She stares at me so long I ask her what’s wrong.
“Nothing,” she says. “I’ve just never really heard you talk about a thing you wanna do. And it’s making me happy, but I’m trying not to overreact because then you’ll get all weird and not wanna share more with me.”
“It’s not a big deal. I mean, it’s hardly a plan. It’s barely anything.”
“It’s a start, babe. A start is something.” She brushes my cheek. “Hey, stand up, I wanna show you something.”
“What? But then I’ll have to stop touching you and that sounds terrible.”
She shakes her head. “C’mon, silly.”
I grumble, but I slide off the car, stand beside her. I hunch my shoulders. “So, what are you supposed to be showing—”
But I don’t get to finish.
Autumn wraps her arms around my waist, squeezes me like I’m toothpaste.
Autumn’s hug is a kind of irresistible extraction that compels you to spill your whole guts. Makes you release everything about anything.
Because you know she is refuge and a half.
Because she knows the hurt you’ve inflicted.
Because she also knows how hard you love.
She’s seen you so happy, you were vibrating.
Because she is wholly convinced you are redeemable.
Because she knows the secret to being forgiven is first forgiving yourself.
This is a single, midmorning, standing on a random patch of beach hug from Autumn.
Everyone needs this hug.
And even when we finally pull apart, her right hand slides up, then down my arm, until her hand finds mine, until her fingers every-other my fingers.
We stand there, hands held, waves coming at us like they mean to wash us away.
And then she asks: “What are you gonna do about Q?”
“What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean.”
“I dived into the water for him, isn’t that enough?”
“J.”
“I don’t know yet. I’m still working it out.”
She brings our hands up, kisses my knuckles. “As long as you’re actually working on it.”
“I am. I will.”
And I want to tell her the whole truth.
She more than deserves it.
Because every makeup deserves a peace offering.
But for now, instead, this: “So, you wanna know why they named you Autumn?” I ask her.
And she shakes her head, begs me not to say it. “Babe, we’ve exceeded our dad joke quota for the night.”
I nod my agreement. “Okay, okay. You right.” I kiss the top of her head.
She grins. “Thank you for the self-control. Look at you out here showing personal growth and . . .”
“Because how could I not fall for you?”
And then she’s pretending to push me, and I’m pretending to stumble backward, flailing my arms like a baby bird attempting to fly for the first time.
And we’re laughing, laughing.
Driving home, the sky applies its dusk filter, everything a moody gray.
And the highway lampposts hum to life, their light gliding and swirling along both sides of us, like electric-orange butterflies.
In my driveway, Autumn leans across the seat and we kiss.
We do that awkward car-divider-between-us hug. “Thanks for the ride.”
“Everything’s gonna be okay,” she says.
I shrug. “How come the more people say that the less true it feels?”
58
The Funeral
I was hiding behind the funeral parlor when we met.
I slipped through the sea of nose-blowing and eye-dabbing and stepped out a door marked Do Not Open.
I needed air and I needed a wall, because it had only just hit me:
How many things I wanted to tell them that I couldn’t.
And there were only gonna be more things, all the time.
I took a breath, cracked my neck.
“The first undertakers were actually furniture makers,” a voice said.
And I nearly jumped clear of my skin.
I turned to see a girl sitting on a wide sill, the window behind her boarded with plywood.
She laughed. “Sorry. Thought you saw me up here.”
I shook my head. “I definitely did not. Why are you up there?”
She shrugged. “Why are you down there, man? Why are we anywhere? It’s a tad early for existentialism.”
And I didn’t know what that was—if the universe thought it was doing me a solid, mashing this girl’s world with mine, I was not into it. Especially that day. I pivoted toward the door, but she hopped down from the window.
“It makes sense, though, right?” she continued.
“Huh?” I asked. “What does?”
She sucked her teeth. “That the first undertakers were furniture makers. The casket game was a logical move. You already had the materials and the skill. You just needed the bodies, and God knows, there’s no shortage of those.”
“Umm, you do realize a funeral home is a sad place, right? Like, I enjoy trivia as much as the next guy, but . . .”
“You come from the party?” She motioned toward the door I’d just disobeyed. “You know the people that died?”
“Yeah,” I said. “You?”
She wagged her head. “No, I just work here on Saturdays.”
“Oh. Cool?”
She laughed. “Is that a statement or a question?”
“Definitely more question.”
She laughed. “Well, today’s my first day. Somehow, my grandma knows the funeral director, so here. I. Am.” She pulled a granola bar from her pocket. “Halfsies?”
I hadn’t eaten all day. Hadn’t really eaten much since. But I found myself nodding anyway, watching her as she unwrapped it and broke it in two.
“I’m gonna be nice and give you the bigger piece, but don’t think this is how it’s gonna always be.”
And even though she was only joking like we’re gonna hang out again, it was not an idea I entirely hated, which, odd, because I’d been in full-on hate everything mode for days.
I said, “Cool.” And then added: “Statement.”
And I didn’t know how but her laugh made me wanna laugh.
“It really sucks,” she said. “I heard they were young.”
“Who?” I asked but then I got it. And then my lip was trembling, tears threatening rain.
“Heard they have three kids.”
“Two,” I say quietly.
“What was that?”
“Just two kids.”
“Hmm,” she said. “Well, it still blows. Can you imagine? What on earth do you say to a kid who’s just lost the two most important people in their life?”
“I don’t know.” I turned to her, wiped my eyes. “But here’s your chance.”
She made an Ooooh sound, blanketed her mouth with both hands. “Ohmi—”
But she didn’t get a chance to finish this awkward moment because the Do Not Open door opened once more.
“Hey, man,” Q said, stepping out onto the cracked pavement. “Everyone’s looking for you, so I, uh, I figured you’d be wherever they weren’t. And . . .” He spied the girl and stopped. “Oh, my bad, am I interrupting . . . ?”
I didn’t meet his eyes. The energy had been off between us. But if he’d noticed it, he did not let on.
The girl stuck out her hand. “Hi, I’m Autumn. And no, you aren’t interrupting anything except me making a fool of myself, so perfect timing.”
Q smiled. “Nice to meet you, Autumn. I’m Quincy.” He glanced at me. “Uh, Q, actually. Jamal’s friend.” And he paused like he was waiting for Autumn to explain how she knew me, or for me to interject, but honestly the only thing I wanted was for this dude to vacate the premises. Not just my presence. Not just this grimy alleyway. The whole funeral home. The block. The damn world.
Of course, he could have just let i
t go. Be content with not knowing this one thing about me and my life. But he couldn’t help himself.
He shook his forefinger at her. “You look familiar. Wait, are you from Indiana? Are you the daughter of . . .”
He looked to me for help, but I shrugged. I knew who he meant, but I didn’t understand why he didn’t feel it: the fact that I didn’t want him there.
Autumn laughed. “No, I’m an Ohio kid through and through. Actually, we only just met.” She touched my shoulder and I flinched—not because it hurt, or because I didn’t like it, but for the exact opposite of those things. I made a subtle move back toward her hand, but she pulled away, an apology on her face. “I don’t mean . . . I have this bad habit of touching people. All my friends are used to it, or don’t mind telling me to screw off. I’m sorry.”
“No,” I said too quickly. “Don’t be. It’s . . . okay.”
And there was a long pause there.
A beat where it was just her and me in this dark alley and it was a world where my parents were still at the forefront of my brain, where their death was at once tender and searing, but it was like her eyes were time travelers.
And she’d been sent here to give me a glimpse of future Jamal.
A Jamal who was still hurting but who’d found a way to not be so broken.
“Damn, man, I haven’t seen you smile since . . .” Q’s words split. His voice softer. “I’m just saying it’s good to see you smile.”
“That’s weird because I was actually just shoving both of my feet into my mouth before you came out.” Autumn turned to me. “You don’t know me and this means shit even if you did, but I’m so incredibly sorry for your loss. And I’m sorry for being here when you were trying to find a place to be alone.”
I shook my head.
“He’s been alone a lot lately. I imagine he’s happy to have some company,” Q says before I can get any words out. “I was actually gonna ask J if he wanted to, later tonight after the dinner thing, just hang out and just, I don’t know, reminisce or . . . anyway, you’re welcome to join us, right, J? She should join us?”
Autumn was smiling, which was a good thing. A great thing. But I didn’t want to hang out or talk or reminisce about how awesome my parents were. Especially not with him.
“Actually, if you don’t mind, man, could you go find Whit, let her know I’m out here if she needs me.”
“Huh. Oh. Yeah, man. Uh . . .” He nodded—and it was there, the perfect friendship cocktail, a finely shaken blend of reluctance, jealousy, and earnestness. “It was nice meeting you, Autumn. Hope to see you later.”
A reluctance to leave me in my time of need.
A jealousy for the fact that I wasn’t actually alone, for the fact that I was actually with a girl he did not know.
An earnest desire to do whatever would make me less shitiful.
Even if the only way to do that meant he couldn’t be there.
So, why wouldn’t I want my best friend around? Why would I want distance? What’s changed, you ask?
The answer was everything.
Nothing the same.
And a sliver of happiness.
“We just moved here,” Autumn said.
“You and your parents?”
She shook her head. “Nope. Me and my grandma.”
“Oh,” I say, wanting to ask more but also knowing it was none of my business. “That’s cool. Well, uh, welcome. You two could’ve chosen to live anywhere in the world. Chicago, NYC, Paris, but yet here you are in . . . Ely . . . town.”
She laughed. “That’s what I thought too. But then . . .”
“But then . . . what?”
“Nothing,” she said, shaking her head, breaking our eye contact, but not breaking this trance she’d magicked me into.
“Say what you wanted to say.”
And she turned back to me, and her smile was gone, but the light in her eyes was not, it was somehow more, and she finished her sentence. Punctuated the hell out of it.
“But then, you,” she said. “But then, you.”
Postreanimation Day 1
Approx. 23–27 Q Days Left
57
Two things get me through the seven-hour daily void that is high school.
1) Autumn Gregory.
2) Fixating on whatever school break’s next on our academic horizon.
So today, I feel doubly fortunate—Autumn’s leaning against my locker and spring break’s two days away.
She wraps me in a hug. “You look like regurgitated shit.”
I rub my chin atop her head. “Awww, babe, you always know just what to say.”
“What’re we doing after school?”
I sigh. Pop open my locker. “Can’t.”
She flashes mock horror. “Who’s the side chick?”
“Mrs. Sweat.”
“Ugh, gross.”
The bell rings and Autumn stands on her tiptoes, my arms returning to her waist. “Baby, say that thing you know I like.”
She grins. “You’re gonna be a father.”
And we both laugh. “Your grandma would whup your ass with her cane.”
“And yours too.”
“Yeah, she would.” I pull her closer, but this time she stiffens.
“What’s going on in that head of yours?” she asks.
“Guess I’m wondering if Q’s gonna be at school today.”
The one-minute bell rings.
Autumn studies my face. “The important thing is he’s okay, yeah?”
“No, yeah. You’re right.”
She reaches around, smacks my ass. “Okay, well, leave already so I can watch you walk away.”
We kiss and part ways. And I can’t help but stare at her, too. Because, sweet baby Jesus, she’s poetry.
My pocket buzzes.
Whit: Don’t forget mtg w/Sweat.
Me: sorry I already have plans not to be there, so.
Whit:
56
Usually I’m the last person to trickle into seventh period English.
But today I’m nearly the first.
And even though I try to play it cool, I can’t help it. My eyes are fixed to the fourth chair in the third row.
Feeling—I guess, eager, maybe—for Q to show up, even though, to date, we’ve rarely even made eye contact in this class.
So I’m all kinds of disappointed when Ms. Taylor closes the door, Q apparently absent.
Which, I know is not my business, or my problem, or whatever—
But I wonder if he’s okay.
If I’m honest, a part of me half expected him to text me after I fled our little bedroom showdown. Figured at the very least I’d get a don’t ever come here again.
But instead, nothing.
And nothing, in a way, is worse than anger.
When someone yelled at you, or sent you an all-caps text, at least you knew how they felt. And yeah, the last time I saw Q—okay, really the last two times I’ve seen Q—he was angry, so maybe that’s where things still stood.
But what if, like, the reanimation gave him a change of heart that, like, wasn’t immediately evident? What if, after I’d run out his front door and across the lawn like a track-and-field champ, he’d had an intense moment of self-reflection, had suddenly realized why things had gone south between us?
Felt beyond terrible? Wanted to sincerely apologize, except he was afraid of how I’d react? Intense moments of self-reflection didn’t mean you lost all your pride.
Maybe he was waiting for me to make the first move?
Waiting for an opening?
And I’m feeling slightly better until the classroom door swings open.
I stare in a way that suggests I’m willing to have the conversation, but either Q’s possibly embarrassed by his previous behavior or he’s content to keep things status quo, because he avoids eye contact.
I maintain my it’s cool man stare, but Q’s eyes look everywhere but at me.
I study him from afar. He seems normal. S
ame posture. The go-with-the-flow look on his face, just as before.
And it’s strange, knowing that someone I knew, someone I was once so close to, was, in the most literal sense, living on borrowed time.
And I’m struck once more with guilt.
Because this sucks.
Because if Q knew, there’s no way he’s hanging out in seventh period English right now.
Because how were you to grieve a loss that wasn’t currently a loss?
As sad as I feel, it’s nowhere near the way you feel when someone actually dies. Because I’m also happy he’s alive again.
So, maybe when Q . . . you know . . . I’d grieve retroactively, twice as hard?
Maybe I—
Wait, why is everyone staring at me?
Oh, probably because our teacher’s staring at me and calling my name over and over. Damn. How long had I spaced?
“Jamal, what do you think? Was Beowulf’s life a tragedy?”
Okay, apparently long enough to not know we’d already started discussing our reading assignment.
I shrug. “I don’t know.”
She motions for me to sit up straight, which I reluctantly do. Ugh, is there anything more annoying than a Try-Hard Teacher?
“There’s no wrong or right. I just want your opinion.”
“Honestly?” I shake my head. “I feel like the whole thing’s a tragedy.”
Her face lights up. “How so?”
I laugh. “Tell me you weren’t disappointed when you found out dude’s not an actual wolf.”
The class cracks up. The kid in front of me swivels for a fist bump.
Ms. Taylor nods, smiling. “Okay, okay. But do you think Beowulf would’ve been more or less heroic had he been an actual wolf?”
“I mean, he’s fighting all these monsters but he’s just a regular dude. How’s that fair?”
“True. Except he’s successful, right? In the end? He slays the dragon.”
“But he dies doing it.”
“So, what’s one message you take from his life?”
And I know what she’s doing. She’s engaging me. Proving to me that I can do this if I want. If I try. But I lob her question back. “What do you see?”
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