Fadeaway E. Vickers (some good books to read txt) 📖

This is where Phoenix is hiding his phone.

—

When they’ve finished eating, Jake writes the list of things he needs Phoenix to take for him, noting the location of each and keeping the list as short as he can. He’s got to be in and out as quickly as possible. As Jake writes, the knot inside him loosens just a little more. Tomorrow, when Phoenix leaves to make the grab, he’ll be able to take the phone back, at least long enough to send a message.

But the next day, when the moment comes, the cushion is empty. Jake swears, realizing Phoenix has taken the phone with him.

In the end, all he gets is a few stolen seconds with it around dinnertime the following day, while Phoenix is in the bathroom. Jake taps the group message at the top of the list and types as quickly as he can. There’s no time to check what he’s written, but he hopes it’s enough. Hopes it’s worth something, even if it isn’t worth nearly what a kid deserves on his birthday.

He sends the text and shoves the phone back into the seam just as the light spills in from the open door.

This is the second time in two days I’ve been sure Luke’s shitting me.

The first time was yesterday, when he texted to tell me he saw my brother. I might not be in AP psych, but even I know that’s called “projecting.” “Remember your brother who disappeared? Great news: he’s back! Everything’s fine!” You can’t blame the kid for wanting to believe that so bad he says it to somebody else.

And now he’s inviting me over for his birthday party. I haven’t been to a twelve-year-old’s birthday party since I was—you guessed it—twelve. What do you even do at a party like that, when there’s a Jake-size elephant in the room? What do you say?

But when it’s time for the party, I go over there. Mostly for Luke’s sake, but also because there’s something nice about being around people who are as worried as I am. And maybe they’re even mad at Jake too, like I am some days, even if that’s not totally fair. People who know him and, okay, love him like I do.

Daphne pulls up right after me, and Luke comes out the front door wearing the Space Jam T-shirt Jake gave him for his last birthday. I wonder if Daphne’s even seen the movie. I wonder what memories the two of them have that I’m missing. If each of us were a circle on one of those Venn diagrams, is there anything but Jake in the section where we all overlap? Anything else in the world that would bring the three of us together?

Mrs. Foster comes out, looking like she partied a little too hard last night, even though I know she doesn’t drink and she sure as hell hasn’t been partying. She wraps Luke in her arms.

“Thanks for inviting us,” Daphne says. “I’ve missed you guys.” She joins in the hug, and then I’m the sucker just standing there by myself. This is it, I think. The point of overlap for all four of us. They literally have their arms around each other. I should get in there.

But by the time I’ve talked myself into it, they’re pulling apart. “Come in,” Mrs. Foster says. “Dinner is almost ready.”

Mrs. Foster’s pad thai is probably about as authentic as an eBay Da Vinci, but it’s pure Jake. I look around and wonder how many times each of us has eaten chicken and red peppers and noodles and peanuts, with little wedges of lime to squeeze on top, here at this table. It would feel exactly right if it weren’t so disturbingly wrong.

While we eat, the four of us talk about the schools Daphne has applied to, the way the baseball team is shaping up for this season, the fact that even if Luke believed in astrology (which he doesn’t), today’s signs are based on the position of the constellations two thousand years ago, so they’re extra wrong. You know: normal dinner conversation.

When my plate is pretty much empty, I scrape together the last little pieces of peanut and scoop them up with my fork. “Mrs. Foster, that was amazing. It would be a special kind of hell to be allergic to this stuff.” Then I remember Seth’s peanut allergy, and when I see a way to tease Daphne, I have to take it. “No making out for you tonight, huh?”

It’s the wrong joke. I don’t even need Jake here to tell me. Wrong because Daphne used to be with Jake and it’s pretty obvious the Fosters still miss her, and because Seth’s so allergic something like that could actually kill him, and, most of all, because we’re all sitting here pretending to party when we don’t even know if Jake’s alive.

Daphne’s speechless, which isn’t Daphne.

“I’m sorry,” I say, crushing the peanuts with the tines of my fork.

“It’s okay,” she says, even though nothing is.

“I made my own cake,” Luke says, and we all smile because it’s kind of a perfect bittersweet, not-so-smooth reminder of why we’re here.

Luke’s cake is covered in chocolate frosting and leans a little, but it’s better than I could do. He puts twelve candles in a constellation across the top, and we sing (badly).

Right as we finish, there’s a buzz and a chime and the rustle of three people reaching for their phones when they get a text all at once.

Three, but not four.

Mrs. Foster makes the connection first, maybe because she’s the one on the outside. Or maybe a mother knows stuff like this. “It’s Jake, isn’t it?” she whispers. “What does it say?” Her face looks so pale in the flickering light of the candles. “Is he okay?”

It’s Luke who reads the text out loud.

I’m so sorry I wish I would have done everything differently maybe when this is all over you will find a way to forgive me

Then