He has earbuds in and is bobbing his head to a song, so I just wave at him. He gives me a half smile, and I head to my room.
Before I start homework, I take out my phone and look at Astrid Dane’s number. I wish I could really call her. On the show, Astrid has a cell phone but she never calls anybody, she just uses it to google stuff and take selfies. She’s sort of addicted to selfies.
I hold my phone out and take a selfie. My first one. The vest I made is hanging in my closet. I grab it and put it on, then sling my clock bag over my shoulder and take some more, acting like I’m cool like Astrid, and that’s when my door opens.
“Dude,” Malcolm says, “you are seriously tripping.”
Right behind Malcolm is Aubrey.
No way. No way is this flaming-hot-Cheeto-hair boy up here in my room.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, letting my bag slide off my shoulder and onto the floor. “How do you know where I live?”
Aubrey’s so fair, it’s easy to see the blush exploding all over his face like a bucket of red paint got tipped over his head. It makes his freckles stand out even more. “I sort of . . . followed you?” He glances over at Malcolm, and I’m sure Aubrey’s thinking that following a girl home is at the top of things her big brother might beat him up for.
He followed me? That’s creepy. I look over at Malcolm, and right at that moment, I wouldn’t mind if Malcolm did beat Aubrey up. Not one bit.
Malcolm’s eyes go cold, and he looks back and forth between me and Aubrey. “Hold up, you do know this dude, right?” Malcolm asks me, and I only hesitate a second before nodding.
“He’s cool?” Malcolm asks, and at first I don’t answer, because I don’t know if Aubrey is cool or not, but with a sigh, I nod again.
“All right, then,” Malcolm says. He turns to Aubrey. “’Cause following a girl home, dude? Following anybody home? Not cool. Not cool at all. You hear me? That’s some creeper mess. Haven’t you heard of Me Too?”
Aubrey nods fast, his eyes going extra wide. “It wasn’t like that. I swear!”
Malcolm looks at me again, and I give him a little smile, letting him know I’m okay. “Cool.” He turns and crutches away. “Leave your door open,” he throws over his shoulder, and my cheeks burn.
As soon as Malcolm is out of earshot, Aubrey starts talking really fast at me. “I wasn’t following at first! You were just going the same way I was going, and it was sort of fun once I knew you didn’t know I was behind you.”
I stare stonily at him, and his smile slips a little.
“I was being a spy, you know? Like Astrid?”
If he thought mentioning Astrid Dane was going to make me think this was okay, he’s absolutely wrong. “You can’t just follow people.”
“I know. I’m sorry, I just . . .” Aubrey shrugs, and for a blip he really does look sorry, but then his big grin spreads across his face. “You really didn’t notice?”
Maybe that’s the thing that bothers me the most. I had no clue he was behind me. To be fair, I wasn’t expecting to be followed, so I wasn’t trying to be invisible, but that’s no excuse. What if he had been a deranged person?
What if he is a deranged person?
17
A Tough One
“Let’s go downstairs,” I say. If he is dangerous, I’d rather deal with it down in the kitchen, where at least I have both the front and back door to try and get to.
Music pounds Malcolm’s door, making the carpet dance. I quietly sing along to the angry words slathering the hall. Malcolm says he likes to feel music over his skin, through his hair follicles, down into his ankles and toes. He used to say it got him pumped up for a game; I don’t know what it pumps him up for now.
Before he left for school, the music he listened to talked about parties and girls and being better than everyone else, but when he came back, the words got heated. Hot enough to melt everything away.
“Didn’t Astrid Dane wear a vest like that in the ‘Corruption’ episode?” Aubrey asks as he follows me to the kitchen.
“Mm-hmm,” I say, and I can’t hide the grin teasing my face. He doesn’t seem dangerous.
“Cool buttons,” he says.
“Thanks.” The word comes out a little breathlessly. “I actually found the buttons first, and that’s when I knew I had to make the vest.” I’ve never had someone to talk to about Astrid Dane. It feels strange, but in a good way.
Aubrey takes a step back, as if he needs some distance to get a really good look, and then he nods appreciatively. “Sway,” he says. Then he holds up his hand as if I were talking and he needs me to hold on. He pulls out his phone and reads a message, then taps something back. He looks a little annoyed, which is a strange expression for him. But when he puts away his phone, he’s back to being all smiles.
But I don’t know what to do now. I’ve never had someone over. On TV shows it seems like when kids hang out, they are always snacking and joking around. I’m down for the snacking part of that. I get some crackers out from the cabinet.
“Your house is really big,” Aubrey says, staring at the space next to the kitchen, what Gee calls the butler’s pantry—it’s just a bunch of cabinets, but it sounds fancy.
“Yeah, Gee—that’s my grandfather—told me rich people used to live all up and down this street. That’s why the houses are so huge.”
“Are you guys rich?” Aubrey asks, his eyes wide and surprised.
“No,” I say, and giggle. “Gee said a Black movie star moved onto the street, when it was only white people living here before that. And all the rich white people started moving away.” I shrug. It all happened so long ago, and I can’t even imagine the neighborhood not being full of all sorts of people. “After they all left, then just regular people like Gee and Nana June bought the houses.” I love our house, and even though I think it’s silly for someone to move so they don’t have to live by a Black family, I’m sort of glad they did.
Aubrey keeps looking around and nodding, taking everything in. Then he looks up at the ceiling, as if he can see right up to the second floor. “So was that your brother?” he asks.
“Who else would it be?” I ask, knowing where this is going.
“You guys don’t look much alike.”
Malcolm and I don’t look anything alike. The whole different-dads thing.
“I know,” is all I tell Aubrey.
“Why is he on crutches?”
Because I was selfish. “He had an operation on his knee.”
“He’s pretty tall.”
“He played basketball.” I hear the ed tucked on the end like a bad dog’s tail, and I can’t take it back. I’ve never said it out loud before. Played, not plays. I pull the water pitcher out of the fridge and slam it so hard on the counter, the plastic cracks and water seeps out the bottom.
Aubrey grabs the broken pitcher out of my hand and dumps the rest of the water into the sink. He looks around for the recycling trash and puts the pitcher in there, then grabs paper towels and wipes the water from the counter. Anybody would think he was the one who lives here, not me.
“It’s just a pitcher,” he says. “No big deal, right?”
“I guess not.” I want Aubrey to leave. I want to go up to my room and lie on my bed and let Malcolm’s music melt me.
“I wasn’t thirsty anyway,” Aubrey says. “And even if I was . . .” He turns on the faucet and dips his head under it and guzzles up water like everyone knows you’re not supposed to do.
“We have glasses,” I say, but I can’t say it without laughing.
“Hah! Made you smile,” Aubrey crows, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
“You make it sound like that’s so hard or something.”
“You’re a tough one. I was thinking I might have to go to extraordinary measures.”
I sort of wish I hadn’t smiled, because I’m curious what extraordinary measures Aubrey might’ve tried.
“So, um . . .” I start to dig my toe into the ki
tchen tile. The crackers are still on the counter. Should I put them on a plate?
“What did you think of the last episode?” Aubrey’s smile is smeared across his whole face, as if he’s really only five. Most people my age aren’t quite as wide open as he seems to be. Maybe that’s how people act in Chicago.
“I thought it was cool how she sneaked onto the pirate ship,” I say.
Watching Astrid Dane episodes is almost like reading those Magic Tree House books. Since she’s immortal and has been around for hundreds and hundreds of years, you never know what era you’ll find her in. And then you wait to see what mystery she’s going to solve.
But since Astrid Dane isn’t a regular TV show, it can take a superlong time before a new episode gets posted. The last one was weeks ago.
“Who’s your favorite ghost?” Aubrey asks.
The question is sort of like asking what Harry Potter house you’d be in and feels personal, but it does make me curious who Aubrey’s favorite ghost might be. I squint my eyes at him. Explorer. Definitely. I’m not even sure if I have a favorite, but Aubrey is looking at me expectantly. “The witch,” I finally say.
“She’s pretty del.”
“Del?” I ask.
“Yeah!” Aubrey says. “Del!”
Aubrey acts like he can define a word by just repeating it a bunch of times.
“What does it even mean?”
“Del,” he says again, like it should be obvious. Then he gets red. “It’s short for delicious?”
“You think the witch is delicious?”
“No! But saying something’s cool doesn’t mean it’s actually cold, right?”
Aubrey has turned the color of a Christmas ribbon.
“Ooookay,” I say.
He starts twisting a tiny bit of his hair and then lets go, but the hair stays twisted. Just one small, tight red twist sticking from the front of his head like a tiny horn.
“What’s the deal with the color of your hair?” I can tell his hair is not any kind of natural color, which means he’s choosing to go around looking like a stoplight. Even a stuffed animal would be embarrassed to have hair that red.
Aubrey runs his fingers through his tight curls, destroying his little horn and making his hair poke out in different directions. “No deal.”
Don’t tell me, then.
“I could probably help you with giving speeches,” he says. “I really like stuff like that. It’s only scary the first few times. You see how easy it is to talk to me, right here? That’s all you have to do when you give a speech. It’s the same thing. You could practice with me.”
“No, thanks,” I say.
Aubrey’s smile is a little shaky, but then it grows, reaching all the way up to his topaz eyes. “Yep,” he says. “Tough one.”
Talking about Astrid Dane is one thing, but speeches? I’d rather eat burned eggs. “Do you know your way home?” I ask, putting an end to this conversation.
Aubrey winks at me, which I didn’t know was something people our age did in real life. “Gotcha!” He grabs his book bag off the floor and heads out of the kitchen, and before I know it, I hear the front door open and close.
I’m not disappointed. Not at all. I wanted him to leave. But I don’t think that was a normal way to leave someone’s house. Aren’t you supposed to say goodbye? Saying gotcha isn’t saying goodbye. I don’t know much about Aubrey, but I have figured out one thing: he’s as odd as I am.
I make my way upstairs and stand outside Malcolm’s door. His music is muted, like he has a pillow over his small portable speaker. I want to ask him to help me make dinner. I want to ask him if he’s okay. I want to ask him if he could try and be happy about being at home.
Instead, I go back downstairs to make dinner by myself. But before I do, I send Rox another text.
Malcolm was talking about how much fun you two used to have. He sure misses you.
Almost immediately, Rox texts me back.
I miss him too.
I tap my teeth with my fingernail, thinking. This is going good. I don’t think it’s too bad that I’m not telling the exact truth because I bet Malcolm does actually miss Rox.
He feels bad about how things ended. But you know Malcolm. He’ll never tell you.
I stare at the message for over a minute. Maybe I’m going too far. This doesn’t seem right, to be getting all into their business. But what if it helps Malcolm? I press send.
18
All That Time
The next day, Aubrey makes himself comfortable right next to me at lunch, and I’m not all that interested in trying to get him to eat somewhere else.
“I like your lunches,” he says. “It’s like what my mom would eat.”
Today, I packed some Brie and soft French bread and olives and a little bit of salami. I shrug. “It’s not that different from a ham sandwich,” I say, putting a bit of Brie on bread and then a piece of salami. I take a bite. “Totally normal.”
Aubrey pulls out his (boring) sandwich and takes a huge bite. Then he says, “So why don’t you like giving speeches?”
What he actually says is “Ohh whuh dur ur eyck grring speeshes?” But I understand him just fine.
“I don’t understand why we’re doing speeches in English. It’s supposed to be about reading and writing and, I don’t know, dangling modifiers,” I say.
Aubrey’s eyes go pretty wide while he’s trying to get that monster bite down his throat. “But like Mr. Humphries said, not all speeches will be extemporaneous, so for those we’ll have to write it first.”
I’m not going to lie. It’s sort of impressive that Aubrey can reel off a big word like that with no trouble. “Then we should just be able to hand in what we wrote.”
“You mean without giving the speech?”
I nod.
“But . . . then it wouldn’t be a speech.”
“Exactly.”
Aubrey takes a few more bites of his sandwich, and I eat one green olive, then two black ones.
Suddenly, he grins at me and snaps his fingers. “You know what? For your next speech, you should do it on Astrid Dane. You wouldn’t be nervous at all. Click!”
I’ve never heard anyone use click like that, but I can sort of figure out what he means. “It’s not click,” I say. “It’s un-click!”
Aubrey cracks up at that. “You’re so funny! You can’t say un-click! Click is like . . .” He looks around like maybe the definition is lying on the grass or up in the sky. “Click, like . . .” He holds up his hands as if he’s holding a camera and then presses down with his finger. “You know, it’s such a sure thing, so obvious, it’s like a picture? You can see it?” He laughs some more, and him laughing at me for not using a dumb word right is annoying.
“Well, if something can be so obvious, then something can be so not obvious.” I shove an olive into my mouth.
Maybe Aubrey doesn’t see how annoyed I am, because he smiles. “Yeah, okay. Un-click. I’ll give you that one. But I still think I’m right. You’d give a great Astrid Dane speech.”
The thought of standing in front of the class again with them staring at me makes me get all sweaty and anxious. My heart starts thudding hard like I just finished running a mile. There’s not one thing I could do that would make me survive giving another speech. I shove the rest of my lunch back into my bag. Why did Aubrey have to ruin everything?
“You can practice it with me. I’m good at speeches. I—”
“I’M NOT GIVING ANOTHER SPEECH! JUST LEAVE ME ALONE!” I stomp away from Aubrey, and I don’t stop until I march all the way to Mr. Humphries’s class.
Mr. Humphries already has the door open, even though it’s not time for class. Before I realize what I’m doing, I start arguing against me giving speeches. I tell him about alternative projects I could do. Or superlong papers, or extra book reports, but Mr. Humphries just smiles and says he understands, but no, I have to do a speech.
“I just don’t understand why we have to do speeches in Eng
lish,” I say, even though I know it’s no use.
Mr. Humphries laughs as if I told a great joke. “Effective communication is important, Jenae. And learning how to think about things. These speeches will teach you a lot more than just about standing in front of people.” Then he says, “And by the way, that was actually a pretty good persuasive speech you delivered.”
Mr. Humphries thinks he’s funny. And obviously I didn’t give an effective speech, since I didn’t persuade him. I slink to my desk.
When class starts, Mr. Humphries announces that he got a great idea at lunch for our next speech assignment. “I’d like you to present an argument—in other words, a persuasive speech.”
I feel like Mr. Humphries is making fun of me, and I slide low in my chair and steam.
After class, Aubrey heads out without looking my way, and I’m certain I don’t have to worry about him bugging me anymore, so I’m really surprised when I come out of school at the end of the day and find him standing there. The way his face lights up when he sees me, it’s obvious he’s been waiting for me, and I know if I try to walk past him, he’ll just start shouting at me.
I walk over. I have to pass through a small group of people waving signs that say things about history and Sylvia Mendez and diversity.
It is obvious the signs are supporting the school name change—which means they don’t really have anything to do with me.
“Uh, sorry for yelling at you at lunch,” I tell Aubrey, clenching and unclenching the strap of my messenger bag.
“That’s okay,” he says. He reaches up and twists a small piece of that wild redness flaming on top of his head like he did before. Round and round he twists while he looks at me, and then he asks, “Can I come over?”
Gee is forever talking to me about two roads and being careful about which one you put your feet on. Staring down at the sidewalk, I can see the two paths clear as day. Part of me wants to tell Aubrey to bother someone else, but another part is sort of curious what it might be like to get to know him better. Maybe I can at least find out why he dyes his hair fire-engine red.
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