Opposite of Always(59)

The living room TV blaring the same State basketball game.

V-Neck Sweater Guy (check!) chatting up Hello Kitty Neck Tat (double check!).

The red Solo cup in my hand.

The pissy, slanted stairs.

Jillian leaning against the kitchen counter, the queen in the middle of an undergraduate swarm, waving at me, smiling— All that’s missing is . . .

“Excuse me, man, but you’re sort of damming up the steps.”

. . . and there she is.

“Actually,” I say, turning my head to look up at her. “I’m doing a mediocre job at best. I could really use some stair-damming backup, if you’re up for it.”

I don’t know why I’m back here.

Why time has once again backed its behemoth ass up.

Chances are, I may never know. The why. Certainly not the how.

But I’m here now.

Probably because whatever it is I’m supposed to be doing, I have yet to do it.

At least not satisfactorily.

So if I have the chance to make even a few things better in this world—for my family, for my friends— Then I’d be a fool not to try.

And Mama didn’t raise no fool.

(She really didn’t. All of my many and varied foolishnesses are mine alone.) Anyway.

Enough talk, guys.

There’s some crap with my name on it.

(Okay, that sounded better in my head. Let’s try again.) Enough talk, guys.

We got crap to fix.

(Better.)





The Plan to (Hopefully) Save Kate


I need money.

An astronomical amount of money.

Which is a problem in the sense that I don’t have money.

But the thing is, the treatments that I’ve researched with the best shot at curing sickle cell cost a lot of the money that I do not have. And the doctor that Kate, and her parents, believe in most costs the most.

So, the plan is to get a lot of money, fast.

So, I’m going to . . . gamble.

I know, Jack + anything that requires “winning” typically = terrible idea.

Except if I do it just right, if it pans out the way I think it can, it won’t really be gambling.

Which, when said out loud, does appear to be hinged to some significant caveats. Maybe I should . . .

Nope, nope, it’s going to work. It has to work.

In the history of the world, when has gambling ever not worked out?

I take a monetary survey. Which basically involves surveying every nook and cranny for money that I may have overlooked.

This is a very expedient survey.

There is zero overlooked money.

In my checking, I have $204.89.

In my savings, I have $2,019.11. Between installing carpet the last two summers and accrued birthday money, I’ve done a decent job in maximizing my limited revenue streams.

Still, I barely have enough to cover the consultation visit, let alone the actual treatment. And if my calculations are correct, I need roughly one thousand times the amount of money I have. Maybe if I’m lucky only seven hundred fifty times.

Unfortunately, luck continues to ignore my friend requests.

Anyhow. Here’s how I think it’ll work: I bet on the games that I can remember. Fortunately for me, March Madness is two weeks away. And I’m confident that I remember the outcome of each game, and at least for a few of the games, how close they were.

Even more fortunate, Mandrake University isn’t even expected to make the tourney, let alone win the entire thing.

Which means anyone who bets on them is a fool.

Or a time traveler from the future.

I approach my plan not without reservation.

What if the tournament outcomes change?

Except I keep thinking about the game that was on when I came back on the stairs—that unbelievable comeback by State that unfolded the same way as before.

Plus, the big things have stayed true.

Franny’s dad getting early release.

Meeting Kate on the stairs.

The way I feel about her.

But the thing is, what’s the same versus what’s different doesn’t matter all that much. I don’t have any other ideas.

This is it.

So.

Go Mandrake Potbelly Pigs!





Fresh 2 Death


At the end of the weekend, as Jillian drives us off the Whittier campus, I’m not sure Kate will go to prom with me (spoiler alert: she does). But I am leaving with a massive desire to Kick Everyone’s Ass.

You know, if Everyone equals Destiny.

“So, you disappear on me for the entire night, and now you’re over there smiling like the damn Cheshire cat. What’s up?”

“Nothing,” I say. “But let me just say, Whittier rocks.”

“Whittier rocks, huh? What, are you suddenly on their admissions board? What’s that in your hand?” she says, snatching the slip of paper before I can answer. She unfolds the paper and laughs. “Whose info is this?”

I shrug.

“You dog, you,” Jillian says, barking loudly. The car windows are down, and the passenger of the car beside us stares over. “I should’ve known you were up to no good.”

“We had a connection,” I confess.

“That’s what I’m afraid of. You connecting. I hope you used protection, man.”