This is the part where I reaffirm my commitment, where she questions if she’s failing me. “I want to stay where I am,” I tell her. And I mean it.
“We gotta figure this out,” Whit says.
This being me.
But before I can reply, Autumn’s tugging on my arm.
“I gotta go,” I tell Whit, ending the call. “What’s going o—” But I don’t finish.
I follow Autumn’s eyes across the patio just before the detonation.
His laughter trips a blast of memories, each a land mine that shrapnels through me. That goofy grin, slumped shoulders, his knees bent like he can hide his Goliath ass.
“Maybe the Universe wants you to make good,” Autumn says, in a way that makes the Universe sound like some benevolent god, or at the very least, your I’m just trying to help mom.
Except that’s not the Universe I know.
And it’s definitely not the Universe that knows me.
98
Nutshelled: last time I spoke to Quincy Barrantes, I was an asshole.
I own it.
And okay, sure, we’ve had conversations since then, like:
’Scuse me.
Nooope.
Yeah, lots of those exchanges.
But mostly, I take minor precautions to ensure our paths don’t intersect. Like when I flung my bike into prickly shrubs, then dived in after it. And yeah, Q ended up walking the opposite direction, but whatever.
In the interest of zero unhealthy confrontations, avoidance is the best policy.
Which, trust me, Q also appreciates; only thing he hates more than me is confrontation. Q, a magnet for bullies—how many times had I stepped in front of him? Taken blows meant for him?
“You gotta stand up for yourself, otherwise this is how it’s always gonna be, Q. You wanna spend your life a human punching bag?”
But he’d push out a silly smile—I couldn’t tell if he was oblivious or really that good inside. “I’d rather spread love, you know? Imagine if that’s how everyone responded? With love? You’d rather live in that world, right?”
“But we don’t,” I’d answer, impatience boiling.
“Gotta start somewhere, right?”
To be honest, that’s one of the things that irritated me most—how he’d add right at the end of something you wanted to disagree with.
I debate whether I should go say something.
Hey, man, some party, huh?
Hey, man, how ’bout those nachos?
Hey, man, how’s life these last two years?
But when I look back, Q’s gone.
And then Autumn’s all—“Oh snap, my soooong!”—as she drags me to the epicenter of the human ocean.
I finally spy him leaning against the far wall, a human kickstand.
I push through the crowd, but I’m too late, kid’s already Houdini’d.
Autumn sets her drink down, guides her Mighty Moat T-shirt up and off. Unbuttons her shorts, nudges them down her hips.
And, well—
I try not to stare, but her canary-yellow two-piece is accentuating all of her accentuations, complementing her dark-brown skin like it was commissioned for her.
“You’re getting in the water, J. Even if I have to harpoon your ass.”
But I’m steady shaking my head. “Don’t think I’m swimming tonight.”
She points to my legs. “You’re wearing trunks under your jeans, J.”
“Yeah. Just like to be prepared for . . . different . . . scenarios.”
“Like swimming?”
“I suppose swimming’s a scenario, yeah.”
She leads me poolward. She dives in, swims ten yards beneath the water, a black-and-yellow blur, before breaking surface, her body seesawing in the slanting-sloping waves.
“It feels great,” she promises.
“Hold up. Something’s happening,” I say.
Everyone’s rushing to the far end of the pool. Autumn’s long strokes get her there ahead of me.
Most of the kids outside have formed a huddle.
Someone asks, What’s your name?
“Quincy,” he answers. “You can just call me Q.”
I stand on tiptoes. Q’s front and center, beaming.
Which is odd. Dude avoided attention like you avoid skunks—wide berth.
Everyone’s chanting: “Q! Q! Q!” And Q gulps three cups back-to-back-to-back, each empty falling at his feet. Everyone’s clapping, high-fiving, egging him on. He downs another with ease, swipes the foam from his mouth, and tosses his head back in a laughing howl.
“Q’s a beast,” somebody shouts.
A new chant starts: “In the pool! In the pool! In the pool!”
Q takes a tentative step forward, his posture wobbly.
“In the pool! In the pool! In the pool!”
He’s at the edge now, staring into the deep end. He rocks his arms back and forth, like he’s building momentum for an Olympic dive, bends at the waist like there’s treasure at the bottom and he means to find it.
“In the pool! In the pool!”
But then someone yells: “Q! No! No, Q!”
The chanting stops; everyone pivoting to see the culprit.
“Booooo,” a few kids shout. “You killing the vibe, man!”
And they’re looking at me. I’m the vibe killer.
“We’re not gonna let him drown,” someone says hella casually, the way you’d say we’re not gonna let him eat another taco.
I hustle around, grab Q’s arm. “Hey, man, maybe sit this one out?”
And no, I’m not expecting gratitude—it’s not like I saved his life; he might’ve been fine in the pool—but I’m definitely not prepared for rage.
I’ve never seen Q angry—not like this—not even when he should’ve been.
“Oh snap, we’ve got a Jauncy sighting, guys,” someone yells from the back of the yard.
A shiver moves down my spine. When’s the last time someone shouted Jauncy? When’s the last time someone said Jauncy?
And now a few more kids are yelling it.
The party host suddenly materializes beside us. “Guys, ohmigod, you gotta do a Jauncy at my party. Seriously, we need a Jauncy reunion!”
And now a new chant. “Jauncy, Jauncy, Jauncy . . .”
I ignore them, turn back to Q. “You’re okay?”
But Q’s boiling. “Yo, why’d you do that, man?”
“Why I’d do what?”
“That.” His voice cracks the slightest. His eyes are pink and watery, but it doesn’t mean tears; he could have beer in his eyes. Or sweat.
The Jauncy fervor’s dying rapidly behind us.
Which, good.
Jauncy’s the last thing I want to revive.
“Serious? C’mon, bro, you were dizzy. You could’ve cracked your head on the pool floor.”
“That was mine.”
“What was yours, Q?”
“Quincy.”
“What?”
“Friends call me Q,” he says. “Call me Quincy.”
And as he walks away, I’m a civil war: brain proud he’s standing up for himself. Heart wanting to run after him, ask what the hell’s wrong with you?
Pool at my back, I look out at the lake, all that water dyed in denim moonlight.