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  Books. Change. Lives.

  Copyright © 2021 by Kosoko Jackson

  Cover and internal design © 2021 by Sourcebooks

  Cover art © David Curtis/Shannon Associates

  Internal design by Danielle McNaughton/Sourcebooks

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. Sourcebooks is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.

  Published by Sourcebooks Fire, an imprint of Sourcebooks

  P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

  (630) 961-3900

  sourcebooks.com

  The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication data is on file with the publisher.

  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Part One

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Part Two

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Part Three

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  To my mother, who always believed in me,

  even when I didn’t.

  And to everyone who has ever felt lost.

  You’ll find your way. I promise.

  On December 22, 2020, a boy just shy of twenty-two was hit by a drunk driver at 3:15 p.m., right outside of Boston, Massachusetts.

  He would die forty-five minutes later, and his death would change the fate of one particular boy’s life forever.

  He just didn’t know it.

  Six Months Later

  Part One

  One

  “So, that went well!”

  My father is always optimistic. I think it has something to do with his profession. Or maybe the way he grew up. He’s one of those people who was raised to think that the world is what you make it and that people are inherently good. And because of that, he’s always cheery and always able to see the bright side.

  And though I love my father, his constant joy is nauseating when all I want to do is go to sleep.

  “I have a good feeling about this,” he says, still annoyingly optimistic.

  Kill me.

  I don’t completely blame him. Today is a good day. The best we’ve had in a while. The doctor said my new liver seems to be adapting to me quite nicely. Like I’m some kind of adopted dog.

  Except, with a dog, if something bad happens, you can return it. If we returned my liver, I’d for sure die. So it’s definitely different.

  I understand why he’s happy. Mom, too, even though she couldn’t make it to the appointment. Hell hath no fury like a woman this close to getting tenure.

  His joy being justified is the only reason I’m not groaning or throwing him some snide remark. Instead I’m just looking out the window, watching Boston pass us by.

  “And just think, the next time you’re here, it’ll be for medical school—and then your residency and then your fellowship and—”

  “Dad.”

  He raises one hand, his version of raising the white flag. “Sorry. You know how…”

  “Excited you get about medicine? I know.”

  Not just any medicine, though—specifically, my future in medicine. A word of advice for my future self when I’m reincarnated: don’t tell your parents when you’re six that you want to be a doctor, because they will absolutely never let it go.

  And, technically, I’m not done with the hospital yet. I’ll have checkups from here to eternity. But for all intents and purposes, my life is mine again. I can just be that student with the killer college essay about how I overcame cancer and it made me stronger and that’s why I would make an excellent addition to the University of Pennsylvania community! Go Quakers!

  Take that, hepatocellular carcinoma.

  “You’re quieter than usual,” Dad says. “You okay? Feeling queasy? Tired? Something else? How’s the pain?”

  “I’m fine. No. Yes. No. Pain is normal, I promise.”

  It’s not, but pain isn’t the right word to describe what I’m feeling. It feels like the back of a metal chair has been pressing against my stomach for too long.

  “Good,” Dad says, making a turn. “You’ll tell me if—”

  “Yes, I will.”

  My phone vibrates in my pocket. I twist my body and reach for it, but the movement pulls at something, and I hiss. Dad snaps his head toward me and slowly starts to move over to the shoulder, but I wave my hand, dismissing his concern. I finally grab my phone and check the screen. It’s a text from my best friend Isobel.

  Are you a mutant yet?

  That’s…not how it works.

  You didn’t answer the question.

  Stacey thinks you’d be a good pyrokinetic.

  I knew I liked her. Keep her around. So much better for you than Kiki.

  Rude. I loved Kiki.

  You LIKED Kiki. You LOVE Stacey.

  “Tell Isobel I say hi,” Dad says.

  I text his greeting to her without looking and close my eyes, leaning back, letting the rocking of the car soothe me.

  My moment of darkness and quiet only lasts half a minute before my phone vibrates again.

  Tell him hi back.

  Also tell him he looked hot in that pic he posted last week.

  I’m not telling my father my best friend thinks he’s hot. There must be a law against that.

  Pretty sure there isn’t.

  Aren’t you gay, anyway?

  Sexuality, just like gender, is a construct. Don’t be a prude.

  Don’t have the hots for my dad.

  I’ll consider it. If you do one thing for me.

  This sounds dangerous and like something I’
m going to regret.

  How are you REALLY feeling?

  It’s so easy to type out the words I’m fine, because that’s not actually a lie and doesn’t make my chest feel tight with guilt. I am fine, in the most basic, dictionary definition of the word. I’m one of the lucky ones. Dr. Moore reminded me of that every time we came for an appointment.

  The things I’m feeling—the hunger, the soreness, the mental exhaustion of listening to my parents obsess over my health—are good things. I should embrace them, not push against them.

  Not everyone is as lucky as I am to have parents who can pay for a treatment that, even after insurance, cost us a fortune.

  I’m lucky. Which is a weird thing to say. In most countries, my treatment would be free—or damn near free. In America, going into outrageous debt to save your life is considered “affordable care.”

  We’re so lucky to live in the greatest country in the world.

  But, right now, my focus isn’t on the economics of health care but on the dull pain I’ve had since we left Harte Hospital.

  But if I told Isobel that, she’d obsessively worry. And my father would be even worse. Besides, it’s probably just a by-product of the transplant, right?

  Right.

  Somewhere in between the Here & Now and Fresh Air program shift on NPR, I fall asleep. I hear Dad attempt to close the door to the Prius as gently as possible, so as not to wake me. Sadly, he lacks any sort of grace.

  “How did it go?” I hear Mom say.

  “Well enough,” he says. “Andre’s tired. Which is to be expected. As long as he doesn’t start vomiting, he’s fine.”

  My phone vibrates again, so I rise and scan an unreasonable number of messages from Isobel.

  [25 minutes ago]

  You didn’t answer me.

  [22 minutes ago]

  OMG, are you dead?

  [17 minutes ago]

  Wait, you never told me what you wanted me to say in your eulogy if you die.

  [16 minutes ago]

  Can I rap? PLEASE let me rap something.

  I’m taking that as a yes. Expect some Cardi B. Wait, you won’t be able to hear me. Shit. Damn it, Andre. Always so f’ing selfish.

  Before I can text back the perfect response, Mom knocks on the passenger’s side window, waving at me.

  “Dad says you’re hungry. I made your favorite.”

  Every time I go to the hospital, Mom makes the same thing: chicken noodle tortilla soup. It’s her way of making up for not being able to come. Today, there’s also the scent of homemade brownies with pecans in the air.

  My mother can’t bake worth shit, but now, thanks to a lie I told when I was six, this is what I have to deal with—her rock-hard brownies.

  I trudge into the house, and just as I’m sitting, she says, “I threw in some protein powder too.”

  “I’m sorry, what?”

  She puts the bowl in front of me. “For your strength. You need your energy.”

  “I agree, and you know how you get that? Sleep. Good food. Not—”

  My phone chirps. An email from my school account. I fish out my phone and scan it. Seeing the subject line is enough to make my heart sink: RE: YOUR CLASS OF 2022 STATUS.

  “Speaking of sleep, I think I’m just going to lie down for a bit,” I say. “I’m just tired, guys,” I quickly add, putting my hands up defensively. And I don’t have the stomach to push through consuming my mom’s brownies. “Long day. Being Black in America is taxing, you know.” As if they wouldn’t know.

  The joke flies true, lodging itself in the chink in my parents’ overprotective armor. Dad scoffs, Mom rolls her eyes, and they both relax. I slip upstairs.

  There’s nothing good in this email. I know it. Ever since being diagnosed, life at St. Clements has been hell. Not socially. Academically. The school has rigorous standards, and missing classes because of, you know, cancer doesn’t seem to be an acceptable reason to take classes remotely.

  Once my door is closed (and locked), I lean against the wall, reading the email from my guidance counselor as quickly as possible.

  Dear Andre,

  I hope you’re doing well. I wanted to let you know that I talked to Headmistress Welchbacher, and I did my best. You won’t be able to graduate with the class of 2022 unless you take the summer school classes listed below.

  Please note that even if you receive a passing grade for these classes, you will not be eligible for salutatorian, as calculus, world history, and fiction writing are being offered through a community college. I have arranged a meeting with the headmistress for this upcoming Monday at 9:45 a.m. Please let me know if you’re not feeling up to it, and I’ll reschedule.

  I hope you’re feeling better.

  Ms. Harper

  Guidance Counselor

  St. Clements Academy

  I can hear my own heartbeat thumping. I can feel every red blood cell careening through my veins at what feels like hundreds of miles per hour. My palms feel warm, and my vision is black around the edges, making everything look blurry, like when a droplet of water connects with a watercolor painting.

  I reread the email, hoping I missed a crucial word that will change the meaning completely.

  No such luck.

  Not graduating with my class, with Isobel, is a shot to the gut, but even if I do what they say, I still lose my salutatorian status? I worked hard for that! How many countless nights did I spend substituting books for blankets? How many weekends in the library? Parties missed? Dates turned down?

  I swallow thickly, but my throat is dry and the scratchiness of it makes me wince. Dozens of questions fly through my head at a rate I can’t control. What will happen to me now? Will I ever graduate? What will Mom and Dad think? They’ll be beyond disappointed that their ten-year plan for me—college, medical school, the works—is being thrown out of sync.

  Instead of focusing on getting better and returning to my life, I’m trying to decide how to salvage it.

  “Fuck cancer.”

  If none of this had ever happened, I’d have a normal life. I’d be graduating next year. I’d be going to UPenn. I’d be making some piss-poor decisions with Izzy next summer. Now I’m stuck living my life on a loop.

  It’s like I’m being punished twice: first by the cancer and now by possibly having to repeat this year if I don’t pass these classes.

  I wish I could just go back in time and do it all over again. Go back, like, three years, tell my parents to take me to the doctor, find the cancer when it’s stage 0, and stop all of this from happening.

  I put the letter down, and all I can think about is how nice my bed will feel. How my mom says a good nap always makes things look better.

  She should trademark that.

  When the back of my legs connect with the edge of the bed, I let gravity do the rest. All I can think of as I fall backward into my covers is how much I hope everything will be better when I wake up.

  But the comforter that my head hits feels hard. Not only that, it feels wet, like…dew?

  Did Clyde, our husky, pee on my bed? Again? That’s the first thing that comes to mind when I fall into wet bedsheets. But it’s also suddenly colder. Did Mom turn the AC up to full arctic blast, blatantly disregarding how the AC destroys our atmosphere?

  But as I open my mouth to scream out the stereotypical teenage battle cry—an elongated Mom!—my fingers brush up against what should be a checked bedspread.

  And instead, they touch grass.

  Cold, wet grass.

  Two

  The grass is refreshing. Slightly wet but cool. It’s most definitely not my bed.

  I lie there for at least five seconds, like an idiot, with my palms pressed against the soft, chilly blades, looking up at endless black sky that’s replaced the ugly off-white ceiling I’ve stared at for almost m
y whole life. These five seconds are the most peaceful I’ve had in the past six months.

  And then I realize something’s wrong.

  I sit up quickly and jump to my feet faster than I should. The ground rushes up and the world spins.

  My eyes finally adjust to the darkness, and I’m able to come up with two possible explanations for my change in location.

  One, somehow I’ve gotten up from bed without realizing it, and I’m standing on my street, the same street where I learned how to ride a bike and parallel park, where I almost had my first kiss, and where I broke my arm in seventh grade.

  Two, somehow I’ve gotten up from bed without realizing it, and I’m standing in a twilight-zone version of my street.

  And, shockingly, option two seems more likely, because something is really off.

  Mr. Cameron’s house looks…cleaner than it ever has. The blue paneling is a brighter blue than I can remember. And Ms. Cunningham’s house across the street? There’s no fountain there, and I know there should be, because the homeowners association had a field day debating whether she should be allowed to have it. And, of course, there are two cars in Mr. Evans’s driveway, suspiciously retro-looking ones, when I know there should only be one, since his wife left him last year (but he doesn’t want to talk about it).

  But, most importantly, the house at 2405 Stuart Drive, my house, isn’t my house anymore. It’s a house, someone else’s house. Someone with a penchant for wind chimes.

  And…the addition is missing.

  “What the actual fuck,” I whisper.

  The cul-de-sac is familiar, but the houses, the cars, they are all…different.

  “Okay, okay, Andre,” I tell myself quickly. “Deep breaths, that’s it. Breathe. You know how to do that. Breathing still makes sense, right?”

  But my breaths come out shallow, despite how hard I try to breathe in for five seconds, hold for three, and breathe out for seven. I read that somewhere. But it feels like I can’t get enough air, no matter how hard I try. Like I’m actually suffocating on oxygen. If that’s even possible.

  Catastrophizing won’t solve anything! I scold myself mentally, the voice in my head barely breaking through the sound of blood pumping in my ears. I rub my palms together, feeling the rough grains of dirt, the dew, and the sharp grass sticking to my palms. It feels so real.