Early Departures: List 3

So, maybe when Q...you know...I’d grieve retroactively, twice as hard?

Because what if Beowulf and the dragon had put aside their differences and become a renowned comedy duo?

Whitney, Jamal’s truancy is not our only concern.

“Look, we all know Jamal’s...not had an easy go of it. But I’m afraid that despite our best intentions, this school’s been complicit in Jamal’s failure. We’ve let him slip for two years. But now, it’s clear to us that if we let him slip anymore, it’ll be through our fingers. Through the cracks.”

Mom and Dad exchange way-too-enthusiastic high fives, which quickly accelerates into a super involved and probably overly complicated routine complete with 360-degree spinning and shoe-tapping, culminating in a leaping, grunting chest bump—they’d been working on this for weeks in our living room, ever since they saw NBA players flash their own signature handshake exchanges during a game.

Whit’s face pops out at me from between two small dogwoods; her arms sweep their foliage in either direction.

When you leave someone, even if you see the error of your ways, even if you apologize profusely, it doesn’t matter.

Maybe that’s part of my penance too, you know?

But of course, in the end, all that angst is for naught.

And then we’re in line for our favorite loaded fries, and I’m like, okay, Universe, out here trying to make amends, I see you.

And you feel bad because your sister, what, wanted to be there for you? You think she took a goddamn deferment at her dream school so you could flush your life away?

And I grab Q and at first he’s pushing me, pushing me, but for the first time I can remember in forever I don’t just give up, I’m holding tight, tight, and he’s way stronger than me, but I’m feisty, I’m resilient when I need to be, when I want to be, and I hold on, man.

Eliciting an innumerable amount of weird stares.

Because after his cancer went into remission, Dad used to tell everyone it was the board that had fought it off. But then, of course...it came back.

“Yeah. It just got me thinking, what would Dad do? What choices would he make? He used to invite strangers into our house because he believed there was something good in everyone. People loved him because dude abounded in positivity.”

Apparently, the Hedge’s raiders are quite the foe—he’s ratcheted up his air-punching intensity several notches now.

Hands still clasped, he drops to his knees. Autumn drops to her knees beside him.
“Okay, guys, get up.”
“You sure, because we're not above groveling,” Autumn says.

And then Autumn’s back from her restroom sabbatical, and then it’s Mission Mayhem, Cobra Cobra, those teeny-tiny ice cream beads, and my aforementioned all-time fave park amusement, FUNNEL CAKE, powdered absolutely, but hard pass on all that fruit compote crap.

And then Autumn’s back from her restroom sabbatical, and then it’s Mission Mayhem, Cobra Cobra, those teeny-tiny ice cream beads, and my aforementioned all-time fave park amusement, FUNNEL CAKE, powdered absolutely, but hard pass on all that fruit compote crap.

I shake my head vehemently.

“I’m a funnel cake purist, sorry, guys. Those artificial preserves can’t even share a plate with my sugar waffle.”

This ride with three seats in each car, which, if that’s not kismet.

And now reverberates in my brain, ricochets and rips through whatever gray matter I still have. NOWNOWNOWNOWNOWNOW.

And now reverberates in my brain, ricochets and rips through whatever gray matter I still have. NOWNOWNOWNOWNOWNOW.

And then I tell Whit about our surprise reconciliation.
How I want to be a better friend to Q than I was before.

I turn on the shower. “I’m sorry, Whit. I’m having a hard time hearing you right now because I’m really engrossed in my personal hygiene!”

This lime-green bordered, pink-polka-dotted, orange-hatched fashion atrocity literally has my name on it. Jamal, in gaudy gold thread, right in the center.

She pregnant-skips to our front door, swings it open with gusto.

That she’s pushing us to heal.
But that doesn’t mean I gotta like the salve.

Except Q’s last addition has even me perplexed—me, the person who adorned a few pieces with a dash of cinnamon, you know, for an unexpected boom, before the other slices were expeditiously removed from my reach.

But now Q’s entire body’s convulsing and before Ms. B or I can make it to him, the glass drops from his grasp, a mosaic of clear-blue glass scattering beneath the table.

Q’s pupils shrink to nearly a pinpoint, drool rappelling from both corners of his mouth, until his neck snaps forward and his entire face crashes into his plate, noodles leaping, sauce squirting like blood capsules.

Instead, Ms. B frantically dials Mr. Oklahoma, immediately launching into Q’s pertinent health info as soon as he answers.

But here he is, his demeanor all business.

There was an inexplicable surge in Q's brain that induced, in simplest terms, a coma.