8
Jameson
1999
“Where are we going, Jameson?” Gunnar asks, squinting up at me. He looks pretty grubby in his oversized green hoodie and too-big jeans. They’re hand-me-downs from Asher’s closet.
“We’re going to Asher’s house,” I remind him. My voice cracks on the last word, and Gunnar giggles. “He said we should stop by before school.”
He’s only eleven, and at sixteen I feel impossibly tall next to him. I glance behind me as we walk down 8th Ave, checking to make sure that Forest is still trudging behind me. He’s thirteen and about as shut off from the world as he can get; he’s got his headphones on, the music turned up as loud as it can go.
I get where Forest’s head is at. Normally at thirteen, a kid would be rebelling against a parent or authority figure. But Forest’s parents are de
