“I think only I get to say what’s gonna kill me or not,” I reply. “We need a bigger car. Or maybe we can plant five trees instead of, you know, twenty-five.”
“We’ll be fine. It’s a short drive to the preserve,” Dad says. He loads the last sapling into the back seat, its thin branches poking my forearm. “Besides, this is your Carpet Denim, Jamal. And now you have to leaf with the consequences.”
Mom and Dad exchange way-too-enthusiastic high fives, which quickly accelerates into a super involved and probably overly complicated routine complete with 360-degree spinning and shoe-tapping, culminating in a leaping, grunting chest bump—they’d been working on this for weeks in our living room, ever since they saw NBA players flash their own signature handshake exchanges during a game.
Yes, these are my parents. No, I don’t know why they’re like this.
“You’re killing it today, babe,” Mom says. “You’re on forest fire.”
Dad half frowns. “I don’t know if I can laugh at that.”
“Yeah,” Mom says, nodding. “That was highly insensitive.”
Dad rubs his chin. “Maybe if you’d said controlled forest fire.”
“Yeah, I wanted to be clever, but I got stumped.”
“Ohmigod, nice freaking recovery, babe!” Dad exclaims.
High-five routine round two.
“Did you get that on tape?” Dad asks me. “You got that, right?”
“Unfortunately,” I confirm.
A man parked next to us stops loading purple flowers into his red pickup truck, apparently so that he can laugh hysterically. He pumps his fist in a way I think is meant to encourage my parents to continue their semi-embarrassing-but-also-kinda-impressive routine; Dad calls these moments PDAs—public displays of awesome. Is that me groaning or you?
“Oh, man, you guys rock,” the purple-flower man declares.
“They’re for sale,” I tell the man. “What’s your best offer?”
Whit’s face pops out at me from between two small dogwoods; her arms sweep their foliage in either direction. I’d nearly forgotten she was in the back seat. “Jamal, I can’t believe you’re not into this! You’re one of the sappiest people I know!”
Mom’s and Dad’s faces light up like a holiday window display. “Oh snap,” Dad says. “Welcome aboard the Awful Joke Train, favorite daughter!”
“Thanks for having me, Dad,” Whit says. She lets the trees go and they smack her in the face. “Oww!”
And okay, I can’t resist. “Guess a dogwood’s bark is worse than its bite.”
Mom, now in the front passenger seat, reaches through the foliage to high-five me. “There he is! There’s my corny son! Welcome back, my friend.”
I laugh. “Hey, I was just trying to branch out!”
“Now this is what I’m talking about! You feeling what I’m feeling, Andersons?” Dad says, starting the car. “Our love is at an al-pine high.”
Dad’s grinning. I know this because even with all these trees in the way, I can just barely see his eyes, his face, in the rearview mirror.
He sees me looking and he winks.
I wish I’d winked back.
Dad pulls the car onto the road. The car speakers ring, an incoming call. Dad fumbles with the phone controls, taps random buttons because he and tech, water and oil. And I see his head snap to his left, I see his eyes widen, the horror, his shoulders twitching as he reaches for the car horn, as his foot slams into the gas.
But both reactions are too late.
Whit screams. Four tires shrieking. Metal crumpling, folding, we fishtail across two lanes as our car origamis into something new.
But it’s the second impact that does the damage.
I don’t look out my window.
I don’t leave Dad’s eyes.
Their horror, abrupt and savage.
Like opening a door and finding fire.
We spin three and a half revolutions before the car finally stops.
Somewhere in the middle, I drop the camera.
But it keeps recording.
The impact jams the horn, and it’s hard to hear anything else—Jamal, are you okay? Jamal! Jamal!—the horn just keeps blaring that one awful note, long and loud.
We’re perpendicular to the road, our front end tipped into a drainage ditch.
Nine baby trees still fill our back seat.
Ten trees rocketed through the broken windshield, through the shattered driver’s and front passenger windows; when the firefighters slowly pull us out, I see them, dogwoods scattered across the road. I don’t know why I count them, but I do. It feels like it’ll be important later. Like maybe knowing things like how many trees or that it was 11:34 a.m. or that it had come down to Saturday or Sunday and we’d voted 3–1 Saturday because the weather was supposed to be perfect.
Not surprisingly, Whit voted for Sunday. She always chose the furthest date for everything. I like having something to look forward to for as long as possible, she said.
But now, sitting in the back of a yellow ambulance as the paramedics examine us, the pungent smell of antiseptic stinging my eyes and nose, all I see is fear on Whit’s face—her pain as bright as the red gash cut across her cheek.
They find five saplings seventy yards from the scene.
The last one?
It’s the only thing left in our front seat.
“Hello,” says a voice detached from the scene. “You there, Mr. Anderson? Mrs. Anderson?”
It’s not until several hours later, in the middle of the night, that it occurs to me who’d called.
“Happy anniversary,” the voice said. “I know it’s technically not until tomorrow, but I just wanted to get a jump on—”
50
I drop my phone, then pick it back up.
To Autumn: Can we talk? Can I call you?
49
Autumn: I forgot these things even made calls, haha.
48
I nearly pee myself when Autumn taps on the window, and she laughs, smushes her lips against the glass like a Picasso smile.
I shimmy open the window, my heart thumping, banging against my ribs like an animal thrashing in its cage.
“Thanks for the heart attack,” I say as she climbs into my bedroom. She brushes herself off and I laugh. “You’re not a fan of the front door entrance anymore, or?”
She wags her head, grins. “I was being romantic. This was a shout-out to the old days.”
“You mean all those times we snuck each other into our rooms and got caught?”
She shoots me with a finger gun, winks. “That’s it.”
I frown. “Yeah, well, I’m starting to think that’s my whole problem. Clinging to the old days. That maybe the best thing you can do is leave the past behind.”
“Assuming this has to do with your one-day-only performance outside the after-school film club window?”
“You know?”
She shrugs. “Pretty sure everyone knows. People keep texting me to see if you’re okay.”
I groan. “Seriously?”
“You have to make it right,” she says softly.
“What if it’s too late?”
“You feel like you made your very best attempt today?”
I shrug. “Probably not. I mean, it happened so fast. It was all on the fly and . . .”
She nods. “So then there’s more work to do,” she says. “Doing the right thing isn’t only about Q forgiving you, J. You can’t control that. But when you look back next week, in ten years, whenever, you wanna know you did all you could.”
I know she’s right.
She taps the center of my chest. “The letting go you keep talking about? It’s not you letting go of your bad feelings about Q. It’s about you no longer blaming everyone else for your choices, for your actions. It’s about actually meaning all your I’m sorrys. Or better still, just stop hurting people, man. Stop running away. You deserve to be happy. We all do.”
And tears fall free, hers and mine
.
And when Autumn leaves, I take a deep breath and dial Q’s number.
47
AUDIO MESSAGE to Q: I don’t expect you to text me back. Maybe you’ll never talk to me again. Maybe I’ll never get the chance to really talk to you.
But the idea that what I said today could be the last words you ever hear me say. I can’t let that be.
See, the thing is, there’s this angry, ugly Jamal lurking inside me. And for the longest time I let him do whatever he pleased. He was so hurt. So broken. But then one day he wasn’t just inside me. He was me.
I was him.
If I were you, I would’ve climbed out that window and kicked my ass across the country. I thought because I was finally forgiving you, that I was finally telling you my truth, that it meant you had to accept it. You had to understand.
I imagined us hugging it out.
Maybe even crying.
Okay, that would probably be me crying more than you, I admit it.
You know what else?
You’re gonna laugh your ass off when you hear this.
I imagined we’d exchange I love yous, but like, totally nonironically.
Because that’s the kind of friends we used to be.
Because once upon a time, that was the kind of friends I thought we’d always be.
But here’s what I didn’t understand.
When you leave someone, even if you see the error of your ways, even if you apologize profusely, it doesn’t matter. They don’t owe you forgiveness. They don’t have to take you back.
To be honest, Q . . .
The way I treated you, you shouldn’t take me back.
You shouldn’t even take the time to listen to this long-ass audio message either. And maybe you won’t. Maybe you stopped listening a long time ago. If so, bravo to you. I get it. And I hope you get all the happy you deserve. That your next best friend is the kind who’d never hurt you the way I did. But Q . . . on the off chance you are still listening, I’m sorry. And this time, there’s no excuses, no explanations attached. I’m just incredibly, wholly sorry.
And there’s more to say.
But I’m not gonna keep going because you never have enough memory on your phone as it is, and so if I go too long maybe you won’t even get this.
Okay, I’m acting like that’s still something true about you, when in reality, that was only true two years ago. Maybe you’ve got lots of memory left. Maybe you’re flush in gigabytes. I just said the stuff about not having enough because I was looking for a reason to end this message and ask you to meet me in person.
To maybe hear me out.
So.
That’s it.
The whole enchilada. The whole kit and caboodle.
Did you know that it’s not kitten caboodle, as in, baby cat?
I just found that out. All this time I thought it was kitten caboodle.
Like it was some super feline.
Which, come to think of it, I still like that better.
Bye, Q.
Day 2
Approx. 22–26 Q Days Left
46
I don’t get much sleep.
Because the prospect of burying our emotional hatchet? It’s exciting.
Like, I feel genuinely enthused.
And I can’t help but wish I’d only reached out sooner.
I slip my phone in and out of my pillowcase, checking my messages, even though tone and vibration are both on, so I’d hear and feel if he messaged back.
But I check anyway.
Maybe that’s part of my penance too, you know?
Not knowing what’s happening.
Which, full circle.
Because that’s what I did to Q.
Left him without answers.
Without closure.
Never knowing why.
And then, ten minutes before my alarm sounds, a chime.
45
Q: Lose my number forever.
44
And okay, I won’t lie to you. It stings more than a little.
43
And I consider skipping school altogether.
Because who needs it?
I don’t even want to risk seeing that dude.
But Mrs. Sweat pops into my brain and she’s all, don’t be swallowed up, Jamal.
And Whit’s like, yeah, think about your future.
And Autumn squeezes in, wearing a Whittier U sweatshirt, OUR future, babe.
And I’ve never won an argument against them individually; there’s no way I can ward off a whole We Care about You trinity.
So I moan, I groan, then roll out of bed.
I’m not gonna pretend my insides aren’t knotty as hell.
For most of the day, my stomach hangs out exclusively in my throat.
But after Autumn listens to my audio message, she tells me she’s proud I finally did the right thing, reminds me that even still, Q doesn’t owe me forgiveness.
And the entire day, even when her class is a million miles away, Autumn’s popping up outa nowhere, like a ninja, but with hugs and kisses.
Even still, the closer seventh period creeps, the more nervous I feel.
But then I realize something cool.
The reason I wanna avoid Q isn’t because I’m angry.
Because I’m nursing a grudge.
Yep, I’ve officially stopped grinding my two-year-old Q-sucks ax.
No, I don’t want to see Q because I’m sad.
Because I wish our ending could’ve been happier.
Which, in a weird way, is progress.
“I think I’m getting sick,” I announce, rubbing my stomach between fifth and sixth period. “Yeah, like maybe the flu. Or . . .”
“It’s not flu season, Jamal.”
“Yeah, okay, I didn’t claim to be a doctor. I’m just saying I don’t feel—”
“You’re not skipping seventh. No more skipping, remember?”
I sigh. “Yeah, but I wish I didn’t.”
But of course, in the end, all that angst is for naught.
This time, for the entirety of seventh period English, Q’s empty chair stays empty.
When the final bell rings, I toss my bike into the back of Autumn’s car.
And she lets me play all my favorite songs.
And at least between the two of us, it’s like old times.
But then. “Hey, you missed the turn,” I say, glancing over.
“Oh, did I?” she asks, winking.
“Where are we going?”
She shrugs. “Guess you’ll have to wait and see.”
As soon as we hit the exit ramp, it’s like my face has a mind of its own, I’m cheesing hard. “Waaaiittt. Are we going . . .”
Autumn raises her eyebrows twice. “Oh yeah, baby.”
And then we’re slapping uncoordinated fives across the seat, but who cares about our inslaptitude, because this place.
THIS PLACE.
A mile away, you whiff the excitement: a combo of extra-powdered-sugar funnel cake and metallic adrenaline. With every This Way sign you pass, your chest hums like you’re a live wire, and your stomach’s a sloshing whirlpool of I’m so happy and I need to throw up. It’s the best.
We pull up to the parking attendant and we practically sing her a good afternoon.
“You two picked the perfect afternoon to come to THE BEST AMUSEMENT PARK ON THE PLANET,” the attendant says, handing me my change. “Gonna be an awesome day!”
“We think so too,” Autumn says.
“Every day is awesome with this lady,” I say, grinning.
“Aww,” the parking attendant says, clutching his heart. “You guys are totes adorbs.”
“Map?” asks a blond kid wearing the park’s uniform, red polo with blue sleeves, skinny-ass shorts.
“Map?” I wave him off, hit him with pshhhh. “We don’t need no stinking map. This is our park. These coasters run through my veins.”
“We’ve added three steel coasters, two wooden, and ten addit
ional rides since last summer,” the blond kid says, smirking.
I take the map, but I don’t look at it right away ’cause principles.
We pause for a quick entrance pic with a park photographer; on the count of three say ‘rocking roller coast’!
“ROCKING ROLLER COAST,” we scream, leaping into the air.
“So, what should we ride first?” Autumn asks.
“You already know,” I say.
“Hold up,” Autumn says. “You sure you wanna go right to that?”
I nod extra enthusiastically, rub my hands together like I’m starting a fire.
“You don’t want a warm-up ride first?”
“What, you scared?”
Autumn scoffs. “Never scared. I’m just saying, far as I know you only brought one pair of undies, so.”
I grin, palm her head. “We should probably make sure you’re tall enough first, right?”
She jerks from my grip. Pushes my arm away. “For that, I’m making you ride up front.”
I shrug. “How is that a punishment?”
We stand in line for the Atlas Destroyer nearly two hours, but finally we push through the turnstile. Our time’s arrived and it feels seventy-nine levels of glorious.
I clutch Autumn’s shoulder. “Still time to back out. I’ll only tell a few people.”
She laughs. “Giving yourself a pep talk, J?”
“How tall is this again?” I ask a roller-coaster attendant.
She chuckles. “Three hundred and fifty feet, with four loopty-loos, six hills, and five pitch-black tunnels.”
“And no one’s died?” I motion to Autumn. “Asking for a friend.”
“Ohmigod, J! OH. MY. GOD. That was incredible! Best ninety-three seconds of my life!”
I wink at her. “Hmm, I feel like you’ve had better, you know what I’m saying,” I say, gently elbowing her in her side.
“Noopppeeee, this was the best,” she sings.
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