Chapter Twenty-Two

Whitney. Jamal opened the door and there she was. She looked paler than usual, limp like a balloon somebody neglected to blow up. He picked through all his feelings but couldn’t really sort them out. He was surprised, slightly happy. Concerned.

Why was she here?

“Can I come in?” she asked too loudly as he hugged her. Something felt off, so Jamal compensated with pressing his body against hers. 

“Of course, yes. Travis—”

“He’s fine.” Whitney removed herself from his arms and went to Jamal’s desk shoved against the window. She looked down at his drawings, all pictures of his son. He was silently relieved that some of the other ones he had drawn—the ones he knew he shouldn’t have—were locked away in a drawer.

“I didn’t know—”

“Are you gay?” Whitney said. She had her duffle bag up on the desk next to her. It looked as deflated as Whitney herself, and he wondered why she had brought it nearly empty.

“What? What do you mean? What does that even—”

“That’s not an answer.” Oh, a small voice in his head said. Never like this, no. Jamal had waited for this day to stalk him. He had looked behind closed doors and under beds, but he never thought it would show up so abruptly when his body wasn’t tense with the anticipation of it. Who had told her? And who else knew?

“No,” he lied. At that moment he wasn’t thinking of his mother or Travis, not even Franklin whose somber voice lived inside the phone. Jamal was thinking of Denise McGovern of all people and her stupid white jean jacket. He was thinking how maybe she had told Whitney somehow, and now his life was over. But he was also thinking how he felt sorry for Denise because there had been such a desperation in her the last time they had talked in high school. She had wanted what he couldn’t give. And here was someone else who knew exactly how that felt.

“I’m not an idiot,” Whitney said. Her hand was in the duffle bag, but she didn’t move it. He half expected her to pull out a piece of paper that proved he was lying. The thought made him snort.

“Are you laughing at me?” 

“No, no, it’s just—this is all just silly. It’s not true. And for you to have come up here over a lie—I’m so sorry, Whitney. I don’t ever want you to be upset.” 

“Don’t,” she said as he moved toward her. “Your father told me.” 

“What? Franklin told you...that I was gay? Why? Why would he do that?” The rhythm of his panic was set in double time now. His father. He knew. Jamal couldn’t even let his brain catch on to the fear in his heart. He’d never be able to face him.

“Because he couldn’t carry that all by himself. And your mother? She was a cheater. She cheated on him, left you alone all the time. She wasn’t the person you thought she was. Apparently, like mother, like son.” It was incomprehensible all these things Whitney was saying. He could see her lips moving, but he couldn’t fully weigh the words. He was looking too hard at her, manipulating all the ways this would break apart him and everyone he knew to notice the gun she was pointing at him.

“He can’t know.” His words stopped short when he saw the gun.

“Travis,” she continued. “He can’t know about you. It’s hard enough, you know?” She shrugged a little at that like she was commiserating with Jamal. Like he’d have to agree she had no other option.

“Don’t do this,” he said. His voice was small and confused. What was happening? How could it have all boiled down to dying in a dorm room? The panic returned, and he struggled to make a plan. Maybe lunge at her when she looked away, wrestle the gun out of her hands...

“Jamal?” she said. She looked so vulnerable then, like she really believed she was doing a favor neither of them deserved.

“What?” he asked, terrified at what came next.

“I’m so sorry,” Whitney said crying as she pulled the trigger.