Where We Go

Chapter 3: Dead Russians

Jackson                                                                                                                                                                                     

I was born cold.

My mother went into labor in the middle of a walk in the Russian winter. She loved her walks, and when she had me, right into the snow - nobody was surprised.

What was surprising was that I didn't die immediately of hypothermia.

Mom did always call me her little miracle...

My family moved here 5 years ago, from St. Petersburg. I loved it there. The place had a soul. In winter it was alight with the giggles of the children, and all of Russia smiled in joy. 

The car accident was sudden, and it tore my world to pieces. Mom was dead. Dead meant that she wasn't coming back.

My mom and dad had a love that shook the heavens. Without her, he stopped working. He just broke down, rusted over with his tears. One day, he stopped moving altogether.

And just like that, I had lost both parents in a matter of months. 

We moved here, my Babushka and I. We lived in a big old house on the top of a hill in San Francisco. It was great.

And then she died too.

It just raining dead Russians over here.

So - foster care. It wasn't that bad. I wasn't much of a system person - I got kicked out of 2 homes - but all in all, the people were nice, the places were great, I had a good time.

And then Dave.

Fucking Dave.

He got custody when I was in my third house. At that point, my caseworker was getting a bit tired of my unenthusiastic ass, so he just took the first person willing.

CPS motherfuckers.

His name was Dave, and he lived out in a little seaside town in a small house by the ocean. 

Asshole Caseworker didn't vet too hard. He figured, hey, if the dude's willing to take on some 15-year-old Russian fuck who barely spoke English -  the guy's just gotta be perfect, right?

Well, as it turns out Dave was a notorious alcoholic.

No, not abusive - the CPS asses weren't nearly that bad - but lethargic. He wasn't a bad guy, but all he did - does - is sit around and drink and cry and watch football. Sound familiar?

Yeah. My dad was like that too.

And then he died.

So Dave sits around, and cook and I clean and I make the money and I work my fucking ass off. My caseworker never came by again. So I'm trapped out here, in this tiny town, until I can finally get my ticket out and do something good with myself. Something better than these past two years of monotony, boredom, and cooking for Dave-the-unvetted-ass.

Something real.

Something with impact, meaning, value.

But for now, I settle for my peaceful small-town life. I basically have my own house, I have the Perez's to feed me (yay!) and I have a dream. That's enough.

I'm eating dinner with the Perez's. Josh cooked the empanadas, using his crazy not-actually-Latino-but-close-enough skills. Nova's smiling, and grinning and laughing in her crooked way, and Noah talk animatedly about a baby bird he saw fall from a nest and die(yeah, Noah's a bit screwed up), and Daniel watches us three with a smile on his face. It feels right. It feels perfect.

It feels strong, like this perfect moment could stretch on forever, into infinity, as far as my weak human eyes could see.

Well, too bad, so fucking sad, huh? Because if there is one thing I have learned over my years of life, it's that all good things come to an end, usually before you want them to.

It's one of those sad little facts that I think we would all be better off without.

Fuck it.

But for now, things are good. 

"Jackson," says Noah.

"Yeah?"

"I've been saying your name for like five minutes. I was saying, you should sleep here."

"Uh... why?"

"It's a long walk home. Besides, my bed is big enough. Or you could take Nova's."

Nova glares at him belligerently. "No, he will fucking not."

I smile. Night after night, Noah, always made this offer. And night after night, my answer was the same. "I'm good. Thanks for the offer, though."

Noah sighs. "You'll say yes one of these nights."

"Sure I will, little Colombian man. In the meantime, will you pass me that?" I point at a plate of empanadas, and Noah passes them to me. I grab a few,  put them on my paper plate, cover it with Noah's plate, and stand up.

"I'm leaving."

Noah stands up too. "I'll walk you."

Daniel gives the okay, so we walk out the door. The night air is piercing and dark. It writhes around us like a thing alive, promises of monsters and nightmares hiding in its depths. I hear a sound to our left,  growl to our right, and right in front of us, footsteps. But these are just tricks of the nighttime, its own little way of reminding us that we are not safe walking down this sad road.

But I have Noah by my side, so I am not afraid. 

The walk home is quick and quiet, neither of us willing to disturb the peace of the nighttime. When we reach Dave's small apartment, we turn to face each other.

Noah is the first to speak. "I guess this is goodbye."

"For now," I respond.

He reaches out, his hand just barely skimming my jawline. The movement seems to stretch on for eternity, our eyes pools of shadows, until I turn away.

"Tomaybe?" I ask.

Tomaybe. It what we've always said. Maybe tomorrow. Tomorrow maybe. Tomaybe.

Yeah, I know it's cringey, but who gives a fuck?

"Tomaybe." he confirms, turning away.