I stand inside, heart skipping beats. I can hear him on the other side of the door. I can feel him there. I know the moment when he walks away, two minutes later, because the air around me goes back to being normal air, not dangerous, electric-storm air that might lightning-strike you at any moment. My heart is still skipping beats as he drives away.
I think about saying it as Mom passes the salad, as Dusty recites his lines from Peter Pan, as Dad passes the mac and cheese: I have prosopagnosia. It’s official. I was tested today by a brain specialist.
No one knows I haven’t been home all day except Marcus, who keeps saying things like “Wasn’t it crazy when the fire alarm went off during lunch? Wasn’t that crazy, Jack?” All these baiting comments, trying to trip me up. When Mom and Dad aren’t looking, I give him the finger.
Dad catches me and says, “Hey. Not at the table.”
I want to tell him not to talk to me. I want to say You’re the last person who should be reprimanding anyone.
But I’m in this weirdly good mood, in spite of Dr. Amber Klein and in spite of my fucked-up brain. So I don’t say a word to my dad or to Marcus, which is so much more than either of them deserves. I stay locked in my own head, reliving the ride there, the ride home, my hand intertwined with Libby’s, the way she smiled at me, and the way she said, I guess we’d have to do something about it, then.
After dinner, I’m in the basement working on the Lego robot, trying to lose myself in the process of building something, but the only thing I’m building right now is the world’s largest pile of discarded robot parts. The hardest stage of any project is coming up with it. Once I know what I want the thing to be, it’s just a matter of collecting the pieces I need and putting them together in the right order. But right now I can’t nail it down. I’ve got fifty different ideas for fifty different robots, but none of them are right or extraordinary enough.
I hear footsteps, and from the stairs a voice says, “Were you really sick today?”
Dusty.
“Not in a flu kind of way.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“I’m good.” He wanders over to me, sorting through the parts that are scattered across the worktable and the floor. I say, “Do you want to talk about anything? Are people still being shitty?”
“I’m good too. I’m Peter Pan.”
And I get it. He wants to stay in this moment. The bad moments always have a way of coming around again, way too soon.
I go up to my room and climb out of my window, into the tree and onto the roof. I lie back and stare at the sky. I think about it being the same sky that I looked up at when I was six, before I fell, and about all that’s happened in between then and now. It really shouldn’t be the same sky, for all that’s happened. It should look completely different.
Marcus was playing in the yard. I went up to the roof to get away from him and away from my mom, who was always telling me to watch him. It was harder to get up there than I expected. That surprised me. And it was dirtier—bird shit and twigs and an old softball that might have been there for the past twenty years. Our roof isn’t flat—it has a slope—and I scooted to the edge of it, looking out over the street and the neighborhood. I held on with one hand, and Marcus looked up just then, and I let go because I wanted him to see that I was strong and fearless and bigger than he would ever be.
It takes less than a second to fall twelve feet, but it felt like it lasted forever. In that moment of falling, they say the memory goes wide open. You can see things you don’t usually think of or see or remember. For me, it was my mother’s face—specifically, it was her eyes. I can’t remember what they looked like in that moment I saw them, but I remember that I saw them.
“Hello?”
“It’s Jack. I was thinking about what you said.”
“I say so many things. Can you narrow it down?”
“I was thinking about what you said about doing something to address this whole you-like-me-I-like-you situation.”
“I never said I like you.”
Silence.
“Jack?”
“What you’ve just heard is the sound of my heart dying a swift and sudden death.”
“Hypothetically speaking, if—and I’m not saying I do—but if I was to like you, what would you want to do about it?”
“I would probably want to hold your hand.”
“Probably?”
“Hypothetically, yes. I would definitely hypothetically want to hold your hand.”
“Well then, I would probably hypothetically hold yours back.”
“I would also hypothetically want to take you to a movie, even though I don’t like movies as a rule because of the whole facial confusion situation.”
“Which one?”
“Which movie?”
“I need to know if it’s something I want to see.”
“Won’t it be enough just to be with me, holding hypothetical hands in the dark?”
“I’d at least like to know what kind of movie we’d be seeing.”
“Uh. I think it would need to be a movie with some of everything. Comedy. Drama. Action. Mystery. Romance.”
“That sounds like a really good movie.”
“So would you hold my hand during it?”
“Probably.”
“Okay. I’ll take ‘probably’ for now. I’d also want to take you out to dinner, either before or after the movie, depending, and I would absolutely want to walk you to your door.”