AllFreeNovel
Share Us
It spills out of me. I’m not sure why, maybe because it’s so exhausting to bottle it all up, but I tell Ms. Lane everything. I let her know about all about my compulsions, their rules, and how they rule me. I let her know about the freak-out where I bolted from the library and got home and threw off my uniform and banished it to my closet. I let her know about how my parents want me to commit to therapy outside of my guidance counselor. I let her know how helpful her son has been for my recovery.
Ms. Lane smiles briefly, proud of the son she raised, of the boy you loved—even if she doesn’t approve of how he handled my surprise visit. She wheels over to the refrigerator and pulls out a strawberry birthday cake shaped like the letter J. Jackson is smiling so wide, kind of kidlike, and I’m not sure I’ll ever get over how surprising it is to see happiness in someone who’s lost someone they love.
Ms. Lane bursts into “Happy Birthday” by herself, but I jump in midway—again, surprising—and what’s even more surprising is when Jackson jumps in and sings happy birthday in his own honor. We’re all laughing by the end . . . and man, Theo, I really wish you were here to add your voice to the chorus.
The latest shocking thing to happen in this universe, the one I live in, not one you created: I’m walking into Jackson Wright’s bedroom with my bag, to stay the night. I’m tempted to ask him everything you’ve ever done in this room, like where you studied if you ever studied here, or if you ever sat on the ledge of his window when you talked on the phone, like you did in my room. But that could lead to something too intimate, something that will cross a line.
His walls are rust-orange, a shade that might look red when sunlight isn’t pouring through his white-framed windows. I’m pretty sure the gigantic bed in the center of the room is king-size. What goes without question is I’ve never seen any bed piled high with a mountain of clothes like his is. I notice his closet door and dresser drawers are wide open; packing for a trip while grieving must suck. There’s a little bed in the corner, which I’m guessing is for Chloe and not guests like me. There are bookshelves with very few books but plenty of card games and their expansion packs.
“This is it,” Jackson says, tossing his bags onto the floor. “Bedroom one of two. What do you think?”
There are five movie posters on the wall from classic films, but I’ve only seen Edward Scissorhands (which I hated). The other four—The Goonies, The Shining, Scream, A Nightmare on Elm Street—I haven’t, so when I group them like that, it’s not bad. Still, the fifth movie poster haunts me. “Guess I’ll be sleeping in the living room.”
“Why? There’s plenty of room on the bed . . .”
“Once you move every article of clothing you own? I have a thing against Edward Scissorhands.” I’m actually not entirely making excuses for my OCD; that poster is seriously creepy, and so was the movie.
“What is this thing you have against my favorite Johnny Depp movie?”
“I saw it as a kid and it scared the shit out of me. I had a nightmare he came to my school cafeteria in a straitjacket and wanted to cut me,” I confess.
“But he’s in a straitjacket.”
“First off, anyone approaching me in a straitjacket is scary enough. Let’s factor in the fact that Edward has blades for hands, and what you’re left with is ten-year-old Griffin so scared his parents had to give the DVD away to a neighbor because he couldn’t stand having it in the house.” I point at the poster. “And now I’m faced with my enemy again, twenty times bigger than the DVD case.”
“We should watch it again while you’re here.”
“I will leave today if you think that’s going to happen.”
Jackson walks over to this little desk he has in the corner. “How are you going to unlock the door if you’re in a straitjacket?”
“Not funny.”
“You’re right, I’m sorry.” Jackson raises one hand up in surrender. Then he quickly reveals the other from behind his back, holding a pair of scissors and clipping at air. He takes a step toward me and laughs before he can get too close—too close to my raised fist, that is. He puts the scissors back down on the desk. “Truce?”
“Truce.” I put my bag down beside his. “This room is huge.” Twice the size of mine, I would guess.
“Yeah, out of the three bedrooms, my mom let me take the master bedroom. I guess she didn’t see any reason to be in the room meant for two parents. I also think she wanted me to have some victory after the divorce, so big room it is,” Jackson says, opening his window as Chloe comes in and settles herself into her bed.
I walk around, spotting the same photo of you and Jackson on his desk that was in your room where ours used to be. Jackson folds some of his clothes. I help him out until I notice some writing on the wall in the corner of the room. I walk over and it’s faded, but I can make it out: THEODORE + JACK. His name is in your handwriting and yours is in his.
“What’s this?” I don’t mean for my tone to be so accusatory.
Jackson stops balling up some socks. “We did that after our first fight. And yeah, we were fighting about you.”
He tells me the story; it’s the first I’m hearing of this. You and Jackson were hanging out in Venice Beach after classes. You were both mimicking the lifts and flips the other muscular guys were doing, and you were failing spectacularly. In the middle of Jackson’s cartwheel, I called you and you answered. Jackson thought you were going to tell me you’d call me back, but you sat down in the sand and kept talking.
“It bothered me so much,” Jackson said. “But I couldn’t say anything bad about you. I refused to say anything at all after he finally got off the phone twenty minutes later. Theo hated that silence.”
What you don’t understand, Theo, is silence is sometimes better than someone speaking before they’re ready. That is how lies slip out.
“I drove us back here so I could give him back his stuff, and I was going to break up with him. Anika didn’t believe me when I told her that, but I was serious. I didn’t want to keep competing against his past. Theo told me to stop being so silent and tell him what’s wrong. I told him it was you. He grabbed a marker and said he was going to prove his allegiance.”
Jackson closes the shades and turns off the lights. THEODORE + JACK comes alive, glowing ocean blue in the dark. I can only imagine how bright the words will become when it’s actually pitch-black out. I feel something unpleasant stir inside me.
“He had no idea it was an old glow-in-the-dark marker Veronika left behind. He said if I actually cared about him, I would write his name down. I got down there with him and did it.” Jackson stares at your names, his voice softening. “Then he said he loved me. First time. I said it back.”
I don’t say anything. My silence is crushing. You used to tell me about all these fights, fights I used to find happiness in, but you never told me this one ended the way it did; you never told me about this one at all.
