Lakers Jersey: Sure, man.
Q: On average there are thirty days in a month . . . if you take those thirty days . . . and add your two parents . . . of those thirty days . . . how many of them . . . would you say . . . your two parents . . . smoke weed?
Lakers Jersey (laughing): All of ’em.
*A chime plays and CORRECT flashes on the screen*
Q: You’re awesome, man. Guys, this is Coyote D’Brickashaw, friend of the show for life!
*Q and Lakers Jersey exchange high fives*
27
We walk another block before I try again.
Cut through a playground kid Q and kid Jamal used to chase each other around.
And I want to say the words in the best way, the right way. But there is no best, no right. There is only:
“Q, what’s the last thing you remember about the Hills party the other night?”
Q smirks. “You mean other than us yelling at each other in front of the entire school?”
“You remember what happened after that?”
“Honestly, it’s kind of fuzzy.”
“C’mon, Q. Think.”
He rubs his head in that way people do when they’re trying to recall something. “I’m sorry, man, but I’ve got nothing.” But then he snaps his fingers. “Wait, wait, I do remember something else. I remember I was sitting on the edge of the dock.”
“You don’t remember seeing anyone else out there?”
He shrugs. “Umm, no, it was just me, I think. I feel like . . . wait, wait, there was someone. I remember there was a flash of red. And I thought it was some junk floating. But it wasn’t . . . junk . . . it was . . .”
And I feel bad, helping him remember a night we all want to forget, but I don’t know another way.
“Wait, wait,” Q says, holding up his hands, his face twisted in horror. “I think I—I remember someone swimming . . . she was there. A flash of red. But she made it out. You told me she made it out.”
I shake my head. “I never saw the girl. None of us there at the party saw anyone out in the water but you . . . and then me.”
“We dived in after her?”
“No. You dived in after her. And then I jumped in after you.”
“Why?”
“Because you were . . . you were screaming, Q. You were sinking and you were screaming and . . .”
Q cuts in. “Okay, but so you saved me, right? Jamal to the rescue. And that’s why you were in my room the next morning. Because you were worried about me. I wish I could remember. But I’m . . . thank you for saving my—”
“Q, I promise you, I swam as hard as I’ve ever swum in my life. And I was so scared because at first, I couldn’t find you. And I was afraid I was too late. But then . . . but then there you were. But you were choking on water, and I tried to keep your head up, but I wish I was stronger. Bigger. I . . . I paddled for shore, but sometimes I’d nearly lose you, and you’d go under the waves. Sometimes we both went under. But I kept swimming, Q. My legs were giving out. My arms were burning. But then it was like something inside me collapsed, and suddenly, I couldn’t breathe. I tried to keep going. I swear I tried, but, but . . .”
And it’s harder and harder to look at Q—to watch his face as he struggles to make sense of my story—and there’s a large part of me that wants to stop right here. Tell him I was only joking. Tell him to forget the whole thing. But I know I have to finish. “We both started sinking, Q. We were sinking faster than I could swim. We just kept sinking.”
“J, what are you saying?” Q asks softly, interrupting. His lips, his hands, trembling. “J, you’re kinda scaring me, man . . .”
I’m scared, too, I think. And then I say it aloud. “And I’m sorry, Q. I’m so sorry, man . . . but . . . I wasn’t strong enough. I wasn’t fast enough. I wasn’t . . . enough.”
Q massages his forehead. “But I don’t understand . . . so, you’re saying . . . wait, you mean . . . we’re . . . dead?”
“Q . . .”
“Like this is some sort of purgatory? Or heaven? Or I don’t know. But we’re dead, is that . . . is that what you’re telling me?” He looks at his hands, at his arms, pats his stomach, his chest. Pinches himself. “Because I don’t feel dead.”
“Q . . . we didn’t die . . .”
“Oh my God, thank goodness. You had me so fucking scared, man. You had . . . J, what’s wrong? Why are you crying? J? J. J, talk to me. What’s wrong?”
“You died, Q. Just you.”
“No. It’s not true.” And he takes a step back, or maybe he stumbles back, and I grab his shirt, keep him righted. But he falls into the yellow grass.
“Q, I’m so, so sorry. I . . .”
“No. It’s not possible.”
“Q . . .”
“If I’m dead how can I be here? With you?”
“You were . . . reanimated.”
“Reani—what? That’s not a real thing. That’s—”
“It’s real, Q. They brought you back.”
“No.” Q’s shaking his head fervently now. “No, no, no, no, no, no, no . . .” Tears stream down from both sets of eyes. His. Mine.
“I’m so sorry I failed you. I’m so sorry I . . .”
“This isn’t real. This is . . . it’s not . . . I’m not . . . dead. I’m fully alive. I’ll . . . I’ll prove it. Watch.” And Q stumbles to his feet, staggering as his body and brain search for balance.
“Q, let’s go home. You can talk to your mom. She can tell you.”
But Q’s not hearing me. “Watch me! Watch, J. I’m not dead. I’ll show you right now.” And he starts running out of the park, toward the busy intersection.
“No, Q! Q! Come back!”
Q keeps running, until his shoe catches, and he tumbles off the sidewalk into the road, so that if a car swerved even just a hair, he’d be . . .
I race over, grab him by both arms, and with all the strength I didn’t know I had, I pull him away just enough.
He’s shaking and saying something I don’t understand. His body rocking back and forth, shaking and trembling.
I pull him into me. His head against mine. His face wet and soft. His tears, his cry so quiet it’s as if he’s behind glass.
And I stroke the back of his head because what I want to do I can’t.
I want to say it’s gonna be okay, you’re gonna be okay. You’re okay.
I want to.
“How much time do I have?” Q asks. “Tell me what happened, J. Tell me everything.”
And so, I do.
I hold nothing back.
26
I keep waiting for Q to freak out again.
To flip again.
But if anything, he’s even calmer than usual.
Quieter.
And every time we stop at a corner, waiting for the Walk sign, I try to engage him. Mostly just rambling on. At one point, I try to get him talking about Kendrick Fallon, but he just nods, his eyes vacant.
And maybe this is what it means to be in shock.
We roam around for a good hour, until we start back for Q’s street, the neighborhood now dark, save streetlamps and the occasional headlight glow from passing cars.
Q’s neighbor’s backing out of his driveway, rolls down his window, points to me. “Hey, is that Jamal?”
I hold up a hand. “Hey, Mr. Richardson.”
His face glows in the soft blue console lighting. He slaps his thigh. “Well, I’ll be damned. The gang’s back together again. Love it,” he says. “I love it! Mrs. Richardson and I have missed you boys running through our backyards, haha. Guess you’re probably too old for that now, though.”
I smile out of politeness.
“Say Q, you think you’re up to help me with some yard work next week? Finally ready to fix that shed. Oh, and I’ll pay you well, of course, and Mrs. Richardson has already promised to make a huge pot of kimchi just for you.”
I’m about to tell Mr. Richardson that it’s not a good time for Q right now.
/> But to my surprise, Q says, “Sure, just call me when you’re ready.”
And Mr. Richardson’s all teeth, all thank you thank you, all you’re such a good kid, Quincy, all it’s so good to see you here, Jamal, don’t be a stranger, and then he’s pulling away. We watch him pause at the corner, his taillights shriveling smaller and smaller until they vanish.
“Q! J!” Whit calls from the door. I can’t read her face; her eyes are swirls of a thousand colors, like a painter’s rinse cup. “Is everything . . . ?” she asks.
I nod. Overhead the sky’s a ruffled deep purple: the kind of sky so dark you’re not sure the sun exists. Or if it does, you can’t be sure it’s ever coming back.
That’s how this feels.
Like the sun’s just lit its last day.
We hear a car starting behind us.
And I turn to say something to Q, to make a stupid joke, to toss into this emotional cauldron a bit more levity, but Q’s not there.
“Q!” Whit calls, stepping out of the house, as Q pulls his car off the front curb.
“Q!” I call, running after the car, keeping pace and waving my arms for two blocks, before the houses become a car wash, a church, a convenience store, before the speed limit leaps from twenty to forty-five.
I watch Q zip into traffic, watch him cut an entire lane of cars off, their horns slamming, Q overcompensating, the car nearly sideswiping a parked postal service van. I cup my hands over my mouth and scream his name one last time, even though he can’t hear me. Even though nothing would change if he could.
I wake my phone.
I tap, tap, tap. I wait.
“Jamal?”
“Mr. Oklahoma? We . . . I need your help.”
I walk back, stop at the corner four houses away from Q’s house.
All around me, the world hushed and still.
Not a star in the sky.
Like we’re all asleep.
Five minutes later my phone vibrates.
“I know where he is. He is safe.”
Thank God. “Tell me where. I’ll go get him. Take him home.”
A pause. “Jamal . . . I think you better . . . it is probably best if you stayed where you are.”
I bite my lip. Blink back the tears.
And I understand Ms. B—how sometimes the right thing and the best thing appear to be the same, but then you discover that jumbled cord is actually two tangled-up lines.
“Jamal. Jamal, are you there?”
No, I’m not here. Or there. I’m nowhere.
Nowhere.
When I walk back into the house, Ms. B wastes no time. “Where’s Q?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where is he, Jamal? You’re lying.”
I shake my head. “If I knew, I’d tell you.”
“And now Q’s out there, God knows where, thinking we all lied to him. Thinking I lied to him. That I betrayed him. That nothing’s real.”
But we did.
You did.
Nothing is real.
“Ms. Barr—”
“IF I DON’T FIND MY SON, JAMAL . . .”
“I promise I’m g—”
But she’s already grabbing her car keys.
She shakes her head at me, tells me this is what I was afraid of. Says I hope you’re satisfied.
But I’m not.
Not by a long shot.
Because no one wins here.
Because nothing about this is remotely satisfying.
Because I can’t remember the last time anything was.
Because there’s nothing more explosive than a heavy secret. And keeping it inside, thinking everything will be hunky-dory, is like swallowing a live grenade, then brushing your teeth.
Quincy
Now here you go again
you say you want your freedom
well, who am i to keep you down?
—“Dreams,” Fleetwood Mac
25
I.
Two hours ago, I thought the walking dead were zombies.
Little did I know I was a card-carrying member.
Except I don’t feel very undead.
I hand the woman my money.
“Good choice,” she says. “Make sure you get them in water right away.”
I nod.
“Need a bag?”
“No,” I tell her. “I’m good.”
And I feel good.
Which seems wild.
I feel normal—you know, betrayal and treachery from everyone I love aside.
Of course, Mom meant well, but she’d kept the most important thing that’s ever happened to me a secret.
And Jamal, was this why suddenly he was Super Friend 2.0, when for the last two years he walked through me like I was invisible?
A lesson I learned from watching my dad in his final hours: when it comes to matters of life or death, people rarely tell the truth.
I pull along the slender curb.
Halfway there I accidentally scare a groundskeeper. “You sure you wanna be here at this hour, brother? Ain’t you afraid of ghosts and shit?”
“Nah, I’m not worried,” I tell him, already walking on. “Ghosts are my people.”
He’s the only blue stone in the section because he always had to be different, even in death.
Mom says the worst thing you can do to someone is forget them.
Maybe that’s why he chose blue.
Make him easier to remember.
I crouch down, prop my flowers against it. Trace my fingers along the curved edge.
“Hey, man. I hope you like daffodils because that was all they had, ha.
Look, it’s been a while since I’ve come through, not gonna lie.
It’s not that you matter less now.
It’s just one of those things where I knew I had to find a way to let go.
Not all the way, because I hope you know that’s impossible.
Just enough to get through a day without feeling broken.
Enough to smile more than cry.
You’re a hard dude to shake, though.
If you were here you’d be nodding your head like, damn straight I am.
I mean, it hurts like hell, but you do what you gotta do.
You try your best to go on. To catch up with all the life you let slip away, all the life stuff you ignored because . . . because you were too sad to care.
Otherwise the past will tie a tether to your ass, and trust me, you don’t want that anchor.
You’d never have that problem, though. You were always so carefree.
Mom called you the Duck, you just let everything slip off your back.
Ha, including some shit you shouldn’t have, but you heard enough of that from Mom over the years.
So, you wanna hear something wild?
I mean, HELLA wild?
Hold on to your fitted, because I’m telling you, you ain’t ready for this, but.
I’m basically halfway to you. Wherever you are. If you’re anywhere.
Because it turns out I’m dead.
Surprise, right?
No one was surprised more than me, trust.
You wanna know how it happened?
I was trying to be what you were.
A good person who doesn’t let an opportunity to do what’s good, what’s right, pass by. Be a person of action, right? You beat that shit into my head real good, ha.
How am I standing in front of your grave if I’m dead, you ask?
Brilliant question, Dad!
I’ve been resurrected. They call it reanimation. I don’t know. Whatever.
So, basically, I get a stay of execution. I’m still on my way to a pretty grave. But I get a few more days to travel there.
So.
Make room, man.
You can’t be hogging space like you used to hog the couch. All spread out like nobody else wanna sit down and watch TV, haha.
I miss you.
I love you.
I’m sorry I didn’t say that mor
e.
Honestly, I don’t think I ever said it.
So, I take it back, okay? Forget you heard it.
Pretty soon I’ll just tell you in person.
Okay?
You’ll have to show me around, show me the ropes.
They got a PlayStation there?
Maybe you’ll finally give me a decent game, though I doubt it.
And I don’t wanna hear no excuses neither.
None of that double-or-nothing shit you always trying to pull after I mop you.
So, you got a day or two to get ready, okay?
’Cause I’m coming, Dad.
I’m coming.
Ha, wherever you are, they aren’t ready for you and me together, I know that much. There’s no way.
It’s not even close.
Barrantes men reunited again.
Sometimes I imagine—”
“Quincy, I am very sorry to interrupt. I waited for some time . . .”
I make a face.
“Over beyond the trees there. I could not hear anything, I assure you. I wish I could have afforded you more time, but . . . well, again, my apologies.”
“Who are you? How do you know my name?”
“Oh, yes, of course.” He pushes his glasses up. “My name is Mr. Oklahoma.”
“I have one more stop,” I tell him. “Then we can go.”
I walk four rows over, two rows up, gently set the last two stems on two side-by-side graves. “I love you too,” I say. “And I’m sorry.”
II.
Mr. Oklahoma’s car is immaculate.
No surprise.
One look at him and—out of nowhere—pristine pops into my head.
I’m fairly confident I’ve never said pristine, ever.
Funny the randomness that hangs out in our brains just waiting for its shot.
“So, are you okay?”
I stare straight ahead. “I found out I’m dead. Everything’s peachy.”
“Right. I just meant . . .” He clears his throat, switches up his grip on the steering wheel. “All things considered, but you are right. Vacuous question.”
“If vacuous means stupid, you have my full agreement.”
Mr. Oklahoma laughs, but he immediately reins it in. “Fair,” he says, his voice once more flinty.
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