I shake my head. “You’re my favorite Theo and all, but you’re not the only one.”
He turns to me. “You know more Theos? Give me their addresses so I can put an end to this madness.” He throws out his hands, like he’s ready to karate chop any passing Theos. His fighting stance reminds me of his hipster C-3PO Halloween costume last year. He dressed in a T-shirt resembling the android’s body, with gold paint on his face and arms.
“How about C-Theo-PO ?”
“Nah. Too insignificant. Cool chapter title, maybe.” Theo raises an eyebrow and points at me. “I have your title, though. Griffin on the Left.”
Now I want to kiss him so badly. “It’s perfect.” I make sure Wade isn’t coming, and I pull Theo by his hand, leading him to the next aisle. But I don’t act on the kiss because I don’t want to rush it or feel like we’re doing it behind Wade’s back.
“We have to tell Wade, dude,” I whisper. “If you want to do it by yourself, that’s cool, but if you want to tell him together, that’s also cool. But we’re not leaving this bookstore until we do so.”
“Deal,” Theo says, squeezing my hand. “What time does the store close again? I—”
“Whoa,” Wade says.
He is standing at the end of the aisle, holding a tray of iced teas. I jerk my hand out of Theo’s. “Whoa,” he repeats, walking toward us. He’s Theo’s height, but he seems smaller, the way his shoulders sink. He shakes his head and manages a small smile. “This whole squad business was fun while it lasted.”
That’s not the reaction I was expecting. “What are you talking about?”
“How long have you two been dating? I knew this was going to happen. You guys doubt my psychic ways, but I called this last year. I just didn’t tell anyone.”
I don’t know what I was expecting. But it wasn’t this.
“You had a vision where Griffin and I were hooking up and the world was going to end?” Theo asks. His voice is weirdly high-pitched.
Wade smirks, handing me an iced tea. “Pretty much.”
“Your visions are kind of gay,” Theo jokes, attempting to get a hold of himself. “You should get that checked out.”
I take a sip, attempting to get a hold of myself, too. “Wait. How did you know Theo and I liked each other? Don’t say because you’re psychic.”
“You don’t have to be a psychic to have seen this coming. Your chemistry was all over my face.” He hesitates. “That came out wrong. Anyway, I’m not going to be some third wheel, guys.”
Three is a number I’ve forgiven since yesterday, but only for our squad. It hopefully won’t bother me as much now that Theo and I are together, like our personal unit will count as “one,” though I probably shouldn’t mention that to Wade. “It’s not game over for us. Think of it as a new game, if anything, with new levels and new worlds.”
“New obstacles for me if I want to see you guys, and new game modes exclusive to you two,” Wade counters.
“You’re welcome to join in our exclusive activities,” Theo says with a wink.
Wade goes on to list every example of love gone wrong, mainly from comic books: Green Lantern’s girlfriend who was killed and had her corpse stuffed in his fridge; Cyclops and Jean Grey, high school sweethearts who keep losing each other to everything the world throws at them; Ant-Man, who douses the Wasp with bug spray, and wow, I didn’t realize Ant-Man was so emotionally and physically abusive. A fourth example doesn’t follow.
Theo turns to me. “I promise to never bug-spray you, Griff. Do you promise to never bug-spray me?”
“I promise.”
Lying, I mouth to Wade so that Theo sees, to make the situation normal, or to try to.
Theo takes his iced tea from the tray. “Are we all good now?”
“Promise me you guys won’t destroy the squad when you break up,” Wade says. I can tell by his tone he isn’t messing around. This is like seventh grade, when Theo and I kept teasing Wade for getting his name trimmed into his fade, and he laughed for a bit but eventually told us to stop.
“Maybe show some faith in us, dude,” Theo says quietly. “But sure, I promise we’ll be adults if we do break up.”
“You’re sixteen. You’re not an adult,” Wade says.
“I’m counting on us being together for a while,” Theo says.
I take a deep breath and swear I won’t let Wade kill my happy Theo vibes. “I also promise I won’t destroy the squad if we break up either. Can we please go back to looking at books?”
Theo gestures for us to come together, and he wraps an arm around both of us. He fake-whispers to Wade, “We have to do a group hug so Griffin doesn’t feel left out.”
“I hate you both,” Wade says.
We all laugh, and like that it’s over and there are no more secrets, and I keep smiling longer than anyone else because Theo is betting on us being together for a while. Which is good. It’ll give me enough time to come up with the perfect title for his memoir.
TODAY
Monday, November 20th, 2016
I don’t want to go in, I don’t want to go in. Theo, I don’t want to go in, I don’t want to go in to say goodbye to you.
The funeral chapel on Eighty-First and Madison looks like toy blocks stacked on one another and weirdly incomplete because it’s beige, like they forgot to paint it a real color or thought it’d be inappropriate to do so. I can’t believe this is the place your parents chose for your friends and family to say goodbye to you. I don’t have another spot in mind, but wherever it would be, it would have some color.
Doesn’t matter for me, at least. I’m not going in there.
“Coming in, Griffin?”
“No,” I say. “I’m not. I can’t.”
Mom takes the key out of the ignition and stuffs it into her purse. “We’ll sit here until you’re ready.” She stares straight ahead, where mourners with cups of coffee—no one I recognize—enter the chapel as the hourly bell chimes. I’m okay with missing the ten o’clock mass. I’m not going to be singing or praying my grief away anytime soon. Mom holds out her hand and Dad wraps his own around hers, like usual. My parents’ love is straight-up locked down. I’m too numb to feel it right now, but I really owed all my confidence in our own future to them because they’d been together since they were teenagers, too.
Seeing those hands holding each other when I have to imagine yours in mine pisses me off.
I get out of the car and slam the door behind me. The chilly autumn air bites through my jacket and hoodie; breathing in the cold tires out my lungs. The rain isn’t coming down hard, but I’m drenched.
My parents abandon the warmth of their busted Toyota and keep to my right, respecting the compulsion you sometimes found fascinating. They remain silent. No fortune-cookie nonsense. I’m lucky to have parents who know when to go to war with me and when to leave me alone in the battlefield.
You’re waiting inside. Not you, but you.
I owe you a goodbye.
If you were here, I’d be inside already, which . . . well, the weirdness of you talking me into your own funeral isn’t lost on me. You were always a pro at getting me to be brave—to take down the walls that could be taken down, at least. You can’t be faulted for my unbreakable compulsions.
At the door I can sense my parents wanting to reach out. I turn and find a couple of other new faces coming toward us. If I don’t know them, then they don’t know me, and they won’t know why it’s so hard for me to put my hand on this damn knob and turn it to go inside, because they don’t know our history. They might be friends of your parents or neighbors you spoke about but I never met.
The pressure is building, but no one says anything.
I’m pummeling myself to the ground, and I’m drowning without trying to surface, all at once.
I reach for the doorknob. I walk into a space of stale air and g
rief.
There’s a big cutout of your face at the entrance. Your parents chose that awkward photo from your junior-year class pictures, but not the one we agreed was best, the one that was going to be your author photo on your memoir: where your smile was a little on the shy side, and your blue eyes held a hint of mischief. Maybe it wasn’t the impression they wanted others to have of you. It’s completely lost on me why your parents went ahead and chose it for your funeral. But I won’t say anything. Who knows where Russell’s and Ellen’s heads are these days.
I approach your cutout with my parents shadowing me, offering condolences to God-knows-who. My eyes lock with yours, flat as they may be. I almost talk myself out of it, but I touch the picture, my fingerprints marking your glossy cheek. My fingers trail down to the bronzed card in the bottom center of the frame. I trace each letter:
theodore daniel mcintyre
february 10, 1998—november 13, 2016
“Griffin.”
I really don’t want to face Wade right now. I haven’t been speaking to him as much over the past couple of months, not since everything that went down between you two recently. He tried reaching out several times over the past week, of course, but I never answered the phone or the door. But I turn. Wade is wearing one of the ties you got him a couple of Christmases ago, and he’s picking at a scab on his elbow. He’s either avoiding my eyes or his contacts are throwing his attention elsewhere. I’m sure he’s feeling guilty for not talking to you when he had the chance.
“Sorry for your loss, Griffin,” Wade says.
Your former best friend gets that you’re my loss. That’s history right there. “You too,” I manage.
I scan the crowd. I’m not surprised the rain didn’t affect the huge turnout. I wonder how many of these people have laughed since you died. I’m sure they’ve smiled at something stupid, like old funny photos in their phones or episodes of some comedy they maybe watched to get your death off their minds. But I want to know if they have busted out laughing so hard their rib cage hurt. I haven’t. I’m not mad at any of them if they have. It sucks because I know I’ll be alone in my grief for a while. I just want to know when it’ll be possible to laugh again. And when it’ll be okay.
Wade’s gaze finally fixes on me. “You going to talk to Jackson?”
Even after all this time, his name still strikes a nerve with me. “It’s not a priority,” I say. I should shut up or walk away.
“I know it’s different, but he’s probably the only other person here who gets what you’re going through.”
“What they had isn’t the same,” I say in spite of myself, fighting back tears and screams. I look away again so Wade won’t try to comfort me. I see your grandfather holding himself up with his cane, your aunt Clara handing out packages of tissues she probably bought in bulk like everything else, your cousin knitting what looks like a scarf from here, but no sign of your parents. I get it together and ask Wade where they are.
“Russell went out for a smoke,” he says. “Been a while. He might be on his fourth by now. And Ellen is already sitting in the front with Denise. With Theo.”
She’s with your body, not you.
“I’ll go find Russell.”
“Before you go—”
I head for the door. My parents see me move and come for me as if I’m trying to get out of here for good. I stop when my mom asks me where I’m going, asks if I want to go with her to offer my condolences to Ellen. I don’t have it in me this second, though. I try to play dumb and focus on my surroundings instead. I find your uncle Ned in the crowd, reading from the Bible, and catch Aunt Clara busting out her own tissues as she cries with a neighbor I maybe recognize.
But my eyes return to the door in no time.
Your boyfriend is blocking the entrance. He’s staring directly at me.
HISTORY
Thursday, June 12th, 2014
Our first date, and we discover it’s raining when we get off the train.
“Good news or bad news?” Theo asks.
“Always get the bad news out of the way first. This is New York, remember? Where were you raised?”
“I don’t have an umbrella,” Theo says.
“And the good news?”
“I’m telling you now.”
“Your good news sucks.”
If we had time to waste, we’d wait out the storm here at the station. But it’s Pop Culture Trivia Night at Bonus Diner, this new diner-slash-arcade, near Union Square, and it begins at six. We haul ass, hating every exposed corner we’re forced to wait on before it’s our turn to cross the street, and I’m really happy the school year is almost over because there’s no way the textbooks in our backpacks are going to be much use to us after this storm.
Damn. The place is roaring with chatter, but there are tables still free. I feel betrayed by how cold it is in here. Indoor places should always be the opposite of the weather outside. No one has ever entered a restaurant on a scorching summer day and gotten pissed at the air-conditioning.
But I’m not letting anything ruin my first date with Theo. I fight through my shivers and register our two-man team. We’re seated at table sixteen—good number. I run to the bathroom quickly to try and dry myself with paper towels. I return, tagging Theo out to go and do the same. I survey the room and only then do I feel warmer. We’re younger than anyone else here, but I immediately decide all my opponents here are pretty much the coolest people in the universe.
Theo returns, rubbing his hands together. “We’re going to destroy them.”
He checks out the menu. This is another one of those times where I want to lean in and finally kiss him. I’m not trying to get it over with, but I think not having kissed yet in the few days we’ve been dating is creating some buildup. But maybe a first kiss without a big moment will speak for itself. Maybe it says, “Hey, I like you when you’re not doing anything special.”
Before I can even consider leaning in, a hostess whistles and silences everyone in the dining area, even some stragglers at the pool tables and pinball machines nearby. She runs through the rules. There will be twenty questions, all fill-in-the-blank. There will be a minute each to answer them. There will be volunteers walking around the room to make sure no one’s cheating. Prize for third place is a book of coupons for a gift shop online. Prize for second place is a replica of the sword and shield from The Legend of Zelda: Twilight Princess. The grand prize is a boxed set of the first six Star Wars movies, director’s-cut edition.
I suddenly, desperately want to win because maybe I’ll become just as obsessed as he is, and we can do stuff like host Star Wars themed Halloween parties for our friends.
Okay, I need to take a step back and take this relationship one week at a time.
Waitresses and waiters pass out papers and pens as they collect food orders. Once they’ve cleared the floor, the hostess announces we’re beginning in one minute.
Theo turns to me and my heart is trying to headbutt itself out of my chest.
“Question one . . .”
It doesn’t take long to see that this evening is mostly about older people who want to get drunk. Within minutes, we’re kicking ass. The planet Hoth in The Empire Strikes Back was shot where? Norway. (Thanks, Theo.) The writer behind Toy Story and Firefly ? Joss Whedon. The only character on The Simpsons with ten fingers? God. The last Harry Potter book was published in . . . ? 2007, but the series actually ended in 1998. (You’re welcome, Theo.) Teamwork.
“Final question!”
I’m pretty sure we’re nineteen for nineteen, so we can’t mess this up.
“Which actor couldn’t do the Vulcan salute in 2009’s Star Trek ?”
Theo writes down Zachary Quinto’s name and hands our sheet over to the nearest volunteer. “We got this. Get ready for a marathon at my house.”
It takes about twenty minutes for the jud
ges to review the answers, when a bell dings. The hostess returns to the front of the room and coughs very dramatically. “I’m pleased to announce there is a tie between two teams! But since we only have one boxed set, we’re going to have a live tiebreaker! Can I get one representative from Team Stark-Kirk and one from Team Human-Pirates?”
“Yes!” Theo gets up, and I hope he wins this for us. “You. Up.”
“What? No. You go.”
“I elect you!”
I pick up the napkin and wave it. “I forfeit.”
“Technically, you surrender when you’re waving the white flag. It’s a small but important difference.”
“See? You’re smarter. You do it.”
“You got this, Griff. I believe in you. Go.”
Theo nudges me to the front of the room and retreats once I’m up there. I’m representing us in a trivia contest; this is definitely a bizarre universe. I shake hands with my competitor, a redhead girl in big glasses. It’s her against me for the Star Wars boxed set. Everyone is quiet, staring at us, excited for the showdown. But my tunnel vision reveals only a smiling Theo and his encouraging thumbs-ups.
“First one to answer correctly wins the grand prize,” the hostess says. “Tiebreaker question.” She reaches into what looks like an empty mint bowl and retrieves a slip of paper. “From the Harry Potter series, what is Dumbledore’s full name?”
A Harry Potter question; I got this. “Albus Percival Brian Wulfric Dumbledore!”
Before the hostess can shake her head, I realize I’ve gotten it wrong. It’s Wulfric before Brian. I gasp with my hand over my mouth. I can’t even face Theo. My bespectacled competitor answers the question correctly and receives the roaring applause—the applause I wanted Theo to witness for me. I try to remind myself that this is all silly, and I smile and congratulate her. She is gracious enough to congratulate me too, which makes it a little better.
I walk back to my table with the sword and shield. “I suck.”
“Dude, you killed it! I bet you wouldn’t have confused those names if you were able to write them down on paper. It’s like trying to solve certain math problems without a calculator.”