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“I know,” Jackson says. He moves away from the window and settles into the air mattress.
I keep watching the plane. Jackson should be at the airport now, getting ready for his 8 a.m. flight back home, back in time as he gains three more hours in his life. But instead he’s here for me to talk to, and, unlike you, Jackson can talk back.
My dad pulls up right in front of your building. I let Jackson know I’ll see him after school. He’s tired as hell. I’m no monster; I considered letting him stay over while I’m out, but all our stuff is there, yours and mine. I don’t think Jackson is going to rob me; the only thing he’s ever stolen from me is you, and you were fair game. But I don’t want Jackson touching my things or your things when I’m awake, figuring out the history without me there to inform it.
It’s dead silent in the car after we drop Jackson off. If Dad doesn’t say anything to me by the second red light, I’ll listen to music instead. The second red light comes in no time, and I’m putting on my headphones to listen to Lily Allen’s cover of “Somewhere Only We Know,” when Dad catches my eyes in the rearview mirror. He speaks up. “How well do you know Jackson?”
I’m not sure what to make of my dad’s strange tone. “I know Theo trusted him,” I say, letting the headphones dangle. “I do, too.”
“How old is he?”
“He’s eighteen.” Until Thursday, at least, when he turns nineteen.
You’ll never be nineteen. You’re stuck.
Then the floodgates open, and Dad lets me have it: I was wrong to encourage Jackson to skip his flight; I was wrong to invite Jackson to camp out in my room, especially without talking to him and Mom first; I was wrong to be at the park late last night, especially when fewer police are patrolling this season (I have no idea where that fact comes from, but whatever); I was wrong, and am wrong, to act so irrationally.
“I know you miss Theo, but—”
I put on my headphones and blast my song really loud.
Zombies have been on the brain today, so to speak. (Not the zombie pirates who will rule us one day, sadly.)
I’ve taken many zombie forms throughout high school. There were the brain-dead days when I’d been up very late cramming for a midterm. The same was true after all-night video game sessions or phone calls with you. I would zombie-creep through the halls, unable to pass any tests or even come up with a good lie as to why I didn’t do my homework, whereas you remained at the top of your game. Then there’s the kind of zombie I’ve become now: the one who has lost everything—his brain, his heart, his light, his direction. He wanders the world, bumping into this, tripping over that, but keeps going and going. That is life after death.
Today I’m the zombie standing in front of your old locker, as if it’s some underground bunker where I’ll find you alive.
But I know better.
You’re dead, and I’m the worst kind of alive.
I get home before Jackson’s cab arrives. I can’t kick him out every day I go to school, but I can’t exactly hide you when he’s in my room, either. I look around in a daze. I can box up the things that are really personal and exclusive to me, like the letters you would write me every month on our we-finally-got-together anniversary. Or the drawing you gave me on the one-month anniversary of the first time we had sex. The generosity you endowed both of us with is too damn funny not to frame, but too damn crude to share. There are a lot of little things that I would never share with anyone, especially not Jackson. Maybe back at a time when I wanted to make him feel jealous, but not now. There’s some history he doesn’t need shoved in his face.
Luckily the apartment is empty. I pack up everything I can find in a single box and seal it shut with duct tape. Not to be extra distrustful, but I don’t think it’s a good idea to leave it in my bedroom closet, where I’ve invited Jackson to help himself if he needs stuff like new sheets, so I take it out to the hallway closet. My eyes fall on a shoebox: things I took out of my room a couple of days after you died. Those items still have no business being in my space, so I drop the new box on top of it
and close the closet door.
Jackson sends me a text; he is pulling up any second. I get downstairs in time to see him exiting the cab with a single gym bag. I was expecting him to have a rolling suitcase, but I forget he’s a kid like me, who was only supposed to be here for a few days.
As we go upstairs, Jackson tells me how your parents were weird when he told them he decided to stay with me. I don’t know if they’re suspicious of me, which wouldn’t make sense. They’re completely unaware that the most dangerous thing about me is my capability to lie, and that didn’t start until the end of our relationship. But I’m cutting back on the lies—trust me. Being brutally honest is a freedom I never expected. Maybe your parents were weird because of how unlikely a . . . I don’t know what word to use here because pairing sounds too romantic and friendship sounds too strong. You would know the word. Whatever Jackson and I are, it’s unlikely. But at the end of the day, however concerned your parents may be, they did not invite Jackson to continue staying with them, so here he is.
“What did your parents say?” I ask.
“My dad is okay with getting me another ticket when I’m ready to go home. My mom isn’t a fan of me ditching school for the rest of the semester, but she trusts I know what’s best for me,” Jackson says, dropping his gym bag by my desk.
I let out a grim laugh. “I wonder what that’s like. I got hit with a lecture on my way to school.” I go through my clothes, sorting extra button-ups, T-shirts, jeans, and boxers I don’t mind Jackson borrowing.
“Yeah, Gregor didn’t seem thrilled I was spending time here.”
“No, it’s more that he’s annoyed I did this behind his back. Whatever.” I hand him the clothes, more than he will likely wear, enough that if I cleared a drawer for him, I could fill it. I throw myself onto my bed and toss him my TV remote. “My nap during algebra got interrupted, so I’m going to shut my eyes for a bit. Feel free to watch whatever you want or read or sleep or whatever. You’re almost nineteen, you’ll figure it out.”
“Thanks,” Jackson says quietly.
I’m tempted to ask him if he’s okay, but you know me when I’m passing out; I sleep-talk, half listening, half inside a dream, and I make zero sense. This is not the best time to have a serious conversation, as I suspect he may want to have. I don’t even have the energy to put on my headphones and play your voice mail, but the sound of the TV brings me some comfort, some familiarity. I haven’t touched it since you died because people shouldn’t be watching TV when the person they love is dead. But now as I drift off, it reminds me of marathons we enjoyed, movies we hated, TV shows we watched weekly, documentaries that kept us awake, action films that bored us, and the meaningless background noise it provided so we could make out and do other stuff uninterrupted.
It really sucks you’re not sleeping beside me. Mostly because it would’ve been nice to know if I am actually falling asleep with a smile on my face, or if I’m loopy and imagining it.
It feels odd that Jackson is now part of us, right? Odd in the number, yeah, but I mean odd-odd; strange, unexpected. It’s everything you would’ve liked when you were still here to kick it with us. You can see, Jackson and me are growing up because of you. I hope this doesn’t sound like your death has fixed our lives; I hated when Jackson said that, I hate myself for even hinting at it. Anyway, the three of us are skipping dinner with my parents tonight because I still want some space to cool down after my dad’s takedown. I hate feeling like a naughty kid.
