“Harpoon readied, our world-class marine biologist zeroes in on her target,” a voice narrates behind me. I turn around and I can’t help but laugh. Autumn, floating in the middle of the pool, arms posed as if aiming a speargun.
I shake my head. “I don’t think marine biologists use deadly weapons. Especially on animals.”
“Yeah, well.” She raises her arms, her right eye squinting as if peering through a scope. “This is a peaceful harpoon, designed to politely subdue, so we can tag and track water life.”
“Ah. A peaceful harpoon. Those must be hard to find.”
She shrugs. “I just hope it’s strong enough. Jamals are a particularly hairy species, you see.”
“Oh, really,” I say, cracking up. I ball up my shirt, toss it into the grass.
“Keep it steady now,” Autumn calls out. “Steady. Steady. Fire!”
Her arms recoil, and I wait a beat, then clutch my chest.
“You’re right, no pain,” I say, grinning. “In fact, this spear kinda tickles.”
Because why worry about your former friend when your person is right in front of you?
“Get over here,” Autumn says, tugging her pretend rope.
And I fall in.
97
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JAUNCY IN THE STREETS
TuberOne
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Jamal: So, guys, you already know what time it is.
Q: So, we’re just gonna get right to it. Stay tuned for another episode of . . .
Jamal & Q: JAUNCY IN THE STREETS!
CUT TO: a queue outside a movie theater
Q: What movie are you seeing?
Girl with Dreads: Challenger’s Crossing
Q: Oh, nice. So, you like Carla Thomas?
Girl with Dreads: Love her. She’s the best.
Q: Between Yolanda’s Choice, Paper or Plastic . . .
*NOT A REAL MOVIE flashes on the screen*
Q: And Carwash Cliff Gets Down in Idaho . . .
*NOT A REAL MOVIE flashes on the screen*
Q: Which one was your favorite Carla Thomas performance?
Girl with Dreads: Oh, definitely Paper or Plastic.
Q: Yeah, what was it about that one you liked?
Girl with Dreads: She’s so versatile and, like, she just made you feel every scene.
CUT TO: inside a small coffee shop
Jamal: So, this is a segment called “Tables Turned,” where you get to ask us any question you want.
Barista: Hmm. I don’t know.
Jamal: Literally, anything.
Barista: Are you gonna buy coffee?
CUT TO: standing outside a bookstore, with books prominently displayed in the window
J: Name one book.
Middle-Aged Man in Windbreaker: What kind of book?
J: Any book ever written.
Windbreaker: Umm . . . let me think.
J: Could’ve been a book you read as a kid.
Windbreaker (laughing): I was too busy having girlfriends, man. Books are for people who can’t get dates.
*Zoom in on Jamal’s confused face*
J: Okay, but just any book, doesn’t have to be one you read. Literally, any book.
Windbreaker: I don’t know, the Bible?
J: You’re going with the Bible?
Windbreaker: Is that a book? That’s not a book. It’s one of those scroll things, dammit. This is making me look bad.
*A chime plays and CORRECT flashes on the screen*
96
By rule, all Hills parties migrate to the beach.
This party’s easier than normal. At the back of the yard, buttressing the hillside, wind-worn stairs spiral toward the sand.
I dry off inside, small-talking, as kids descend to the shore and squirt too much lighter fluid into a woodpile—a mega bonfire is also a Hills party requirement.
The house clears fast; a few stragglers hug their goodbyes before hiking to their parked cars, but mostly everyone flocks beachward.
Autumn, flanked by her girlfriends, asks if I’m ready to head down. She’s still in her yellow two-piece, except she’s slipped back on her shorts; a thin yellow band peeks out over her denim waist. I tell her I’ll meet her, that I wanna enjoy the view a bit longer. She kisses my cheek, whispers in my ear: “Are you okay?”
I nod, kiss her back.
But the truth is, I’m not.
Because despite my best efforts, my brain’s abuzz with what to do about Q.
So, naturally, a moment later, I plow right into him, knocking him to the ground.
“Yo, Q, my bad, man.” I extend a hand, which he ignores. “I mean, Quincy. Sorry.”
He brushes himself off without a word.
“Look, I’m sorry for barreling into you. And for interfering earlier. I was just trying to . . .” I think about what Dr. Ocean’s always saying at therapy, that I can only control what I say and do, but not the response. I can’t force someone to see it my way, to feel as I do. I shake my head. “Actually, you know what? It’s not important. Have a good night, Quincy.”
I start for the beach, but I don’t get far before spinning around. “You’re not hitting the beach?” I call back.
Q tilts his head. “Nah.”
“You should,” I reply too quickly, triggering an awkward silence as we both contemplate how to proceed. I pretend to wring my mostly dry shorts.
Q clears his throat. “It was ginger ale.”
“Huh?”
“I wasn’t chugging beer, man.”
I laugh. “For real?”
“I’m not an idiot. Or did you forget that, too?”
And I stop laughing.
Because yes, I deserve that.
But also, the thing I didn’t forget is this: Q’s refusal to accept his share of the blame.
To own his mistakes.
He swivels back to me. “Actually, I am gonna hit up the beach.”
And I nod, as the moonlight pushes Q’s shadow into the rocks below.
95
For seven years, we were the Best Kind of Brothers.
We’d lie in our blanket forts, or in my backyard, sleeping bags zipped to our chins, staring at stars. Each time, the sky felt new.
We watched 757s punch into clouds, and we’d brag about how special this was.
We were better than blood because we’d chosen our brotherhood.
Because we kept choosing, time and again.
We started three tree houses that never got further than sketches on notebook paper and a few boards nailed into trees.
We were built to last.
We stretched our jokes for days, years.
We wrestled everywhere—in our living rooms, our moms yelling take that upstairs, take that to the basement, in our yards until our jeans were grass-scuffed, until our T-shirts were torn. We ambushed each other—sneaking up behind the other person when they were carrying milk or a plate of spaghetti, laughing our asses off even as we mopped or peeled noodles from the wall. We lied for each other.
He gave me shit when my mom insisted on cutting my hair—your head looks like a globe, bro. You’ve got patches of islands and a big continent over here, what is that, South America? But then he convinced his cousin Alonzo to come through and shape me up. You think I’m gonna let my boy go to school like that, he said when I’d thanked him. Only person who gets to take shots at you is me, he’d said, thumbing his chest.