Jackson was right: yesterday was a bad start for him and me. I don’t even know what it’s the start of. Thankfully there’s no school today, so I don’t have to spend this morning fighting with my parents to let me stay home or zombie-walking between classes when they send me anyway. Jackson and I will use the time attempting a do-over for you.
I sit up when my phone flashes 8:02. When I turn, Jackson isn’t in bed. The comforter is flat on the air mattress, Jackson’s clothes are on the floor, but he’s not here. I leave my room to see if he’s in the bathroom showering or something and find the bathroom door wide open. I hear the loud clatter of my mom’s laptop keys. You always joked with her about it, accusing her of trying to look busy so she wouldn’t have to answer your probing questions about what she was like as a teen.
In the living room, I find Mom at the dining room table with Jackson, who’s sitting in your seat. I wonder if Mom told him it was your seat or if he felt drawn to the seat because of you. Maybe it’s a total coincidence.
“I’m sorry about that,” Mom is saying. At first I think she’s apologizing to me, but she closes her laptop and looks up at Jackson. “Some clients didn’t get the notice I’m supposed to be email-free today. So, you’re skipping the rest of your semester?”
“My professors have been understanding, but I don’t have it in me,” Jackson says.
“Same,” I say, joining them at the table. I sit opposite of Jackson, like I normally did whenever it was you in that seat, and I keep my eyes on the bagel in front of him. “Except no one’s giving me a time-out, so I’m pretty much going to fail everything.”
“There’s still time to turn everything around,” Mom says gently.
She goes on about conversations she’s had with my teachers about extra credit and issuing me hall passes so I can run to my guidance counselor’s office whenever. But she loses me when I look up. I’m reregistering why Jackson Wright is here, in my apartment, in my clothes.
In a lot of ways, Jackson is a clone of me. Our hazel eyes are strained from sleeplessness and crying, framed with pale black bags darker than the ones I got last summer from when we spent an entire week playing Xbox games online until morning. His bagel has barely been touched, and I bet he’s also been eating just enough lately to shut up his growling stomach. He’s also unable to operate through schoolwork and everything else life demands; he loves you and you loved him.
“Griffin? Griffin?” Mom grabs my hand and squeezes.
“Sorry.” I slide my hand out from under hers. “Got lost in my head again.” I hide my hand under the table so Jackson doesn’t see me scratching my palm.
“No need to apologize.” My mom stands and picks up her laptop. “I’m going to go wake up your father.”
I don’t know when he made his way over to the bedroom, but hopefully my mom catches him up on why Jackson is here.
“How’d you sleep?” I ask him. Playing dumb is another form of lying, I know.
Jackson shrugs and avoids my eyes. “You know.”
I don’t know if he means you know how it is or you know damn well I didn’t sleep very well, but I’m not investigating further.
“Have you spoken to Russell or Ellen?”
“I called Ellen an hour ago. It sounds like they’re all relaxing this morning.” Jackson picks up his bagel and looks like he’s about to spin it like a quarter before looking up at me with flushed cheeks; maybe this is something he does at home or did with you. “Thanks again for letting me stay last night. I thought about heading back out this morning to give you your space, but your mom was awake when I came out here to call Ellen.”
“Did she recognize you from the funeral?” And the playing dumb continues, because my mom is admittedly pretty familiar with photos of Jackson. I showed her the online album you made of you two. I wanted her to tell me I’m not crazy for seeing a resemblance between him and me.
“She did, yeah,” Jackson says, and cringes a little. “There’s no denying she was really surprised to see me.”
I imagine she was as shocked as all the funeral attendees who witnessed two boys at your funeral, their awkward competitiveness, each delivering a eulogy about the love of his life. Until this morning my mom had never seen another boy coming out of my bedroom who wasn’t you. “My bad. I should’ve left her a note on the whiteboard so she knew you were here.”
“She played it cool,” Jackson says. He leans toward me and lowers his voice. “I got to ask you something. Please answer honestly. I wouldn’t ask something if I didn’t think I could handle it. All right?”
He’s going to ask something crazy intimate about you, Theo; I can feel it. Maybe he’s bold enough to ask about our first time or why I broke up with you.