Page 9 of Don't Let Me Go
She bites her lower lip in disappointment, and I watch the same disappointment spread to Duy’s and Tala’s faces. My friends have always been amateur adrenaline junkies, and the Death Drop is one of their all-time-favorite fixes.
“You guys should go on it without me,” I suggest, not wanting todeprive them of one of the few genuine pleasures that this carnival has to offer. I’ve already spoiled enough of the fun with my fainting.
“Don’t be silly,” Tala protests. “We’re not going to leave you.”
“For the one-millionth time,I’mfine.”
“But what if you faint again?” Duy asks.
I roll my eyes. But before I can respond, Jackson jumps in.
“I can watch him,” he announces, much to my surprise. “If the three of you want to ride this death thing, I’m happy to stay here and keep an eye on Riley.”
I’m not quite sure how to respond to this. On the one hand, I don’t love the infantilizing implication that I’m some child who needs a babysitter. On the other, it is unexpectedly thoughtful of Jackson to stay with me so my friends can get in their extreme thrills. It’s not the kind of behavior that I expect from these walking Ken Dolls. And Jackson certainly doesn’t have any reason to be nice to me, especially not after the way I’ve been sniping at him.
Of course, he could just be trying to redeem himself after all his problematic comments; it’s hard to say. I’m usually better at reading people and figuring out what their deal is, but Jackson is proving more difficult than I expected.
“Are you sure you’re okay staying with Riley?” Audrey asks, though I can tell from the gleam of excitement in her eyes that she’s already mentally accepted Jackson’s offer.
“Yeah. It’s all good,” he assures her. “You guys go have fun.”
My friends don’t need any further convincing. After quickly deciding that we’ll meet back up in front of the Ferris wheel in half an hour, they link arms and practically skip off into the night. Though not before Duy shouts parting instructions at Jackson to toss me into the dunking booth if I get too moody.
Jackson chuckles and turns his attention back to me. “Your friends seem really great.”
“They’re certainly something,” I answer, avoiding his gaze. While I’m grateful that my friends’ evening hasn’t been ruined, I’m not exactly over the moon to spend the next thirty minutes alone with a dude-bro like Jackson. What are we supposed to talk about? His workout routine? Protein shakes? How hot Sydney Sweeney is?
Ugh. I’d rather go back to being unconscious.
“I need to walk off some of this junk food,” I announce, rising from the picnic table and half hoping he’ll take the hint and not follow. “I’m about to go into a sugar coma.”
“Good idea,” he says, hopping up like a faithful golden retriever and falling into step beside me as I walk away. I should’ve known I wouldn’t escape so easily.
Stuck with my “sitter,” I wander aimlessly down the carnival’s main thoroughfare, passing various tents and booths that offer cotton candy, Skee-Ball, fresh lemonade, and face painting. I’m praying there are enough loud noises and twinkling lights to keep Jackson distracted, but it’s not long before he’s back to attempting another round of awkward small talk.
“So, uh, how did you and your friends meet?” he asks as he chews on the straw of his fountain drink.
“At school,” I answer. “Tala, Audrey, and I met when we were freshmen. The year after that, Duy came along, and we sort of took them under our wing. We figured if the four of us wanted to survive high school, it would be in our best interest to stick together.”
“Stick together against what?”
“People like you.”
Jackson stops in his tracks and tilts his head in confusion. “What do you mean?”
“I mean at my school, people like you seem to take a lot of pleasure in making life really uncomfortable for people like me and my friends.And because this is Florida and the state is run by Republicans whose mission in life is to make the world unbearable for queer teens, people like you get away with it pretty much all the time. Which means that in addition to stressing about finals and the SAT, my friends and I have the added pressure of walking around with targets on our backs, wondering when the next asshole is going to say or do something to ruin our day. And we get to do this every day of every week of every year until we’re old enough to graduate and get the fuck out of Florida.”
Jackson opens his mouth to say something, and I prepare myself for the usual stream of protests that I get from defensive straight people: that they personally have never bullied anyone, that not all straight people are the enemy, et cetera, et cetera. I’ve heard it all before, and I’m ready for whatever Jackson says next.
To my surprise, though, Jackson just shakes his head and says, “Fuck, dude, that sucks. I’m sorry you have to deal with that.”
Unprepared for the earnestness of his apology and the total lack of defensiveness in his response, I feel all my scathing rejoinders die on my tongue.
“Thanks,” I hear myself say.
Jackson nods, and we continue our stroll. We’re both silent, and it occurs to me in that silence that I was (perhaps) intentionally trying to goad Jackson with my comments. What can I say? I wanted to piss him off so he’d reveal his true colors. And I suppose, in a way, he did. It just wasn’t a color I was expecting.
Not that I’m ready to make peace with him yet. I still don’t trust him. Mainly because I can’t shake the feeling that my dream was some kind of warning. Like my subconscious was telling me,Yes, he’s hot, but be careful. There’s danger around the corner.
