The Cost of Knowing (2021) by Brittney Morris PDF

£ os 4 es | | fey Ages PAST os f |S NLY HALF UR STORY. 4 SIXTEEN-YEAR-OLD Alex Rufus is nee his best. He tries to be the best employee he can be at the local ice cream shop; the best boyfriend he can be to his amazing girlfriend, Talia; the best protector he can be to his little brother, Isaiah. But as much as Alex tries, he often comes up short. It’s hard for him to be present when every time he touches an object or person, Alex sees into its future. When he touches a scoop, he has a vision of him using it to scoop ice cream. When he touches his car, he sees it years from now, totaled and underwater. When he touches Talia, he sees them at the precipice of break- ing up, and that terrifies him. Alex feels these visions are a curse, distracting him, making him anxious and unable to live an ordinary life. And when Alex touches a photo that gives him a vision of his brother’s imminent death, everything changes. With Alex now in a race against time, death, and circumstances, he and Isaiah must grapple with their past, their future, and what it means to be a young Black man in America in the present. Mar 2021 wr 1 fer FFF i fe em Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2021 with funding from Kahle/Austin Foundation https://archive.org/details/costofknowing0000morr %e COST + KNOWING ALSO BY BRITTNEY MORRIS SLAY COST KNOWING Exel) aboll SSeya\fand 4 GORpolpsliew SIMON & SCHUSTER fisiaydng NEW YORK LONDON TORONTO SYDNEY NEW DELHI rn ¢ SIMON & SCHUSTER [sia An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, New York 10020 This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author's imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Text copyright © 2021 by Brittney Morris Jacket illustration copyright © 2021 by Alvin Epps All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. SIMON & SCHUSTER BOOKS FOR YOUNG READERS and related marks are trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc. For information about special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact Simon & Schuster Special Sales at 1-866-506-1949 or [email protected]. The Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau can bring authors to your live event. For more information or to book an event contact the Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau at 1-866-248-3049 or visit our website at www.simonspeakers.com. Jacket designed by Laura Eckes Interior designed by Hilary Zarycky The text of this book was set in New Caledonia. Manufactured in the United States of America First Edition 24681097531 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Morris, Brittney, author. Title: The cost of knowing /by Brittney Morris. Description: First Simon & Schuster Books for Young Readers hardcover edition. | New York : Simon & Schuster Books for Young Readers, 2021. | Audience: Ages 12 up, |Audience: Grades 7 up. | Summary: Sixteen-year-old Alex Rufus’s curse of seeing the future distracts him from being and doing his best, but when he sees his little brother Isaiah’s imminent death, he races against time, death, and circumstances to save him. Identifiers: LCCN 2020017545 (print) |LCCN 2020017546 (ebook) | ISBN 9781534445451 (hardcover) |ISBN 9781534445475 (ebook) Subjects: CYAC: Clairvoyance—Fiction. |African Americans—Fiction. |Brothers—Fiction. | Dating (Social customs)—Fiction. |Racism—Fiction. |Orphans—Fiction. Classification: LCC PZ7.1.M6727 Cos 2021 (print) |LCC PZ7.1.M6727 (ebook) | DDC [Fie]—de23 LC record available at https: loc. gov/2020017. //lcen 545 LC ebook record available at https://\cen.loc.gov/2020017546 To all the Black boys who had to grow up too early Vee + aisgaily Ri opie | Taal wo aa at. eee oe i ‘a * =~Seapeee eae) a. pa Das SR ay ‘ Sen a) THE CURSE OF KNOWLEDGE: a cognitive bias that occurs when an expert in a particular subject, communicating with a novice, is unable to explain a concept in simple terms that the novice can understand, due to the expert's experience. ‘ everybb Mak aid Ie eaters. a> we a diew grietinaeues Jal wurst 8 “ socks toielt aint inpatient MapGR?fy ouni Note dhrgeatot! a ~ A HUSBAND AND WIFE sit at their dining room table one evening, watching a crime report on the news, sipping tea, and lamenting the violent state of the world. They're thankful they live in a neighborhood where crime is rare. The wife is on the local litter patrol. The husband regularly attends town hall meetings. The wife is a natural peacekeeper. The husband is a natural protector. The wife hears a noise outside. The husband gets up to investigate. erapeahbet oer pills agra, tie 2 OA thee eh riage aebanenetdenyTepes eangea eet kee ing Ertlea ehyrewik o erii aa: ve yen. famger evel be: nat wit Se vhualrsin Lethon ' with led ob oc ore rapdcwton, Cath weed loa tats 5 54 erm teal at mane aeennY al qu Uy, brednad wih shirtae Gu oe reer * Scoop’s | PICK UP THE ice cream scoop, and the vision begins. I see a familiar light-skinned hand with knobby knuckles and dirt under the nails, passing the scoop I’m holding into a new, unfamiliar hand as dark as mine. This new hand is amply lotioned—no ashiness in the crease between the index finger and thumb. The nails are clipped short. A glittering, diamond-encrusted ring indicates this man must have more money in his wallet than I'll make in my entire life. But the most telling detail, the revelation that might affect my future, lies in the background. Behind the two hands, sitting on the grass, is the sign that hangs over the front door of this place— the one that says SCOOP’S. In my vision, someone’s leaned it carelessly against the white siding, which is coated in a thin layer of green and black grime, the kind that builds up over months of neglect. Scoop, the owner of this place, is going to sell the business. I blink, directing all my focus into darkness, the abstract, nothing. I breathe. I think the word stop, and silently, I com- mand the vision to end. When I open my eyes again, I’m look- ing down at the scoop in my hand. I’m back to the present day, turning the scoop over in my fingers. Only a second has 4 + BRITTNEY MORRIS gone by in the real world, even though I just watched a twenty- second vision. They always last only a moment. I blink back into reality, still staring down at the scoop in my bare hand, and I briefly consider telling Scoop. But what would it change? What good would it do? When you own the shop, you can make the rules, he'd say. He’s never listened to my ideas before—not when I sug- gested we invest in a shelving unit so we can finally organize the supply boxes obstructing the hallway, not when I suggested we buy blackout curtains for the front lobby so the afternoon sunlight doesn’t turn this place into an oven, since we're a damn ice cream shop and we can’t operate at ninety-five degrees without jacking up our refrigeration costs. Nah, he won't listen to me, and even on the off chance that he does, Scoop doesn't do anything without asking a million questions first. And my only answer to the inevitable question, “How do you know for sure?” will be “I can see the future,” an idea so ridiculous that I didn’t even believe it until I got out of that hospital and it started interfering with my daily life. I can’t touch anything with the palm side of my hands without seeing what will hap- pen to it in the next few moments. The longer I touch it, the further into the future I can see. With most things, I can make the vision stop a split second after it begins, so it’s more like a photograph flashing in my head, but if I want to see further, which is rare these days, I can let it keep going for as long as I'm touching it. I've picked up this scoop so many times working here. I’ve seen myself holding it while I'm wearing a tank top and my arm is glistening with sweat. I’ve seen myself holding it with THE COST OF KNOWING © 5 my long sleeves tucked over my knuckles as the front door swings open and gusts of snow flurries fly in behind a customer who has no business buying ice cream in that kind of weather. Then it changes hands—a white hand is scooping ice cream as customers enter in tank tops. More kids Staring from the other side of the counter in bathing suits and sunglasses. Then, gradually, people coming in with their hands red from the cold, fingers curled around hot coffee cups, ordering through the scarves pulled up over their faces. Two summers. Two winters, I'd say Scoop has about two years left before this place goes under. Two. I'll have graduated and gone off to college by then. And even if this place closed tomorrow, there'd still be no point in trying to warn him. I've tried to alter the future too many times to think it'll work anymore. T remember a vision I had during a camping trip three years ago—a vision I'll never forget. Me, Aunt Mackie, my little brother Isaiah, my best friend Shaun, and his little sister, who’s now my girlfriend—Talia—spent a weekend at Starved Rock State Park out in Oglesby. Aunt Mackie was grilling hot dogs, and she asked me to put the bag of buns on the picnic table. I picked them up and caught a vision of Isaiah slipping on the bag, falling, and breaking his arm. So, despite the risk of flies and flying charcoal pieces landing on them, I took all the buns out of the bag, left them open on a plate, and tossed the bag in the garbage. Crisis averted, I thought. But then Aunt Mackie asked Isaiah to run the trash to the dumpster. The crumpled-up little bun bag rolled out at some 6 * BRITTNEY MORRIS point while he walked, and on his way back, his foot found the slippery plastic. Another time, while walking past a construction site, I tried to prevent a beam from falling and bursting a fire hydrant, which I’d touched, by yelling up at the foreman to watch out! If he hadn't been distracted, he might have caught it. No matter what I do, it doesn’t help. The mess happens any- way, and I just end up embarrassed, often because it looks like I caused whatever I'd been trying to prevent. So I've stopped trying. Better, and less humiliating, to just lie low and let fate happen. That’s the real reason I don't tell Scoop what I saw. What- ever I say, whatever I do to stop it, this place is doomed. “Alex!” snaps that commanding voice from the kitchen door. I jump, dropping the scoop into the dirty sink water, sending an explosion of suds in all directions, soaking the front of my apron and dousing my face. God, ew, a little got in my mouth. “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you,” he apologizes. Before I can say I’m okay, he’s moved on. “Ross is going on break soon, so I need you up front.” I drag my dry forearm across my face, pull off my other glove, and remove my glasses. The vision flashes. One of me wiping my lenses off on a shirt I’m not wearing. One I don't even own yet. I’ve touched my own glasses so many times that I must be at a few months into the future with visions of them. I make the vision end, and I do exactly what I just saw myself do—wipe them off. It’s become routine for me. Touch item. See vision of exactly what I’m about to do with THE COST OF KNOWING - 7 the item. Do exactly what I saw myself do in the vision. “Daydreaming again?” asks Scoop. His voice is quieter and kinder this time. Sure. Daydreaming. That's the closest thing to it that he'll understand, so I nod. I grab the hand towel hanging above the sink and wipe my hands before removing my soaked dish- washing apron. I hang it up by the sink to dry and sigh as the full weight of Scoop’s words sinks in, heavy like an anvil on my chest. I need you up front. I hate working up front. Not because I don’t like talking to customers—I'm actually pretty good at that part, and the customers are usually nice. They're mostly young parents with kids under ten, who are in and out in a few minutes. And the kids are almost always well behaved and happy while they're here because, hey, they're getting ice cream. Nah, I hate working up front because it means touching a million items with my bare hands. It’s an anxiety minefield out there. Visions fly through my head with everything I touch, like one of those old-school slide-projector things—every tap of the register screen, every dollar I count, every spoon I pick up, every hand I brush while giving out samples, every cup, every cone, every scoop. I can’t focus on all of that and do my job. I can't constantly be thinking of what’s going to happen and stay focused on what is happening. It’s too much. “Can I go back to dishes after?” I ask. Dishes. My safe place, where I can wear my dishwashing gloves and live vision-free for a while. A droplet of dishwater that was caught in my coily hair races 8 * BRITTNEY MORRIS down my forehead, and I wipe it away and sigh, anticipating the answer. “Sorry, champ,” he says, although with his accent, it sounds more like “shamp.” He leans against the doorjamb with his arms folded across his black apron and explains, “After Ross takes his break, I’ve got Ashlynn going home. I need you up there till you're off at six. Okay?” It’s going to have to be okay. I can already feel my heart rate picking up speed, that racing adrenaline that makes me jittery like I've had six cups of coffee and a Red Bull. On really bad days, my mouth gets dry and I start sweating. Sometimes it happens for no reason. Sometimes it happens if I'm anxious about something that would make most people anxious, like an exam, or speaking up in class. Sometimes it happens because I'm with Talia. Today, it’s happening because I have to do my job. Just the thought of going out there to the front counter freaks me out. It’s pathetic. I've been working here for four years. I shouldn't be this afraid anymore. What kind of man am I? Come on, Alex. I steel myself, pinching the skin on the back of my hand, which is supposed to help with anxiety. It doesn't. L used to be able to wear cheap latex gloves up front. We used to have to wear them while scooping, as mandated by the health department. I'd put them on, cancel a quick vision of them, and go the rest of the day blissfully unaware of my—I don’t even know what to call this—disorder? Affliction? Curse? I used to wear them home, stealing extra pairs when I could, desperate to keep my brain quiet for as long as possible. But after a few weeks THE COST OF KNOWING « 9 of wearing the latex ones, their protection started to wear off. The visions started coming back about ten minutes after I put them on, and the discomfort of sweaty palms, and the strange looks I'd get in public, began to outweigh the respite they gave me. Eventually, I gave up on them. Now, all that works are those heavy-duty reinforced polyurethane dishwashing gloves that ’m leaving behind in the kitchen right now. I take a deep breath and follow Scoop through the tiny hall- way, which is crammed to the ceiling with unlabeled boxes of flavor powders, industrial cleaning products, ice cream top- pings, napkins, and spoons. This whole place is a fire hazard, a fall hazard, and an acces- sibility nightmare. Scoop sometimes sends me back here to put bottles and boxes away where they actually go, so we can have access to the handwashing sink on the wall behind the mountain, just before scheduled inspections. And it’s always me, because I can squeeze my five-foot-seven, 140-pound ass into places some of the others can’t. I shouldn’t have to watch vision after vision of supplies I don’t need, just to find some damn napkins. Not when I’m getting paid the same eleven dol- lars an hour as everyone else. But I can't dwell on that or I'll get even more jittery and irri- table. The quickest way to get through this day, like every day, is to take a deep breath, keep my head down, keep to myself, and keep my hands closed and close to me. I fold them against my shirt and slip between the boxes and the wall. Damn, I swear it gets narrower and narrower every time I walk through here. I keep my eyes on the back of Scoop’s head and follow him out to the front counter, where the sunlight has already started cooking ‘ 10 * BRITTNEY MORRIS the employees. It smells faintly of sugar and dairy products. The novelty of smelling ice cream all day wore off by the end of my first week. Now I barely smell anything. But I’ve heard that’s normal. Aunt Mackie used to work in a movie n theater, and she said eventually she stopped smelling popcor when she walked in. After a while, it just began to smell faintly of butter substitute and hard work. There’s only one customer out here—a bearded man in his early thirties in shorts, a striped T-shirt, and expensive sun- glasses. He’s pulling a sample spoon out of his mouth and tak- ing forever to decide on a flavor. Ashlynn, who stands what feels like a foot taller than me and who always wears a too-tight brown ponytail that's creep- ing her hairline farther back than any twenty-year-old should have, glances over her shoulder at me with that jaded smirk of hers. Ross, the malnourished Dracula-looking guy whose eyes always look like he hasn’t slept in years but somehow always ends up right at the front at the scooping counter, is feverishly tapping his foot, hands on hips, watching the man with the sun- glasses, his eyes quietly urging the man to make a decision. Scoop decides to bail him out. “All right, Ross,” he says, motioning toward the hallway with two fingers. “You're on break. Ashlynn, you're scooping till Ross gets back.” Shit. That puts me at the register. Calm down, Alex, I tell myself. Just three more hours and you can go home and nap this stress away. Ross can’t get his apron off fast enough. He turns from his post behind the counter, yanks his pink apron over his head, THE COST OF KNOWING © 11 and has a cigarette and lighter out before he even reaches the hallway. Ashlynn nods and moves dutifully to the counter where Ross was standing. The customer, who’s now watching Ross leave in the middle of the transaction, seems unfazed and points to a tub of green ice cream in the corner. Ashlynn never speaks unless she absolutely has to, so I’m sure she’s relieved to be able to scoop ice cream and hand out samples with mini- mal conversation except “Welcome to Scoop’s,” “Which fla- vor?,” “Cup or cone?,” “What size?,” and “Have a great day.” That means I, on the other hand, am stuck at the register, touching everything—clicking buttons, counting cash, swiping cards, getting preordered ice cream cakes out of the freezer, distributing receipts, and handing out coupons and allergy info sheets. And I have to explain all the time that “yes, sir or ma’am, some of our flavors do have artificial colors and sweet- eners, but they're all FDA-approved.” It’s the same answers day after day. Our only gluten-free flavor is strawberry. No, strawberry isn't vegan. Coffee and vanilla are our only vegan flavors. Yes, the coffee is caffeinated. Vanilla isn’t GMO-free, but the sweet cream is. No, the sweet cream isn’t vegan. Only coffee and vanilla. Shoot me. I slip on a bubblegum-pink apron and pull my cobalt-blue visor down low on my forehead, canceling the visions for each, right after I see myself hanging both of them up at the end of my shift. I sigh and adjust the visor so it rests comfortably. My hair is cut short—a fade on the sides and slightly longer 12 + BRITTNEY MORRIS coils on top. I was relieved I didn’t have to carry an Afro pick and pocket-size styling gel anymore when we switched from baseball caps to visors last year, another expense that Scoop decided would be more effective at keeping us employees cool than blackout curtains. Apparently you lose 20 percent of your body heat through your head or something? I don’t know. In the corner of my eye, I see Ashlynn turn to leave down the hallway. “We're out of spoons,” she grumbles. “I'm going to find more in the back.” As soon as I’m left alone out here, the front door swings open, and I take a long, deep breath and log into the register, clicking my name and typing in my four-digit PIN. I punch 1. Vision of me pressing the 0 on the register. Stop. I punch 0. Vision of me pressing the 0 again. Stop. I punch 0 again. Vision of me pressing the 4 on the register. Stop. I punch 4. Vision of the register’s welcome screen. Stop. “Hi, welcome to Scoop’s,” I say to whoever just walked in, as the register lights up with my name. Welcome, Alex Rufus. Shit, it’s hot in here. It’s three in the afternoon, and the sun is blinding through the west window, beating down on the whole area right behind the register where I am. Sweat is already bead- ing on my forehead, but I put on my most convincing smile and look up at the customer. A woman about my height with short reddish-brown hair and bright green eyes walks over, looking like she stepped right out of a J.Crew catalog. The redheaded little girl holding her hand looks like she’s about seven, but she’s sucking her thumb with the enthusiasm of a jittery toddler. THE COST OF KNOWING « 13 When they reach the counter, she buries her face in her mom’s stomach and puts all her focus into her thumb. “Hi,” I say, trying to ignore the slippery suction noises com- ing from the little girl’s mouth. I’m sure this woman and her daughter are both cool, but I need them to get the hell out of here with those mouth sounds. “What can I get you?” I ask. The woman is staring past my head at the board behind me as if it’s changed in the last five years. Literally the only thing that’s ever changed is our prices. She must be brand-new here. “Canna get a child’s size cone for Mabel, and a single scoop fer me?” Her accent is either Irish or Scottish—I can’t really tell. She’s reaching into her brown leather purse, fishing around for something to pay with, but I’m missing information. “Which flavors, ma’am?” I ask. “Oh!” she exclaims. “What’s the pistachio flavor like?” It tastes like pistachio, I wish I could say. “Tt’s nutty and a little less sweet than the others,” I have to say. God, it’s so hot in here. I have to remove my glasses and wipe the sweat out of my eyes now, but it doesn’t help much because my arms are already dewy. I end the vision of me put- ting the glasses back on my face. I use her indecisiveness to step away from the register, where the sun is beaming through the window, and stand behind the ice cream counter instead. I rest my hands on the cold metal shelf behind the glass for some relief, until the room fades to black and I see an image of this place drenched in darkness except for moonlight. I see the window, and the summer moon is outside in the sky, shining 14 + BRITTNEY MORRIS down on this place. It’s peaceful after hours, and cool, and I long for that kind of quiet right now. But I can’t savor this moment forever. I concentrate and command my brain to end the vision. The sunlight zooms at me like I’m flying toward a light at the end of a long tunnel, and suddenly I’m back in the shop, behind the counter, and the ].Crew woman is staring at me expectantly, as if she just asked me a question. “I—I’'m sorry,” I say, without missing a beat. “Could you repeat that?” “Oh, I asked if you go to school nearby. You sound so well-spoken.” Well-spoken? I’m talking about ice cream flavors here, not quoting MLK. But I know what she means. People tell me all the time that I’m “well-spoken,” as opposed to however they were expecting me to sound, “Thanks,” I say. She smiles at me and asks, “Canna try the caramel peanut butter pretzel?” I pick up a plastic sample spoon and see a vision of it being thrown into the dirty spoon bin in just a few moments, and when I cancel the vision and the real world comes zooming back, ['m staring down at the ice cream flavors. I scoop out a tiny bit of the caramel peanut butter pretzel, not really caring that there’s not a single piece of pretzel in the sample, and hold it out to her. She takes the spoon without touching my hand, thank goodness. Every vision I can prevent is an act of precious self-preservation. “Oh, that’s delicious!” she marvels. My head is spinning. My temples are throbbing. I’m dizzy. THE COST OF KNOWING « 15 I miss the days when my gloves used to work. I finally get through scooping a scoop of caramel peanut butter pretzel into a cup, and a scoop of cookies and cream into a cone for Mabel, and get all three of us back to the register so they can pay and leave and take Mabel’s thumb-sucking sounds with them. The mom hands me a twenty-dollar bill. Dammit. I have to count back two fives that I see are about to get stuffed into her purse, and two ones that are about to be dropped into the tip jar. “Thanks.” She smiles at me. “Mabel, say thank you to the nice young man.” Mabel looks up at me through her straight red bangs and blinks a few times in gratitude. I’ll take it. “My name’s Ena,” the woman says with another grin. “Mabel and I are new to Chicago. I own a consignment shop down the street. Maybe you've heard of it. It’s called Mabelena’s?” I don't care. I cant care. I don’t have the energy to care. My eyes are throbbing. The pressure in my sinuses is crush- ing. Ena and Mabel are kind, and I should probably be glad that they came in instead of some entitled asshole who’s a hair trigger away from asking to speak to a manager. I suddenly feel guilty for hating this interaction so much. I should be grateful. “I’ve heard of it,” I finally say. An explosive crash behind me rattles my ears, and I flinch. I look to my right to see Ashlynn standing behind the counter, looking over her shoulder at me with huge eyes. The empty plastic napkin dispenser lies in pieces on the floor next to her. “Sorry,” she says, her voice monotone and unwavering as she kneels and picks up each plastic shard and heads back 16 + BRITTNEY MORRIS down the hallway to retrieve the broom and dustpan, leaving me alone in here with Ena and Mabel again. I turn back to Ena, whose eyes are still bright and trained on me. “You have excellent customer service skills. In this industry, that'll get you far,” she says, glancing around the room before reaching into her purse. I may live in Naperville now, west of Chicago, but I was born and raised in East Garfield Park, where people don't reach into their bag at the register after paying unless they're about to rob the cashier. I flinch and step back reflexively, and Ena looks up at me with a hint of confusion on her face. She pulls a single business card from her purse and holds it out to me. “I just wanted to give you this,” she says. “Come over to Mabelena’s and apply if you ever get tired of working for"—she leans in close and lowers her voice to a whisper—*“Scoop. Met him in here a couple times myself. If you ask me, you should be the one running this place.” This woman has clearly been here before, scoping the place out. Maybe she’s the mysterious buyer that Scoop will even- tually sell to? But the person I saw in my vision grabbing the scoop was Black. Whatever. I'll be outta here before any of that happens. I have to keep reminding myself not to care what happens to this place. The pope could buy it and it wouldn't change a thing about my life. I take the card with trembling hands and a polite “Thanks,” and Ena turns and guides Mabel to the front door. I force the vision of me throwing the card in the garbage can under the register to end. When I zoom back into reality and find myself THE COST OF KNOWING - 17 staring down at the card in my hand, I toss the card in the trash. I’m alone at the front counter, so I do what I always do when I have a moment to myself—allow my brain to torture itself with “what-abouts” and “what-ifs.” Did I throw away that card because I saw the vision first? Or did my vision hap- pen because I would’ve thrown the card away anyway, even if I was normal? If it’s the former, are these visions altering my life timeline? Could I have had a different future without them? What happens if I pick the business card out of the trash and don’t throw it away again? I guess it wouldn’t do anything because the vision was that I would throw it in the trash, and that happened already, whether I pick it out of the trash or not. But what if, just to see what happens... I lean down and pick the card out of the trash and force the ensuing vision to end—the vision of my hand sliding it into my pocket. I’m back to reality, and I glance around the room as if I'm about to test some unwritten rule of the universe by try- ing this. I lean down, hold the card over the trash, and begin to spread my fingers to let it go, and just as it’s about to fall from my hand, Scoop’s voice explodes through the hallway. “Hey, what was that noise, huh? Did something break?” I hear Ashlynn’s dry voice from down the hall. “Broke a dispenser. Sorry.” “Another one?” asks Scoop, stepping into the front room and marching up to the ice cream counter. He looks over to the other side, where the full napkin dispenser sits intact. “That’s the second one this month! Those are thirty bucks ee Ashlynn. Be careful, please!” He’s clearly frustrated, but his voice breaks at that last “please,” 18 «+ BRITTNEY MORRIS and something tightens in my chest. When I first met Scoop, his smile was bigger, his eyes were brighter, and he weighed about thirty pounds more than he does today. His glasses didn't used to have scotch tape around the bridge between the lenses, and he didn’t used to have dark circles under his eyes. Iremember sitting across from him four years ago, at the round blue table that’s still right here in the lobby. I was eleven. My résumé was a joke—I mowed Mrs. Zaccari’s lawn for a few months and vacuumed around the house for Aunt Mackie whenever we’d visit—but my mother insisted I have a résumé, even if I was asking a childhood friend of hers for a job tidying up his ice cream shop’s break room once a week. So there I sat at that little blue table, heart pound- ing, as Scoop—then I called him Mr. de la Cruz—pretended to scrutinize every word of my list of qualifications before shaking my hand to make my employment as official as under-the-table work can be. That day seems like forever ago. That was a year before I lost my parents. A year before I woke up in that hospital bed seeing my very first visions, of what would become of my hospital blankets and the IV drip bag. A year before I started frantically googling what the hell these visions were, why I was getting them, where they came from, and how to get rid of them. Google can be hella scary. I found whole forums full of people with “visions” who said their premonitions were from God or Satan or their “higher self.” None of them wanted to get rid of theirs. They just wanted to charge people for their services. So I googled. I searched. I read. I prayed. And, after months, nothing. THE COST OF KNOWING + 19 No solutions. No answers. No peace. I catch myself staring out into the lobby at that little blue table until Scoop’s voice throws my train of thought off its tracks, “Hey!” he snaps, startling me. I clutch the card a little tighter in my hand. “What's that?” he asks me, nodding to my hand with his chin. I look at the card, and then at the trash can, where ’m supposed to leave the card. If I leave it there, I'll have proven my vision wrong. I look back up at Scoop, and when his eyes narrow slightly and he takes a step toward me, I realize I can’t leave it in the trash. He'll pull it out, read it, figure out I’ve been offered another job, and hire my replacement before I can quit.. I end up slipping the business card into my cargo shorts pocket and whipping up a lie. “A therapist just walked in. We got to talking, and my par- ents came up.” Scoop’s eyebrows soften and his shoulders fall a little. His dark eyes blink a few times, searching mine. “Sh-she,” I stutter for maximum believability, “she gave me her business card... in case I need it.” Scoop folds his arms across his chest, takes a deep breath, and stares at the ground as if he’s trying to find words. You could get Scoop talking for hours about literally anything, but when J bring up my parents, my mom especially, his childhood friend, he locks up. Freezes. Can’t get the words out, or doesn’t 20 + BRITTNEY MORRIS want to. Sometimes I wonder if he remembers her at all. If he ever thinks of her. Maybe when this store goes under, he'll pre- tend it never existed too. I turn my attention back to the regis- ter, pick up a nearby rag, get through the vision of me dragging it across the counter, and then drag it across the counter. I shut my eyes and pray to whatever name the greatest force in the universe goes by that I can make it through this shift without having to touch anything else, and that miraculously, no cus- tomers will come in for the next two and a half hours. And then the front door opens again. “Hi, welcome to Scoop’,” I say, focusing all my attention on making my voice sound less exhausted than I feel. I drop the rag and look up at the front door. A girl slightly shorter than me steps into the shop in all black—ripped jeans pulled up to waist height, a crop top that leaves about half an inch of midriff right in the front when she turns to close the door behind her, and combat boots. She grins up at me with a knowing smile framed by bubblegum-pink lips. All of her hair is tucked up into her hat, but I’d recognize those big brown eyes anywhere. Relief washes over me like rain across the wildfire of stress I've been battling all morning. “Hey, Tal.” I smile, genuinely, for the very first time today. You ever just be standing somewhere—like at a bus stop or something—and someone gets the giggles, and everyone around them starts smiling, and then you start smiling, and maybe even suppressing laughs, just because they are? That's how it works with Talia—her laugh, her smile, the way she flips her hair. The whole room feels brighter, and for a split second, I forget how miserable I am. THE COST OF KNOWING «© 21 “Hey, babe!” She beams, clasping her hands in front of her and rocking side to side. She glances up at Scoop. “jHola, sefior de la Cruz!” she exclaims, a bit too loudly for the space of this lobby. “Como estas, Talia?” he says with sparkling eyes. “iCémo esta tu mama?” “|Bien!” She smiles. Talia’s always been like this—always smiling and bursting with energy. But she’s bouncier than usual today, even for her. Her whole face, the color of a perfectly toasted marshmallow, is pinker than usual. Maybe it’s from the summer heat. But her eyes are twinkling, like she has something important to tell me. “You good?” I ask her. What we used to ask each other after my parents died. After her dad left. After we lost Shaun. Whenever we really need to check in with each other. You good? is code for Tell me every- thing. “Nah-ah-ah.” She frowns, holding up her index finger and pretending to pout as she looks away. I roll my eyes and sigh. Oh, right. Spanish. “iEstoy bien?” “Yo no sé,” she says, rolling her eyes. “;Est4s bien?” I blink. Talia’s been trying so hard to teach me Spanish, throwing phrases at me constantly, leaving sticky notes all over Aunt Mackie’s stuff whenever she comes over to study with me after school, pointing to random objects when we’re out in public and quizzing me on whether I know the Spanish word for it. I can’t keep up. Nothing sticks. I appreciate it, though. I’ve 22 + BRITTNEY MORRIS always wanted to learn a second language, and since Talia speaks Spanish fluently, it might as well be that one. It’s a great addition to my résumé. Mom would be proud. I hope. “Hey,” she says, “are you listening?” “What?” I ask. Shit, I was lost in thought again. “Oh, sorry. I mean... ¢qué?” Talia takes in a deep breath and opens and closes her hands, which she does whenever she’s decided to just move on and not make the situation an incident. She’s on to the next sentence before I can correct my error and ask Estds bien? instead. She’s talking to Scoop again. “iTe importa si hablo con Alex por un momento?” “Sure,” he says in English, nodding at me before switch- ing back to Spanish. “En realidad, Alex, Ashlynn me ha estado pidiendo mas horas tiltimamente, asi que si quieres irte a casa ahora y dejarla tomarse las tiltimas horas de tu turno, siéntete libre.” All I got out of that was Ashlynn’s name and the word for “hours.” “What?” I ask. But Talia’s halfway through an eruption of squeals and jumping up and down. She reaches over the counter, grabs my hand, and guides me around to the front of the store. Her hand feels hot—blistering, like I'm touching red coils on a stove—and a vision overtakes me that’s more powerful than all the others I’ve been through today. My chest feels like it’s being squeezed in a vise. Talia is standing in front of me, looking up at me with those captivating eyes of hers. Her dark curls just barely touch her shoulders. Her black sundress flutters slightly. It's night outside, and I can feel a gentle breeze against my skin, THE COST OF KNOWING «© 23 with the moon high above us. This whole place is bathed in moonlight. No, harsh yellow light. Lots of harsh yellow lights, actually. I think they're cars, passing by slowly, crawling down the street. We’re on the sidewalk, staring each other down. It’s cool enough outside to raise goose bumps on my arms, but my heart is pounding with fear and shame and regret. I look at Talia’s eyes. They’re traced with the blackest liner I’ve ever seen her use. Big black circles and huge lashes. Dark lipstick. Dark everything. And, the scariest part, Talia is looking at me like she wants to kill me. Like I’ve done something unforgivable. Like it's over. I don’t recognize her. She’s never looked at me like this. Even as I watch her in this vision, glaring at me like she’s trying to drill straight through my head with her eyes, I know she’s actually standing in Scoop’s ice cream shop right now, holding my hand, but I don’t know if she'll hold my hand like this tomor- row. I don’t know if she'll look at me the same way next week. I don’t know if we'll be together next month. I don’t know if I'll have her number in a year. But this moment, standing with her on the side of the road, with her looking at me like she doesn’t know me, with searing hatred in her eyes—I don’t want to know when that moment is coming. I don’t want to know what happens after that. When I return to the ice cream shop, I’m gasping and pull- ing my hand from hers. “Hey, you good?” she asks, looking over her shoulder at me in confusion where her smile used to be. I'm not good. There’s a lump in my throat that I can’t swal- low. My armpits are soaked with sweat, and my right eye is burning from a sweat droplet that’s fallen into it. It’s getting 24 * BRITTNEY MORRIS harder and harder to find the differences between my visions and my anxiety attacks. I think this time it’s both. I breathe and try to think. I've never seen her look at me like that—like I did something horrible, like I really hurt her. Like she never wants to see me again. Are we going to... break up soon? I don’t want to think about it. We've been fine. We're fine!... Right? I blink, trying to steady my breathing so she doesn't get ner- vous and think something’s up. I look at her to see if it’s working. It’s not. She reaches for both my hands, and I flinch away before she can touch me. Her eyebrows sink down, and the look of disappointment in her eyes breaks me. “Tal, uh,” I say, scrambling for control of my words, “I’ve, uh, been feeling kinda sick. I don't think I should be holding your hand.” What kind of man has to make up excuses not to touch his own girlfriend? And... how long can I go without touching her? I've never had to before. I've always just cancelled the vision before it took over. I don’t know exactly when that night is coming, but at least I know I've got some time. As far as I know, she doesn’t own a black sundress—I’ve never seen her in one anyway, and at some point her hair is supposed to go blue. I've seen it. She’s going to dye it electric blue soon, and then brown again. That THE COST OF KNOWING «© 25 should give me a while until we’re somehow standing on the side of a road jammed with traffic, right? But what happens if I see what happens after that? What happens if I find out that’s the night we break up? What happens now that I’m too scared to even touch her, and she thinks I’m mad at her or something and my fear causes her to break up with me? “Oh, uh... okay, then,” she says. Talia tries not to let it bother her by smiling at me, but her eyes betray her. My heart is still pounding and my head is spin- ning. I’m relieved when she keeps talking. “Scoop said Ashlynn wants to take your hours,” she says cheerfully, leaning in so close to me I can smell her shampoo and whispering, “Which means we can head back to your place early. Come on. Let's grab some ice cream and get the heck outta here. We're burnin’ daylight.” “Okay,” I concede with a sigh, still reeling from that vision. How am I supposed to keep from touching Talia without her figuring out something’s wrong? “Just let me get some cash out the ATM for bus money first.” “No need. I drove your car here so you wouldn't have to take the bus.” I smile, but inside, my heart sinks. The bus is so much cheaper than gas, and it requires me watching zero visions of my steering wheel and gear shift, so lately I've been leaving my car—my little 2001 Geo Metro—at Aunt Mackie’s house. I don’t know when I'll be comfortable enough with it to call it my house. Maybe when my parents come back from the dead and start living there too. “Thanks, Talia,” I say instead. The Photo BY THE TIME TALIA orders her double scoop cone of half s'mores, half rainbow sherbet, which sounds absolutely dis- gusting together but has always been her favorite, and I order my plain old chocolate scoop in a cone, and we squeeze into my blue Geo, it’s begun to rain, despite the heat. Talia makes a fantastic copilot. She flips on the radio, blasting static into the car for a brief moment before switching it to Bluetooth and cranking “Feel Good Inc.” This car may be a piece of crap as old as me, but the sound system is bumping. I can feel the rhythm in my chest as we fly down Clark Street. I glance over at her as she licks some of her s*mores into her sherbet. I like her hat like this. It sits right at her hairline, with all her hair tucked up into it so I can see her whole face. It sharpens her jawline. Then I remember that she asked Scoop if she could talk to me about something. “Hey,” I say. “Did you say you had something to tell me?” “Oh yeah!” she exclaims. She bounces with excitement in her seat and nestles her ice cream cone in the cupholder, then reaches up and dramatically rips off the hat. Waves of electric- blue hair fall over her face, and she shakes her head and beams at me proudly, THE COST OF KNOWING «© 27 “Whaaat?” I grin, sounding pleasantly surprised, even though I’m actually terrified. The blue hair. It’s happening. One step closer to her breaking up with me. “You like it?” she asks, raising her left shoulder to her chin, lowering her eyes and pouting her bubblegum-pink lips slightly. Damn, do I like it. I nod and swallow the lump in my throat. If I can’t even hold her hand without seeing her breaking up with me, how can I even think we could ever have sex? “Ready for a lick?” she asks, jarring me from my thoughts. I turn my head and stick out my tongue, she holds the cone up to my face, and I lick, savoring the cold, creamy sweetness. Talia and I used to visit Scoop’s all the time when we were little, when Shaun was with us. I’m sure my face betrays that I’m thinking about him, because I can feel Talia’s eyes linger on me before she faces forward again and licks her own cone in silence. I glance over at the rainbow and white and brown all swirled into a monstrous tower. “I swear Ill never get used to looking at that,” I say with a grin. The rain picks up, pelting the windshield mercilessly, and I take a long, deep breath and glance at Talia. She doesn’t reply, her eyes transfixed on the road, her mind somewhere else. “Hey,” I begin, trying to distract her from the rain. I look down at her hand. I wish I could take hold of it, look her in the eyes, and tell her that it’s okay to grieve every time it rains, even 28 * BRITTNEY MORRIS if it’s been three years. But I’m better at offering distractions. “Did you check on Isaiah while you were at the house ear- lier?” She smirks at me, and her eyes brighten. “You know I did. He’s been playing music in his room all day, though. He used to be fun to play with, once upon a time. When we were kids.” “We're still kids,” I remind her as we stop at a red light. The words don’t sound convincing when I say them. I don’t know what I feel like, but I don’t feel sixteen. It’s hard to feel like anything in the present when I'm staring into the future every thirty seconds. The light turns green and I put my hands on the wheel again, triggering a vision of my car sitting at the top of a junk pile the size of my house at the dump, years from now because I’ve touched the wheel so much, and seen so many visions of it. This car, my little Geo that I love so much, will end up flooded with water one day. A few weeks ago, on one of the hottest days of the year, I stopped for gas on the way to Talia’s house. We had everything planned out for a perfect summer day. We were going to put on our bathing suits and head to the Garfield Park Community Center for a swim. Talia had stocked her freezer with Popsicles for us to enjoy on the walk over. I was leaning against my car at the gas station, excited, happy for a moment. I was about to see my favorite girl. But when I put the pump away, sat down in the driver's seat, and grabbed the steering wheel at four and eight, I saw a vision I'll never forget. Two hands, white, seeming to belong to a man in his twenties or thirties, wearing a wedding band, took the place of my black THE COST OF KNOWING « 29 hands on the wheel. A torrent of water barreled down on the windshield and sprayed glass into the car, releasing the flood into the cabin. I panicked. I thought about stopping the vision. But curiosity, I guess, is a helluva drug. It’s dike standing in front of a train as it barrels across a broken bridge. Yeah, it’s horrific, but is any normal person going to look away? Nah. So I watched on. A notebook flew past my face, and my left hand went to the driver’s-side door, but it wouldn’t open. I couldn't see anything with the surge of water battering my face. When I opened my eyes, I still saw nothing. Just inky blackness. Those hands with the wedding band were slumped over the wheel in the dark, unmoving, probably cold. And then, red. Then I commanded the vision to stop. I couldn't take any more. I was back in my Geo—my dry, functioning, safe little car parked at pump two on the corner of Harrison Street and Inde- pendence Boulevard. It was sunny outside, and sweat was bead- ing on my forehead. My chest was pounding. I wanted to go back to thirty seconds before, when I was looking forward to Popsicles and swimming, and seeing Talia in a swimsuit. But I couldn't. I was stuck in that moment, sitting in my car alone, staring in a daze through my windshield at two carefree girls about my age in jean shorts with swinging brown ponytails. They were laughing and climbing into a Jeep in front of me, while I was absorbing the fact that whoever gets my Geo next is going to drown exactly where I was sitting. Exactly where I am sitting. How could I go have a day at the pool with Talia with that on my mind? I went home. 30 « BRITTNEY MORRIS That was the day I learned to avoid seeing anything I didn’t have to. It was going to happen whether I knew about it or not, and I might as well protect myself from the knowledge. “Hey,” says Talia. I look over at her and realize she’s holding my chocolate cone inches from my face. It looks like it’s about to drip. I dutifully lick the outside, and she rotates a little too fast, and a huge glob falls and lands on my shoulder. “Ah!” she exclaims, handing me my cone and reaching for the glove box, where I always keep extra napkins. “Lo siento.” “Uh...,” I begin. “Is that “Let me get that’?” She sighs. “No. “Lo siento’ is ‘I’m sorry.’ You could at least make flash cards for yourself or something. Act like this is still something you want to do.” “Tt is,” I say. I’m trying. Spanish is hard. Or at least for me, without the time or energy. I guess she’s had to tell me what “lo siento” means more than she should have. “T'm sorry,” I say. “Uh... lo siento.” She carefully wipes the chocolate from my shoulder with- out a word as “Feel Good Inc.” fades into silence. There's a gap between it and the next song, and in that moment, I absorb the sound of the rain pelting the car. Talia does too. I know this when I hear what she says next. “I'm bringing Shaun flowers tonight.” I can feel the weight in her voice. I keep my hands on the wheel and my eyes on the road, and I realize I've been tensing my jaw. I take a deep breath and wait for her to keep talking. THE COST OF KNOWING « 31 “I was wondering if you want to come with me.” Shaun. Her brother. My brother from another mother. “I... ,” I begin, wanting so badly to be able to say yes. I choose to be honest instead. “T can't, Tal,” I say. I struggle to find the words. What do I say? How do I tell her that I can’t hear Shaun’s name without feeling like I’m going to fall apart? “I’m so tired,” I continue. Always a good excuse. “I’m so grateful for you coming to get _ me from work, and I’m glad to be off early.” But P’'m scared. “But I’m tired.” It’s not too far-fetched. [ve been working all day, so it’s believable that I'd be too tired to do anything more than heat up something for dinner and go to bed. My stomach twists into a knot of apprehension. The number of things I have to touch just to make dinner, even something microwaveable, is going to be mentally exhausting. I wonder what tonight might look like if I were... “normal.” Aunt Mackie is probably home, unless she’s showing someone a house, but she wouldn't ask questions if Talia and I stole away into the theater room in the basement together for a few hours. And we wouldn't have to worry about Isaiah, since he’s been going to his room for the evening earlier and earlier these days. Talia and I would have the house to ourselves. “T get it,” says Talia, crunching into her waffle cone and lick- ing the dwindling brown-and-rainbow ice cream tower. | lift my own cone and savor another lick of creamy chocolate. We ride in silence for the rest of the trip, which Talia doesn’t do unless she’s retreated into her thoughts, which she doesn’t do unless she’s hurting. 52 ° BRITTNEY MORRIS I sigh and decide that if I can’t distract her from the rain, I can at least leave her to endure it in peace. But it kills me to just leave us to the sound. I can feel her pain. I’m remembering him too. I try not to let the hard knot in my stomach turn itself into nausea, which has been known to happen with me, usually when I’m hungry. The merciless rain has receded to a drizzle by the time I drive through the black iron gates of Santiam Estates, the gated community Aunt Mackie has lived in since before I can remember. Each house in this neighborhood costs over a million dol- lars. All of them are at least two stories tall, with a basement, forced air, and a well-maintained lawn, as is mandated by the Santiam Housing Association. I should know. Aunt Mackie is a real estate agent. Kind of a famous one around Chicago proper. Her face is on buses, park benches, and taxis. She knows the rules of the homeowners association better than anyone else in the community, and has had a hand in shaping so many of them over the years. As she says, “Whoever makes the rules controls the narra- tive.” We drive past Talia’s favorite house. It’s a humble one com- pared to its neighbors, gray with a bright yellow door, I see why she likes it. It's the only house with any color. Bright pink hydrangeas line the front of the house, all the way up to the front door. “We'll have a house like that one day,” she said dreamily, six months ago when we announced to Aunt Mackie and Talia’s THE COST OF KNOWING © 33 mother that we were officially together. I haven't held her hand long enough to find out if we will. And now, I don’t know if I ever can. We pass a cream-colored house with black shutters. The sprinklers are spewing water across the front lawn, even though it’s just finished raining. Mr. and Mrs. Sanderson must not be home yet. Isaiah and I have been mowing their lawn and trimming down their dogwood bushes every summer since we moved in with Aunt Mackie four years ago. Mrs. Zaccari’s house next door to the Sandersons’ is looking a little overgrown too. I consider asking Isaiah if he wants to walk over here with me tomorrow to make an extra twenty bucks, but I doubt he'll say yes. We have nothing to talk about anymore. Nothing in common except one thing—that aching empty space where our parents used to be, and that topic will probably always be off-limits for him. We finally reach Aunt Mackie’s house—the brown one halfway down the block. The sunset-auburn-colored house halfway down the block, Aunt Mackie insists. Looks like plain old reddish-brown to me. “Dammit,” hisses Talia as I pull into the wraparound drive- way and park my car around the side of the garage so the neighbors can’t see it. A two-decade-old Geo isn’t exactly the curb appeal I'm look- ing for, Aunt Mackie said to me when I first drove it home from the used car lot. “What's up?” I ask. Talia pops the last of her ice cream cone into her mouth and holds what remains of my chocolate cone out to me. 34 + BRITTNEY MORRIS “Your aunt’s already home.” I eat the last bite of my cone and she swings open the door and jumps out. She shuts it a little harder than I think she meant to. I suddenly realize why she wanted us to come home early, why she was so happy to show me her new hair, why she was looking at me like that when she took off her hat. I sigh in relief and get out of the car. For the first time in my life, I’m grateful that Aunt Mackie is home early. Better to have her home than risk being left alone in the theater room with Talia and see the disappointment in her eyes when I have to bail out before she reaches for me. Goddamn it, I hate this. If I can’t touch her for fear of seeing the future, how am I sup- posed to convince myself that our future includes a big gray house with a yellow door and hydrangeas, and us not touching each other forever? By simple logic, we have to end at some point. I just want to go through life blissfully unaware of when that'll happen. I pull my keys out of the ignition and lock my car door. I shoo away the vision of me locking my keys in the back seat of my car in a few years and follow Talia through the jet-black front door into the foyer. The unmistakable smell of pizza bites and baked sweet potatoes overtakes my sinuses. This smell combination means two things: Isaiah has eaten dinner, which is always pizza bites, and Aunt Mackie has been home for at least twenty minutes to meal prep—one of the few times she cooks each week. “Alex?” “It's us, Aunt Mackie,” says Talia, slinging her black messen- ger bag off over her head and running her hands through her THE COST OF KNOWING « 35 new electric-blue hair. She sets the bag down by the copper console table, with a mirror the size of a standard sofa above it, and steps farther into the house until the carpet begins. Then she steps out of her black combat boots and makes her way into the living room and around the corner. “Oh my gah—” comes Aunt Mackie’s hushed voice. Talia’s giggling starts immediately. “What did you do?” asks Aunt Mackie. I kick off my Vans and take a shortcut to the dining room through the kitchen, around the island, and through the walk-in pantry with boxes and cans neatly arranged to the ceiling. “I wanted something a little different,” says Talia, just as I reach the dining room. Aunt Mackie is sitting at the other end of the dining table, which has papers strewn all over it. She looks up at me over her glasses with her mouth agape in shock. “Do you see what your girlfriend did to her hair?” she asks me. I don’t know why she expects me to be outraged. If she knew any of the music I listen to, saw any of the artists, she could’ve anticipated my response. I hold up the devil horns with my right hand and shut my eyes for maximum effect. “T think it’s pretty metal.” Talia raises one hand to the ceiling, twirls around in a circle, and curtsies. “Hella metal,” she says. Aunt Mackie slips her glasses down her nose and reaches up to touch her edges. She’s got a new hairstyle herself—her normally shoulder-length wash-and-go is now twisted up into Marleys, tied into a giant bun right at the crown of her head— 36 * BRITTNEY MORRIS neat and professional. She’s looking over her glasses at Talia’s blue hair, which seems to glow in this dining room otherwise filled with beige, brown, white, and black. “I just hope you dye it back before the start of the school year. What’ll happen if colleges ask you to send in pictures of you doing extracurricular activities throughout high school, with your applications?” “Pretty sure plenty of college students have blue hair,” says Talia. “But not during the admissions process.” “Well, then my pic will be even more accurate. They should know exactly what they’re getting themselves into if they admit Talia Gomez—nose ring, blue hair, eighteen-inch back tattoo and all.” It takes a solid five seconds of staring before Aunt Mackie processes that last part. “Did you say eighteen-inch back tattoo?” she asks. Talia nods, and I try not to smile as she drags out the joke. “Yeah, I got it when I went to Mexico with my cousin last summer. It’s a picture of you with the word ‘gullible’ under- neath.” That's my girl. Even Aunt Mackie has to smile in defeat at that one. She taps the table a few times. “All right, all right, I'm glad you think it’s funny to watch my blood pressure go through the roof,” she chuckles. “But I'm serious. Colleges can deny students based on absolutely anything. I'd hate for you or Alex, or Isaiah, to get skipped over because of something so silly. You kids are my babies, y'know? THE COST OF KNOWING « 37 I hate to say it, but sometimes you have to play by rules you don’t agree with, just to make it in life.” “Yes, Aunt Mackie,” says Talia with an eye roll. Aunt Mackie nods in reply, rising from her chair and rub- bing her temples as if she’s been straining her/eyes all day. “I have to leave in a few minutes to pick up a petition from Mrs. Zaccari about this concert at the Wall this weekend—” “Ooh, ooh!” cries Talia. “Rex and the Thimbles? Icey London?” “Who?” asks Aunt Mackie. “Plush Frog?” presses Talia. “I don't—” “Who's playing this weekend?” asks Talia. I have to smile. If a concert is happening anywhere near us in the next three months, Talia usually knows about it. Rex and the Thimbles and Plush Frog are both playing at the Wall this weekend, which is only a mile away from here, but I can think of only one artist playing that would warrant a petition from Mrs. Zaccari. “Shiv Skeptic,” I say. Talia’s eyes double in size and her mouth drops open. “Shiv Skeptic is going to be within two hundred miles of here, and you didn’t tell me?!” I shrug. “I assumed you knew about it already,” I explain, but that wasn’t the only reason. General admission tickets are 150 bucks. Talia’s mom hasn't been able to afford bread and milk comfortably since Shaun died. His funeral expenses blew away the little she had saved up as a single parent, and her disability 38 * BRITTNEY MORRIS checks don’t cover much else. Why would I tell Talia about a Shiv Skeptic concert if there’s no way in hell she’s going to be able to go? What's the point in me telling her, except to dis- appoint her? “Have you two eaten yet?” asks Aunt Mackie, conveniently changing the subject. “Isaiah’s already raided the last of the pizza bites, but you can order something—” “No I didn’t,” mumbles a voice from somewhere in the liv- ing room. Talia looks at me as if we’re about to enter a war zone. Then she turns to face the big gray sectional facing away from us into the living room. The sixty-four-inch flat-screen TV on the other side of the room is displaying a soccer match on mute, but I know Isaiah well enough to know he’s not really watching. “Hey, Isaiah,” offers Talia. No response from the other side of the couch. I look to Aunt Mackie to press him to say hello when people walk into the room, like my parents used to. But she just shakes her head and turns her attention back to the papers on the table. Not that I really care if we say hello or not, but it was something our parents wanted. More and more of who they were seems to get forgotten every day. She could at least pretend they existed. I step past her, past Talia, and peer over the couch, carefully, without touching it. Isaiah, reclining with his bare feet resting on the cup-holder section—gross—is holding his phone only inches away from his eyes, tapping the screen to bounce a bright yellow ball up and down to create sound waves against the ceiling and floor of the room it’s in. I've played this game before. It’s a music game called THE COST OF KNOWING « 39 BeatBall, in which you have to tap a ball to stay on rhythm with the EDM song playing. Some, like me, get bored of it within minutes. Others, like Isaiah, play it all summer, buy the fifty-dollar expansion pack that lets you add your own songs to the game, and publish custom levels to the app store. I could ask him if he wants to mow the Zaccaris’ lawn tomorrow morning, like we used to do together, but he proba- bly wouldn't answer me. But I can’t blame him. Since the acci- dent, he doesn’t really talk unless he has to. Sometimes, when I’m at work, I wish I had that luxury. “Well, I'm hungry,” says Talia. She throws up her hands and steps back into the kitchen. “Anyone else want pizza?” “They have a new number now, Talia. It’s on the fridge,” says Aunt Mackie without looking up from her papers, which I notice, now that I’m standing right behind her, are actually photos. The burgundy photo album lies closed on the table. I hate photos. Not the ones on my phone. Actual physical pho- tographs. I picked up a stack of them once for a school proj- ect last year, and the rapid-fire visions I got were a full-blown assault on my psyche. I couldn’t focus on anything. Stressful as hell. And dizzying. “I don't see anything on the fridge,” calls Talia, a little too loudly, from around the corner. This house is so big, you get an echo if you stand in certain spots. Aunt Mackie sucks her teeth in realization, calls back, “Oh, right, I put the flyers in the top drawer. Hold on,” and stands up from the table a little too fast. Her left elbow catches the corner of the photo album, sending it flying off the table to the floor. Only a few loose photos scatter away from the album, 40 - BRITTNEY MORRIS which is lying facedown on the carpet. I watch one fly under the sofa. Aunt Mackie sinks to her knees and begins picking them all up and carefully sliding them back into the album, all except the one that slipped under the sofa. But before I can inform her that she missed one, she’s standing back up and jogging into the kitchen to help Talia. “It’s in this one,” I hear from the kitchen. Their voices dwindle into nothing, and I weigh my options. I could just wait until Aunt Mackie is back in the room to point out that the photo is under the couch, but then I'd have to sit here and remember to let her know. But then she might wonder why I didn’t just pick up the photo myself. I'll tolerate one more vision just to keep her from asking questions. I kneel and reach my hand under the sofa, palm up, so I don’t let it touch the floor. My fingers find the photo and take hold of the edge, and the vision begins. It’s strange to see what the photo looks like in my vision when the actual photo is under the sofa where I can't see it. Mom. Dad. Isaiah. Me. Dad's holding the camera at an angle that captures all four of us. His smile is crooked, like it always was, and one of his front teeth is grayer than the others. He’s wearing his favorite black hat with the Chicago Bulls logo front and center, and his dark eyes, full of warmth, are staring up at me. I some- times forget what he looks like, but now, looking at this photo, I remember everything. I remember him leaning down to kiss my forehead after I went to bed angry once, right before the accident. I pretended to be asleep, but he kissed me anyway. THE COST OF KNOWING «© 41 Maybe he knew I was awake and wanted to tell me he loved me, and maybe I pretended to be asleep because I didn’t want to hear it. Mom is wearing a matching Bulls hat, holding her backpack strap with one hand and glancing over her shoulder at the cam- era, as if the camera caught her off guard—Dad loved taking pictures that were posed for him but impromptu for the rest of us. Her eyebrows are perfectly arched. She looks so young she could be mistaken for a college student—bright smile, bright eyes, ready for the world. I guess that’s what she hoped Id look like in college, whenever I got there. Looking at her now, I can almost remember what she smelled like. It was a sweet smell, unmistakable. I noticed it once getting off the bus downtown as a lady in her forties walked past me to get on. By the time I realized what it reminded me of and turned around to look at her, the doors had closed and the bus was taking off down the street. Maybe it was a perfume she used to wear? A soap she used to use? I don’t remember now. I hope I meet that woman on the bus again. If I could just get the name of whatever that scent is, Pd buy a bottle or a bar of whatever it is, I wouldn’t care how expensive—one for me, and one for Isaiah. He wouldn’t even have to thank me. I would just know that he understood, and he would know I did too. I look at the two of us in the background of the photo. Mom has her arm around me, pulling me close, and I’m smiling like I probably never will again. There’s a light in my eyes that’s gone now. I barely recognize myself when I look in the mirror in the morning. I look tired. All the time. But here, in this photo, my 42 + BRITTNEY MORRIS mouth hangs open mid-laugh with braces, and I look like I’m excited about what's going to happen next. We're about to walk through the gates at United Center to watch the Bulls play the Spurs. It’s my first live game ever, and Isaiah’s, too. I look at his face. I look at his smile, at his sparkling eyes. There’s some- thing in the curve of his mouth that indicates this photo caught him by surprise just like Mom. But he looks happy. He looks curious. He looks hopeful. That was when he used to talk to me. We used to play ball outside in the summer and Smash Bros. inside when it rained, and I used to obliterate whatever strategy he’d have cobbled together in Catan. We had game night every Saturday, and Scoop’s was our favorite after-school hangout spot before Mom and Dad came home from work. Everything was so different back then. As always, the vision lasts for only a moment in real life, so I prepare to cancel the vision and wait for Aunt Mackie to come back into the room. But just before it fades into darkness, I notice something. I hesitate. I expect to see myself slip the photo into the album, or put it on the dining table next to the others, or hand it to Aunt Mackie. But I don't. The photo sinks down to my waist, and I stuff it into my jeans pocket. Why would I do that? I have no intention of continuing to relive this memory. Mom. Dad. Isaiah. Me. The Spurs game. A week before it happened. It’s easier to just forget we had a life before we lost them. It’s easier to forget. Forget everything. THE COST OF KNOWING «© 43 But... apparently, I won't. I'm back in the living room, staring down at the photo in my hands. Think, Alex. Why would I put this thing in my pocket? If there’s no way I would decide to put it in my pocket with what I know now, I must discover something in the next few moments that will make me want to put the photo in my pocket. Something significant. And if I can’t tell why, from the past or the present, there’s only one other source of informa- tion I haven’t checked. I set the photo on the dining room table and, with trem- bling hands, pick it back up again, triggering another vision. I watch the photo shifting around inside my pocket, pitch black. Shortly after, I pull it out again, this time with my ceiling behind it. I’m lying in bed looking at it, torturing myself, dwell- ing on memories, so it must be night. Then darkness takes over again as I slip the photo into the pocket of my jacket, wadded up on my nightstand. It feels like I stand in the dining room for hours, watch- ing this vision, but I know the whole thingis taking a split second, When I take the photo out again after watching the darkness for forever, I see the photo in my hands again, with grass behind it, and when I look up past it, I see gravestones. Hundreds of them. In a lush green field with morning sunlight peeking through the trees, and colorful flowers dotting the hills where the grave plots are. The photo goes into my jacket pocket this time. Darkness again, with occasional flickers of sunlight through the mesh waterproof layer, in different colors. 44 + BRITTNEY MORRIS Looks like a rave in my pocket, wherever I am. Darkness again. Graveyard again. This time, my eyes travel. At first I’m looking at the photo with more gravestones behind it, dotting the hillsides, scat- tered among the trees. But then I look down, at the gaping rectangular hole in the ground, and my vision goes red. Red. Red, like I’m looking through one lens in a pair of 3D glasses. Red, like I saw in my vision of Shaun before he died. I freeze, staring down at the rectangular hole. My shiny black shoes, peeking out from under my black slacks, are covered in dew from the grass, standing only inches away from the edge. I watch myself reach my hand forward and let the wind carry the photo from my fingers. It falls, like a leaf, landing squarely in the middle of a floral arrangement on top of a small white casket at the bottom of the hole in the ground. Before I can will the vision to stop, I see the inscription on the side. I see the name before I can backpedal out of this nightmare. ISAIAH RUFUS, DEARLY BELOVED. The Graveyard MOM AND DAD USED to tell us, when we were still young enough to believe people can understand anything about the universe, that people are always chasing after impossible things. We want what we can’t have. We ask questions we don’t fully understand, looking for answers we wouldn't be able to handle. People pay accountants and psychologists to give them power over the here and now, and they pay life coaches, fitness trainers, doctors, and tarot readers so they can control more of the future. But none of them really want to be sure of what will happen. You can’t convince me that anyone really wants to know when they'll die, or when they'll get married, or when they'll have kids, or how many. The not-knowing is what makes life meaningful, the surprise of my girlfriend picking me up at work with blue hair, the suspense of wondering if she'll turn to me and kiss me, or if we'll get into a massive fight and she'll break up with me like in my vision, whenever that night comes. Spending summer days on the sofa across the room from Isaiah, the two of us on our phones, not acknowledging each other except to ask if the other wants a snack, happily unaware of the hours we have left to get to know each other. My visions took all of that away. 46 + BRITTNEY MORRIS I sigh and roll from my side to my back to stare at my ceiling. The moment I saw him, the last living piece of my imme- diate family, lying inside a box at the bottom of a hole in the ground, he was already dead. I know that I can’t stop it, but I shut my eyes and begin ripping through the facts I have in my head regardless. Everyone dies. Isaiah’s going to, just like me, but is it really in only a few days? Less than a week left? Lying in bed looking at the photo, which is happening now. The morning in the graveyard. At least, I think it was morning. The evening I’m going to spend sitting in my chair looking at the photo again.. Darkness. The evening—what I assume is evening—lights flickering through my jacket pocket. More darkness. The morning in the graveyard. I shake my head. There's no way this is happening. Isaiah’s a healthy—excluding — all the cereal and pizza bites—twelve-year-old kid. He can't just... no. It’s not happening. Maybe I’m stuck in one of those time-loop things I've heard about. Maybe I'm still stuck in a vision of me lying in bed, staring at my ceiling. Maybe I’m dreaming. I shake my head and pinch the back of my hand. No vision, since touching my own body doesn’t count. The pinch doesn't help. I reach down and grab my comforter and shoo away a vision of me, fast asleep in bed, probably years from now. Nope. This is reality. Maybe Isaiah fakes his own death? THE COST OF KNOWING © 47 Then I shake my head and scoff at my own thoughts. How the hell would he pull that off? He’d have to be some boy genius, and Isaiah is no genius. He'd have to dig or hire someone to dig a rectangular hole, get a casket off eBay, and convince me the whole thing wasn’t staged. There’s no freakin’ way. And that red in my vision. The whole world looking like I was watching through blood. My heart races out of control again. I don’t want to believe it, but that red can mean death and nothing else. But what if... I'm out of ideas, but desperate for another. What if anything but this? My heart is thundering. Then another thought crosses my mind. Maybe it’s a different Isaiah Rufus. I dive for my phone, banishing a vision of me unlocking it, and unlock it. I take to Google. “Rufus last name how common,” I search. I click the first result and read, and my stomach twists into a knot. Appar- ently, the last name Rufus hasn’t been in circulation in the US since... 1988? That can’t be right. Isaiah and I are here. Our parents were here. Did we not even show up on the radar? I scroll and see that even in 1988, our last name only belonged to.005 percent of the US population. We're likely the only two Rufuses left, and even more likely the only two Rufuses in Chicago, Illinois, USA, which means the Isaiah Rufus who's going to be at the bottom of that hole in the ground in that graveyard in less than a week is probably my brother. Panic crawls into my stomach like a colony of ants, and I try 48 * BRITTNEY MORRIS to breathe as the futility of this whole situation sets in. What do I know? What can I piece together? In a little while, I'm going to pull the photo out of my pocket again, in a graveyard. Why the hell would I be in a graveyard? Which graveyard? Why am I doing this to myself? It doesn’t matter what I know, or what I do. Isaiah is going to die. So why am I still anxious, like I can do something? Why do I still have adrenaline coursing through me like there’s some way to fight this? I open my eyes, stare at the ceiling, and follow all the steps that are supposed to calm me down and help me sleep: Take a deep breath. Hold my breath and count to ten. Count to a hundred. Lie in corpse pose. Get up and get a glass of water. Open the window and get some fresh air. Stare at the ceiling. Lie with my ass against the wall and my legs up, so my body makes an L shape. None of this works. The window is open, the blood that was in my feet is now in my legs, there’s water in my stomach and air in my lungs, and I'm still wide awake. Even as I stare at my ceiling, which is a solid white sheet of nothing, my brain charges full speed ahead through the hypotheticals, the what if Ijust... , the same fear that swallowed me after I foresaw Shaun’s end. THE COST OF KNOWING « 49 It happened the summer after I'd lost my parents. We were both thirteen. I didn’t really know how to handle my visions yet or under- stand the damage they could do to me, until that day we stood in Shaun’s backyard, kicking a soccer ball around, just the two of us. It was an otherwise normal day. Sunny. Summer. Shaun offered to teach me how to make the Shiv hand symbol, and for some reason—must’ve been a moment when I wasn’t thinking—I agreed. There’s a certain way you can bend your fingers to spell S-H-I-V, and Shaun was determined to teach it to me by the time I left his house. But I couldn't get it. My ring finger wouldn’t bend into a sharp V for anything, so Shaun put down the ball, rolled up his sleeves, and took both my hands in his, guiding my fingers into the correct positions. I was sucked into a vortex of colors. Brilliant flickers of what was once the sunshine and Shaun’s tan skin and dark eyes, and the green grass in the backyard and the clear blue sky, faded into a dull gray-green hue. I was suddenly in the back seat of a car with soft fabric seats and mud stains on the back of the front passen- ger seat. The rain was so violent, the droplets dancing against the windows made a consistent collective hissssss instead of infrequent pitter-pattering. Twin headlights emerged from the darkness before I could realize what they were, zooming straight at me, and the sound... The sound was like something out of an action movie, the ones where everyone important miraculously dodges every bullet, evades every crash, and survives every explosion. But we werent in a movie. And then, the red. 50 + BRITTNEY MORRIS Once Shaun let go of my hand, we were back in his backyard, with the soccer ball on the grass between us and my hands in the perfect position, spelling out the word S-H-I-V. He was smiling at me. His eyes were searching mine, like he could see through me, like he knew I'd seen something. Or maybe I just thought he was looking at me like that. Maybe I wanted so badly to tell him what I'd seen, I mistook the approval in his eyes for curiosity. I shut my eyes against the memory and cover my face with my hands. What else could I have done? I was scared. I didn't know exactly when the crash would happen, except that it would be raining hard outside. All I knew was that I didn’t want to be anywhere near that car when it did. I ran all the way home without another word to Shaun that day, the whole two miles. Talia still lives in that house with her mom, on the south side of East Garfield Park, and I can’t even go over there without remembering what I did. I hid. I ignored Shaun’s texts. I left him wondering what he’d done or said to lose his best friend in the last few days of his life, and a couple of days later, when I woke up from my nap to the sound of rain tapping against my window, I sobbed into my pillow, knowing it was happening. I never saw Shaun again. Never even saw his face. His casket was closed at the funeral. I can’t even go with Talia to take him flowers. I'm afraid looking at his headstone, knowing I could’ve stayed with him so he wouldn't be alone, would break me completely. I think of Aunt Mackie and how I'll have to look her in the eyes across the dinner table every night until I graduate and go THE COST OF KNOWING «© 51 off to college, knowing I knew about Isaiah before it happened, whatever “it” ends up being. Whatever happens in the next few days, I'll have to live with the decisions I make leading up to it. Pll have to make it count. I may not be able to keep Isaiah with me for much longer, but I can make sure that in the last few days of his life, he knows he’s not alone.. I don’t have to make the same mistake twice. I cant. I force my body to peel itself from my bed, even while it’s still dark outside. I can see the sky from my window, deep and dark and dotted with sparkling stars. The faint warm purple of sunrise is slowly creeping into view, and my phone clock reads 5:45 a.m. I should be tired, but right now my body is buzzing. I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. I have to get up. I don’t even know where to begin with this. Isaiah is the only person I know who legitimately hates everything. He doesn’t } watch movies. He doesn’t hang with friends. He doesn’t even leave the house unless he has to, like, for school, or a doctor's appointment. He just sits in his room eating: Lucky Charms and pizza bites, playing BeatBall and listening to music. Occasionally, a box from Amazon will arrive at the door addressed to Isaiah, and either Aunt Mackie or I will knock, pass it to him through his bedroom door, and leave him to open it in the solitude of his hobbit hole. They’re usually just new clothes, with the occasional phone case or headphones thrown in. I know because sometimes I watch the visions of him unboxing things as I carry the boxes to his room. Just because I’m cursed doesn’t mean I can’t get some fun out of it. 52 * BRITTNEY MORRIS But... how do I make the next few days meaningful for him? What would that even look like, besides offering to sit with him in his room, eating Lucky Charms and pizza bites, and playing BeatBall and listening to music? If that’s all he likes, what can I give him to make it special? How do you bring joy to someone who just wants to be left alone? I swing my legs off the bed and my feet find the carpet. In the dark, I find my T-shirt draped over the back of my desk chair—the Gorillaz one that’s going to end up at Goodwill in a few years. I'll take that as a gentle nudge from the universe that I’m headed in the right direction. I slip the shirt on and step gingerly over the piles of clothes scattered all over my floor. Aunt Mackie claims there’s a smell of body spray and fried food in here, but maybe, like the smell of ice cream at Scoop’s, or the popcorn at her movie theater, it’s just begun to smell faintly of sandalwood incense and anxiety to me. I ease my door open. It stopped creaking when Aunt Mackie had it replaced last week. I miss my old door. That's where I kept my band sticker hall of fame. I'd been collecting them for years, a sticker for all my favorite artists—the Gorillaz, the Fray, the Weepies, Kendrick, Logic, Panic! at the Disco, Nicki Minaj, Lizzo, Lady Leshurr, and the king himself, Shiv Skeptic. So many people I respect, whose art has gotten me through so much. So many people who I've always wanted to see live, but imagine me, an already anxious, cursed kid, dealing with all those people. No way in hell am I about to walk into such a huge place with so many people, and so many surfaces to THE COST OF KNOWING © 53 touch, and so many things out of my control. But with my door, I could dream. I had all the greats until Aunt Mackie decided the doors in the house needed an update, and I came home to a brand-new, boring white door that still smells like fresh paint. All my stickers, all my memories, gone. But the house’s market value is now higher, so it’s fine. I roll my eyes. Aunt Mackie’s job is important. I get it. I like food. I like having clothes. I like having a bed to sleep in. But she could’ve let me keep the old door under my bed or something. Talia’s sticker hall of fame is on her ceiling above her bed. I should’ve put mine somewhere smart like that, somewhere that could withstand all my aunt’s “home updates.” That way, I could stare up at good memories while I try to fall asleep. My blank ceiling is an empty canvas that prompts my mind to wander. I wonder if Isaiah has anything like that in his room. I haven’t been in there in a million years. I make my way down the hallway, hardly able to see any- thing except the light from the moon shining down through the skylight in the ceiling. I step through the shower of moonlight and disappear into the darkness on the other side with my arms outstretched, feeling for the door at the end of the hallway. My fingertips meet brushed nickel, and I end the vision of me turning the knob. I glance over my shoulder to make sure I’m alone. What am I doing? Isaiah’s probably asleep at this hour. Even he has to crash at some point. But better to check just in case. Hours are precious now, and if he’s awake, we're wasting them. I take a long breath in and obey my vision, 54 + BRITTNEY MORRIS turning the knob, easing the door open. I’m immediately hit with the odor of must, and the ineffective scent of body spray. It smells like my PE bag in here. God, I forgot. He has to be reminded to shower these days. I’m surprised to see the blue glow of his computer lighting up the otherwise pitch-black room. He’s sitting, hunched over at his desk, staring intently at the screen. His big white head- phones, the size of grapefruit halves, peek out from under his oversize sweatshirt hood. He’s swimming in it, but it was Dad's favorite. The black one with the Bulls logo on the chest. A pang of guilt hits me. I didn’t even know he still had that, let alone wore it. His eyes are wide, only inches away from the screen. I whis- per into the room. “Isaiah.” But his headphones are too loud. He doesn't flinch. He doesn't even notice me until I step into the room and ease the door closed behind me. The glow of the screen dances on his face. “Isaiah?” Still no response. I step gingerly closer. I know what it’s like to be staring at a screen too closely and then someone steps out of the darkness behind it and scares the living shit out of you. I don’t want that to happen to Isaiah, but it does. His eyes dart to me and grow huge, and he reels back in his chair. “Dude!” he exclaims, one hand over his chest and one hand scrambling to find the mouse and shut down whatever was playing. He stands up and flicks on the desk lamp next to him, THE COST OF KNOWING « 55 filling the room with a brilliant yellow glow. My eyes haven't adjusted, and I quickly squeeze them shut. “What are you doing in here?” he demands, stepping out from behind the desk. I squint my eyes open and realize he’s not wearing pants— only checkered boxers and white socks. His leg hair is almost as thick as mine now, and even in this poor light, I can see that his knees are ashy as hell. He’s standing with his feet wide and fists balled, like he’s prepared to literally fight me out of here. I raise my hands humbly. “T'm sorry,” I begin. Always a good place to start. It’s hard to be mad at someone who’s apologizing to you. Hard for me anyway. “Get out,” he says, his eyes narrowing. He takes a step toward me, and I move backward. “Bruh, calm down. I just came to talk.” “How about ‘bruh, no’? Get out.” I weigh my options. I could insist he calm down, or I could leave and try talking to him later, if there is a “later.” Or I can bargain with him. “Let me finish what I have to say, and I'll buy you all the Lucky Charms you want.” “Aunt Mackie already buys all the Lucky Charms I want.” Fair enough. “Get out,” he hisses. “Now. Or I'll tell Aunt Mackie you woke me up.” I don't like fighting. It makes me all clammy and shaky and uncomfortable. But I'll bring out the big guns if he makes this difficult. 56 - BRITTNEY MORRIS “Sit down and listen, or I'll tell Aunt Mackie what you're watching in here.” Panic spreads across his face. He sinks down into his desk chair and folds his arms. His jaw is clenched and he’s staring at the wall, refusing to look at me. He and I both know that Aunt Mackie will start cutting some cords if she thinks he’s abusing his internet privileges, and I don’t want that for him. I’m sure the internet is all he has, being in here all day. “Look,” I say, kicking a few clothes out of the way to clear a space on the floor. I sit down cross-legged and stare at him, hoping he'll look at me. “I didn’t want to have to threaten you into talking to me. I just came in here to ask what's up.” He looks at me now, eyes flashing. “What’s up?” he asks. “You want to know... what’s up?” I nod. I don’t think all the Lucky Charms in the world could make this conversation less awkward. “Yeah,” I say with a shrug. “We haven't talked much since... well, really since we moved here. I feel like I don’t really know you anymore.” He rolls his eyes and shrugs. “You don't.” I nod, a lump forming in my throat. He has every right to be angry. After the accident, I shut down, and then when we lost Shaun, I shut everything and everyone out. Including him. Now I have to recover before it’s too late. “I know,” I sigh, scrambling for the right words to say. “Do you, uh... do you remember when we used to play basketball with Shaun in the driveway?” THE COST OF KNOWING « 57 His frown deepens and his crossed arms tighten around himself. I continue. “We used to be... I don’t know... we used to hang out. It’s just that, after we moved here, and after Shaun... you know... we didn’t have much in common, so—” “We don't.” , “Well,” I say with open hands, “now I’m trying to fix that.” “You couldn't text me that? Like, way later today? You had to bust down my door at six in the morning to ask ‘what’s up?” It does sound ridiculous when he says it like that. “Okay, fine. You want me to cut to the point?” Lask. “came in here to ask what you want to do today. Anything you want. Literally anything, and I'll make it happen. I know I haven't been there for you. I haven't been a big brother to you. Like, at all—” I realize, now that I say it aloud, that I really havent been a big brother. I haven’t taught him anything. I haven't even talked to him, not for real. Not like this. My cheeks are burning and I take a deep breath. I really don’t want to cry right now. Man up, Alex. Man up. “J want to make things right,” I say. “Just tell me what you want to do.” Isaiah glances over his shoulder at his computer. Then he leans forward with his elbows on his knees and opens his hands. “You know what I wanna do today?” he asks. “I wanna finish what I was watching, then go to bed, wake up this afternoon, eat some pizza bites, and then rewatch what I was watching. And I want to do all of that... alone.” It’s taking all my self-control not to say something I'll regret 58 * BRITTNEY MORRIS right now. I shut my eyes and focus on my breathing. I picture Shaun’s face, smiling at me as we stand face-to-face in his back yard. He would’ve known what to do, what to say. He used to stand between Isaiah and me when we'd get into it, especially on the court. Isaiah didn’t like that I kept dunking on him, and I didn’t like that he kept whining about it instead of pushing himself to jump higher or learn to bob and weave around me. I wasn’t that much taller than him, after all. Shaun would’ve offered to swap teams with me so Isaiah and I could play along- side each other instead. He would’ve suggested we switch it up and do a free throw contest or something. Anything to ease conflict. Anything to keep us all happy. I guess Shaun really was the glue holding us together after our parents died. We only hung out when it was the three of us. With Isaiah and me at home, we lived in separate worlds. Ay, man, Shaun would say if he were standing in this room right now. Why don’t we go for a walk or something to cool off? Or ice cream. That'll cool us off too. Oh, actually, it’s too early. How about we go look up a recipe and learn to make some? He was always so much more adventurous than I was. So unafraid. I play a sound that’s been burned into my memory, the sound of his voice, his laughter. I think of what I'd give to be able to go back to that day I left him standing in his backyard. I think of what I'd say to him if he were here. If he could hear me. “Can I drive you anywhere?” I press. “If you could stop driving me up the wall, that'd be sick, Are we done here? Can you go away now?” THE COST OF KNOWING «© 59 “I’m not leaving until we have this day planned out.” “I'd give Aunt Mackie my entire browser history before I'd spend a whole day with you.” “You don’t mean that.” There’s no way he can mean that. “I don't say things I don’t mean,” he spits, “like ‘I wanna make things right.” “You don't think I want to make things right?” “T don’t even think you know what that means.” He’s right. I don't. “Mind telling me what that means?” I ask. Then I realize I’m getting defensive, and I revert to my original plan. “There has to be somewhere you want to go. If you could drive any- where in the world right now, where would it be?” He’s silent for what seems like forever, staring at the floor with his hands clasped. So much time passes that I think he'll let the question go unanswered. Then he breaks the silence. “You don’t care.” T

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