Page 35 of Don't Let Me Go
“You could make pancakes for a living,” Jackson jokes. “I’d buy them.”
He flashes me a smile, but I can’t quite smile back. It’s hard to joke about the future when yours isn’t looking so bright.
“Okay, so, here’s how I see it,” Jackson says, dropping the humor and getting down to business. “You’re pretty sure you don’t want to be a lawyer, but maybe not a hundred percent sure. So I’m thinking, maybe you try this internship for the summer and see how it goes. Who knows? Maybe you’ll be surprised. Maybe you’ll discover you actually like practicing law. In which case, an internship at the ACLU will look totally badass on your résumé when you have to apply to colleges in the fall.”
“And if I hate it?” I ask, which seems the more likely scenario.
“Then you go to your father and say, ‘Hey, I gave this internship my best shot, but I don’t think being a lawyer is for me.’?”
“Just like that?”
“Why not? Is your father a reasonable man?”
“Yeah,” I concede. “He is.”
“Okay, so, if after a summer of putting in the work, you tell him that lawyering isn’t for you, he’ll know you’re speaking from experience, and he’ll understand. Then you’ll have your entire senior year to figure out what it is that you really want to do with your life.”
The simplicity of Jackson’s solution is as surprising as it is sound. I’m honestly embarrassed that I didn’t think of it myself.
“That’s really good advice,” I tell him.
“Try not to sound so surprised,” he chides. “Mr. Pancake Slut is more than just a pretty face, you know.”
Evidently feeling quite pleased with himself, Jackson begins loading a second helping of pancakes onto his plate.
“And, hey, if you do decide that law isn’t for you but you’re still nervous about telling your father, I can help you through it. I know from experience what it’s like to have to disappoint a parent, so if you want me there for moral support or in case things go sideways, just say the word, and I’m there.”
The generosity of his offer surprises me. Although it shouldn’t. Jackson has spent the past two days proving what a good person he is. And what a good friend he can be. Still, I’m touched by his kindness. “You’d do that?”
“Of course. If you think it’ll help,” he says after swallowing another whipped-cream-smothered bite. Then he pauses and shoots me a crafty look. “But I do have one condition.”
“What’s that?” I ask, already suspicious.
Jackson picks up the Reddi-Wip and holds the can over my barely touched pancakes.
“Absolutely not,” I say, pulling my plate away.
Jackson’s jaw drops. “Wow.Really?”
Given that yesterday I barged into his house to accuse him of being a terrible person and today I showed up to tell him I dreamed about his death, I decide that a small concession might be in order.
“Okay, but just a little,” I relent as I slide my plate back toward him.
“Totally,” he agrees beforeburyingmy pancakes under an avalanche of whipped cream.
I grab at the canister to try to salvage what’s left of my breakfast, but Jackson refuses to let go. We struggle over the Reddi-Wip, Jackson laughing, me cursing. I can’t pry the can out of his grip, but I am able to turn it around and aim the nozzle in a new direction—Jackson’s face.
“Oh. My. God,” he sputters, letting go of the can to wipe the thick ribbons of cream from his eyes, nose, and mouth.
Now it’s my turn to burst out laughing. Jackson is definitely going to need a second shower this morning. And even though it’s technically his own fault for desecrating the sanctity of my breakfast, I decide to be magnanimous in victory. I set the Reddi-Wip down on the table to fetch him some napkins—at which point I realize I’ve made a huge tactical mistake. Before I can correct it, Jackson scoops up the canister with a devilish grin.
“Don’tthink about it,” I warn him.
Jackson nods innocently. But I can see the wheels turning in his head.
A second before he lunges at me, I bolt to the other side of the kitchen where I grab a batter-stained spatula out of the sink and brandish it like a sword.
“Jackson,stop,” I order.
