ME: There must be some mistake!!
JILLIAN: Nope. I got what I deserved.
ME: You deserve the best.
JILLIAN: I remember when my friend Jack used to help me practice, but lately he’s been busy doing other THINGS. LOL
ME: Nothing’s changed, J.
JILLIAN: Everything’s changing, J.
ME: How do you mean??
JILLIAN: Forget it. It’s cool.
ME: I can’t just forget it.
JILLIAN: I’m pretty sure you can.
ME: Hey, I’m sorry, J. Really.
JILLIAN: I gotta go.
JILLIAN: BTW, you should really talk to Franny, too.
ME: He okay?
JILLIAN: I think the possibility of seeing The Coupon soon is really starting to get to him. He’s just all over the place lately. Which is understandable. I worry about him, you know. He hates talking about this stuff. He could really use you, Jack.
ME: I’ll talk to him.
JILLIAN: Good luck with that.
JILLIAN: Okay, I gotta go 4 real now!
ME: Parle plus tard?
JILLIAN: Nous verrons.
5 minutes later . . .
ME to FRANNY: Hey, man, just wanted to say how sorry I am again about missing practice.
ME (after waiting to no avail for a reply): And I guess I wanted to let you know that I’m here, y’know. For you. Should you ever need to talk or not talk, or whatever, okay?
ME: I’m sorry I’ve been MIA lately. I guess this whole having a girlfriend thing is time-consuming. I finally get why you and Jillian are always so busy. LOL
ME: So, uh, yeah, I guess hit me back whenever.
ME: Love you, bro.
ME: promptly erasing that last text, swapping it for this:
ME:
90 minutes after that . . .
FRANNY: I’m good, man. No worries, with your awkward, guilt-feeling ass! LOL
ME: Hey now!
FRANNY: But there is one thing you can do for me, since you asked!
ME: What’s up??
FRANNY: So, turns out Abuela invited The Coupon over for dinner tomorrow night. Know it’s last min, but you still down for the cause?
ME: I’m there, man. Save me a good seat.
And I’m happy because I know in the end, Franny and I will always be there for each other.
Kate’s face flashes on my phone.
“Hey, shouldn’t you be in class?” I ask.
“I’m running late. But I’m walking at an uncomfortably rapid pace now.”
“Ah, that explains why you sound as though you’re standing on top of a skyscraper.”
“Exactly. So, what are you doing?”
“Uh, studying,” I say, quickly pausing Rampage III and tossing my controller onto the cushion beside me. “Why? What’s up?”
“I was hoping to talk to you.”
“I’m listening.”
“I mean, like, where I can see your face and you can see mine.”
“You mean FaceTime,” I say, laughing.
Only she barely laughs back. “Seriously. Like I need to see you in person.”
“Oh,” I say, wondering what’s wrong. Why suddenly things are so urgent. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” she says, almost too quickly.
“Positive?”
“Yep.”
“Okay, so when were you thinking?”
“I don’t know. I have a paper due in the morning that I haven’t started yet. And I’m supposed to go with my sister to some awards thing tonight, that she won’t let me back out of despite my best attempts. I was hoping tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow,” I repeat, already knowing that tomorrow isn’t likely to work. That I can’t double-book when I just promised Franny I’d be at his place. When Franny needs me.
But what if Kate wants to see me to tell me that she’s sick—
What if this is the moment I discover why I’m back here?
How can I risk missing that?
I can’t.
I have to do both.
Kate clears her throat. “If that doesn’t work, I don’t know, we can figure something else out.”
“Well, what time were you thinking?”
“Any time. You tell me.”
“Ummmm . . .”
Because I have school all day. And there’s the travel time between here and Whittier to consider. But if I skipped last period, and managed to avoid any traffic, maybe I can be at both places, do both things. Be there for Franny and Kate. Which would be the best-case scenario. Win-win all around. And I know—maybe Kate would understand if I told her I couldn’t make it, that I already had noncancelable plans. It’s just that, well, this second time around—which is still hard to comprehend, that I have a second shot—I don’t want to waste a fraction of a second. Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that nothing’s promised. That you have to treat second chances like an endangered species.
“Really, Jack, if it’s too much . . .”
“No, no, I’ll be there. Tomorrow afternoon.”
“You’re sure?”
“Couldn’t be surer.”
School is slow AF today. And tenth period can’t come fast enough. I’ve already devised my exit strategy. All day I’ve been going out of my way to establish an emerging bout of stomach flu:
Asking for multiple bathroom visits.
Practically running out of each class in that hunched-over way you move when your stomach’s churning.
A trip to the school nurse, who, after a quick consultation with my mom, doused me with antacids and fluids.
I even make sure to excuse myself from fifth-period study hall, which not so incidentally is the study hall overseen by Mrs. Randleman, who is also my AP History teacher.
“You don’t look so well, Jack,” Mrs. Randleman says, watching me rub my stomach counterclockwise, my body slightly compressed and forward-leaning, as if at any moment I might explode from all my orifices.
“I’m okay, Mrs. R. Thanks for your concern. My stomach is just . . . well, it’s not quite itself today.”
“Hmm,” Mrs. Randleman says, handing me a bathroom pass. “Maybe you should go home. Get some rest. The flu’s going around right now.”
“Maybe you’re right,” I agree. “But wait, what about our history exam?”
Mrs. Randleman nods her head, as if she’s taking this situation under serious advisement. “Well, I suppose you could always make it up Friday. I have to be here for detention after school, anyway, so I guess . . .”
“Oh, thank you, thank you, Mrs. R. You’re the best,” I say.
“Be careful, Jack. I don’t do well with vomit. If you throw up, I’ll be right behind you.”
“Right,” I say. “Sorry, ma’am. So very sorry!”
And okay, does a part of me feel bad for deceiving poor ol’ innocent Mrs. Randleman? Absolutely.
But I’m still taking the test. And now I get to be there for my girl and Franny. How is that not a fair trade?
Quickie Mart Quicksand
I kiss Kate goodbye. Again and again and again. I can’t stop kissing her goodbye.
She laughs, brings her lips to my cheek, and opens the car door for me. “You better get out of here, Jack Attack. Franny’s waiting for you.”
“Right,” I say. But I don’t want to leave her. I want to keep feeling her lips on mine at nearly any cost.
But she’s right. I need to hit the highway ASAP.
“I hope it was worth it,” she says. “You coming all the way out here? I hope you really like it,” she adds, pointing to the box on the passenger seat.
I lean in. Kiss her again. “You’re worth way more,” I say. “And I love it, Kate. I do.” And her face lights up in a way that I’d do anything to duplicate.
“You better go,” she says.
I poke my head out the window and simultaneously back the car out. “I’ll call you,” I promise.
From my rearview mirror, I
watch Kate get smaller and smaller, waving at me, until I can no longer make out her smile.
I make great time—for the first thirteen minutes. Then I run into an onslaught of rush-hour traffic. Horn-laying, middle-finger-waving, curse-word-screaming traffic. Apparently, none of these people care that I need to be in Elytown in less than thirty minutes.
Neither does my right tire.
Because when the roadblock of traffic finally begins to subside, I realize my car isn’t picking up speed with its usual halfhearted gusto. It seems slow on the takeoff, even for its measly amount of horsepower.
And then I hear metal rubbing.
A woman in the lane beside me rolls down her passenger window and motions for me to roll down my own window—
“Flat,” she yells across the freeway. “You got a flat!”
I pull over, wait for a crowd of cars to zip by, and hop out to confirm my worst fears.
Crap.
Super crap.
I kick a patch of gravel, and a rock ricochets off the flat tire and smacks me in the shin.
Because, you know, when it rains, it—
And then it actually pours.
A freaking deluge of rain from nowhere, as if mankind just won a championship and God decided to empty the Gatorade cooler over our heads.
Naturally, it takes me a good eight minutes to locate the tire iron, hidden neatly in a compartment in the trunk, only to discover it, along with the jack, is mostly corroded and barely usable.
So, as I struggle to change the tire, risking tetanus with every rust-ridden turn, traffic roaring past my head, all their nonflat tires shooting thick sheets of cool, dirty rain water into my face and clothes, already drenched from the never-stopping downpour, I realize something very important.
I’m going to be late.
Also, I suck.
I try to text Franny, but my crappy carrier’s service isn’t cooperating.
I push the gas pedal so that it’s flat against the floor. I weave in and out of traffic, elicit my share of horn blares and middle fingers.
But they don’t faze me.
I have somewhere to be.
I finally pull onto Franny’s street and I know I’ve really screwed up.
1) Because I’m over an hour late. Closer to ninety minutes than sixty.
2) Because Franny is waiting on the porch stairs, his face buzzing with an anger I’ve never seen. Before I even throw the car into park he’s already bounding for my car, fury in his stride.
My intestines twist into a French braid. I take a deep breath.
“Where the hell were you, man?” Franny shouts before I have both feet out of the car.
“Franny,” I say, emerging with my hands up. “I’m sorry. I ran into traffic, and—”
He wags his head, a whooshing sound escaping from his lips like he’s an oxygen tank that someone’s cranked all the way open. “Traffic? It’s a fifteen-minute drive across town, Jack. What are you talking about, traffic?”
I’m tempted to lie to him, if only to defuse the situation. But I can’t bring myself to do it. Franny and I don’t lie to each other. I could blame it on the flat tire, but that’s not the whole truth either. “I wasn’t home.”
He’s standing on the passenger’s side of my car. I’m still on the driver’s side, standing in the middle of the street, afraid of what might happen if I come any closer. Better to keep a barrier between us.
“So, where were you?” he demands.
“Franny, I . . .” but I can’t say it.
“Wow. You chose ass over your best friend.”
“That’s not what happened, man. I—I went . . . there, yes, but it’s not what you think. I thought she needed to tell me something imp—”
“Important? Is that what you were about to say?” Now he’s on the same side of the car as me. “Fuck you, Jack.” Now his chest is at best two inches away from mine, except his chest is puffing, heaving, like if pushed he could blow a brick house down.
He could blow a continent right off the map.
He bumps into me, knocking me back. I instinctively raise my arms in defense. In all our years knowing each other, we’ve never physically fought. Probably because the consensus is that he’d pulverize me.
“Franny, listen, I’m here now. I’ll go inside and I’ll apologize to Abuela and to The Coupon and we’ll still have a good dinner. Or I can run and get some ice cream and bring it back or . . .”
I lower my hands and finally look at Franny. Like, really look at him. His eyes are wet. And I smell beer. Not like I had a drink or two. More like, I drank a case or two.
“Ice cream,” he repeats. “It’s too late for all that.”
“I can fix this. Just let me go inside and—”
“You’re not hearing me.”
“I know you’re pissed at me, but if you just—”
“He’s gone, man.”
“What do you mean, he’s gone? Gone where?”
Franny shrugs. “Probably back to prison.”
“What are you talking about?”
Someone honks their horn at us and I remember that we’re in the middle of the street. I try to get out of the car’s way but Franny doesn’t seem to care he’s impeding traffic. The car honks again, and I try to pull Franny curbside, but he jerks his arm away and shoves me back. My leg clips the back of my car and I barely catch my balance.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t understand what’s happening, Franny.”
“You should’ve been here. That’s what didn’t happen.”
“I know. I know. And I’m sorry.”
“You’re sorry,” he says to me, sneering. He turns back toward the car, which is maneuvering around him. “He’s sorry,” he says to the driver of the car, rapping his knuckles on the car’s roof as it crawls by. “Yo, he’s sorry,” he yells toward the sky.
“What happened, Franny?”
“You wanna know? You really wanna know?”
“I do. Please.”
“You were late, and I insisted we wait for you, because after all, my best friend knows how important tonight is, he’s gotta be on his way, right? So, we’re sitting there, Abuela, me, and The Coupon, awkward as hell. He’s all trying to make small talk, only I’m not feeling it. I ask Abuela if she got enough ice cream for the cobbler, offer to run to the corner store. But then he says I’ll go.”
Franny sits on the back bumper of my car. I stand beside him.
“Half hour passes and dude still isn’t back.”
I take a seat beside Franny on the bumper, half expecting him to move away. He doesn’t.
“Abuela’s worried. But he has one of those prepaid phones and we don’t have the number. Go look for him, she says. In my head, I’m figuring this dude ran into some back-in-the-day girl he knows or whatever. But I get to the store and there’s like three or four cop cars. Neighbor’s kid says someone tried to rob the Quickie Mart. And now my head’s spinning, because what if this dude got himself shot or something. I think this might kill Abuela.”
Franny swallows hard. A car zooms by, heavy bass rattling its trunk.
“I try to get closer but an officer grabs me, says back up. But I sidestep him and keep walking. He snatches me from behind, and then I’m being slammed to the sidewalk. Which is when I see him. The Coupon. Sitting in the back of one of the cars. Our eyes meet, and he starts wigging out, mashing his face into the rear window, thumping on the glass, yelling, Yo, yo, that’s my son. Get the hell off my son! And then I hear myself yelling, That’s my pop, man. That’s my pop! And the whole time it’s happening, it’s not real, you know. None of it’s real.”
“I don’t know what to say,” I say. Because I don’t. I take a chance and drape my arm around his shoulders, and he bristles but doesn’t move. “Let’s drive down to the precinct, find out what the charges are. See if we can get him out.”
“Abuela’s already on her way. She called your parents. They’re meeting her there.”
And I know I�
�m responsible.
Franny’s right.
If I show up on time, no one gets antsy.
No trip to the corner store.
No arrest.
No Franny hating my guts.
But I’m late.
“This dude can’t even last seventy-two hours out in the real world. Like, who does that?”
“I’m sure it’s a mistake, Franny.”
“The only mistake is thinking he could change.”
“I’m sorry I was late. If I hadn’t been late, then . . .”
“If you’re thinking I’m about to absolve you of your guilt, it’s not the time, man.”
“No.” I nod. “I’m sorry.”
“Besides,” Franny says, standing up, smirking like he’s some supervillain, a streetlamp casting a yellow haze behind him. “If anything, you did me a favor, man. He was bound to screw up sooner or later. You just saved us all the bullshit in between.”
And then Franny walks up the sidewalk, and I don’t have time to decide if I’m meant to follow before he disappears into the house, slamming the door behind him.
And here’s the killer part.
You’re probably wondering what was so important that Kate wanted to see me in person, right?
Like me, you probably figured it was about her illness. That she wanted to tell me face-to-face.
Like me, you figured wrong.
She wanted to see me because it was our three-month anniversary and she had a present for me. Which made me feel terrible because I hadn’t gotten anything for her. And I felt worse when I saw how awesome her gift was.
A digital photo frame with carefully curated pictures of our times together.
Yep.
I get a thoughtful electronic keepsake that I don’t even deserve, and Franny loses his dad, again, the same day he got him back.
Franny stops talking to me.
Jillian tells me I should probably find another way to school, just until he cools off, she assures me.
But I don’t argue.
I deserve far worse.
Mom tries convincing me that I’m not to blame for Franny’s dad, that he’s a grown man who has to be accountable for himself, and while I appreciate her efforts to make me feel better, I know that’s mostly Mom Talk.
“Where’s Dad?” I ask one day after school.
“Uh,” Mom says, intensely typing into her computer. I peek over her shoulder. She’s typing on some spreadsheet for work. “I believe he’s with Franny.”
Opposite of Always Page 13
