“As it happens, I have a lot of time on my hands.”
“I have to go, Jack. I’m so sorry.”
“Yeah, you said that.”
“Goodbye, Jack.”
“Wait, Kate—”
But she’s gone.
The curse of Almost strikes again. I lean against her front door and my legs give, my feet sliding forward. And I sit slumped against her door, wrinkled, confused, wet.
I prop the world’s brightest orchid against Kate’s door.
And as soon as I’m back in the car, the rain stops.
Because, of course.
How to Get Over Someone (How to Re-Solidify Your Heart When It’s the Bad Kind of Mushy)
If you want to know how to get over someone, I’m the last one to ask.
I can, however, tell you what not to do.
I’m exceptional at what not to do.
Do not: refuse to shower. By the time you realize how awful you smell (do you have any idea how bad you smell when your own brain can no longer keep it from you?), you’re already too late.
Do not: devour entire boxes of cookies in one miserable, self-loathing sitting.
Do not: snot into your pillow. Or shirt. Or blanket. I actually did not cry, but I could see how tears might happen. It’s an emotional time. In fact, cry if you want to.
But just so we’re clear, I did not cry.
I had something in my eye.
Mom switched fabric softener and my allergies flared.
Dad made me be his sous-chef, and I had to chop onions.
I’m just saying there are a million perfectly good reasons for what you think you saw on my face.
My friends seem to think band practice heals broken hearts.
Which explains why they’ve dragged me from my bed into Jillian’s garage.
“You can’t sleep away the pain,” Jillian says.
“Says who,” I argue.
“You’ll feel better once we get into the music. Which song should we start with?” Franny asks.
“Not a love song,” I mumble.
“Well, that’s gonna be hard considering our set list is for an anniversary party,” Jillian says.
I shrug. “Whatever.”
Franny and Jillian trade looks. “How about the Stevie Wonder,” Franny suggests. Normally, this would be a great starting point. One of my parents’ all-time favorite songs—one of mine, too—but today hearing Stevie croon about falling in love just hurts.
“Do we have to?” I ask.
But Jillian’s already counting us down.
Thirty seconds in, I screw up the notes. I stop playing.
“Don’t stop,” Jillian says.
“Catch back up,” Franny encourages me.
And I try, but it’s no use, I sound even worse than usual. Which is hard to do.
“Next song,” Franny suggests.
Jillian counts again.
This time I manage to reach the refrain before self-destructing.
“Crap,” I shout, nearly throwing my horn down.
“Let’s take ten,” Jillian says.
“Let’s take forever,” I say. I pull out my phone and start browsing.
“What are you looking at, Jack?” Jillian asks.
“Nothing,” I say, scrolling up.
“He’s on her IG,” Franny says, groaning. He snatches my phone.
“Hey,” I protest.
“You need an intervention, bro,” Franny says. “It’s for your own good.”
And then my phone starts ringing. I try to reach around Franny but he boxes me out. “Give me my phone back, Franny. I’m not playing.”
“Relax, man. It’s not even your phone. My phone is ringing. It’s Coach. I gotta take this.” Franny tosses my phone to Jillian. “Make sure he stays away from social media, will you?” He steps outside. “Hey, Coach, what’s up?”
I hit Jillian with my best pleading face.
“Uh-uh, don’t even try it,” she says. “That face isn’t gonna work.”
I stick out my bottom lip. “What about the pouty lip?” I ask.
“I’m immune to your ways,” she says. She slips my phone into her jeans, crosses her arms.
“Fine then.”
“Jack, how are you really doing? Like, how concerned should I be?”
“Mild to medium? I don’t know.”
She smiles. “I can do medium.”
“What about you?” I ask.
“What about me?”
“How are you doing?”
She shrugs. “I’m doing.”
“Your mom?”
She sighs. “She was actually having a pretty decent week. And then he called.”
“Your dad?”
Jillian nods.
“Where is he?”
“Headed home.”
“Home? Like here?”
“No, home home. As in Côte d’Ivoire.”
This is a turn I did not expect. “Oh. Wow.”
“Yeah. Wow.” Jillian flops onto the garage sofa. “I mean, he’ll be back. He’s just going to visit family. ‘Clear his head,’ he said.”
“That’s a long drive to clear your head.”
“Guess that’s why Franny and I get along so much. We both have dads who love themselves the most.”
I join her on the sofa. “C’mon. Your dad loves you.”
She snickers. “Parents assure you that they’re only running away from each other, that they’re not leaving you. They swear nothing will change. But eventually everything does.”
“I don’t get love,” I confess. “Like when it’s good, it’s this amazing thing. Except it never stays good.”
“Not never. I mean, some people figure it out, right? Your parents did.”
“I guess. I mean, they’ve had their ups and downs too.”
“That’s life, though. You have problems. But you keep trying. You fight for the things you love.”
“But what if those things don’t love you back?”
“Well, then you’re screwed,” Jillian says with a mini laugh.
“So, maybe it’s not how something ends that matters. Maybe it’s about having something good, even for a little while.”
“Maybe.”
“What did I miss?” Franny asks, leaping back into the garage.
“Nothing,” I say.
“Everything,” Jillian says.
“Okayyyy.” Franny looks at me, then at Jillian, and we laugh.
I hop to my feet, pick up my horn. “You guys ready to jam, or what?”
And it’s not the best I’ve ever played. But it’s not the worst.
No-Show City Doesn’t Have to Be a Sad Place
The Elytown High Panthers lose in the second round of the playoffs 62–57, despite Superman-like heroics from Franny. Jillian and I wait for him in the parking lot.
As soon as we see him, Jillian throws her arms around him, and he stoops down to hug her back.
“You played awesome,” we take turns telling him.
“Thanks,” he says. “Too bad it wasn’t enough.”
Jillian shakes her head. “Depends who you ask.”
I climb into the back seat, Jillian at the wheel, Franny shotgun.
“I know it’s crazy stupid, but I thought he might show up today,” Franny says. “I mean, he’s been out for a couple of weeks and no one’s heard from him. Even if he doesn’t want anything to do with me, he could still check on his mom. You know, the woman who put money she didn’t have onto your commissary card. Who humped over to Winston Hills three hours round-trip to see your tired, orange-jumpsuit-wearing ass. Least you could do is call. Let her know you’re okay. And then you have the nerve to refuse to come over for dinner, even though your mom practically begs your ass, has got her heart set on cooking you your favorite meal. Honestly, I don’t know why I even thought for a minute that he’d changed.”
Jillian takes one hand off the wheel, brushes Franny’s cheek. Suddenly there’s a fist-size lump in my thr
oat, and it burns, too large to swallow, too sticky to cough up. It’s stuck there, on fire.
My phone buzzes, and my mind goes to Kate. It’s been nearly two weeks since we last talked.
But it’s a text from Mom: Tell Franny we love him!
“His loss, Franny,” Jillian says. She says this so softly that maybe she actually said he’s lost instead. Either way, she’s right.
“Hell with that cornball,” Franny says.
“Franny, maybe he’s—” I start. But Franny’s already on to the next.
“Oooooh, turn this up,” Franny says. He turns up the volume button, his shoulders bopping with the bass.
Jillian touches the car ceiling and the moonroof slides back, letting in patchy moonlight and whistling wind.
“Yo, can you believe we graduate in a week,” I shout, standing up to lean out the roof.
“The world is ours,” Franny screams.
We spend the rest of the night driving around, picking up fast food, popping our heads out of the car to howl at people, at the three-quarter moon, at our disappointments. And no, maybe it’s not the same thing as your dad finally showing up and telling you he loves you. Maybe it’s not your parents deciding they’re still in love, to give it another go. Maybe it’s not a phone call from the girl you’re super into, admitting that she hasn’t stopped thinking about you.
IRL, there are no video-game power-ups for broken hearts.
But this is something.
It’s not nothing.
Party of the Year
JoyToy isn’t about to win a Grammy for best live performance, but we put on a good show for my parents’ thirtieth. Mom’s all happy tears, and Dad’s a grinning maniac, both hugging me tight enough to crack ribs.
All in all, the party’s a success.
After everyone’s left, our backyard a ghost town of gently blowing streamers and glittering globe lights, my parents pour red wine for all of us—Franny and Jillian included.
“You guys were so good,” Dad says.
“Our pleasure, Mr. King,” Franny says. “Least we could do.”
“And you’re sure you taped it, Jack? You didn’t miss anything?” Mom asks.
“Yaaaaasss, Mom,” I say.
Dad reaches for Mom’s hand. “Well, me and Mom are going to enjoy our wine upstairs on the balcony, so.”
Franny winks. “You kids have fun.”
“Uh, gross,” I interject.
“Probably time we talk to Jack about the birds and bees, what do you guys think?” Franny says. “He old enough yet?”
“Not even close,” Mom says. “Maybe if . . .”
“Night, gang,” Dad says, leading Mom out of the kitchen. “Jillian and Franny, you should probably crash on the couch.”
Mom pokes her head back into the kitchen. “Separate couches!”
Dad pulls her back again.
We’re in the basement watching the video of our performance when my phone rings. Absentmindedly, I nearly accept the call before I register the name, the face.
Everything stops.
Everything’s black.
Like someone’s shoved a vacuum down my throat and is slurping up my vital organs.
Jillian looks up at me from her seat on the floor. “Who is it?”
I decide to let it ring.
It’s obviously a mistake. An unfortunate butt dial. Someone’s playing with her phone. She’s accidentally called the wrong Jack.
A thousand reasons why it’s not her calling me.
A hundred thousand why I shouldn’t answer.
Only there’s not enough willpower on this planet to hold back my finger.
“Hello? Jack?”
Her voice obliterates the freestyle world record, swimming three laps around my body in seconds.
“Jack, it’s me . . . it’s . . .”
I don’t answer. I can’t. My mouth a knotty jumble of feels.
“Are you there, Jack?”
My tongue doesn’t budge.
“I understand why you don’t want to talk. Why you’re mad. And maybe confused. And hurt. I’m sorry that I made you anything but happy. I’m sorry that . . . I’m all of those things, too, Jack. Mad, confused, hurting. But at myself. Because I’m to blame. And I’m sorry. For all of it. I was afraid, Jack. Of what would happen when you found out the truth. About me. That you’d leave. It’s too much to ask of anyone, to stay. Jack . . . have you ever been so afraid of losing someone that you think maybe it’s better to just get it over with?
“. . . And I swear I’m not calling you because I feel guilty. I’m calling you because I just feel like all these things . . . Jack, it’s like you’ve hot-wired my brain. And I want to spend my last hours with you. Does that count as an apology? That out of everyone in the world, I can’t think of a single person I’d rather spend my literal dying moments with than you. And I know, it’s weird. I don’t even know you, right? You don’t know me. Not really. Except I know what I know, Jack. And I don’t care if no one else knows it. I know you know, Jack. I know that . . .”
My nose needs a tissue. Or two. Or three.
“Jack? Please? Just say something. Tell me to piss off. That I have the wrong number. To leave you the hell alone. Tell me anything.”
“Kate?”
“Yeah?”
“Stop talking.”
“I tried that already. And I lost you.”
“. . .”
“Jack?”
“Where are you right now?”
“Jack, where are you going?” Jillian asks, springing up from the carpet.
“I’ll call you later,” I say, already halfway up the basement stairs.
“Jack,” Franny calls behind me. “Jack!”
As a Time of Day
There’s not a traffic law I don’t break on my way to her.
I nearly drive my car right through the wooden security arm, the guard taking her sweet time letting me into the parking garage. I run down five hundred identical hallways, stopping for directions twice, until I’m finally there.
Room 443.
I nearly tackle a nurse coming out of the room.
“I’m so sorry,” I say. I look past her into the room. There’s a curtain blocking the bed, the room dim, save for buttery moonlight.
But the nurse isn’t interested in my apology. “Are you family?” she asks.
“Yes,” I lie. Because I don’t want her to turn me away. But then, in an effort to be honest, I revise, “No, I mean. I’m her . . . I think I’m—”
“He’s with us, Linda,” a woman’s voice says from inside the room. The nurse moves aside.
“You must be Jack,” the woman says. She extends her arms and I walk straight into them. I’m assuming this is Kate’s mom, though I’ve never met her. And it doesn’t feel odd, embracing her this way. Plus, she smells like the best kind of mom. The kind with a comprehensive supply of Band-Aids and smiles.
“I’m Kate’s mom,” she confirms.
“It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Edwards. I mean, well, I wish it could be, you know, uh, under better circumstances,” I choke out.
She wipes her eyes. “Call me Regina.”
“I’d better stick with Mrs. Edwards. My mom would kill me if she heard me call you Regina.”
Her laughter sounds like she’s underwater. “Fair enough, Jack.”
“Kate’s going to be okay, right?”
Mrs. Edwards shakes her head. “We don’t know much yet. She’s not . . . God . . .”
Without thinking I hug her again, her body a sputter of mini convulsions. After a moment, I turn toward the curtain.
“Go ahead,” she says.
I step around the curtain slowly. There are pumps swishing, lights blinking, machines humming. And at the center of it all, Kate.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hi,” she says. She winces, like it hurts to talk. “I didn’t think you’d want to see me.”
I walk over to the foot of the bed. “I don’t and I d
o.”
“You look good,” she says.
“You too,” I say.
“Liar.”
But I’m not lying.
She motions for me to come closer. “I won’t bite,” she says. “Not this time, anyway.” She tries to smile, but grimaces.
I step closer, navigating the stream of cords running along the floor.
“Are you okay?” I ask. A stupid question. I could make a living raising and selling all-organic, free-range stupid questions.
She wince-laughs. “Oh, I’m great. This hospital just has the best chocolate shakes, so I decided to check in.”
“I’m an idiot.”
“You’re not.” She bites her lip. “I’m glad you came.”
Mrs. Edwards clears her throat. “I’m just going to . . . coffee . . . at the cafeteria. Can I get anyone anything?” I’d forgotten she was there.
“I’m good, thanks, Mom,” Kate says.
“Me too,” I say.
Mrs. Edwards nods, squeezes Kate’s feet. “I’ll be right back,” she says. She walks into the hall, the nurse calling after her. The nurse speaks quietly but animatedly. Kate’s mom does a lot of nodding, and then they hug.
“I’m sorry about prom, Jack.”
“Looks like you had a pretty good reason,” I say. “And if you’re going to be sorry about anything, let it be that you didn’t just tell me the truth.”
“‘I’m genetically unwell’ is a turnoff to most people.”
Genetically unwell? What does that even mean? A wheel of possibilities spins in my brain.
“Good thing my name isn’t Most People then. So, are you going to tell me what’s wrong? Why are you here?”
“Yes.” Kate nods. But then she shakes her head. “No, actually.”
“Kate.”
“I owe you an explanation, I know. And I promise it’s coming, but not right now. Right now all I want is to enjoy a moment with you where I’m not the sick girl. Where you look at me the way you did when I wasn’t wearing oxygen. Like when we first met. When we sat in a random kitchen and shared cereal.”
I start to protest, because of course I want to know what’s wrong, why Kate’s in the hospital, but I want her to be happy more. I want her to feel safe with me. The way she makes me feel safe.
“Okay, not right now,” I say. “But later.”
Opposite of Always Page 8
