The Good Hair Family Sitcom

S3 E8.1: Endings and Beginnings

Brayden's POV

"Crash landing!" Jamar shouts as he wields his toy airplane over his head.

He makes the sound effects as the plane comes plundering downward and collides with my shoulder.

"Oh no!" I play along. "Stay strong, men! The medic will arrive shortly."

"Yes!" Jamar cheers. "She's here! You saved them, Brayden!"

I smile at Jamar as he picks up his toy again and starts flying it around the halls. It kind of feels like watching a ghost. Although nobody's dead, there's a sense like this isn't really real, like all of this is just intangible memory dust that will be brushed clean over time. I suppose it will be. Nothing is truly permanent. Certainly not this now, me and Deion sitting on his bedroom carpet together, packing away his things into boxes. It's beginning to look like a children's play fort in here, brown cardboard stacked into walls. Sunshine blazes in through the window, turning the room into a juxtaposition of bright rays upon grey emotions. But the shadows are immense, tall, and darker than they should be. It could be the world's way of compensating for the unfitting light. I notice Deion looking at me out of the corner of his eye, but when I glance over to look back, he returns to packing, stuffing books inside a box. My chest feels like TV static, like I'm slowly dissolving with every minute that passes. This whole scene is an oxymoron, really. I wish more than anything that this boy sitting across the room from me would stay, yet I'm helping him pack.

"He's gonna miss you a lot," Deion says about Jamar.

"Well," I respond as I lift another one of Deion's childhood jerseys into a box, "I'll miss him too."

The next grab, my hands almost drop. The gold number five is stitched onto the burgundy material, going raw at the edges from wear. The flood of flashbacks nearly breaks through my eyes as I try to suppress all the waves, the glances, the times I went early and stayed late, how often I said I liked basketball, and how often he knew I didn't. I liked his basketball games, though, because they were his. Deion has come up beside me to help me fold his jersey, but I don't even see his open hand until he speaks.

"Brayden."

"Sorry, I'm fine," I mutter and hand him the shirt.

I watch him fold the fabric over on itself. His eyes wash over its entirety, taking it all in.

"Do you think you'll join a new basketball team in Philadelphia?" I ask.

"I don't know," Deion replies. "Maybe."

He places the jersey carefully into the box.

"You should," I say.

"I'm not sure. It won't feel the same."

"Of course not. But I think you still should."

Deion shifts his eyes onto me, giving me a faint smile as he says, "Maybe. For you."

I smile back, but it takes so much effort. I wonder if this is crushing him as much as it is me. I wonder if he knows how much I want him to never play basketball again, since I won't be there to watch him. If I were selfish, I'd tell him to retire it completely, to say I was special, the only boy he'll ever play for. It takes a lot for me not to say that. I suppose I am a little bit selfish, but I'll never let him know that.

I pick up another shirt, this one having a logo from a summer camp he used to go to as a child, and I try to make conversation again.

"So this family you're moving to be closer to," I start, "how often did you see them in the past?"

"Not very," Deion replies. "But they're my mom's siblings. We've got a big house there that we've now inherited since my Grandma died. My mom thinks it will be better for us to be there."