Page 4 of Don’t Let Me Go

After being force-fed my weight in carnival food over the past half an hour, I can safely say that I never want to see another

funnel cake or fried pickle for as long as I live. I know my friends are just looking out for me, but honestly, I feel worse

now than I did after I fainted. My insides are practically on the verge of exploding.

“Okay, now that we’ve refueled Riley,” Audrey says as she hops up from the picnic bench, “who’s ready for the Death Drop?”

My stomach makes an inhuman-sounding groan, and I stare at her with unrestrained incredulity. “Are you joking?”

The Death Drop is a so-called ride where people are slowly raised three hundred feet into the air and then sadistically and

violently dropped to the earth at fifty miles per hour. It’s never been my favorite attraction, and given my current condition,

I would be out of my mind to think that I could ride it and not end up covered in my own vomit.

Not that Audrey seems to register that fact.

“What’s the matter?” she asks, looking genuinely perplexed.

I indicate the enormous swath of grease-stained wrappers strewn across the table in front of me.

“ Oh ,” she says as the light of realization dawns in her eyes. “Right.”

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 to deprive 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’m fine .”

“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 .

Except Jackson doesn’t seem dangerous. Oddly familiar, yes. But dangerous? The more time I spend with him, the harder it gets to justify my initial impression that he’s just another sports-bro who’s hell-bent on ruining my life. If I’m honest, I don’t know what he is, aside from Duy’s new neighbor.

I guess what I’m saying is the jury’s still out on Jackson Haines.

“So,are you and Duy, like, a couple?” he asks.

“Duy?” I laugh, surprised by his question. “No, not at all. They’re like my sibling. Also, I’m pretty sure I’m not their type.

Duy’s only into guys with six-packs and pecs. You know, guys who could be Greek gods or underwear models. Guys like you.”

Guys like you? Did I hit my fucking head when I fainted? Why would I say that out loud?

Jackson lets out a snort of laughter, and I feel my entire face burn.

“A Greek god or an underwear model, huh?”

“I didn’t mean you specifically ,” I backtrack. “I meant someone like you.”

“Like me?”

“Sporty. Athletic. You know what I mean. Don’t act like this is the first time someone has pointed out that you’re—”

“That I’m what?”

“Annoying, Jackson. You’re very, very annoying.”

Jackson laughs, and his laughter is so open and good-natured, it makes me feel warm all over. Then, just as suddenly, Jackson

stops and stares down guiltily at his Nikes, as if he isn’t sure if he’s allowed to laugh.

Odd. He did the same thing earlier when he mentioned that he used to play football at his old school, and Duy joked that the

only sports they like to watch is the volleyball sequence in Top Gun . Jackson laughed, then immediately stopped himself.

Now he’s done it again. He keeps walking back his happiness. Like he doesn’t trust it. Or like he doesn’t think he deserves

it.

“So?.?.?.?Duy said you live with your aunt?” I ask, hoping to ease his awkwardness with a change of topic.

Jackson nods. “Yeah. I moved in with my aunt about a week ago.”

“But your parents are still in Tallahassee?”

“Yep.”

“How come they didn’t move to Orlando with you? Or are they planning to move down later this summer?”

Jackson shrugs nonchalantly, but avoids my eyes. “It’s kind of up in the air at the moment.”

“What does that mean?”

“My dad’s a doctor. Physical medicine and rehab. He works a lot with Florida State, so it’s not exactly convenient for him

to pack up and move his practice. Besides, I’ll only be here for a year before I head off to college, so it doesn’t really

make sense for him and my mom to move just for my sake, you know?”

“Sure,” I concede. “But then why did you move here?”

Another shrug. “Better schools.”

“Better schools?” I scoff. “Here?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you mean, like, better for football?”

Jackson doesn’t answer. He finishes off his soda and effortlessly tosses the cup into a nearby trash can. I’m not sure if

I should repeat my question or let the subject drop. But before I can decide, the matter becomes moot. A raucous cackling

splits the air, and when I turn to look, I see the Olympus football team bounding down the thoroughfare like a pack of overcaffeinated

hyenas.