"Jazz?"
I rush down the stairs, my eyes fixed on the auburn-haired boy two floors below in the school lobby. Panting, I reach two feet behind him, gulp, and exhale—the shape of his head, the ears—it has to be Jazz. He is much taller now, with broad shoulders, but he must've grown. "Jazz."
He turns, and I sink to my knees. "It's you."
"Hey, hey, yo' okay?" He grabs my shoulders and helps me to my feet, removing a bottle from his backpack. "Here."
I grip the bottle and fight the tears, half-choked. I want to say something ― I don't know what ― but my words jam up.
"Sit here." He leads me to a bench on the side, opens the bottle, and lifts it to my mouth. "Yo', kay? Drink this." He tips the bottle, and I take a sip. "God! Yo' look flushed. Can I help ya?"
"It's me, Mimi."
"Ok-kay! And 'm suppos'd to know ya?"
"It's me, Mimi," I repeat, tucking my hair behind my ear. "Where did you go? I... we..." I sob, gripping his palm. "Where did you go, Jazz?"
He rises and steps back with a perplexed look. "My name's Drew, like Andrew. Yo're mistaking—"
"Stop. Please stop. Why are you doing this?"
"Doing WHAT?" He retreats. "Yo' need help, Mili... or Mimi, whatev' yo'r name is. I ain't yo'r guy." He turns and walks away without turning back.
***
"Did he really look like Jazz?" mom asks, the bottle gripped in her fist.
"I don't know. I thought it was him... really did."
"It's been seven years, Mimi. We aren't sure what Jazz looks like now. Maybe the resemblance is because of... because you still seek him out. He's gone."
"How can you give up, mom?" I detach myself. "How could you... I'm never letting go of my brother."
Mom sinks into the dining chair and covers her face. "I see him in every face, in every boy, every day, everywhere, hoping it's him." She looks at me with her eyes in a flood. "You've to let go, Mimi. Forgive yourself."
"I will never give up on my brother. You understand that? Never." I run to my room and slam the door. I want to cry, but I can't. I sit on his bed, clutching his pillow, and bury my face in it. I'm not giving up on you, Jazz.
***
"It's you, again?" He detaches himself from his friends and walks toward the stairs.
"Hold up, Drew. Please." I jog, overtake him, and walk backward, facing him.
"Look, I checked up, 'kay? They told' me yo'r bro's missin' and kinda looked like me. But that ain't me, alright?
"I get it. Can we just talk for a moment?" I slow down and stop.
"Fine." He sidesteps and leans against the lockers. "What ya gonna ask?"
"I haven't seen you here."
"I came two weeks in on a schola'ship."
"Athletics?"
"Hell, yeah! Yo' been chasin' me 'round?"
I open my satchel and draw out Jazz's photo.
"Bloody hell! This bloke looks a lot like me."
I study his expression, how he blinks, twitches his nose, the slight movement of his forehead, a trickle of sweat behind his ear, along his neck. He has a scar on his eyebrow—Jazz had it on the left eye or the right? "Where do you live?"
"Third cross," he says, still looking at the photo.
"With your family?"
"Just me and my ol' man." He hands over the photo and steps across to leave.
I block him with my arm. "Why are you avoiding me?"
"Lemme go." He moves my arm and walks toward the stairs. He stops at the first step, scratches the back of his head, and climbs up slowly without turning back.
I chase after him and catch him on the first floor. "Andrew, please stop. Please."
He drops his bag and sinks onto the stair with his head in his palms. I sit next to him and hand him his bottle back.
"Was it hard? Losing yo'r brother?
"Very. Still is."
"Can I see that photo 'gain?"
I hand it over, and he studies it. "This bloke does look like me from back then."
"That's why I... Are you adopted?"
"Me? Nay! Born to mum and dad, raised in Wisconsin. Mom and dad separated when I was seven or eight. No memory lapse or anythin' like that." He hands the photo back. "How old would he be now?"
"Seventeen."
He taps my knee. "Come to think of it, it would be dope if I were him. But I ain't. C'mon!" He rises and pulls me up with my arm. "Let's grab something in the café." He leads me, nodding and waving to the crowd, my wrist still in his palm, and we reach the café. "Sandwich to go with yo'r coffee?"
I nod. He pays, and we occupy a table by the window.
"You want to try some carrot cake?" I draw my tiffin with yesterday's cake.
"My fav. Bring it on." He munches loudly, smacks his lips, and twitches his nose—
God! He's just like Jazz.
***
