Something to Say

by Lisa Moore Ramée

  She throws the ball to another girl, and one by one everyone takes a turn telling us fun facts about themselves, and I start to calm down because I remember an important fact: I am invisible. No one is going to throw the ball to me because they won’t notice me at all.

  My breathing goes back to normal, and my heart thumpity-thumps in a nice even rhythm. I’m actually enjoying hearing about growing super-huge pumpkins and piano recitals and volleyball teams and eating the biggest brownie in the universe . . . and then Stuart Lee throws the ball to Aubrey. The one person who is sure to see me.

  And suddenly I have to pee super bad. Like pee-your-pants bad, and I wave my hand like a helicopter blade, and almost before Mr. Humphries can call on me, I’m out the door and charging down the hall.

  I make it. Barely.

  After I finish, I wash my hands humming “Row, Row, Your Boat,” like you’re supposed to—or maybe that’s for brushing your teeth. And then I smooth my hair and wipe my fingers along my eyebrows to make sure the hairs keep going in the same direction. Then I wash my hands again.

  Then I slowly, and I mean slowly, walk back to class.

  Aubrey is still talking. This can’t be possible. Mr. Humphries clearly said two minutes. It must’ve been over ten minutes. First off, how could anyone have that much to say about themselves, and second, why hasn’t Mr. Humphries stopped him and gone on to the next thing on the agenda?

  The way everyone looks at me as I walk to my desk tells me three things:

  1)I am not invisible.

  2)Aubrey was going to talk until I got back.

  3)Mr. Humphries thought that was a perfectly okay thing.

  Aubrey is saying something about bald people, and maybe it is supposed to be funny because he laughs, but no one else in the class does.

  As soon as my butt hits my chair, Aubrey says, “And that’s enough about Aubrey Banks.” He throws the ball at me, and I’ve played catch way too many times with Malcolm for my hands not to flash up and catch it.

  The ball is soft enough for me to sink my nails into, and I’m glad it is foam, because maybe it will soak up all the sweat pouring down my arms. I get up on shaky legs and glare at Aubrey as he passes by me to take his seat.

  When I face the class, all I can see is the shining bright redness of Aubrey’s hair. But everything else is black. I am trying to think if there is anything I can say other than my name. Can I even say my name? I open my mouth and force sounds out. Ugly sounds. Gaspy, shaky sounds. Maybe a word or two. I’m not sure. I keep blinking to try and clear the dark haze covering everything, but it’s no use. I close my mouth in a hard, firm line and turn my head toward where I believe Mr. Humphries is standing.

  “Thank you, Jenae,” he says. His voice is soft but somehow pierces through the thick sludge surrounding me.

  My vision clears, and I splash through the puddle of sweat on the floor and head back to my seat. I don’t look at anyone. I most definitely do not look at the red bush nodding up and down. If Aubrey thinks he was being my friend by throwing the ball my way, he was dead wrong, and I am not interested in talking to him ever again.

  “I like to start with an easy speech on the first day, just to get the jitters out,” Mr. Humphries says. “We’ll be reading some great books in this class, and doing a lot of writing, but we’ll also learn about communication and different kinds of speeches, and you’ll have an opportunity to deliver different kinds through the course of the year. By the end of the seventh grade, you’ll be pros.” He winks at us. “Our next one won’t be impromptu like the one today. You’ll have time to think about it. I’ll assign it later this week.”

  No way can I stay in this class.

  10

  Complicated Equations

  Luckily, my last class of the day is math, and I allow the logic of complicated equations to soothe me. When the bell rings at the end of the period, I’m a little startled to realize I’ve survived my first day of junior high.

  The walk home from John Wayne is longer than from Hancock Elementary, but I can’t say I’m mad about it. Maybe I’ll mind when the weather gets cooler and rainy, but today the sun is shining and my bag is swinging, and I feel grown.

  I’m so busy feeling proud of myself that I don’t notice the girl in front of me until I bang into her.

  “Jenae!” she says, smiling.

  Roxane Samuels. Malcolm’s ex.

  “Oh, hi, Rox,” I say, feeling uncomfortable. Malcolm and Rox dated their whole senior year, and I was sad when they stopped going out, because nobody could make Malcolm laugh like Rox could. She even made Mama laugh. I don’t know why her and Malcolm broke up, but afterward, Malcolm said she posted stuff online about him, and that’s not a cool thing to do, so I feel like I should be angry with her on his behalf.

  “I heard your brother’s back home,” she says, and her voice squeaks like she’s trying too hard to sound casual. “How’s he doing?”

  “Fine,” I say, because I know that’s what Malcolm would want me to tell her.

  Rox looks like a movie star. She’s tall with dark, dark skin that is so smooth it looks painted on. And she has the biggest brown eyes I’ve ever seen, with long eyelashes that probably don’t even need mascara. And the prettiest thing is her smile. But she’s not smiling now. Rox twists the strap of her purse, and she looks sad.

  “It must be hard,” she says. “Basketball was . . .” Her eyes look at something far away.

  “Yeah.” I know what she means without her saying it, and I shrug like it doesn’t matter, like Malcolm losing basketball is no big deal. And it feels awful. “But he’s fine,” I insist, even though I’m sure Rox knows I’m lying. Mama thought Rox was “good” for Malcolm; I just liked how relaxed Malcolm got with her, and how happy. Still, she shouldn’t have put their business online.

  “I should be mad at you,” she says, and my eyes go wide like someone pinched me. Is she reading my mind?

  “Introducing me to that Astrid Dane,” she goes on, and laughs. “I’m as bad as you used to be, always waiting for a new episode.”

  I can’t help grinning at that. “Sorry,” I say.

  “Your brother won’t ever admit it, but I think he likes her too,” she says conspiratorially.

  “He sure doesn’t act like it,” I say, but then I want to bite my tongue. It seems wrong chatting with Rox about Malcolm, even if we’re just joking around.

  She smiles at me, and that makes me feel worse. “Tell you what,” she says. “You got a phone?”

  When I nod, she holds her hand out and I give her my phone. She types something in.

  “Now you have my number. I changed it from before. Didn’t need a bunch of folks from high school keeping in touch, you know?”

  I don’t, but I nod again anyway.

  “Tell Malcolm I said hey. And if he wants to . . . reconnect, um, he can call or text me. I mean, I would be okay with that.” She looks down at the ground for a minute before glancing back up at me with a shy smile. Then with a little wave, she starts to walk past me. “Bye, Jenae,” she says, her voice light and airy as a spring breeze.

  I continue down the street feeling guilty, even though I didn’t do anything wrong. I have to fix Malcolm, not make him worse. I definitely won’t be telling him I talked to his ex.

  11

  The Worst Thing

  When I get home, Malcolm is in the big comfy chair that is usually reserved for Gee, gripping a game controller tight. He’s only been gone a day, but I already miss Gee.

  “What are you doing?” I ask Malcolm, as if it’s not obvious.

  Malcolm clicks off his game and sets down the controller. “A whole lot of nothing,” he says. He stretches in that way you do when you haven’t moved for a long time, and his body creaks and pops as if he’s really an old man. “How was school? First day and all.”

  I think of the number in my phone, and a fresh wave of guilt washes over me. “It was okay.” I plop down on the couch. “I didn’t get lost once.”r />
  “Of course you didn’t. Not after having such an excellent tour guide.” He adjusts the straps of his knee brace.

  I try to think of something else to say.

  Before Malcolm went away to college, when we were both home from school, we’d talk outside, with Malcolm practicing his shots and me chasing down the ball for him. Mama wouldn’t get home from work until close to dinnertime, and Gee was usually running the streets somewhere, so it would be just me and Malcolm. Boys’ varsity always practiced late, so he didn’t have to go back up to school until after dinner. I wish we were outside now. It’s easier to talk when you’re doing something else.

  “There were people outside of school this morning. Mama got a flier. About the school’s name?” Mama didn’t seem very concerned about it, but at least it’s something to say. Malcolm must not have heard anything about it, because he just shrugs; then he winces and rubs his leg.

  I start gnawing on my lip. I hate seeing him in pain.

  “So what was the worst thing?” he asks.

  I’m not sure when Malcolm and I started doing this. Mama had read in a book or magazine or something that over dinner we should tell each other the best thing that happened to us that day. Do you know how hard it is to come up with good things every day? Almost impossible. Malcolm and I would say things like A bird didn’t poop on my head. I didn’t get detention. Eventually Mama got tired of the whole thing and let us stop, but Malcolm and I realized coming up with something bad that happened was super easy.

  It might sound like it would be depressing to think of the worst thing, but actually, it makes whatever that worst thing is seem not so bad. I mean, if the worst thing you can say about your day is that you tripped on some stairs, it’s not so hard to see how it actually wasn’t that bad and could’ve been a whole lot worse.

  Today my worst thing is pretty bad, though. “I had to give a speech.” Just thinking about it makes a nasty taste climb up my throat.

  Malcolm laughs. “Is that all?”

  “I don’t like talking in front of people.” This is what is called an understatement. To make my point I add, “I thought I was going to die. Like, seriously, drop dead right there in class.”

  “And yet, here you sit.”

  I pull at a thread on my jeans. “I guess.”

  “Are you or are you not still alive? Huh? Is this a zombie sitting up here in my house? Are you about to try and eat my face?”

  “Shut up, Malcolm.” I can’t help giggling. And because he’s made me feel like the worst possible thing is almost funny, I mess everything up. “So, what’s your worst thing today?” As soon as I ask, I want to gobble the words out of the air. I already know what his worst thing is. What it is every day since his injury.

  Proving my point, Malcolm doesn’t even answer me. Instead he reaches for his game controller and restarts his game. “You should probably get going on your homework.”

  “Malcolm,” I say, just as if I know what words are going to follow.

  “What?” he asks, but doesn’t set down his controller.

  “I didn’t know how much I was going to miss you when you left.”

  “Well, I’m back now, aren’t I?”

  I have to gulp at that. “Malcolm, do you believe that we can make things happen? Just by wanting them super bad?”

  Now he does put the controller back down and looks at me as if I have completely lost it. “What do you think, Jenae?”

  I have lost it. All he wants is to play basketball again. I bet he doesn’t think it’s going to happen just by wanting it really bad. And I don’t know why I’m punishing myself like this, but I can’t help it. “Was it everything you wanted? Playing college ball?” My question comes out as a shaky whisper.

  “No,” Malcolm says. He shifts around in the chair like he’s trying to find a comfortable way to sit. “It was hard. Like really, really hard. The books there? No joke. Studying and practicing twenty-four seven was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. And if someone had asked me if I wanted a break? Just a second to catch my breath, right? I might’ve said yes.” Malcolm stares down at his knee. “But not like this. No way. It was hard, but it was . . . where I was supposed to be.” His voice is low and sad.

  “Well, you still have us. No matter what. And maybe you can do something else,” I say, hoping to brighten his mood.

  “I know.” Malcolm shakes his head at me. “But you don’t get it. Ball was what I had for me. It was my future. Don’t be coming at me saying I can just pick something else like I’m standing at a damn apple tree.”

  I want to argue with him but don’t know how. When I don’t say anything, he goes back to playing his game. Slowly, I get up and start my way upstairs.

  I have to fix him. I have to.

  12

  A New Contact

  Each step, I try to think of something, anything I can do to help Malcolm. You break it, you buy it rattles around in my head. But how are you supposed to fix a broken person? When I get to the top of the stairs, I think of Rox’s number hiding in my phone. And I think of how she used to make Malcolm laugh so hard he couldn’t breathe. Maybe if I were to tell him about seeing Rox, it would make Malcolm smile. Or maybe it would make him really mad. But something has to make him see that his life isn’t over even if it turns out he can’t play basketball anymore. And maybe Rox could be the one to do it.

  Once I get to my room, I pull out my phone. I stare at Rox’s number and wonder if there’s something I could text her that could end up helping Malcolm.

  If I were Astrid Dane, I could probably figure this out. Each show, she’s set on solving a problem, and so far, the only mysteries Astrid can’t solve are how she ended up being immortal and why she has all those ghosts inside her.

  My thumb hovers over Rox’s name. I can’t fix Malcolm’s knee, but if I can change the way he feels about being back home, maybe I won’t be the worst sister ever.

  Before I have time to change my mind, I text:

  My brother was really glad to hear I saw you.

  Then I press send.

  It makes me feel a little brave even though I just texted a complete lie. But it feels like something Astrid Dane would do. I bet if Astrid and I met in real life, we’d be friends. I click on the little plus sign to add a new contact and put Astrid in the first-name space, and then, before I can worry about how weird I must be to do this, I put Dane in the last-name space. Then I put some random numbers in for her phone number.

  Seeing Astrid’s name like she’s a friend I could call makes me smile, even though it probably makes me the oddest person alive.

  A few minutes later my phone buzzes with a message from Rox. It’s just a smiling face, but it’s a start.

  13

  Question Eight

  By the time Mama gets home from work, I have started the sauce for the noodles and am cutting up lots of lettuce for a salad.

  “Where’s your brother?” is the first question out of Mama’s mouth.

  I’m not bothered she asks about Malcolm before me. He’s the one who’s hurting right now.

  “Upstairs,” I say, not looking up from the cutting board.

  She sighs and slides out of her shoes. “What’s for dinner?”

  “Spaghetti and a green salad. We’re out of bread, so I’m not making garlic bread.” And because the broiler scares me. Once, I reached in to pull a tray out of the oven when the broiler was on and I forgot to put on an oven mitt. Even though my fingers only touched the top rack for a second, it still hurt really bad. Mama had me hold my fingers under cold water while Gee ran outside and broke off a piece of aloe vera from a plant on the porch. He smeared the gooey guts over my fingers, but the tips of my fingers still hurt for over a week.

  “Make sure you add bread to the shopping list, okay?”

  Does that count as a question? I think so.

  “You’re not putting anything weird in the sauce, are you?”

  I like experimenting in the kitchen, but Mam
a doesn’t want anything fancy. Last time I made spaghetti, I sliced up anchovies and garlic-filled olives and added them into the sauce, and Mama spit her first mouthful right out.

  “No, Mama,” I say. “It’s plain, boring spaghetti.”

  “Am I hearing a tone?”

  “No.”

  Mama pads over to me and takes a few shreds of lettuce and dribbles them into her mouth. “No tomatoes?”

  “We’re out.”

  “No tomatoes, no bread. Why didn’t you ask Malcolm to take you to the market?”

  “I didn’t want to bother him.”

  That’s seven questions already and not one of them has been about my first day of school.

  Mama looks up at the ceiling, and I bet she’s wondering about going upstairs and giving Malcolm a talking-to.

  She must decide against it, because she returns her attention to me. “How was school?”

  Question eight. “Fine. Some of the teachers talked about the name change. I guess it’s going to be decided soon.”

  “Mm” is all Mama says to that. Maybe she doesn’t care what my school is called. Then she starts tapping her foot, but without her heels on, it’s just soft smooshes against tile, not crisp, angry snaps. “How were folks, Jenae? Anyone talk to you? You talk to anybody?”

  “Everyone seems nice.” Then I add, “I talked to a boy. He—”

  Before I can explain, Mama says, “A boy?” She sounds suspicious.

  “Not like that, Mama. We just talked in class. . . .” I shut my mouth because I was going to say we had lunch together, but that seems like saying way too much.

  “Guess I should be happy you talked to somebody,” Mama mumbles.

  Her phone buzzes, and when she pulls it out, I realize now’s my chance to talk to her about getting out of my English class.

  “Mama,” I start. Sometimes my mouth begins talking before my brain has totally figured out what I want to say. “Our English teacher is making us do speeches.”