Page 19 of Don't Let Me Go
I can feel the color drain from my face. “What?”
“Devon Sanderson,” he repeats. “You know, the kid that you and your friends put in the hospital.”
Chapter 8
Riley
“Well?” I ask when Jackson continues to stare at me in silence.
After reading about Jackson in the Tallahassee newspaperlast night, I found five more articles about him and his football team, including one in theOrlando Sentinel.That’s where I must have seen his picture and why he seemed so familiar.
I considered forwarding the article to my friends—they should definitely know what kind of guy Jackson is. But I decided to hold off until I confronted him. I want to hear with my own ears what he has to say for himself.
Jackson, though, doesn’t look like he’s in the mood to talk. He doesn’t look like he’s in the mood for anything. As he sits on the edge of his bed, his whole body deflates in shame.
“You heard?” he finally manages to ask.
“Yeah. I heard.”
“Do the others know?”
“Uh?.?.?.?no,” I say, slightly taken aback thatthat’shis first concern. Jackson looks up at me, his eyes hopeful. Until I add, “Notyet.”
Nodding, he hangs his head in defeat. He looks so crushed—so miserable—that a part of me wants to rush to his side and give him a hug. Then I remember the photo of Devon Sanderson in his hospital bed, and I remind myself that Jackson isn’t the victim here.
“I’m really sorry about what happened to Devon,” he says, his voice almost a whisper.
“So why did you do it?” I snap.
Jackson shakes his head. “Does it matter?”
“It does to me.”
Jackson looks up in surprise. I’m surprised too. I don’t know where this burning need to hear his side of the story is coming from. If Duy or Tala or Audrey had hurt someone, I’d give them every opportunity to explain themselves. But I’ve known Jackson for less than twenty-four hours. I shouldn’t care why he did what he did or what excuses he might have. And yet I can’t help myself—I need him to explain.
“Did you ever feel like you were living the wrong life?” Jackson asks. His question catches me off guard, and when I don’t answer, he continues. “I’ve been playing football ever since I learned to walk. I don’t even remember deciding it was something I wanted to do. My father played when he was in college. So did my grandfather. There was never any question that I’d play too. Football was?.?.?.?in my blood.”
He says that last part like he’s discussing a congenital disorder instead of a family pastime. “You didn’t enjoy playing?” I ask, wondering where this is leading.
Jackson shrugs. “I liked making my father proud. And I wasn’t particularly good at anything else, so it didn’t really matter if I enjoyed playing or not. It’s what I did. I never really felt like I had a choice.”
I nod. Only last night, I was lamenting the fact that my life didn’t feel like my own and wondering if it ever would. I guess I’m not the only one struggling under the weight of other people’s expectations.
Be that as it may, I’m still not any closer to understanding what happened to Devon.
“What does all this have to do with...”
“Right, sorry,” Jackson apologizes. “I’m getting to that. It’s just kind of hard to talk about.”
“Take your time,” I tell him, my voice coming out far kinder than I intend.
Jackson shoots me a grateful look. “Devon was a freshman. He joined the team in the fall and wasn’t the best player. That’s not an excuse for what happened. But it—it made him a target.”
I nod, intimately aware of how bullying starts. And how it can end.
“You see, we were on a pretty hot winning streak last year,” Jackson continues. “We had a real chance of making it all the way to the state final and taking home the trophy for the first time in something like twenty-five years. It was all anyone at school talked about. Hell, it was all anyone in Tallahassee talked about. Even Devon.”
Jackson pauses and lets out a defeated sigh. “But Devon?.?.?.?he kept messing up. Little mistakes. Nothing major. But the guys on the team began to get afraid that one of Devon’s ‘little mistakes’ was gonna cost us the championship. They started hazing him, usually at parties after our games. I think some of the guys legitimately thought they were toughening him up, you know? That they were helping him. Or teaching him a lesson. But the other half? The other half just wanted to punish him.”
