Opposite of Always(26)

“Headed home.”

“Home? Like here?”

“No, home home. As in C?te d’Ivoire.”

This is a turn I did not expect. “Oh. Wow.”

“Yeah. Wow.” Jillian flops onto the garage sofa. “I mean, he’ll be back. He’s just going to visit family. ‘Clear his head,’ he said.”

“That’s a long drive to clear your head.”

“Guess that’s why Franny and I get along so much. We both have dads who love themselves the most.”

I join her on the sofa. “C’mon. Your dad loves you.”

She snickers. “Parents assure you that they’re only running away from each other, that they’re not leaving you. They swear nothing will change. But eventually everything does.”

“I don’t get love,” I confess. “Like when it’s good, it’s this amazing thing. Except it never stays good.”

“Not never. I mean, some people figure it out, right? Your parents did.”

“I guess. I mean, they’ve had their ups and downs too.”

“That’s life, though. You have problems. But you keep trying. You fight for the things you love.”

“But what if those things don’t love you back?”

“Well, then you’re screwed,” Jillian says with a mini laugh.

“So, maybe it’s not how something ends that matters. Maybe it’s about having something good, even for a little while.”

“Maybe.”

“What did I miss?” Franny asks, leaping back into the garage.

“Nothing,” I say.

“Everything,” Jillian says.

“Okayyyy.” Franny looks at me, then at Jillian, and we laugh.

I hop to my feet, pick up my horn. “You guys ready to jam, or what?”

And it’s not the best I’ve ever played. But it’s not the worst.





No-Show City Doesn’t Have to Be a Sad Place


The Elytown High Panthers lose in the second round of the playoffs 62–57, despite Superman-like heroics from Franny. Jillian and I wait for him in the parking lot.

As soon as we see him, Jillian throws her arms around him, and he stoops down to hug her back.

“You played awesome,” we take turns telling him.

“Thanks,” he says. “Too bad it wasn’t enough.”

Jillian shakes her head. “Depends who you ask.”

I climb into the back seat, Jillian at the wheel, Franny shotgun.

“I know it’s crazy stupid, but I thought he might show up today,” Franny says. “I mean, he’s been out for a couple of weeks and no one’s heard from him. Even if he doesn’t want anything to do with me, he could still check on his mom. You know, the woman who put money she didn’t have onto your commissary card. Who humped over to Winston Hills three hours round-trip to see your tired, orange-jumpsuit-wearing ass. Least you could do is call. Let her know you’re okay. And then you have the nerve to refuse to come over for dinner, even though your mom practically begs your ass, has got her heart set on cooking you your favorite meal. Honestly, I don’t know why I even thought for a minute that he’d changed.”

Jillian takes one hand off the wheel, brushes Franny’s cheek. Suddenly there’s a fist-size lump in my throat, and it burns, too large to swallow, too sticky to cough up. It’s stuck there, on fire.

My phone buzzes, and my mind goes to Kate. It’s been nearly two weeks since we last talked.

But it’s a text from Mom: Tell Franny we love him!

“His loss, Franny,” Jillian says. She says this so softly that maybe she actually said he’s lost instead. Either way, she’s right.

“Hell with that cornball,” Franny says.

“Franny, maybe he’s—” I start. But Franny’s already on to the next.

“Oooooh, turn this up,” Franny says. He turns up the volume button, his shoulders bopping with the bass.

Jillian touches the car ceiling and the moonroof slides back, letting in patchy moonlight and whistling wind.

“Yo, can you believe we graduate in a week,” I shout, standing up to lean out the roof.

“The world is ours,” Franny screams.

We spend the rest of the night driving around, picking up fast food, popping our heads out of the car to howl at people, at the three-quarter moon, at our disappointments. And no, maybe it’s not the same thing as your dad finally showing up and telling you he loves you. Maybe it’s not your parents deciding they’re still in love, to give it another go. Maybe it’s not a phone call from the girl you’re super into, admitting that she hasn’t stopped thinking about you.

IRL, there are no video-game power-ups for broken hearts.

But this is something.

It’s not nothing.





Party of the Year


JoyToy isn’t about to win a Grammy for best live performance, but we put on a good show for my parents’ thirtieth. Mom’s all happy tears, and Dad’s a grinning maniac, both hugging me tight enough to crack ribs.

All in all, the party’s a success.

After everyone’s left, our backyard a ghost town of gently blowing streamers and glittering globe lights, my parents pour red wine for all of us—Franny and Jillian included.