Opposite of Always

by Justin A. Reynolds

  I approach my plan not without reservation.

  What if the tournament outcomes change?

  Except I keep thinking about the game that was on when I came back on the stairs—that unbelievable comeback by State that unfolded the same way as before.

  Plus, the big things have stayed true.

  Franny’s dad getting early release.

  Meeting Kate on the stairs.

  The way I feel about her.

  But the thing is, what’s the same versus what’s different doesn’t matter all that much. I don’t have any other ideas.

  This is it.

  So.

  Go Mandrake Potbelly Pigs!

  Fresh 2 Death

  At the end of the weekend, as Jillian drives us off the Whittier campus, I’m not sure Kate will go to prom with me (spoiler alert: she does). But I am leaving with a massive desire to Kick Everyone’s Ass.

  You know, if Everyone equals Destiny.

  “So, you disappear on me for the entire night, and now you’re over there smiling like the damn Cheshire cat. What’s up?”

  “Nothing,” I say. “But let me just say, Whittier rocks.”

  “Whittier rocks, huh? What, are you suddenly on their admissions board? What’s that in your hand?” she says, snatching the slip of paper before I can answer. She unfolds the paper and laughs. “Whose info is this?”

  I shrug.

  “You dog, you,” Jillian says, barking loudly. The car windows are down, and the passenger of the car beside us stares over. “I should’ve known you were up to no good.”

  “We had a connection,” I confess.

  “That’s what I’m afraid of. You connecting. I hope you used protection, man.”

  “What,” I say. “No, I don’t mean like that.”

  Jillian laughs. “Duh, I’m joking with you, Jack. Relax.”

  “What do you mean, duh? You’re saying I can’t get laid?”

  She stops laughing. “You’re extremely lay-able. You just don’t know it yet. But when you finally figure it out, look out, world.”

  “Now you’re just being cruel.”

  She shakes her head. “Jack, I love you. But for someone so smart, you’re really stupid sometimes.”

  Before I can ask her what she means she blares the radio and sings like it’s the end of the movie and Ursula just gave her her voice back.

  I turn the radio back down. “Hey, J?”

  “Yeah?”

  “How are you?”

  “What do you mean, how am I?”

  “Like with your dad leaving? How are you doing with that?”

  She shrugs. “I mean, he’ll probably be back. He’s just going through . . . I don’t know, like a midlife thing.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I think it’s just something about getting older and feeling like you haven’t done all the things you dreamed of when you were young. Like, you had all these goals, and all these mile markers, and then you realize the only thing that’s happening is time is slipping by and you’ve barely cracked your list.”

  “But how are you doing?”

  She smiles at me, a forced grin. “I’m doing, man. I’m doing.”

  “If you ever wanna talk,” I say.

  “I know where to find you, Jack.”

  “Good.”

  “I worry more about my mom than me. She’s so sad.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “But at least she’s painting again, so there’s that.”

  “You’re always worried about everyone but yourself. And I love that about you, how giving you are. But you need to take for yourself, too. Whatever you need, I’m here for you.”

  “I know,” she says, guiding the car off the highway. “Thanks,” she says, turning the music back up.

  And then we’re in my driveway. I hop out and Jillian waves, angles the car back toward the street. But I flag her down.

  She pops the car back into park. “What’d you forget?”

  “Hey, uh, so my parents had this weird thing happen with their electric bill, where Ely Power was trying to say they hadn’t paid and were threatening to turn our lights off.”

  “What?”

  Yeah, what, Jack? Is this the best you can do? “So, yeah, just, uh, when you go home, make sure your bill is okay, ’cause I wouldn’t want that to happen to you and your mom, okay?”

  She laughs.

  “I’m serious, J. Don’t forget.”

  She laughs again. “Uh, okay, Jack. Thanks for the hot tip.”

  And then she’s zooming down the street and I’m dropping my bags inside the foyer, my parents swarming me with questions. I’m up in my bedroom when I get Franny’s text.

  FRANNY: I heard you got some ass.

  ME: Yes . . . if ass is code for a phone number.

  FRANNY: Hey, you gotta start somewhere, bro.

  It’s definitely a start. A fresh one.

  FRANNY: So, I have the craziest news ever . . .

  And I have a pretty decent guess what it is, but I text:

  ME: They found a cure for your back hair?!

  FRANNY: You’re stupid af

  ME: I know

  ME: So you going to tell me or keep me in suspect

  ME: *Suspense

  FRANNY: *drumrolls*

  FRANNY: THE COUPON GETS OUT END OF THE WEEK!

  My birthday is in the first week of September, two weeks after school usually starts, which meant I didn’t get to go to kindergarten until I was nearly seven. Mom tried to stem the disappointment of waiting another entire year to start school by telling me that I’d have the distinct advantage of experiencing everything so much earlier than my fellow classmates. Just think, Jack, she’d reasoned, you’ll get your license first, you’ll get to vote first, and one day you’ll get to drink first—legally of course.

  Understandably, she failed to mention another distinct advantage. It probably never even crossed her mind. I get to gamble first, too.

  News flash: the internet is awesome.

  I post pics of my collectibles and within an hour I make $200. By the end of the day I’m up to $345. And by the weekend I’ve hit $800. But a quick sweep of the attic confirms my worst fear: I’ve run out of things to sell.

  Or have I?

  The girl who answers my ad is a sophomore at State.

  “So, what are you going to do with her?” I email her back.

  She replies, mainly to get her around campus and the occasional weekend visit back home.

  “So, why are you selling her?” she asks, when she comes to pick her up.

  “Oh,” I say, feeling the slightest trepidation in telling her the truth. “For my girlfriend.”

  “That’s cool.”

  “Well,” I confess, “she’s not quite my girlfriend yet.”

  She smiles as I hand over the keys. “Well, she sounds lucky, Jack.”

  I wave goodbye as she backs the car out, and I keep waving until the blue sedan turns right into its next life. How I’ll explain my latest sale to my parents is a worry for another time.

  The important thing is I have a real chance.

  Now all I need is a bookie willing to accept a sizable bet from an eighteen-year-old high school senior. The bad news is I know exactly zero bookies.

  The good news: I know a guy who may know a guy.

  We Don’t Accept Coupons at This Establishment

  I’m rambling while simultaneously uncasing my trumpet.

  “. . . you think we should get stickers made? For JoyToy? I’m thinking maybe we should have some sorta merch, you know, just in case . . .”

  We’d planned on putting in a lot of work today, but then a few minutes ago Jillian took a phone call, disappearing inside her house.

  “. . . I mean, we probably won’t sell a . . .”

  “So, The Coupon is going to crash elsewhere for a while,” Franny interjects.

  I set down my horn. “Did you talk to Abuela?”

  “I had decided not to. That if she
wanted him around, it’s her house, you know. But now it’s a moot point because once again he’s choosing to be somewhere where I’m not.”

  “Maybe he thinks he’s doing what you want.”

  “When has The Coupon ever done anything for anyone other than himself?”

  “Okay. Well, maybe he just wants to take things slow.”

  “He’s a fucking glacier already. I don’t know why I’m surprised, right. I mean, this is his MO.” Franny shrugs. “At least the deadbeat’s consistent.”

  “Maybe you should talk to him.”

  “And say what?”

  “I don’t know. How you feel.”

  “I didn’t want to see him anyway. Who needs him? He needs me, if anything. I’ve been doing hella good without him, why would I want him in my life now?” Franny lowers his voice. “Jack, am I that bad?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Franny bites his lip, like he wishes he hadn’t said anything, like he doesn’t want to say more, but then—“I know I’m not the smartest kid alive, or, I don’t know, the strongest, or whatever. But no one could deny I’m handsome, right?” Franny says, striking a pose like he’s taking a picture on some runway, then flashing me a patented Franny doesn’t give a damn smile. Only this smile is dead on arrival, because in this moment, not even happy-go-lucky Franny can disguise the pain on his face.

  “Franny,” I say.

  But Franny keeps going. “I just don’t get it. I mean, if you were my dad, how much of a disappointment would I be to you? Like, for real, man?”

  “What the heck are you even talking about? You wouldn’t be. I’d be proud of you. I am proud of you.”

  “No, there must be something wrong with me.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with you, Franny.”

  His voice jumps. “Don’t lie, man. You can tell me. You’d know. You’re supposed to be my boy, right?”

  “I am your boy.”

  “So, tell me the truth. What’s so wrong with me that my dad would go out of his way to not be around me? How come my dad doesn’t want me, man? Why aren’t I good enough? How come he doesn’t love me back?”

  I’m answerless.

  I put my arm around his neck. “If he doesn’t see how awesome you are, it’s his loss, Franny. Because it’s easy to see. It’s so freaking easy to anyone who bothers to look. Hell, you don’t even have to look long. You can just glance at you and tell.”

  “Whoa, whoa, what are you guys doing out here,” Jillian says, teasing-voice, as she steps through the sliding door onto the back patio. “Am I interrupting some man-love or . . .” She stops when she sees our faces, our teary-eyed expressions.

  “Oh, damn,” she says. “What’s wrong?”

  Not waiting for an answer, she wraps her arms around both of us. We lock arms, faces touching, not saying anything more. Not having to.

  Later that night at my house, while Franny’s upstairs taking a shower, I fill in my parents on the latest episode of Franny’s Dad Sucks. Dad swears under his breath, and Mom has tears in her eyes; they’ve seen this show before. Franny’s Dad Sucks only has one episode and it runs on loop.

  When we sit down to eat, I can tell my parents want to slide their chairs away from the table and throw their arms around Franny, but they manage to hold off until after our salads. Then Mom is reaching across the table, squeezing Franny’s hand, and Franny looks at me and he knows I spilled the beans. But he doesn’t look angry. He flashes a fake grin.

  “No pity parties, guys,” he says, his voice cracking.

  Dad stands and walks around the table, pats Franny on his shoulders, and says, “You are an incredible young man. No one gets to decide your worth except you. And you are worth anything and everything, Francisco.”

  I’m wondering if I did the right thing here, if Franny is hating this, the attention, the mush factor, but then he swivels around in his chair and lunges his head into my dad’s stomach and he’s sobbing.

  “It’s okay,” my dad says, squeezing Franny’s shoulder. “You’re a great kid.”

  “You are,” Mom says, walking over, her hand gripping Franny’s other shoulder. “We love you. We’ll never not love you. Right, Jack?”

  And I nod although Franny’s back is to me.

  “Nothing is more right,” I say.

  So. I have my reservations about the whole bookie thing.

  Fortunately for me, I do know a guy who knows a gal who knows a guy—

  Which basically comes down to me asking Franny’s dad for help. I know, I know—sort of a dick move, right? While I’d understand Franny feeling betrayed if he found out I’d gone behind his back and met with his enemy, I’m hoping that if he knew the stakes he’d offer his support.

  Franny’s dad laughs when I pitch him my idea. “Let me get this straight, man,” he says, scratching his chin like his brain’s doing serious heavy lifting, “you want me to put up a few thousand dollars on your behalf with a bookie who will put a cap in both of our asses if you don’t pay up? And the money you’re putting up is on a team that hasn’t made the NCAA tourney since, like, I was a raggedy kid in diapers? AND you wanna bet that these motherfuckers are gonna win it all? Like the whole shebang? Crown those never-won-nothing-in-their-lives cats king?”

  I’ll be honest, hearing him spell it out like this is not exactly inspirational, but I nod just the same.

  “And your parents don’t know nothing about this, right?”

  “No,” I confirm.

  “Franny neither?”

  “Also no.”

  “So, when this plan goes south—and I’m not saying if, but when—I’m the one who’s gonna look like First Lieutenant Asshole, huh?”

  I repeat my offer of 10 percent of the winnings, but he shakes his head.

  “No, no, man,” he says. “Your money, your wager. Besides, not to shit on your dreams, son, but were I you, I wouldn’t be counting my chips just yet.”

  “So, you’ll do it? You’ll make the bet for me?”

  “After all you’ve done for my kid, I hardly see how I can deny you this, stupid as it is. Just don’t come crying and pissing when you’re broke as shit, okay? Won’t be able to do nothing for you just ’cause you’re a kid.”

  “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” I repeat.

  But Franny’s dad just mutters, “I must have a goddamn death wish.”

  Or maybe I’m the one with the death wish.

  Going behind Franny’s back.

  Playing nice with The Coupon.

  And there’s this nagging feeling that I can’t ignore.

  Namely, what good is a second (or third) chance if I screw everything up?

  Not just with Kate.

  But with Franny. What if my deal with Franny’s dad changes the entire trajectory of their lives? What if Franny and The Coupon would’ve ended up happily ever after but now because of me they end up wishing the other person never existed?

  And what about Jillian? She’d be stuck in the middle—maybe she’d feel like she had to choose a side. What if she chooses the side opposite of me? What if I lose her forever?

  Could I live with all of that?

  Am I prepared to say goodbye to all the people who mean something, to maybe save Kate?

  While I wait for Kate to email back, I kill time watching the Sports Network debate which teams are guaranteed tournament locks and which teams are riding the bubble. The four sportscasters are split, with the most vocal of the quartet unimpressed by Mandrake’s strength of schedule.

  I just don’t see it, he contends, flailing his arms. Have they played well, yes, they have. They’ve done what they’ve needed to do to have a shot at the tournament. But frankly, so have a half dozen other teams with better résumés.

  So.

  Looks like I have until Selection Sunday, two days from now, to know if my investment in the Pigs is a complete butcher job—I’m sorry—but seriously, I’m concerned. But I haven’t devised another way to get Kate the help she
needs/deserves. And this plan, as evidenced by the above analysis, is/was a long shot from the beginning.

  So, I ask you, what good is being from the future if you don’t get a leg up on the past?

  “Hey, Jackie, what’s the word, baby?”

  There’s something about Franny’s dad that makes me think he was a god in the 1970s.

  “Um, just making sure everything is cool with . . . uh . . . our . . . agreement.”

  “Oh, the bet? Yeah, it’s all good, man.”

  “Oh, okay. Good.”

  “That all you wanted?”

  “Actually—”

  “Yeah, let me get a number six combo but no lettuce and no pickle but with extra mayo, but on the side. And throw in one of those hash browns, too.”

  “Uh, are you there?”

  “Hold on, Jackie . . . what you mean you done serving hash? I thought y’all served it all day. I have my mouth set for some . . . fine. Whatever. I’ll take a cherry pie. . . . Sorry, Jack. You was saying?”

  “It’s about Franny. Francisco.”

  “What about him?”

  “He wants to see you.”

  “Ha. Funny way of showing it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He won’t answer my calls or my texts. The other day he walked out on me before I could get out one word.”

  I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Because isn’t it the other way around? The Coupon dodging Franny?

  “Well, I’m pretty sure he wants . . . I think he’s happy you’re . . . you know . . . back.”

  “Hmm.”

  “I think were you to try again, like really put some effort into it, he’d see it differently.”

  “Throw in some extra hot sauce packets, too. And a spork.”

  “Hello?”

  “I heard you, Jack. I’ll think on it.”

  Selection Sunday

  When Sunday comes, I’m too nervous to be alone, so I invite Franny and Jillian over to watch the March Madness selection committee reveal the chosen teams.

  Franny laughs at my invitation. “Since when are you Mr. Basketball?”

  I pretend to not understand what he means. “I’ve always liked basketball.”

  “Name the one NBA team not located in the United States,” he challenges me.

  I shrug. “Sorry, I’m more into the college game.”