselves—rather, it’s because Franny’s grandma works nights every other weekend, and for the last few years, whenever he’s wanted, Mom and Dad have let him crash at our house, no questions asked. This weekend is no exception. And I’m grateful for his company.

  Probation isn’t terrible (cut grass, scoop poop, stay out of trouble), but add the fact that I have a terrible case of Kate-on-the-brain, and that I can’t shake her MAYBE and all of its possible meanings from my head, and, well, any distraction is welcome.

  As always, Franny insists we eat dinner with my parents. In the dining room.

  “You know how I feel about eating in kitchens,” Franny says.

  “I know, I know. But eating in the kitchen is, like, convenient. You know, because the food is already there.”

  “Kitchens are cool, man, but it’s called the dining room for a reason. It’s begging for us to dine in it.”

  I’ve heard this argument before. But I think the real reason Franny’s infatuated with the dining room is because his abuela refuses to let anyone within a hundred feet of theirs, the table and chairs literally zipped in protective plastic.

  I know when I’m beat. “Fine, man. Whatever. Dining room it is.”

  Franny smiles. “I knew you’d see it my way.” He sniffs the air. “Bro, you need a shower. Like, bad.”

  I groan. “I had to clean up Ms. Nolan’s yard today. I’ve never seen so much dog crap in my life.”

  “Do the crime, pay the time, bro.”

  “Whatever. How’s Abuela?”

  Franny shrugs. “Working her ass off, as usual.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I worry about her. She’s healthy and all that, but I wish I could do more, you know?” Abuela’s raised him since he was nine. I’m lucky, though, he’s always saying. A lot of kids in my hood don’t even have one person they can count on.

  Franny’s abuela is the definition of count on. At any one time she’s working two jobs to make ends meet. Plus, she’s forever taking on side jobs, hunched over her sewing machine altering suits, christening gowns, and probably every wedding dress ever worn in Ohio. Franny pitches in, bagging groceries at the Dollar Den and spraying deodorizer into beat-up shoes at the bowling alley.

  “I saw your mom’s commercial,” Franny says, grinning.

  “Don’t even say it, man.”

  “I love your mom, you know that, but.”

  “Franny, I’m warning you, man.”

  “She’s just so beautiful, man. Like, I don’t know how you can stand it.”

  “Uh, she’s my mom, that’s pretty much how.”

  My parents love Franny. Most parents do. His parental charms aren’t surprising, though. He is all kinds of trustworthy. If my parents are ever on the fence about letting me do fill in the blank, just mentioning that Franny will also be doing fill in the blank almost always tips the scales yes.

  Plus, it doesn’t hurt that Franny is the superathlete son my mom didn’t get biologically. Mom played college ball, and was pretty good. A lady in the streets, but a beast on the court, she enjoys saying. (Side point: the way Mom behaves at sporting events—arguing with the refs, shouting out plays to the coaches, razzing the opponent’s mascot—is a handy reminder that “fan” is short for fanatic.)

  Anyway, Mom and I (and usually Dad) go to all of Franny’s games (basketball, football, baseball, track meets), saving a seat for Abuela because her jobs keep her running late. Brown-people time, Franny always says, shrugging his shoulders and laughing as Abuela shows up huffing and puffing at the end of the first quarter.

  “So, how’s your lady friend, young squire?” Franny asks. He drops his overnight bag onto my bedroom floor.

  Instantly, I’m all teeth and cheeks.

  What does it mean that just the mention of Kate makes me cheese stupidly?

  “Helloooooo? Jack?” Franny calls. He tosses a rolled-up sock at me, but I’m unfazed. I’m elsewhere, soaring above the hills of Kateland.

  “And you say I’m whipped? Damn, kid, what’s gonna happen when you’ve known her for a few months?” Franny says.

  “She’s pretty cool, man. I think you’ll like her.”

  Franny walks over to my bedroom door. “If you like her, I already do. Mind if I get the lights?”

  I nod my consent. He hits the switch, throwing us into darkness.

  Franny’s silhouette crosses the room, digs out his phone, and plugs it into the wall. He scrolls through his Favorites; his finger hovers above Jillian’s face, her face cropped in a perfect circle, and I think of the times I’ve done the same—my finger not a centimeter from her face. Only my finger never moved, my brain too afraid. Not Franny—he taps Jillian’s crooked smile, her scrunched-up cheeks.

  “Hey, baby. I miss you, too,” he says into the phone. He buries his face in his blankets, and he’s all whispers and Franny-Jillian inside jokes and serious I want you forever voice.

  And me—

  I start reading, but I can’t stop thinking about Kate. Soon, I’m trading my book for Instagram, and there’s Kate’s profile. I scroll through pictures of her laughing with friends, her being silly with family. No matter the place, or the people, Kate’s always smiling.

  After a while, Franny stops whispering. Rips the blankets from his head and looks up, his hair flopping over his eyes.

  “Now what are you smiling about?” he whisper-shouts. “Go to sleep!”

  “Mind your business.”

  “Hey,” he says. His long arm extends like a crane, drops his phone onto my desk. “Seriously, though. Thanks for letting me crash. I needed this. Things at home have been . . . well, you know.”

  I lower my phone, reach for the nightstand light. “Yeah, man. Me too. And anytime, you know that.”

  Because, between friends, there are times when just knowing what you mean to each other isn’t enough.

  When you should really say the words.

  “Hey, Jack,” he says after a few minutes. His voice is faint, like he doesn’t want to wake me if I’m already asleep, as if he’s uncertain he wants to say what he’s thinking.

  “Yeah?”

  He’s lying on his back, hands behind his head, his eyes studying the ceiling with an intensity ceilings don’t deserve. “When he gets out, Abuela’s making this crazy dinner. All of his favorite foods, apparently.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Know what’s strange? Turns out he and I both really dig smothered pork chops. Small world, right?”

  “Very,” I agree. Although I also love smothered pork chops, as I am certain does most of the world.

  “Anyway, I was thinking . . . I was wondering . . . if you might—you know. Be there. At the house. When he comes home. I don’t know, I just think it would be cool to have someone else there. Like backup or a buffer or something. And I thought about Jill. I mean, she’s awesome, and she’s been crazy supportive, but I don’t know if I’m ready for my dad and my girl in the same room yet. So. I was thinking you’d . . . maybe . . . it’s probably weird, right? I sound like the biggest baby right now. Damn. Forget it, okay? It’s stupid. I’m buggin’.”

  “Franny, I’ll be there.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Absolutely. And if he gets crazy, don’t worry, we’ll kick his ass. Or at least I’ll jump on his back and try to steer him into a wall while you kick his ass.”

  “The Coupon won’t know what hit him.”

  “He’ll wish he was still locked up.”

  “Right,” Franny says. He rolls onto his side, facing the wall.

  And for a moment I imagine Franny’s dad, wrapped in a blanket, staring at a similar blank wall—but I can’t imagine what he’s thinking.

  “He’ll wish,” Franny says, his voice trailing off into nothing.

  Status Unclear

  KATE: Jack, can we talk? Can I call you?

&nb
sp; Which is sorta scary. Can we talk can absolutely be a good thing, a happy thing, but for me, its needle has firmly leaned bad. Granted, my sample size is awfully small, but still.

  ME: That’s cool.

  “Hey,” Kate says on her end of the phone.

  “Hey,” I echo.

  “So.”

  “So.”

  “Before I agree to go to prom with you, there’s something you should know.”

  “You’re from another planet and the window for your homeland return coincides with the middle of prom?”

  She laughs. “No, my return window expired years ago.”

  “Oh, so you’re stuck here.”

  “I prefer to think I’m a permanent alien delegate,” Kate says.

  “And that makes you feel better about being stuck?”

  “Well, it did, until this Earth boy ruined it.”

  “Typical Earth boy.”

  “I’d say atypical.”

  I don’t know if atypical is good here, but it doesn’t feel bad. Makes my heart do cartwheels across my chest.

  “So, what do I need to know before we can go to prom?”

  She sighs. “I told you I was recently out of a relationship?”

  The cartwheels cease. “Yeah. I remember.”

  “I don’t think I’m all the way out, Jack.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It’s hard to explain. There’s a lot of components to it. But.” She pauses. “Essentially, he’s been with me through some pretty crazy times. It’s hard to completely extract someone who’s always been your go-to.”

  “Are you saying you still wanna date your ex?”

  “No. I don’t think so.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I’m saying, he’s still around. We’re not together, but we’re not yet separate entities, either.”