“Don’t forget: we’re supposed to be going down at this part,” Jackson says.
“If I hate this I’m walking home.”
“I’ll walk with you.”
I bravely look out the window as the plane slows and lowers—in little drops I wish were smoother, but who cares as long as we land. Once we’re lower than the clouds, I see a city washed in sunlight. I can even make out a beach in the distance. The plane safely touches down on the landing strip and bullets toward the airport with incredible speed, roaring. I’m thrown forward a little. And then it’s over. We’re gently rolling toward the gate.
“You flew!” Jackson says.
“I flew,” I breathe.
My life has changed. I can’t take back my first flight any more than I can take back losing my virginity to you, any more than I can take back the things I would love to undo. Possibilities are wheeling through my mind rapidly. If I can fly here for you, where will I go for me?
It’s almost fifty degrees in California this morning—I’ve gone back in time by three hours—so I roll down my window because I welcome anything above New York’s twenty degrees (with a wind chill that makes it feel like ten). I’m on the left in the cab, as I should be, taking in the sights—mainly other cars—as we exit the freeway and enter Santa Monica.
I have one missed call from my mom and a couple of texts from both of my parents, asking me how the homework is coming along and how I’m doing. I feel a wave of nauseating dread, even though I knew all along what would happen.
“Let me get this over with,” I tell Jackson.
“Good luck.”
I almost ask him to put on headphones so he doesn’t have to hear my mom’s deafening scream when she learns I’m three thousand miles away.
I swipe the number.
“One second, Griffin,” Mom answers, and she tells whoever she’s with that she needs a minute. “Sorry. There you go. How are you doing?”
“I have to tell you something, and you’re going to be really upset,” I say.
“What’s going on . . . Griffin, please tell me that you’re not in California,” Mom says. Her voice is calmer than I expected. But there’s also an edge that’s totally unfamiliar.
“I’m in California,” I say. “I’m sorry. I really wanted to be out of there, and I’ll do whatever you want when I get back, therapy and whatever else, but I—”
“You are coming home today!”
There she is, the mom I know; the mom you knew, too.
“Do not leave that airport,” she goes on. “Stay there—”
“I’m coming home on Wednesday morning,” I interrupt. “I’ll give you all the flight details.”
“That’s not happening. I’m flying out there and—”
“Fine. Fly out here. But I’m still not leaving until Wednesday. Tomorrow Jackson and I are celebrating Theo’s life,” I say. It’s a struggle to keep my voice even. “I’ll send you Jackson’s mom’s phone number along with my flight info. You can call her.”
Jackson texts me his mom’s number.
“How will I know I’m talking to Jackson’s mom?” she cries. “It could be some woman on the streets you paid twenty dollars. How can I possibly trust you anymore? Have you called your father yet? Wait. He didn’t know, did he?”
“No, I called you first.”
“You lied to us.” She sounds so disappointed. “You tricked us.”
“I know. I know, and I’m so sorry, but I had to—”
“I’m at work right now,” she interrupts. “Send me Jackson’s mom’s number and pick up when I call you.” Finally her voice softens. “Are you okay? How was the flight?”
“I’m okay. I didn’t freak out. Jackson took care of me.”
Mom breathes into the phone. “Pick up when I call you next.”
“Okay. I love you, Mom.”
There’s an excruciating pause. “I love you, too.” She hangs up.
“Yikes.” I avoid Jackson’s eyes as I send in a flurry all of the relevant information to both my parents. My dad texts me a minute later, asking for both of Jackson’s parents’ addresses, which Jackson types out for him.
Jackson hands me back my phone. He offers a tentative grin. “Well, how are you liking California?”
I laugh. “Not the best twenty minutes of my life, but not the worst, either,” I say.
“Let’s improve that. What do you want to do today?”
I look out the window and hope I don’t get sent home. Jackson’s parents could tip the scale in that direction. “I don’t know. Your call.”