Opposite of Always(39)

“Everything’s kosher, bro. Enjoy band, okay,” he says, like band is a dirty word. Or like instead of band he means enjoy your sweet-ass, trouble-free life, okay?

“Yeah, okay. You don’t think I know when you’re lying? What’s really going on?”

I finally get a good look at his eyes, and it makes immediate sense why he doesn’t want to look at me. Bloodshot would be putting it nicely. “Damn, Franny, have you been drinking?”

“‘Gee golly, Fran, have you been drinking?’” he parrots.

“Really, Franny? That’s how you wanna play this? You’ve worked so hard. If a teacher sees . . .”

His eyes darken, his brow tightens. “What are you, my guidance counselor now? Next you gonna lecture me about how I’m throwing away my opportunities? Get the hell outta here, man.”

He sidesteps me, but I grab him again, this time more forcefully. “Franny, we’ve been friends since . . . I can’t even remember not being friends. If something’s happened, or . . . you can tell me anything. The fact that I even have to—”

But he interrupts me. “Just stop,” he yells, his voice sharp, hard. A couple of kids in the hallway halt whatever it is they’re doing to look over. But Franny gives them the eye and they keep it trucking. He turns back to me, his voice still edgy, but lower now. “What do you want from me, Jack?”

I want you to tell me that your dad is getting out of prison. “How about the truth?”

“And just when I think you can’t possibly be any cornier,” he says. He bites his lip, gives me a forced grin. His red eyes are moist. His pupils bottle up the overhead halogen, giving them a dirty-white shine. “You’re going to be late.”

“What’s wrong, Franny?”

The late bell rings.

“See?” I point skyward. “Too late. Now you gotta talk to me. I was tardy for you. You know how I detest tardiness.”

“Something’s seriously wrong with you.” Franny nearly laughs, but catches himself. “They’re letting The Coupon out early for good behavior, kid. The irony, right? Only time anyone’s ever put him and good in the same sentence.”

The news of The Coupon’s release, although not new information, makes me contemplate The Big Picture.

Namely, I’d assumed that I was back here to help keep Kate from dying.

But maybe I’m back for Franny, too.

Maybe I can be here for everyone.

Dear Jack,

Now that you mention it, yesterday afternoon I did hear a moose crying. And I kept thinking, I wish someone would cheer the poor thing up, but it just kept right on playing, ahem, crying. Soooooo—when were you going to tell me that you’re in a band? And how would you feel about playing for an audience of one? (The one would be me, if that wasn’t clear enough. )

With regard to Jillian and Franny, I think the fact that you have friends who are willing to protect you from everything means you have the best kind of friends. Usually you have a friend who’s good at this and another friend that specializes in that, but to have friends who do everything is super rare. Of course, I’m sure you already know that.

One thing no one else knows, huh?

When I was a kid, I ate spiders. Not because I thought they were fascinating*, or particularly tasty**, but because I wanted to spin silk from my stomach and create beautiful webs of my own.

But as it turns out, the only thing I got was nausea.

I can hear you laughing your ass off.

Okay, so I’m pretty sure that’s not at all what you had in mind, but it’s 100 percent true and you’re the only one I’ve ever told, clearly for good reason. So, your turn, Jack. Tell me something.

Eagerly anticipating something juicy or at least thoroughly embarrassing so that I’m not so alone in my arachnid-eating humiliation,

Kate

*although I did

**they weren’t



* * *



Dear Silk-Slinging Kate,

I’m actually from the future. Well, if you can call four months the future. I mean technically it is the future, and honestly you’d be surprised how much can change in only four months—literally the entire world. So I guess I shouldn’t sound unappreciative, because it’s quite the opposite. It means everything to be back here. Everything.

So there you have it, something I’ve never told anyone. I trust you’ll keep it in strictest confidence.

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Dear Silk-Slinging Kate,

Only I don’t get a chance to write another email because Dad calls me down for dinner, and then Franny shows up to eat with us, and I spend the rest of the evening figuring out how to bring up The Coupon’s parole to my parents, but in a way that Franny won’t want to reach across the table and stab me.

But I can’t think of a good way, so instead I spend my time warding off Franny’s forked attempts to poach Mom’s homemade ravioli from my plate.

I only pretend to put up a fight.

“So, Fran, about this whole Coupon homecoming thing,” I say.

My parents have retreated for bed, and we’re in the basement, the two of us illuminated by the glow of Metal Brigade IV, analog sticks rumbling beneath our thumbs as we narrowly avoid enemy cannon fire.