“Maybe we need to have a chat after dinner, Reggie,” Mr. Edwards says, not missing a beat. “About biology.”
“Ha ha,” Reggie says, squirming in his chair. “Nah, Pop, I’m good.”
Mr. Edwards glares at Reggie. “That may have sounded optional, but it’s not.”
Reggie shoots Kate a thanks a lot look and Kate squeezes my hand, my heroine. And maybe I don’t know the code, but apparently, all’s fair in brother-sister warfare.
“Sorry, I’m late, guys. So sorry,” Kira exclaims, bursting into the dining room in a flurry of apologies and forehead kissing. She even kisses me on my forehead.
We say grace and everyone holds hands, and even Reggie manages to put aside his hatred for a thirty-second shout-out to God, taking my hand into his without squeezing the heck out of it.
After dinner, Kira, Kate, and I sit on the front porch, eating ice cream and chocolate cake that Mrs. Edwards made.
I can’t help but remember this is the porch where I once stood in the rain thinking Kate and I were over.
“So, you two are pretty cute,” Kira says.
“You think so?” Kate asks, eyebrows raised.
“Has your big sis ever been wrong?”
Before Kate can answer, the door swings open and Reggie emerges, bowl in hand.
“Don’t even come out here starting mess, Reginald,” Kira commands.
Reggie grumbles but takes a seat on the stairs by himself and starts in on his cake. The three of us get back to laughing and talking, and eventually, when we reach the subject of who’s the next Will Smith, Reggie can no longer pretend not to care.
“It’s gotta be Jaden,” Reggie says. “It only makes sense.”
Mr. and Mrs. Edwards join us with their bowls and Mr. Edwards asks what we’re talking about, and says, “What’s wrong with you kids? Hell, the question should’ve been, who’s the next Denzel? Now, that boy can act.”
Gradually, one by one, the Edwards clan retreats into the house, leaving Kate and me alone on the stairs, the lamppost anchored in her front yard throwing an amber haze into our conversation. “It means a lot that you came here,” she says, looking straight ahead at the empty street.
I scoot closer until our legs touch, and I take her hand in mine, her fingers still cool from the ice cream, a firefly burning near her nose. “I’d go anywhere for you.”
She leans into me, her lips brushing against my cheek, and I consider a look over my shoulder for any sign of her family, but in the end I just go with it, our lips opening and closing, pressing tighter, then tighter still, like the surest promise.
Kate leans into my (mom’s) car, and we kiss again, apparently so intensely we don’t hear her father sneak up behind us.
“Ahem,” Mr. Edwards says, clearing his throat.
Kate straightens up, and I accidentally tap the gas, revving the engine. Thank God I’m still in park.
“Daddy,” Kate says. “Everything okay?”
“You mind if I have a word with Jack?”
Turns out having a word with Jack means me vacating my car and walking down the dark sidewalk with my girlfriend’s dad.
“Jack, I figured you and I should have a chat about you and my daughter.”
I nod.
Mr. Edwards continues. “Yeah, well, as you probably know, she’s been through a lot.”
“Yes, sir.”
“The long and short is this: my daughter likes you, and you seem like a nice kid. I’d hate for her to have her heart broken on top of everything else. Stress is the last thing she needs. Stress could kill her.”
“I don’t want her to be stressed. Definitely not because of me.”
“Right,” Mr. Edwards says, coming to a stop a block from their house. “Which is why I think you should break up with her now.”
“I’m sorry. I’m not following.”
“Oh, I think you’re following just fine. You’re a smart kid. You can have every good intention in the world, but this thing with you and Kate isn’t going anywhere good. You’re not even out of high school, Jack. Now the best decision you can make, if you really want to see her well, is leave her be.”
“I can’t say that I agree, sir,” I stammer. “I mean, with all due respect, this thing, as you say with Kate and me, I think it’s good, for both of us.”
Mr. Edwards frowns. “You think you know more about my daughter than I do?”
“No, I mean. I just . . .”
“You think you know more about love than me, kid?”
“That’s not what . . .”
“If you love Kate, let her go, Jack. If you want her to live the best life she can, you need to let her go.”
We walk back in silence, and Kate hops off the porch steps, runs into my arms. “Were you nice to Jack, Daddy?” she asks.
Mr. Edwards smiles. “Just a little heart-to-heart between men. Nothing to worry about, baby.” He turns to me, clamps his hand on my shoulder. “Jack, it was nice meeting you.”
I nod because I can’t process another response. Mr. Edwards walks into the house.
“So, tonight went really well,” Kate says, her arms over my shoulders, her eyes wide, joyful.
“Yeah.” I try to smile. “Really well.”
“What’s wrong?” she says, seeing through me.
“Are you sure this is okay, you and me?”
Kate dips her head. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t want to be a bad thing for you. I don’t want to be the reason you don’t feel your best.”
“What did my dad say to you?”
“Nothing,” I lie. “I just . . . I care about you so much and . . .”
“Everyone thinks they know what’s best for me. When did my opinion stop mattering?”
I pull her closer, and I see the curtain move in the front window behind us. We have an audience. “I don’t care what anyone else says. If you want me here, Kate, I’ll never leave.”
She kisses me. “I want,” she says.
I kiss her back. With all that I have, all that I am, I kiss her back.
It’s not quite seven in the morning when I get her text message.
Be outside in ten.
I climb out of bed, skip the socks and shoes. She’s already on the porch. I sit beside her.
“You really screwed things up this time, huh,” Jillian says.
I grit my teeth. “Guilty as charged.”
“What did you think would happen? When Franny found out?”
“Honestly? I hoped he never would.”
“It’s like all you care about is Kate. Kate’s feelings. Protecting Kate. But what about us, Jack? Your friends? The people who’ve been there for you? The people you have history with? What about me?”
“Jillian, this wasn’t how it was supposed to happen.”
“You got that right. Because you promised me that you’d always be there. And we’re a very long way from always and you’re already breaking your promise.”
“I was trying to help Franny. I still want to help him.”
“You can’t help people the way you think they need help, Jack. Good intentions don’t grant you license to be an idiot.”
First Kate’s dad and now Jillian. This is the second time in twelve hours that someone’s declared good intentions not good enough.
“What can I do? Franny won’t return my calls. My emails. My texts.”
“He needs time. Probably a lot.”
I used to think time was all I needed. But now—
“What if time isn’t enough?”
Jillian frowns. “It has to be enough.”
Since Franny’s in an understandable I Hate Jack’s Guts phase in his life, a phase that I’m desperate to help him end, I decide to ignore his warning of serious bodily injury and try to talk to him anyway.
Except he’s nowhere to be found.
He’s not at his house.
Or at the gym.
Or at Jillian’s.
It crosses my irrationa
l mind that in the seventy-two hours since he spared my life maybe he’s found a new best friend to hang with.
When I finally locate Franny, it’s less a question of what’s he doing here? than why didn’t I think of this place earlier?
The Wood. The old treehouse we built in the patch of woods behind my house so many summers ago. The outside walls weathered and moss-covered. The roof leaking rainwater and sunshine.
“Yo, I thought I told you I didn’t want anything to do with you,” Franny says the moment I stick my head through the floor. For a second I think he’s going to play whack-a-mole with my face, but instead he turns his body toward the treehouse’s sole window, away from me. I pull myself up, lean against the wall opposite Franny.
“I never should have gone behind your back with your dad. I’m wrong for that. And I’m sorry I hurt you. You never would’ve done anything like that to me.”
“You’re right about that. I wouldn’t have.”
“All I can say is that I got caught up. With Kate. She’s sick. Really sick. And I had this idea on how to get some money for her to get this treatment, but I needed help. I thought of your dad. But I should’ve been thinking about you, too. I didn’t think about what that might mean for you, for Jillian. I was selfish. And I’m really sorry. All I can say is that if you give me another chance, I’ll do my best to be better. To do better.”
Franny turns to me and shakes his head. “What? This supposed to be the part where I forgive you? Where I say something like yo, man, we all make mistakes and then dap you up and pull you into a bro hug? Because that’s not going to happen. I’m not ready for all of that. Not even close.”
I nod my head. “Right. Okay.”
“Damn, man, you ain’t gotta look like somebody just shot your black ass. I’m just saying, give me some time. Then we’ll see.”
And it’s like all anyone ever talks about anymore is time.
Makeup Texts
And apparently some time is two days.
GROUP TEXT to ME and JILLIAN, from FRANNY—
FRANNY: We practicing tonight, or y’all wanna show up to this party and make damn fools of ourselves?
ME: Uh, I definitely choose A). When and where?
JILLIAN: My house! Now!
I wrap my arms around Franny’s neck like we’re in a slow dance.
“I missed you, big man,” I say in the middle of Jillian’s garage.
He tries not to laugh, cups my head like a basketball he’s about to dunk.
“Yo,” he says to Jillian. “What’s wrong with your boy?” But then he smiles and the world is instantly less scary.
Jillian grins, races toward us, leaps onto my back, knocking Franny and me onto the old orange sofa. The three of us once again a tangled knot. And it feels right.
We try and throw each other off the sofa, an old game where we pretend the sofa is a lifeboat that can only save one of us; the other two have to be forced overboard. As usual Jillian wins, jumping up and down on the cushions.
Franny and me lying side by side on the paint-splattered concrete floor, he turns to me and says, “So we’re cool, but the next time you pull some crazy—”
I put my hands up to stop him. “There won’t be a next time.”
He nods. “Good.”
We give each other the cool, let’s do this then look. And then we’re springing back onto the orange sofa, fighting for our watery survival.
Caps & Gowns
Graduation rolls around and Dad is in full Capture This Memory Forever mode.
Last night he sat at the kitchen island cleaning his fourteen different lenses with his specially designed cloths, checking and rechecking his apertures, much the way a hunter inspects his rifle before a hunt.
Dad is a hunter. And special occasions are his prey.
Today Dad has me dead in his sights.
But I don’t complain. I get why this is important to parents, a shiny, metallic mile marker on the road to their kid’s hopeful success. Mom’s eyes have been leaking since last night, and she’s still dabbing at her tears with her hanky.
“Mom, are you okay?” I ask. Even when you know the tears are happy, something about seeing your mom cry slays you.
“My baby,” she says, as if this says it all.
As for me, I can’t help but feel proud.
Loved.
Afraid.
All I can think is, now what? What’s next?
The answer is partly college. But the answer is mostly, I don’t know.
I look at myself, capped and gowned. I say to my reflection, Good luck, man. To which he replies, You’re gonna need it. And I don’t disagree.
I look around my room. Already it’s starting to feel like I don’t belong here anymore. Like these aren’t my things. Not my crappy paint on the walls from back when neon blue seemed genius. Not my collection of various drink stains blotted in the carpet like alien animal print. Not my posters puttied to the closet. Not my favorite comforter, ratty and worn, stained with my sweat and smell. My bookshelf sagging from too many books. Who does this stuff belong to? Whose memories are catalogued in my head? And I feel full. And I wonder, how could I ever fit anything, anyone, else into all of this? Into all of me?
I take in the doorframe, the dark pencil marks where I stood with my back pressed against the wood as Dad ticked off my height, scribbling my age beside each measurement. And I laugh because, shit, I’m short.
I turn off the lights as the doorbell rings.
Mom calls up, “Jackie, Kate’s here.”
I jump down the stairs, all twelve steps in a single leap, like I used to do as a kid, except this time I stumble and nearly break my neck. Which makes me think about that time I did break my neck. The moment that started all of this . . . whatever this is.
But I don’t care. Because right now it feels like I’ll never break anything again. I’m unbreakable. The world spinning so beautifully.
Kate is radiant. Which is cliché-ridden and easy come. But still—
Look at her.
She is an explosion of light that never stops erupting.
“You came,” I say to Kate, my parents looking on behind me. I can sense them, their I can’t believe our son has a bona fide girlfriend in our house right now energy.
But I only see Kate. I only feel Kate.
Kate, in a white, flowy dress and blue heels, a blue clutch in her right hand. She smiles and we’re in that awkward dance, the limbo of deciding if we should just hug or if a quick peck on the lips is okay, too. And we only narrowly miss bumping into each other’s heads. I kiss her cheek, and I feel her face warm. Or maybe it’s me who’s warm. She reaches up and fixes my cap.
“Happy graduation day, Jack Attack,” she says.
I shrug. “It’s just high school.”
But with Kate here, everything’s so much more.
I don’t even mind the photo shoot Dad puts us through.
Thirtieth
Twenty minutes before JoyToy takes the stage (also known as the backyard patio), Mom calls me to the front door. I set down a platter of fancy cracker thingies, and get there in time to see Mom hugging someone with bone-crushing exuberance.
“Hey,” Kate says, with a slight wave, as Mom releases her from her bear clutch.
“Hey yourself,” I say.
My mom steps back, alternates her gaze between Kate and me, like she’s a spectator at a tennis match.
“You made it,” I finally say. I step past Mom and usher Kate outside onto the relative privacy of the porch. “And wow, you look . . . wow. Actually, the word stunning comes to mind, only I don’t want to sound like your great-grandfather.”
She smiles. “Don’t worry. My great-grandfather wouldn’t have said that. He was a lot cooler than you.”
“Bang. You got me.” I clutch my chest. “But then again, being cooler than me isn’t anything to hang your hat on. I mean, you’d have to be spectacularly uncool if you wanted any chance at dethroning me, because . . .”
She kisses my cheek.
“What did I do to deserve that?” I ask. “I’m asking because I want you to do it again.”
“Where do I start?”
“I’m really glad you’re here,” I say, nearly adding this time, but catching myself.
“Thanks for inviting me. So . . . where is this party?”
“Oh yeah. The party. You didn’t just come here so we could stand on my porch and stare at each other?”
“I thought that was next week,” she says.
“Oh, you’re right, it is next week,” I agree. “Sorry, I keep getting my days mixed up.”
I take her hand and lead her to the backyard.
“Wow, you guys did a great job. It’s so elegant.”
“It was all Mom’s design. She pointed and Dad and I basically moved things back and forth around the yard until she got frustrated and said it was good enough.”
“Well, she has very good taste.”
“I feel like I have better,” I say, running my fingers along her shoulder.
She pushes me, playfully. “Gross, not at your parents’ anniversary.”
“Why not? You know, if you play your cards right, it could be our anniversary, too.”
“Okay, that was easily the creepiest thing that’s ever come out of your mouth.”
“I told you I wasn’t cool.”
“How many times must I tell you? That’s why I like you.” She kisses me again, on the same cheek, and I temporarily lose muscular control.
“There she is! The woman who’s making my best friend a better man,” Franny shouts from across the lawn.
He and Jillian are wearing matching sunglasses, except Jillian’s are black whereas Franny’s are hot pink. “Nice glasses, man,” Kate tells him.
“C’mon, Kate, now you’ve done it,” I complain.
“Thank you, Kate. As I’ve already told this Neanderthal, it takes a real man to pull off something so bold, so inspiring,” Franny says, sliding up the glasses so he can apparently big-wink at us.
“You guys ready to rock?” Jillian asks, motioning toward the stage.
“Born to,” I say, sticking my hand out, which Franny promptly slaps onto with his palm.
“My middle name is Rock,” Franny says, somehow curling his lip in a way I’ve never seen him do before.
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