Something to Say

by Lisa Moore Ramée

  “What’s the matter with that?” she asks, but she’s tapping out a message, so I know she’s only partway listening.

  “I think I should get into a different English class. One that focuses on writing, like English is supposed to.”

  “Hmmm.”

  I can’t tell if Mama is hmming something on her phone or me. “Will you write a note to the school?”

  Mama sets down her phone.

  Uh-oh.

  “Jenae.”

  “Yes?”

  “What’s really going on?”

  I can feel sweat sprouting. “I should have the better English teacher, and instead I got stuck with Mr. Humphries. If you tell them I should be in Ms. Garcia’s class, they’ll have to switch me.”

  “Is that boy you were talking to in Ms. Garcia’s class?” Mama asks. “Is that why you really want to switch?”

  “No! We’re in the same class now. It doesn’t have anything to do with him.”

  “Wait a minute. You want me to get you out of a class that has the one person at the school you actually talked to? Now you know that’s not going to happen.” Mama goes back to her phone, her judgment served, but then she adds one last dig. “Besides, Mr. Humphries is the best English teacher they got at that school. And he’s Black? Girl, stop playing.”

  Shoot. I should’ve known Mama already knew all about Mr. Humphries.

  14

  The Uninvited

  When Mama drops me off at school the next day, I see the people with fliers again, but there seem to be more of them. I scurry past the crowd, not wanting any of them to try and talk to me.

  I’m surprised when I get to first period—Aubrey is waiting outside the class—and even more surprised when I realize he’s waiting for me.

  “Hi, Jenae!” he says, with so much enthusiasm I almost turn around to see if there is another Jenae behind me. “I’ve been waiting forever for you!”

  “Uh, hi,” I say, but I don’t stop to talk. I just keep walking into the class, and he follows close behind me, and he keeps yipping and yapping, talking about Astrid Dane and how cool she is and how great our bags are and whether I’ve seen every single episode and read every single graphic novel.

  People who are already in their seats look at him like he’s from a different planet. Actually, they are looking at both of us that way. That’s not fair. Even I know you’re not supposed to act like a caffeinated puppy dog at school. I rush to my seat, trying to make it clear I’m not really with him, but he sticks to me like duct tape.

  When I sit down, Geoffrey shifts in his seat as if to put as much distance as possible between me and Aubrey.

  I don’t like loud. Being loud gets you seen.

  I could never be friends with someone like Aubrey.

  Unfortunately, Aubrey doesn’t seem to understand this fact, because even though I ignored him in history and hustled out of class without stopping to talk, he still shows up at my lunch spot again.

  “Hey,” I say, with not much enthusiasm, staring at his fiery-red hair. Why would anyone choose such a loud color?

  “Hi! I woke up late today and didn’t have time to make a good lunch! Just two-day-old chicken and rice, but my mom is a really good cook, so it’s good, right? Just not all that school-friendly.” All while he’s talking, he sits down, takes out his container of chicken and rice, shows it to me, takes out a fork. Then he shovels in a mouthful of food and chews and stares at me, waiting for me to say something, I guess.

  It’s not as if I’ve never had a friend in my entire life. From, like, kindergarten all the way through second grade, the girls at school hung together in a big clump. I guess we were friends? We played hopscotch together, and then two square and tetherball. If you didn’t want to play, you still hung around the people who did. But then Emory Cooper had a birthday party and she only invited five girls. And suddenly, we weren’t all one big group anymore. There were the girls who had gotten invited and the ones who hadn’t. I didn’t mind not getting invited, because it was a horse-riding party and I’m scared of horses. But other girls felt bad and left out. And they didn’t like that I didn’t feel bad. And so I didn’t fit in with the invited or the uninvited. And the next birthday party (Shondra Welch’s), she only invited the girls who didn’t get invited to Emory’s, but she didn’t invite me either.

  From then on, there were the popular girls, the regular girls, and me. It was sort of a relief. I didn’t like the recess games. I didn’t like running around and getting sweaty. I really just wanted to sit in the library and read, and so that’s what I started doing, and the only person I think was bothered by any of it was Mama. You’d think she would’ve been happy she didn’t have to drop me off for playdates or anything anymore, but instead she would poke and poke, asking me, “What happened to so-and-so?” I never had a good answer, and eventually she stopped asking, but I overheard her on the phone talking to one of her sisters saying how strange it was that I didn’t hang out with anyone. How odd it seemed. I wanted to tell Mama right then that I was okay being odd. It just means being different from what is expected, and what’s wrong with that?

  “You know,” I say to Aubrey, “it’s fine with me if you want to sit somewhere else.” I don’t want him to think he’s stuck sitting with me just because he ended up here yesterday.

  Aubrey looks around, glances across the field at the large lunch table area. “You want to go over there?”

  I shake my head. “No, I meant . . .” But I don’t finish because there doesn’t seem to be a way to finish that sentence without making things awkward. I decide to talk about something else. “What’s Chicago like?”

  Aubrey tells me about a museum with a huge dinosaur skeleton, and the train that’s like a subway but is aboveground, and a lake so big it’s like an ocean, and winters so cold it freezes the snot to your face.

  “So none of your friends like Astrid Dane?” I cut him off to ask.

  Aubrey’s face gets weird. Uncomfortable. Like I asked him something too personal.

  But then he smiles. “Nah, they weren’t into stuff like that.” He shovels some chicken into his mouth and then gulps it down. “That’s why it was so sway meeting you!”

  “What’s sway?” I ask, even though I think I know.

  Aubrey rocks back and forth and gets a goofy look on his face. “It’s good. It’s going with the flow. You know? Sway!”

  How can I not smile?

  I get worried on the way to English, but today, Mr. Humphries sticks to normal stuff and doesn’t mention speeches at all. He talks about the book we’re going to read. Coraline. It sounds creepy, and I can’t wait to start it. If Mr. Humphries would just stick to reading and writing, I think I’d love his class.

  As we file out for sixth period, Aubrey lets his bag hit mine. “See ya later!”

  “Y-yeah,” I say, stuttering a little, which is dumb, but I don’t know what to do with all of Aubrey’s enthusiasm. It’s too much.

  Maya Cruz gives me a small smile as she passes me, and I wonder if she’s thinking how strange it is that someone is talking to me. Maya’s nice, but she was one of the girls who got invited to Emory’s party, and I’m not used to her smiling at me.

  When I get out of sixth period and start to head home, I find out by later, Aubrey didn’t mean tomorrow, he meant after school, because I hear him hollering my name even though I’m already halfway down the street. Everyone turns to stare, and I freeze. That makes it really easy for him to catch up to me.

  “What?” I demand, my voice low and angry. “What do you want?” All the good feeling I had toward Aubrey evaporates like hot breath fogging up glass.

  Aubrey’s smile takes the smallest dip. “J-j-just saying hi! Are you going home?”

  “You can’t just shout at people,” I say. My face feels hot. It feels like hundreds of eyes are pointed at me. “I gotta go. I’ll see you tomorrow,” I say, making it clear that our conversation is over. Then I turn away and start walking down the street a
gain, keeping my head down and holding my bag tight against my side. I don’t relax until I get two blocks away.

  15

  Red Vines

  That puts me right in front of the store that sells my favorite candy, and I figure I deserve something sweet.

  I head straight for the candy aisle, hoping there will be a package of Red Vines. Sometimes there’s only black licorice, and no way am I eating a mouthful of bitter yuck. Other times they only have the Twizzlers brand, and that’s like eating a bunch of sticky wax. But the blue-and-white-striped box is right there, filled with fat red straws of yum.

  The only thing better than walking in the sunshine and eating Red Vines is watching Astrid Dane while eating Red Vines.

  As I turn the corner of our block, already thinking how I can probably manage at least a few episodes of Astrid Dane before Mama gets home, a voice beckons to me.

  “Hola, Jenae!”

  A big, wide smile busts out all over my face. “Tía Rosalie!”

  Tía Rosalie lives a few houses down from us, and even though she’s not my aunt, I’ve called her Tía for as long as I can remember. Malcolm does too. I think everyone in the neighborhood does.

  She sets her garden hose on the grass and comes down her walkway, rolling her hips like she’s about ready to dance. She says big women are the ones who really know how to move, and I guess she’s right, because she sure can shake it.

  “Your favorite hasn’t changed, eh, Jenae?” she asks, nodding at my candy. She takes off her gardening gloves and tucks them under an arm.

  “Mm-hm” is all I can manage with my mouth full of licorice.

  She reaches over and flicks one of my braids. I have two today. Running down the sides of my head like a railroad. “Tell me, Jenae, how do you feel about starting junior high?”

  Tía Rosalie knows everything about everyone. Mama doesn’t like it one bit. “Okay, I guess,” I say.

  “Have you heard about the name change?” she asks.

  I nod, but then I admit, “Some people were passing out fliers, but I don’t really know much about it.”

  Tía’s eyes start to sparkle. “Sylvia Mendez Junior High. That will be the new name! About time they honor our community.”

  “Our?” I ask.

  “Mexican,” Tía Rosalie says proudly, pointing a thumb at herself. Then she adds, “Puerto Rican too, of course, because Sylvia Mendez was both, but even for the Colombians and Salvadorans and Dominicans.” She throws her arms wide. “There are many, many Latino cultures here, but on this, we are one.”

  “But,” I say. I don’t want to say the wrong thing. “Since it’s always been John Wayne Junior High, can the name just get changed?”

  Tía Rosalie nods. “The school district decides,” she says. “There will be a board meeting soon, and then we’ll get the new name.” She sounds as if she already knows what’s going to happen. “I’ll be so happy when they change it! I’ve been telling my grandkids all about it. Violeta will start there next year.”

  “Gee is gonna be mad,” I say quietly.

  “How is Grady?” Tía asks. “In Vegas, no?”

  “Yep,” I say. This is the type of thing Mama complains about. She doesn’t know how Tía Rosalie can know the things she knows. Mama thinks Tía spies on everyone, but since she spends most of her time out front gardening, she probably just sees and hears all the goings-on.

  “Ach, such a rolling stone, that man. I am praying for him,” she says. Then she blows me a kiss to send me on my way.

  At home, I ask Malcolm why Tía Rosalie would be praying for Gee.

  “You know Tía,” he says. “Always praying for somebody.”

  I wonder if she’s praying for Malcolm.

  “Malcolm, would you care if they changed the name of the school?” All of his basketball trophies from his junior high team say John Wayne on them.

  “Nope,” he says. “Doesn’t make any difference to me.”

  “But . . .” I want to say if the name changes, it would be like me and Malcolm went to different schools, but I know how silly that would sound. But the truth is, I like following behind him.

  “It’s the same school, Jenae. What do you care what it’s called?” He sounds annoyed now, and I know I need to leave him alone. I wish he wasn’t so grumpy all the time.

  Before I start my homework, I take out my phone and try to think of something else I can text Rox. After rejecting all sorts of dumb ideas, I finally type:

  How can I get Malcolm to laugh?

  I think it’s pretty clever, because I don’t actually say he’s not laughing, but Rox is smart enough to read between the lines.

  Rox doesn’t answer right away, but eventually she does.

  Have him watch old episodes of Martin.

  I nod as I read her text. She definitely knows my brother. She’s going to help me fix him.

  16

  An Origin Story

  The next day, when I get to school, I’m not so surprised to see Aubrey waiting for me outside of history.

  “What does your mom do?” he asks.

  It’s a strange way to say hello. Even I know how to say hello and goodbye better than Aubrey.

  “She’s a marketing director.” I shrug after saying it, as if I know what that means.

  Aubrey nods like he knows what it means. “My mom just got a job in a restaurant. In Chicago she did people’s taxes from home, but she was always practicing her cooking and watching those chef-competition shows.”

  “That’s . . .” I stop because I don’t know what it is. Aubrey waits for me to finish my sentence. “Interesting.” It’s all I can think of.

  “Not really. But her food is.”

  I slide past Aubrey into history, and of course he trails right behind me.

  All through class I try to think of something to say so Aubrey won’t hunt me down at lunch. It’s not that I don’t like him, but if he’s trying to make friends, I’m not the best person to start off with. I remember he asked about acting and sports, so as soon as class is over, I tell him, “Some guys back in elementary school played tag football on the field at lunch. I bet they do that here.”

  “I’m not really into football.”

  “Oh. Um, well, they probably play pickup basketball games over—”

  “Naw,” he cuts me off. “I’m not that into that.”

  “Okay. There’s probably like a drama club or something that maybe meets at lunch.”

  “Drama isn’t my thing. But boy, if there’s a debate team? That I would be all over.”

  “Debate?” The only thing I know about debating is when there’s an election and Mama and Gee will watch the candidates debate the issues. It’s super boring.

  “Yeah! I was really into that in Chicago. We went to competitions and stuff.”

  “Oh, um . . .” I try to remember the word Aubrey used. “That’s swack.”

  Aubrey’s mouth pinches like he’s trying to hold back a laugh, so I’m pretty sure I’ve gotten the word wrong, but he doesn’t say anything, just looks at me. I want to ask him what he sees when he looks at me, but that would be a really dumb thing to ask, so I don’t. He stares so long, I think maybe I accidentally disappeared.

  A girl from elementary, Beth Hashimoto, bumps into me with her backpack, like I’m not even there, making me stumble forward.

  Aubrey puts his arm up to brace me so I don’t fall.

  Beth adjusts her backpack, and I think for a second she might say sorry, or hi, or to watch out, but she just fixes her hair behind her ears, looks right through me, and continues down the hall. I watch her for a moment and then realize Aubrey is still staring at me.

  I’m going to be late to my next class, but it seems wrong to walk away without either of us saying anything, so finally I say, “What?”

  He gets that big old grin of his, making even his eyes look like they’re laughing. “Hah! Made you talk! And it’s sway!”

  This boy is a goofball with a capital G. And shaking m
y head, I march off to class.

  It’s not until I’m sitting in my next class that I realize I didn’t make sure he sits with someone else at lunch instead of me.

  So of course he shows up in my spot again. I probably should’ve sat somewhere else, but this is a good spot, and it’s mine, and I did sort of wonder if he’d come over even after I gave him some hints on where else he could sit.

  And as soon as he settles in with his lunch, he starts up with questions.

  “What do you think the deal is with Astrid’s ghosts? Like how many are there, and where do they come from?” he asks. “Do you think she’s secretly a vampire and the ghosts are people she drained?”

  “Oh, I never thought of that. Maybe that’s why she’s immortal! That would be so cool if she was a vampire!” I shove grapes into my mouth to keep more words from coming out. I almost used as many exclamation points as Aubrey, and that is not how I like to talk.

  “We should write an origin story. You can write it, and I’ll do the drawings!”

  I’m shocked by Aubrey’s suggestion. It seems like such a . . . friend thing to do together, and we aren’t friends.

  “Maybe,” I say.

  On the way to English, Aubrey talks so loud that people turn to look at us and I want to disappear. I don’t understand why his volume is always set so high.

  Mr. Humphries starts talking about themes in the books we’ll be reading and how friendship is a common one. Aubrey says right out loud, “Like us, right, Jenae?” and my cheeks burn with embarrassment.

  Maybe he loves attention, but I sure don’t, and so once I’m done with sixth period, I hustle out of class and jam down the street, because I don’t want a repeat of yesterday with Aubrey calling my name and throwing all sorts of attention my way. My shoulders are up near my ears, and I keep expecting to hear him yelling, but thankfully, he doesn’t.

  When I get home, Malcolm is on the couch attached to his knee-bender machine. It’s not really called that, but that’s what it does. It moves his leg slowly up and down, bending his knee over and over. I hate seeing him using it, like he can’t move his leg by himself.