A jealousy for the fact that I wasn’t actually alone, for the fact that I was actually with a girl he did not know.

An earnest desire to do whatever would make me less shitiful.

Even if the only way to do that meant he couldn’t be there.

So, why wouldn’t I want my best friend around? Why would I want distance? What’s changed, you ask?

The answer was everything.

Nothing the same.

And a sliver of happiness.

“We just moved here,” Autumn said.

“You and your parents?”

She shook her head. “Nope. Me and my grandma.”

“Oh,” I say, wanting to ask more but also knowing it was none of my business. “That’s cool. Well, uh, welcome. You two could’ve chosen to live anywhere in the world. Chicago, NYC, Paris, but yet here you are in . . . Ely . . . town.”

She laughed. “That’s what I thought too. But then . . .”

“But then . . . what?”

“Nothing,” she said, shaking her head, breaking our eye contact, but not breaking this trance she’d magicked me into.

“Say what you wanted to say.”

And she turned back to me, and her smile was gone, but the light in her eyes was not, it was somehow more, and she finished her sentence. Punctuated the hell out of it.

“But then, you,” she said. “But then, you.”

Postreanimation Day 1

Approx. 23–27 Q Days Left

57

Two things get me through the seven-hour daily void that is high school.

1) Autumn Gregory.

2) Fixating on whatever school break’s next on our academic horizon.

So today, I feel doubly fortunate—Autumn’s leaning against my locker and spring break’s two days away.

She wraps me in a hug. “You look like regurgitated shit.”

I rub my chin atop her head. “Awww, babe, you always know just what to say.”

“What’re we doing after school?”

I sigh. Pop open my locker. “Can’t.”

She flashes mock horror. “Who’s the side chick?”

“Mrs. Sweat.”

“Ugh, gross.”

The bell rings and Autumn stands on her tiptoes, my arms returning to her waist. “Baby, say that thing you know I like.”

She grins. “You’re gonna be a father.”

And we both laugh. “Your grandma would whup your ass with her cane.”

“And yours too.”

“Yeah, she would.” I pull her closer, but this time she stiffens.

“What’s going on in that head of yours?” she asks.

“Guess I’m wondering if Q’s gonna be at school today.”

The one-minute bell rings.

Autumn studies my face. “The important thing is he’s okay, yeah?”

“No, yeah. You’re right.”

She reaches around, smacks my ass. “Okay, well, leave already so I can watch you walk away.”

We kiss and part ways. And I can’t help but stare at her, too. Because, sweet baby Jesus, she’s poetry.

My pocket buzzes.

Whit: Don’t forget mtg w/Sweat.

Me: sorry I already have plans not to be there, so.

Whit:

56