Page 5 of Don’t Let Me Go

“Crap,” I growl under my breath. If the Thunderbolts spot me, they’re going to say something. Because they always say something. And I’m really not in the mood for some classic schoolyard bullying on my first week of summer break.

Without thinking, I grab Jackson’s hand and pull him into the nearest tent. I close the flap behind us, shutting out the light

and noise of the outside world and shrouding us in darkness. Jackson starts to protest, but I shush him and press my ear to

the tent flap to listen for the Thunderbolts. It’s not long before I hear their laughter. It’s wild and rowdy and hungry for

attention—the exact opposite of Jackson’s.

The whooping grows louder until the voices sound like they’re right in front of us. Holding my breath, I silently pray to

the universe that none of the boys saw me sneak inside this tent. It seems to work. The howling moves on, gradually fading

into the din of the carnival.

“Okay,” I say, letting out a sigh of relief as I peek out from behind the flap. “We’re good.”

Jackson doesn’t say anything. He just stares at me for a confused second, then looks down at his hand—which I’m holding.

My cheeks burn as the memory of my dream washes over me. Jackson and I in bed. His weight on top of me. His lips stealing

kisses. His hands caressing me everywhere .

“Sorry!” I blurt out, dropping his hand like it’s on fire.

“Uh, no problem,” he mumbles, shooting me a forced smile that barely masks his own discomfort.

I don’t know what possessed me to grab his hand like that or pull him into the tent with me. It’s not like the Thunderbolts

would’ve messed with someone like Jackson. If anything, they would’ve taken one look at his biceps and crowned him their new

bro-king.

“I take it those guys go to your school?” he asks, still not speaking above a whisper.

“Yeah.” I nod.

“They’re the ones you were talking about earlier, the ones who mess with you and your friends?”

“Only when they have nothing better to do,” I joke in an attempt to brush off his concern. The last thing I need is a straight boy’s pity. But, like most oblivious straight boys, Jackson doesn’t take the hint.

“Are you okay?” he presses.

“Me? Yeah. I’m fine. Really. It’s not a big deal.”

“Are you sure? You seem kind of—”

“I’m fine ,” I snap.

Jackson opens his mouth to say something, then thinks better of it. He nods unconvincingly and kicks at the grass.

Crap . I think I hurt his feelings.

“Sorry,” I whisper. “I know you’re trying to be nice.”

“It’s fine. My father always says I never know when to keep my mouth shut.”

“I really am okay,” I tell him. “I don’t know why I made us hide. Those guys probably wouldn’t have done anything. I just

didn’t want to deal with the hassle if they did. Not that I can’t take of myself. But somedays it’s just easier to avoid certain

situations and save yourself a lot of bullshit, you know?”

Jackson nods. “Yeah, I do.” And something about the way the light goes out in his eyes makes me think he means it.

“Anyway, we should probably head back to the Ferris wheel...”

I reach for the tent flap, but as I do, a voice suddenly calls out from the darkness. “Who seeks to know the future from the

great Madame Carlotta?”

Jackson and I nearly jump out of our skins. We spin around and see a woman seated at a small table in the very back of the

tent. A large crystal ball gleams in front of her, illuminated by thick red candles that she’s slowly lighting one by one.

“Holy crap,” I gasp as I attempt to catch my breath. Has she been here the entire time?

“Do not be afraid, my children!” the woman exclaims dramatically, beckoning us closer with a gesture that causes the many bangles on her wrist to jangle together.

She appears to be in her late forties with sunburned cheeks and a mane of long black hair.

Despite the early June heat, she’s wearing about ten shawls, each one embroidered with moons and stars.

“Madame Carlotta knows all. Madame Carlotta sees all. Madame Carlotta reveals all!”

“Madame Carlotta” has an accent that sounds like a mishmash of Greek, Indian, and Arabic. Which is to say, totally fake. In

fact, I’m pretty sure she’s the actress who played Cleopatra last year in the Orlando Shakespeare Company’s production of

Antony and Cleopatra .

“Thanks,” I say, giving her an apologetic smile as I start to back toward the exit, “but we just came in here by accident.

We’re good.”

“Ah, but are you? Is your future as secure as you think? Or does calamity await upon the horizon? Only the cards know for

sure.” With a flourish, Madame Carlotta spreads a tarot deck on her table. “Plus, for one night only, I’m offering a two-for-one

special. Just for couples.”

Couples?

I shoot a quick glance at Jackson, fully expecting him to contradict her with a vigorous defense of his heterosexuality. It’s

how every macho guy at my school would respond to even the slightest implication that he might be queer. Jackson, though,

just stares at the ground and awkwardly clears his throat. I guess the fact that he’s not tripping over himself to assert

his straightness is another indication that he’s not as awful as I first thought. Although part of me wishes he didn’t look

quite so mortified at the suggestion that he might be my boyfriend.

“I think your crystal ball’s a bit dusty,” I shoot back at our hostess before pushing my way out of the musty tent and into

the open air.

I don’t wait to see if Jackson follows. Between my swooning, the hand-holding, and him being mistaken for my boyfriend, he’s had a lot of queer shit thrown at him.

I honestly wouldn’t blame him if he needed some space.

Hell, I wouldn’t blame him if he disappeared for the rest of the summer and then showed up on the first day of school acting like we’d never met.

Actually, that’s not true. I would 100 percent blame him if he pulled that shit because no one’s masculinity should be that

fragile. But a very small part of me would also understand.

“That was weird,” Jackson says as he hurries after me and once again falls into step beside me.

“Yeah. Weird,” I repeat, relieved to see he’s not as fragile as I feared.

“Fortune tellers always give me the creeps,” he adds, folding his arms across his chest as if fighting off a shiver.

“Really?” I ask. “Why?”

“I don’t know.” He shrugs. “They’ve always freaked me out. All that talk about peering into the future and seeing doom on

the horizon.”

“You know she’s not actually a fortune teller,” I remind him. “I mean, if she could really predict the future, I’m pretty sure she’d be a millionaire

lounging in her mansion in Hawaii instead of working in a tent that smells like patchouli and piss.”

Jackson chuckles. “Yeah, I know. It’s more the idea of fortune tellers that makes me uncomfortable. I don’t like thinking there could be someone out there who knows my future.”

“Why not?”

Jackson considers. “I guess because if someone knows the future, then that means nothing we do matters. Because our future’s already written.

Which means we’re all just trapped in these lives that we don’t really have any control over because they’re not even our own.

They’re something that already exists. And we’ve just been slotted into them without any say in the matter.

In which case, life is kind of pointless. ”

I think it’s safe to say that when I woke up this morning, the last thing I expected to hear today was a rumination on free

will versus predestination courtesy of a walking Ken Doll. Even more surprising, I think I actually agree with Jackson.

“That makes a lot of sense,” I tell him.

“Right?”

“Although, for the record,” I clarify, “if I was about to walk into some epic Titanic -level disaster, I wouldn’t mind a little heads-up from a psychic.”

“Even if you couldn’t change anything?” Jackson asks.

“Yeah, even if I couldn’t change anything.”

“How come?”

“Honestly, Jackson? I just really hate surprises.”