That night, Jake sat in his room and spread his math homework across his desk to get his mind off the bottle in his bag. He used to be so good at math, and now here he was, retaking the second semester of junior math in summer school. He used to love it, because back then, it made sense. Even algebra had been okay in seventh grade, when it was a matter of solving one equation for one variable. For 7x + 3 = 59, Jake didn’t even have to write anything down to tell you that x = 8. But then there were two variables, which meant you needed two equations to solve it, and the more things you didn’t know, the harder it was to learn any of them.
Now he didn’t even know where to start. He looked up, and there was Daphne in his favorite picture from last season, her hair a little messy from the game but her smile bright. Daphne was the only reason he’d passed math sophomore year. He could call her. She’d be here in a heartbeat, and she’d know exactly how to do every one of these problems.
But he couldn’t let her see him struggling like this. Not when she was so strong, so smart. Even after a year and a half, there were still moments when he worried she’d wake up and realize how much better she could do.
He shook it off and got back to work, solving for the first variable, and then somehow it circled back around to where his first answer couldn’t possibly be correct. Square root of a negative number, and he wasn’t looking for imaginary solutions here. He wasn’t sure what that really meant, but it struck him as a metaphor anyway. Too bad those were helpful in English, not math.
The lead on his pencil snapped, so he sharpened it and tried again. The eraser only made things worse, so he started a new page, and then another, and then another, finally filling the last sheet in his notebook and even the cardboard cover on the back, trying to find this one damn answer.
Paper. He needed more paper. He checked his desk drawers, dumped out his backpack. How could there not be any paper? He sprawled belly-down on the floor and scooped an armload of junk from under his bed: wrappers, used tissues, random socks, and, halle-freaking-lujah, a notebook.
But no. It wasn’t a notebook. The cover was blue and faded, but the writing on the front was his own: The Book of Luke and Jake.
It must have been buried there since before his injury. And even worse, he’d totally forgotten about it. He opened it and read the first page:
November 4
Hey Luke,
I saw you looking through Dad’s old stuff today. I know you saw me too, but it’s okay that you walked away. I’m not sure I wanted to talk either.
But sometimes I do, and I don’t know how to start. Sometimes I want to tell somebody how mad I am at Dad for the things he did. Sometimes I wonder what my life would have been like if things had been different. If he had been different. Sometimes I want to remember the good parts, partly because I need to know that there WERE good parts, since half of what’s in me came from him.
I’m not sure if that’s true, though. I think you have changed me and shaped me more than he ever will. You’re the kind of person I want to be: honest, kind, good. And I’m hoping we can shape each other. (Which reminds me, let’s work on your ball handling, especially with your left hand, okay?)
So why am I writing all this in a notebook instead of saying it to your face? Because sometimes that’s too hard. I think we both felt that today. So anytime you have something to say to me—whether it’s heavy or funny or one of your awesome science facts—you can write it in here. And I will always write back.
Deal?
Jake
Jake flipped through the notebook, lost in the good memories and jokes and things to look forward to: holidays and game days and even just letting Luke tag along for kicked-back summer days mowing the lawn and shooting hoops at Coach B’s. Had there really been a time when he saw so much good in his past, present, and future? He wouldn’t have believed it if the evidence wasn’t staring back at him in his own handwriting.
A Jake joke
Patient: Doctor, I have a real short-term memory problem.
Doctor: How long has this been going on?
Patient: How long has WHAT been going on?
Kolt was right. Jake had changed. Of course, he already knew that, but he’d thought he’d been hiding it so well.
Luke had changed over the years too, but in all the right ways and always staying true to himself: totally obsessed with science and sports and weaving them into poems that showed the truest, deepest parts of himself. He’d turned into a good little ballplayer too.
Jake flipped to Luke’s last entry.
Science Facts and Sports Stats
by Luke
Orcas stay with their families
their whole lives.
They only leave their siblings
for a few hours at a time.
Ever.
No moving out,
only moving together.
There are over sixty sets of brothers
who have played in the NBA.
Not always at the same time,
usually not on the same team.
But just to know
your brother is out there,
hustling like you,
hurting like you,
dreaming like you—
that has to feel pretty good.
I know we can’t be like orcas
(I don’t even like seafood),
but maybe we can be
like those brothers.
Maybe even when you leave for ASU,
we can still
somehow
be hustling,
hurting,
dreaming,
moving
together.
Jake felt sick. He didn’t remember reading this at all. But
