History Is All You Left Me

by Adam Silvera

  Wade glances at me, silently asking if we should leave.

  “You go ahead,” I tell him. “Good luck with Shania.”

  “Good luck with the essay, Theo,” Wade says. “I’ll send you the black Doctor Who bill.”

  Once he bounces, I kneel in front Theo, taking his hands in mine. I see his eyes are red. My own eyes widen. “What’s going on?” This is the closest I’ve ever seen him come to crying.

  “It’s the changes, Griff. I now have it in my head that I want to be in college by next year. I know it’s not all good things if I get accepted. It’s a year away, and I already know I’m going to miss you so hard.” Theo sinks to the floor with me, wraps my arm around his shoulders, and rests his face against my chest. “You know I love you.”

  “I love you, too.”

  “I love the idea of college, too. I hope that doesn’t break us. I just always sort of thought high school was this game with scores that don’t matter, but I’m wrong. The right people are paying attention. In some alternate universe where I didn’t get off on being top of the class, I probably would’ve slacked and missed out on this opportunity.”

  “But you didn’t miss it,” I point out. “You’re rewriting this thing for the fourth time because you care so much about it.”

  “If I don’t get accepted, it’s going to feel like a huge blow.”

  “That’s a lot of pressure, Theo. It’s pressure you weren’t counting on being under for another year,” I remind him. I massage his arm and take a deep breath. It’s never been easy finding the right words to comfort someone so brilliant. “You’re not just someone with good grades, Theo.” I wait for him to correct me with something cute like “astronomically amazing grades” or “the greatest grades in all the land,” but he doesn’t have it in him right now. “You’re not someone that just memorizes facts for exams and forgets them the next day. You don’t just have lucky guesses in pop quizzes. You bring textbooks with you into the shower. Basically, you’re a really weird superhero.”

  He forces a smile. “One day, Batman is going to take off his mask and, boom, it’ll be me.”

  “Robin is hotter, but I’ll settle.”

  Theo looks up at me and I lean forward and kiss him.

  “How’d I do?” I ask. “With the pep talk?”

  “I’m motivated,” Theo says. “And feeling guilty you’re not out there enjoying your favorite holiday. Get out of here.”

  I pull off my eye patch and throw it across the room. “That thing is itchy anyway.” I stand, pulling him up with me. “You’re taking a two-minute recess before diving back into the essay.” Theo seems a little anxious, but he’s okay with giving me two minutes in exchange for my Halloween. “My parents taught me these kisses when I was younger.”

  I lean in to his face, like I’m going in for a kiss, but I brush his eyelashes against mine and wait for him to do the same. “That’s a butterfly kiss.”

  “Kind of tickles,” Theo says.

  I bump his forehead with mine a couple of times. “That’s a caveman kiss.”

  “I didn’t know cave people were so romantic.”

  I rub his nose against mine, not stopping until Theo mimics me. “That’s an Eskimo kiss.” I want a fourth kiss now, something special like these. “My parents only taught me three, but I’ll figure out another now . . . uh . . .” I look out the window where the streets are alive and undead from Halloween. “Here’s a zombie kiss.” I nibble on his cheek, growling. I bust out laughing when Theo returns his own zombie kiss.

  “I like the zombie kiss best,” Theo says. “Screw college, let’s have sex instead.”

  “Your parents and Denise are here.”

  “Screw them too.”

  I smile. “Nope. I’m helping you with your essay. Come on.” I point to his desk chair and he sighs. But he can’t sit still and starts pacing.

  The question is simple: What creation are you proudest of?

  Theo had originally wanted to talk up some of his animation videos, but tonight he changed his mind; he’s super proud of his alternate universes. Together we look through his journal. We’re standing by the window, but I’m not even the slightest bit distracted by all the Harry Potters and slutty dinosaurs walking the streets. Theo is practically walking me through his brain, a tour of his imagination, and we’re both lost in it, lost in why this universe we live in beats the rest. We’re two zombie pirates who aren’t leaving the ship to feed on brains, but there’s definitely a greater voyage ahead.

  Anyway, we always have next Halloween.

  TODAY

  Friday, November 25th, 2016

  Good morning, Theo. Sorry I shut down on you last night. I couldn’t shake off that haunting suspicion you’re hovering over Jackson instead of me. It was like some itch speeding around my body, always a second too late from scratching it dead. Don’t roll your eyes, but I did some soul searching. I dug deep into our history and remembered all our good times and the happy memories that would’ve eventually brought you back to me in life. I no longer believe I’m in this alone, talking to myself.

  I am still questioning how often you’re looking around for Jackson, though.

  Jackson.

  I haven’t forgotten he’s here. His crying stirred a tornado of sympathy and rage in me, and while I remained firm against the force of that grief, I am definitely battered. I should’ve turned around to see if he’d worn himself out and fallen asleep or lay awake staring at walls like me, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it.

  Jackson was right: yesterday was a bad start for him and me. I don’t even know what it’s the start of. Thankfully there’s no school today, so I don’t have to spend this morning fighting with my parents to let me stay home or zombie-walking between classes when they send me anyway. Jackson and I will use the time attempting a do-over for you.

  I sit up when my phone flashes 8:02. When I turn, Jackson isn’t in bed. The comforter is flat on the air mattress, Jackson’s clothes are on the floor, but he’s not here. I leave my room to see if he’s in the bathroom showering or something and find the bathroom door wide open. I hear the loud clatter of my mom’s laptop keys. You always joked with her about it, accusing her of trying to look busy so she wouldn’t have to answer your probing questions about what she was like as a teen.

  In the living room, I find Mom at the dining room table with Jackson, who’s sitting in your seat. I wonder if Mom told him it was your seat or if he felt drawn to the seat because of you. Maybe it’s a total coincidence.

  “I’m sorry about that,” Mom is saying. At first I think she’s apologizing to me, but she closes her laptop and looks up at Jackson. “Some clients didn’t get the notice I’m supposed to be email-free today. So, you’re skipping the rest of your semester?”

  “My professors have been understanding, but I don’t have it in me,” Jackson says.

  “Same,” I say, joining them at the table. I sit opposite of Jackson, like I normally did whenever it was you in that seat, and I keep my eyes on the bagel in front of him. “Except no one’s giving me a time-out, so I’m pretty much going to fail everything.”

  “There’s still time to turn everything around,” Mom says gently.

  She goes on about conversations she’s had with my teachers about extra credit and issuing me hall passes so I can run to my guidance counselor’s office whenever. But she loses me when I look up. I’m reregistering why Jackson Wright is here, in my apartment, in my clothes.

  In a lot of ways, Jackson is a clone of me. Our hazel eyes are strained from sleeplessness and crying, framed with pale black bags darker than the ones I got last summer from when we spent an entire week playing Xbox games online until morning. His bagel has barely been touched, and I bet he’s also been eating just enough lately to shut up his growling stomach. He’s also unable to operate through schoolwork and everything else life dema
nds; he loves you and you loved him.

  “Griffin? Griffin?” Mom grabs my hand and squeezes.

  “Sorry.” I slide my hand out from under hers. “Got lost in my head again.” I hide my hand under the table so Jackson doesn’t see me scratching my palm.

  “No need to apologize.” My mom stands and picks up her laptop. “I’m going to go wake up your father.”

  I don’t know when he made his way over to the bedroom, but hopefully my mom catches him up on why Jackson is here.

  “How’d you sleep?” I ask him. Playing dumb is another form of lying, I know.

  Jackson shrugs and avoids my eyes. “You know.”

  I don’t know if he means you know how it is or you know damn well I didn’t sleep very well, but I’m not investigating further.

  “Have you spoken to Russell or Ellen?”

  “I called Ellen an hour ago. It sounds like they’re all relaxing this morning.” Jackson picks up his bagel and looks like he’s about to spin it like a quarter before looking up at me with flushed cheeks; maybe this is something he does at home or did with you. “Thanks again for letting me stay last night. I thought about heading back out this morning to give you your space, but your mom was awake when I came out here to call Ellen.”

  “Did she recognize you from the funeral?” And the playing dumb continues, because my mom is admittedly pretty familiar with photos of Jackson. I showed her the online album you made of you two. I wanted her to tell me I’m not crazy for seeing a resemblance between him and me.

  “She did, yeah,” Jackson says, and cringes a little. “There’s no denying she was really surprised to see me.”

  I imagine she was as shocked as all the funeral attendees who witnessed two boys at your funeral, their awkward competitiveness, each delivering a eulogy about the love of his life. Until this morning my mom had never seen another boy coming out of my bedroom who wasn’t you. “My bad. I should’ve left her a note on the whiteboard so she knew you were here.”

  “She played it cool,” Jackson says. He leans toward me and lowers his voice. “I got to ask you something. Please answer honestly. I wouldn’t ask something if I didn’t think I could handle it. All right?”

  He’s going to ask something crazy intimate about you, Theo; I can feel it. Maybe he’s bold enough to ask about our first time or why I broke up with you.

  “Do you hate me?” Jackson blurts out. “I know we don’t know each other. But I get it if you hate or hated me. I guess I want to know where we stand without Theo.”

  This breakfast is even weirder than the first breakfast you forgot me—the one a few weeks after we broke up, where you didn’t send me a picture of what you were eating with some pretentious caption. Your pictures always had a 90 percent chance of making me smile and feel okay about actually getting out of bed. But Jackson Wright in my living room, asking me if I hate him? That is definitely stranger.

  I’m about to try and answer him, when my parents walk out of their room together.

  “Gregor, this is Jackson,” Mom says.

  Jackson stands and holds out his hand. Every second Dad doesn’t shake it, I feel guiltier and guiltier for being the source of his resistance, with all my hating and crying. He finally gives in, probably remembering he’s an adult who must put that ahead of being a father when another kid is involved—especially a kid who must already be uncomfortable as hell in our house.

  “Morning,” Dad says. He quickly moves to the couch. “How long are you in town for?”

  “I’m flying back on Monday,” Jackson says, standing. “I should actually make my way back over to Theo’s house now.” He tries to take his plate to the kitchen sink, but my mom intercepts him, the way she always intercepted you. He turns to both my parents. “Thank you for breakfast and for being cool with me staying over.”

  He walks back to my room and I follow him, leaning against the threshold.

  “You good?” I ask.

  Jackson sits on the air mattress, his head hanging low as he flips his phone around in his palms like one of those finger-sized skateboards. “Are you good?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Same here.”

  Jackson puts his phone down, folds his comforter, picks his clothes up from the floor, and heads to the bathroom without a word.

  I twist open the air mattress’s nozzle, staring while it deflates, the piercing whistle quieting down as the bed folds into itself. I throw everything in the closet, including the pillow he slept on. I’m drained. I would be game for a nap. I owe him another shot, though. I know it.

  Jackson returns from the bathroom and hands me the clothes he slept in. “Thanks again for letting me crash, Griffin. I’m going to hail a cab.”

  “Save your money,” I say, pretty unaware what his cash situation is, though I’m going to go ahead and guess average. “I can walk you there.” I grab my peacoat to throw over your hoodie.

  “Isn’t it really cold outside?”

  “Probably not that bad.” I check the temperature on my phone’s app. “Okay, it’s pretty cold out, but I’m sure you could use some fresh air too.” I pull on my boots and grab my phone and keys. “Especially if you’re just going to stay in the apartment all weekend.”

  “You’re right. Thanks, Griffin.” He gets suited up in his jacket and single glove. I’m tempted to look for an extra pair of gloves, but he’s already hurrying for the door. In the living room he waves at my parents; you would know better, but I can’t tell if his wave is halfhearted or hesitant. “Thanks again for breakfast, Mrs. and Mr. Jennings. I hope you both have a nice weekend.”

  I never gave him my last name. I’m guessing you did or Facebook told him. But I catch a glimpse of what you must have seen, and not just from his manners. He’s definitely got that pull-over-to-rescue-a-boy-from-the-rain heart.

  “Have a safe flight home.” My dad doesn’t get up from the couch; he barely looks up from his laptop. He’s undoubtedly playing one of those puzzle games you got him into so he could keep his mind sharp on days off and weekends. “Where are you going, Griffin?”

  “I’m going to walk him back to Theo’s.” I’ll always call it your place, even if you never spent a single dollar on rent, even if you’re not physically living there anymore. “I want to go for a walk anyway.”

  Neither of my parents will protest. They’re well aware the alternative will be me camping out in my room, listening to your voice mail on continuous loop.

  “Sounds good. Call us if your plans change.” Mom gets off her laptop and comes over to shake Jackson’s hand. “I’m sorry again for . . .” She cuts herself off, her eyes darting around. I really hope she wasn’t about to call you Jackson’s loss—again. “Good luck deciding what you’ll do about school.”

  I lead the way out without saying anything.

  Jackson follows me down the staircase, and I don’t know if he can sense my shift in attitude, but I need to get my act together before that final step so I don’t take it out on him—again. I hate that word right now, and probably always will, since it’s been tagged with this very moment of betrayal and disappointment; this kind of haunting is why people have to watch what they say and what they do. I hit the last step and am still carrying this ugliness on me, and I can’t shake it off of me any more than I can shake off my grief or shame. I’m like a coin constantly flipping—heads, tails, heads, tails, heads, tails, heads, tails—like someone tossed me into the air to settle something once and for all but didn’t catch me, and now I’m falling into an abyss, unable to see what will come up when I land.

  I hide my hand in my jacket pocket. I scratch my palm in peace.

  I’m tempted to take Jackson down my usual route to your house, but it’ll stir too many memories.

  “Let’s pop a left,” I say, turning away from the supermarket and car rental place at the last second. “You have friends
in New York, right?”

  “Sort of. My pals Anika and Veronika are studying theater at NYU. We went to high school together back home, but it’s one of those friendships where distance ruins everything.” Jackson shrugs. “I miss them, but I can see online they’re doing just fine without me.”

  “How close were you three?”

  “We’ve been tight since freshman year. It was the first meeting for the Dungeons & Dragons club and we wanted to join, but I could tell they were as hesitant as I was about what that would mean for our high school status. I don’t know, we were being fourteen, I guess.”

  So: Jackson is one of those eighteen-year-olds who speaks about being fourteen like it was ten lifetimes ago. I bet you found that charming.

  “By junior year we got over all that nonsense, but since Anika’s ex-boyfriend was in the Dungeons & Dragons club, we formed our own after-school club at Anika’s house and made up our own game, Cages & Chimaeras. Theo even . . .”

  You what?

  “Theo what?” I ask out loud.

  “Theo got to play the game with Anika and Veronika in February when we were here.”

  I didn’t know this. I wanted to hang out with you, of course, but there’s no way I was willing to suffer through watching you hold Jackson’s hand or laugh at his jokes. I nod politely, which Jackson completely misses because he’s not looking at me.

  “Why don’t you reach out while you’re here?” I ask.

  “Anika and Veronika are both home for Thanksgiving. I think they’re coming back the day I leave, which sucks. They wanted to Skype chat, but . . .” He shuts himself up again. I’m ready to challenge him again to tell me more, but he stops. We’re in front of the window of Game Express—my favorite video game store. You have to admit that even though you were always more of a GameStop loyalist, Game Express never let you down, because of the discounts. “Are you cool with going in here for a minute or two?”

  “Yeah, let’s go.”

  I can find you in there.