History Is All You Left Me

by Adam Silvera

  I get up from bed and look out the window. The blizzard is going strong and is expected to reach four feet today, maybe six by Sunday. “You sure you still want a snow day?”

  “I’m sure,” he says. “I want to send my parents photos of me in the snow.”

  I’m betting Jackson’s father won’t call until closer to noon, though I’m hoping he’ll prove me wrong. Until then, we’ll keep blaming it on work. Maybe he’s up in the air and unable to call. Maybe he’s surprising his son by visiting New York to see him. I have my doubts on that one. I hope Jackson isn’t counting on it, either.

  “It’s your day,” I say. We’re definitely waiting until the snow isn’t pounding down like this, but I am determined to honor his wishes. “How are you feeling about seeing Anika and Veronika?”

  “I’d be surprised if that still happens,” Jackson says, still staring out the window like it’s the last time it’ll ever snow. “Veronika is always looking for excuses to cancel. She hates leaving the house. I’m sure she cancels everything now that weather is a factor.”

  “No wonder you and Theo couldn’t risk being late the night he wanted to take you to the park,” I say.

  I think this was really mature of me to bring that up, by the way. You owe me a high five.

  “Exactly,” Jackson says.

  “We should have a back-up plan, just in case.” My heart isn’t trying to blast its way out of my chest anymore. Helping Jackson out is rescuing me from my own head. “Think of it as a snow-day plan for your snow-day birthday plans. What else would you want to do? Something you can only do in New York?”

  “Theo used to talk about the High Line,” Jackson says.

  I move away from the window so Jackson doesn’t see me blushing. I am blushing, right? My face is burning again. I wonder if you brought up my name when you mentioned the High Line, if you told him how we would buy lemonades and laugh at the ice vendor who was sneakily eating Popsicles when she thought nobody was looking. Maybe you avoided telling him about how we would hold hands and create stories about the lives of the people we could see working in offices. Maybe you left me out completely so you wouldn’t hurt his feelings.

  “If your friends suck, we will go to the High Line,” I promise. It’s been a while since I’ve been there. “Jackson?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Happy birthday, by the way.”

  Jackson finally looks away from the window and smiles. There’s no mistaking the sadness in his smile, like maybe he was hoping to find you when he turned around. But when someone is grieving, a genuine smile is a small victory in the big battle. “Thanks, Griffin.”

  I don’t mean to speak for you, but I know you’ll feel better having these words of yours thrown out into the universe. “And a happy birthday from Theo, too.”

  Jackson is a little surprised, but his smile doesn’t break—no sadder, no happier. Sometimes neutrality is a victory, too.

  “What’s a colder word for freezing?” Jackson asks, bundled from head to toe in my dad’s coat, hat, gloves, and the scarf I forced on him.

  “Fucking freezing?”

  Jackson nods. “It’s fucking freezing. I’m not sure I really want a snowman best friend anymore.”

  I smooth out the snowman’s base. “Nope. No backing out. We didn’t work this hard on his ass to give up now.”

  “Maybe we should make it a snowwoman,” Jackson suggests through chattering teeth. “You only see snowwomen when it’s a family in need of a mother for the children. But whenever it’s one snowperson, everyone automatically makes it a snowman.”

  “Revolutionary snowwoman it is! Some snowperson will write sonnets about you,” I say. I cup the snow and begin molding the snowwoman’s breasts. “That’s some Theo thinking of yours, by the way. We didn’t get much play in the snow because I’m not a big fan, but I think if I did it anyway, Theo would’ve had the lightbulb moment to create a snowwoman just because.”

  “I can’t think of a better person to channel,” Jackson says over the howling winds. There’s no smile this time.

  He and I build and build, convincing ourselves not to go back inside and take a break to warm up because it’ll be too brutal to come back outside. The snowwoman’s breasts look more like cones, but I move on to her head because Jackson and I are not exactly teenage boys obsessed with breasts. The snowwoman’s head isn’t proportionate to her body, just like her body isn’t proportionate to her leg ball.

  “She needs a face now,” Jackson says.

  I feel guilty for two reasons. The first is because I should’ve done this with you and not put it off because I assumed we’d have all the time in the world once we got back together. I also feel guilty because I wouldn’t have been able to be as happy about this as Jackson is.

  “I’ll find her a face.” My teeth are chattering. I walk around for a little bit, grateful to have my knees and legs out of the wet snow. I go into the trashcan, collecting items—well, let’s call it what it is, garbage—that can be useful in giving the snowwoman a face. I return and drop our options, everything colorful against the white snow.

  Jackson immediately reaches for the shard of dark green glass from a broken Heineken bottle.

  “Really? Are you about to shank her?” I take the glass from Jackson and give the snowwoman her smile—well, smirk.

  “Not bad,” Jackson admits.

  “Don’t doubt my vision again.”

  Jackson uses the filthy green top from a water bottle as the snowwoman’s nose. I empty out a popcorn bag, using handfuls for clustered eyes and the bag as really flat hair.

  “She’s beautiful,” Jackson says, laughing a little.

  “Beautiful in the sense that she’s made of nothing but snow and garbage, right?”

  “Yeah, I wouldn’t date her,” Jackson says.

  “Not your type?”

  “I like my snowwomen with carrot noses and vanilla wafer eyes,” Jackson says.

  I laugh a little, surprising myself. I can’t say I’ll miss the snowwoman when she’s nothing but popcorn in a puddle—I’m obviously going to throw the shard of glass away before ditching her—but this was a nice recess from everything. Maybe that’s what Jackson is: a recess from everything, even though he’s got a foot in everything, too. I guess I could say he’s freedom.

  Did you think of Jackson as freedom?

  It doesn’t matter how long I’ve lived in New York, but every now and again someone suggests a restaurant that’s been around forever but whose existence still surprises me. I know the city is big, but wow. I can only imagine how shocked I would’ve been if I had gone out to Los Angeles. Anika is apparently a fan of Spotlight Diner, across the street from Washington Square Park and the NYU dorms. It’s a little more downtown than I’m used to these days, but it’s a guarantee that Jackson’s birthday isn’t doomed—Anika and Veronika’s chances of actually showing up are way higher since we’re so close to where they live. If they do ditch, Jackson and I can go to the High Line, which is either a twenty-minute walk or quick cab away. (If I can find a cab, then a cab it is.)

  Jackson is sitting on my right, of course. Directly across from our booth is a mirror. I’ve got to say, the gray dress shirt Jackson is borrowing from me doesn’t look bad on him. I’m not going that far and saying it looks good, because it’s just as baggy on him as it is on me, but he’s somehow managing not to look like he’s living out of someone else’s closet. It’s probably too late to gift it to him for his birthday, right? Nothing would be better than the old “If you like it, you can keep it” trick.

  “Anything else I should know about Anika and Veronika?” I ask him. I’ve gotten some basics but not the intimate stuff, nothing like the topics I should avoid or things that might offend them. I’ve been ambushed in the past that way, and it sucked.

  “Yeah, anything else he should know?” a girl cackles be
side me.

  I glance up. I recognize Anika and Veronika from the photos on Jackson’s phone, but he really needs a phone with better camera quality. These two are I’m-forgetting-I’m-gay stunning. They both have dark skin and are dressed like sisters in their denim tops, but that’s where their physical similarities end. Anika has long braided hair and a lean, muscular frame—probably from running track. Veronika’s hair is shaved and she’s got piercings in her nose, left eyebrow, ears, and the corner of her lower lip.

  “Happy birthday!” Anika says.

  Veronika cheers.

  Jackson slides out of the booth and tries to hug Anika first, but Veronika sneaks in, squeezing his midriff.

  “I’m so happy you made it,” he says.

  “I wouldn’t miss it for the apocalypse,” Veronika says.

  “For the thousandth time this week, that doesn’t make sense. Retire it,” Anika says, shoving Veronika out of the way to hug Jackson. “You’re basically admitting you’re otherwise open to watching the world burn.”

  “For the thousandth time this week, the world often sucks and I can either burn with my eyes closed or watch it all turn to ash for a hot second,” Veronika says. She settles into the booth without saying anything to me.

  Anika waves Veronika off and turns to me. “Griffin, right? I’m Anika.”

  “Hi.” I stand and shake her hand before falling back into my seat.

  “The other woman,” Veronika says. “So to speak.”

  I’m not the other. I was the first.

  “She’s kidding,” Anika says with a dark look at her friend, sliding in beside her. “She’s not funny, but she’s kidding.”

  I’m not laughing, and I won’t fake laugh.

  Jackson sits back down slowly, as if he’s suddenly unsure if this was a good idea. But his smile doesn’t waver. “It’s really good to see you both. How was Thanksgiving? How have classes been? What’s going on?”

  He’s only asked three questions and before I can jump in to nudge him to ask a fourth, Anika and Veronika fire off answers.

  “Thanksgiving was weird without you. No one ate my mom’s cranberry stuffing,” Veronika pipes up, casually reading the menu.

  “But everyone understands why you weren’t there,” Anika adds.

  “My mom sends her condolences, obviously.”

  “How are you do—”

  “Classes are okay,” Veronika interrupts. “We’re partying a lot with the theater crew. We’re not failing any classes yet either, so that’s a plus. NYU is putting together a production of what’s basically a hipster version of Peter Pan. Anika and I are going to go head-to-head for Wendy, even though she can no doubt steal the role of Captain Hook from this dude Jeremy if she wanted.”

  Anika stops the waiter. “Hi, could we get some waters? And a muzzle for this one?” The waiter steps away. “You’re talking ten times too much.”

  I would say twenty times too much. I don’t understand how Jackson can miss someone so self-absorbed and insensitive. I also don’t believe you actually enjoyed playing card games with this girl. Anika seems chill, no doubt. But there’s no way you left your hang-out with Veronika and turned to Jackson and said, “I love her! Let’s be sure to do that again!”

  “I’m just excited,” Veronika says. “I haven’t seen Jack in a while.”

  “Jackson,” he corrects. “Only Theo calls—called me that.”

  Besides my dad, you’re the only one I let call me Griff. Jackson and I both gave you that intimacy. You’re gone, and so are Griff and Jack, dead with you.

  “There’s no way I could’ve known that,” Veronika says.

  “Maybe if you actually showed up to our Skype dates you would,” Jackson says. He doesn’t sound angry, just disappointed. I’m not sure if Jackson is the angry type. I’m still learning.

  “Listen, Jackson . . . Is it okay if I call you Jackson?” Veronika leans forward. “You could’ve moved out here with us. You decided to stay back home and go to school—”

  “Go to a school where there are better programs for me,” Jackson interrupts.

  “Let’s not do this,” Anika says. She turns to me, apologetic.

  “Animation isn’t that bad out here. I know a guy who loves it,” Veronika says.

  “Good for him. I don’t want to attend a school where animation class isn’t that bad. I’m sorry my school didn’t offer productions of hipster Wizard of Oz—”

  “Peter Pan,” Veronika corrects.

  “—but I respected you moving out here to do what was best for you. I knew you and Anika would get closer once you started rooming together, but I didn’t think I would be so squeezed out.”

  Veronika glances out the window, as if bored. “I’m surprised you noticed anything, considering you were always with Theo.”

  I don’t like where this is going. Someone’s going to say something stupid, something unforgivable. I’m still anxious from the three questions Jackson asked that pretty much started this mess. I’m openly scratching my palms on the table, hoping Jackson will notice and cease fire. But he doesn’t even acknowledge the waiter, who comes by to take our order and just as quickly steps away so as not to get caught up in the cross fire.

  “Theo was always there for me,” Jackson says.

  Veronika claps. “Good going on Theo, then! You both were in the same city. I stopped making as much of an effort with our Skype dates and texting you back once your relationship with Theo hyper-drove into this serious thing we couldn’t possibly understand but were simply expected to. I get it. I was with you during all your rejections and heartbreak in high school, and you picked up some cute guy on the highway and it was magical and totally worth blogging about. I get the obsession, but don’t pin this all on me. You’re at fault too, Jackson.”

  He blinks at her. “You have no interest in actually being friends, do you? Don’t pity me because of Theo.” His voice cracks; mine would roar.

  Veronika shakes her head. “There’s no pity. Don’t try and twist this into me hating you because I didn’t love your boyfriend as much as you did. I’m sad for you, of course, but I didn’t know the guy. We played cards once, and it was nothing but inside jokes between you two.”

  There are so many emotions rocketing through me during this ping-pong: jealousy over and curiosity about the inside jokes (even though we have our own, probably ten times as many); rage for how she’s making you sound so insignificant; sympathy for Jackson, who, like me, is grieving and, also like me, could really go for friends who didn’t act like assholes during this particular time; confusion as to why Anika hasn’t shut this down and how everything could spiral out of control so quickly.

  “I was making him feel welcome and comfortable,” Jackson says.

  “That was our job,” Veronika says, rolling her eyes. “You didn’t trust us to try and get to know him. You hogged him to yourself. We honestly felt like you only felt obligated to hang with us because you were in town.”

  Jackson turns to Anika. “You thought this way, too? With everything she’s saying?”

  “God no, definitely not everything she’s saying.” Anika shakes her head, then shrugs. “But I agree with a lot of it. I love you, Jackson, but you put this relationship before everyone and everything else. I’m not mad at you. College and distance will do that to people. But we’ve had a lot going on over here, too, before Theo . . . We’ve had a lot going on and we felt weird not being able to tell you. But honestly, we couldn’t risk your not putting in the friend time it would ask of you. There would be no coming back from that.”

  “Let’s drop it,” Veronika says. “Let’s just keep texting over who’s seen the latest episode of whatever dumb show we’re all bingeing on and keep our tragedies to ourselves.”

  Now I’m positive that I don’t like where this is going, has already gone. I’m fidgety; I scratch an
d scratch my palms. I try to relax the tic in my neck, rotating it like usual, but it’s traveling down to my shoulders and spine, so I’m doing all sorts of stretches. I flick my wrists, weirdly tense as if I’ve been up late writing essays; I crack all my knuckles and even double-check to make sure they’re all cracked. I’m discomfort personified.

  “Definitely don’t tell me if it’s about your recent breakup with the latest love of your life,” Jackson says. “I saw your status switch from In a Relationship to Single on Facebook; I’m all caught up there. At least he’s still alive.”

  “Jackson, don’t,” Anika says.

  Veronika’s face twists in a way I would’ve never assumed possible from all the deliriously happy photos I saw of her online. “Did my Facebook status mention I broke up with the latest love of my life because of the abortion I had to have? Did my Facebook status tell you all about how I wasn’t ready to be a mom and he wasn’t ready to be a dad and how we agreed this was a bad time, that we would go to the clinic together and he would hold my hand through this? Did my Facebook status tell you he didn’t show up and hasn’t responded to any of my texts? My texts certainly weren’t very nice, but the campus psychologist I’ve been seeing to deal with my guilt seems to think they were fair.” Veronika gets up. Her eyes are wide and she’s trembling. Anika clears out of her way. “I didn’t wish you any ill,” she says, leaning over the table. “I know you must’ve been hurting in ways I don’t know, but even when Theo was still alive, I lost a part of myself and lost a little person who was growing inside of me and was going to look like me. You will never get to be Uncle Jackson. I’ll never get to be this kid’s mom. Next time you see my relationship status change on Facebook, maybe check in and ask me if I’m okay.”

  Before any of us can say a word, Veronika whirls and runs out into the night. There’s silence, a blast of wintry air. The door closes behind her.