Something to Say

by Lisa Moore Ramée

  After an overly detailed talk about Uncle Corvis’s kidney stones, Auntie Maug tells Malcolm, “Doctors don’t know everything! Great-Uncle Jas swore by cod-liver oil and fifty squats a day. Lived to a hundred.”

  Malcolm’s eyebrows press together. “You think some fish oil is going to fix my knee?”

  Auntie Maug is always spewing out home remedies, but this sounds ridiculous. She must think so too, because she cracks up laughing. “Oh, now, give me some credit, Malcolm. I know you needed the surgery, but now you gotta think about recovery and getting stronger. Cod-liver oil.” She nods decisively. “That’s the answer.”

  Seeing the angry look on Malcolm’s face makes sweat sprout on my nose. Don’t ruin it! I want to shout at Auntie Maug. I should’ve tried to get Rox over tonight. She used to always come over for fish fries. Malcolm would be laughing instead of looking like he has something burning inside of him.

  Uncle AJ holds a hand up at Malcolm, as if he can sense that Malcolm is about to get rude, and changes the subject. “Hey, Pops,” he says. “You hear about Jenae’s school? Them changing the name from John Wayne to Sylvia Mendez?”

  “Plain foolishness,” Gee says, and reaches for more garlic bread. He shakes his head before taking a big bite.

  “If they’re looking for a new name, why not Malcolm X or Barack Obama? Shoot, even Michelle Obama!” Uncle Phil says.

  “Babe, you know nobody thinks anybody Black ’ceptin’ Dr. King needs a school named after them,” Auntie Jackie tells Uncle Phil. She’s always talking politics and going to protests.

  I think about telling them what I learned about Sylvia Mendez, but I stay quiet.

  “Have you paid attention to who is living in this neighborhood now?” Uncle AJ says. “It ain’t white anymore, but it sure ain’t Black neither. Mexican. That’s what it is.”

  “Latinx,” Mama and Auntie Jackie say at the exact same time, and Uncle AJ throws his hands up like he’s saying, Don’t shoot.

  “Not every brown person you see is Mexican, AJ,” Auntie Jackie says. “Maybe you should talk to people. My Zumba instructor is from El Salvador. My boss is from Nicaragua. The dude down—”

  “Okay, Jack!” Uncle AJ says. “I got it.”

  Uncle Phil laughs. “I still think it should be Michelle Obama Junior High.”

  “What they need to do is leave the name alone,” Gee says gruffly. “The Duke was the greatest.”

  Uncle Phil says, “Muhammad Ali was the greatest.”

  “John Wayne wouldn’t have let us sit at his table,” Auntie Denise says.

  Gee shakes his head at that. “Shoot, y’all don’t know what you’re talking about. John Wayne stood up for the little man.”

  “Yeah, in movies,” Auntie Jackie argues. “Didn’t you hear about that interview he did back in the day? Saying all that nonsense about how we weren’t capable. And he was all up in that business with people getting blacklisted in Hollywood. Calling everybody a communist. It’s all online, Daddy.”

  “Online this and online that,” Gee says. “Time to be offline if you ask me. What’s past is past. Let the man rest in peace.”

  “Come on, Dad, wouldn’t you want to see Jenae going to a school named after a person of color?” Auntie Maug asks.

  Gee rubs his chin for a minute, glances at me, then looks back down at his food. I’m not used to seeing him like that. He’s usually so sure about everything.

  My mouth fills with words to say to my family, about how they should leave Gee alone, and how it’s my school, so why should they care, but I don’t make a peep. They wouldn’t listen to me anyway.

  29

  What Side Do You Want?

  After dinner, Aubrey and I go sit at the computer in the living room and watch the Astrid Dane video. You would think neither of us had seen it before.

  Gee is in his big chair, reclined back, with a Western on, of course, but it’s not a John Wayne one, and I wonder if Gee wishes it was. My uncles, Malcolm, and Auntie Jackie are still at the dining room table throwing bones. Gee told me dominoes are called bones because they used to be actually made of bone. The dominoes are thrown down so hard, I’m surprised they don’t shatter.

  Mama and my other aunties have disappeared into the kitchen to gossip. Auntie Jackie always says she’s “not about that sexist nonsense” whenever “the girls” go to the kitchen.

  I turn back to the computer. “What do you think is going to happen?” I ask Aubrey, once we’ve watched it twice. “How is she going to escape?”

  Aubrey asks for a piece of paper and draws a quick sketch of Astrid Dane.

  “You draw good,” I tell him.

  “My mom says people are usually good at stuff they like to do,” Aubrey says, like it’s no big deal. Then he rubs his belly. “Dinner was so good! And your family gave me an idea of a great topic for our debate. We can do the school name change.”

  For a sliver of a second, I’m so happy that Aubrey didn’t partner up with anybody else I forget to be terrified about giving a speech, but then that part comes back. “You don’t really want to be my partner. I’m no good at speeches.” I don’t add that if my idea works, I won’t even be there to give the speech.

  “That’s okay. I’ll help you, and you’ll get better. We can both be in the debate club!”

  I don’t know what would give Aubrey the idea that I’d want to be in the debate club. I shake my head hard. “I can’t do it.”

  “Can.”

  Just the thought makes my tongue feel too big for my mouth. Sweat pings out all over me, and my throat squeezes closed. I shake my head hard. “You should pick somebody else,” I say in a narrow voice.

  Gee coughs loudly, making me and Aubrey both turn to look at him. “Gotta stop being afraid of things, Nae-nae,” he says. “Once you do the thing you’re afraid of? Shoot, no one can mess with you after that.”

  “No one’s messing with me,” I mumble, wishing Gee would go back to his movie.

  Aubrey laughs. “I’m going to make her do it.” I don’t know why he sounds so sure.

  “Can’t make her,” Gee says. “That’s something she’s gotta do on her own.” He reaches for the remote and turns the volume up, as if we were the ones talking over his movie.

  Aubrey pulls his phone out and his eyes get big. “Uh-oh,” he says, “I better go.” I thought I heard his phone buzzing a few times. I hope he’s not in trouble for being at our house too long. He goes to find Mama to thank her for dinner, and then he walks out the front door without saying another thing to me.

  If I was the type of person who could deliver a speech, I would maybe give a speech about the proper way to leave someone’s house. Even if you have to rush home, saying goodbye before you leave is definitely rule number one.

  30

  Gunshots

  Used to be, Saturday mornings were magic.

  Mama sleeps in on Saturdays, so even though in the afternoon she would have a whole list of chores for me, the morning was my time.

  If I wanted, I could do absolutely no homework. Just lie in bed until ten and watch stuff on my laptop or count cracks in my ceiling.

  Malcolm would get up, toss down some breakfast, and then spend hours outside, practicing his ball handling and taking a million shots. If I was feeling nice, I’d get up and rebound for him. But sometimes I’d pull the covers over my head and wish he would find something else to do on a Saturday morning.

  That was before.

  I didn’t know how much I’d miss the badoonk, badoonk of the ball when Malcolm went away to college. I knew I’d miss him, but I didn’t think I’d miss the noise, or the stinky uniforms in the laundry room, or his bad attitude after a loss. But I missed it all. Maybe because Malcolm was all those things. Like if we are all puzzles, then those were Malcolm’s pieces.

  And he’s back, but there’s no basketball. So what does Malcolm’s puzzle look like now? What’s he made of after I’ve taken such a big piece away?

  Maybe it’s silly of m
e to think that Rox could help piece Malcolm back together, but it’s the only plan I have, so I reach over to my nightstand and grab my phone.

  I missed you at the fish fry last night. Malcolm did too. He said so. And the shrimp was yummy!

  Rox sends back a crying emoji face. Like she’s real sad to have missed it.

  That’s a good sign. I nestle in my covers, trying to slide into the magic of a Saturday morning. I want to feel loose.

  And I almost do it too. I snuggle into my cozy blankets and comfy pillow, letting worry and guilt slip off me like forgotten socks, but then loud bangs outside make me pop out of bed.

  Were those gunshots? In our backyard?

  I run out of my room and smack into Mama.

  “Stay inside!” she hollers at me.

  Malcolm’s door opens, and he sticks his head out. “What is going on?”

  “Watch Jenae!” Mama shouts at him as she bolts downstairs.

  More gunfire pops, and then Mama’s out the back door, and I hear her yelling but I can’t make out what she’s saying.

  “Malcolm?” I ask my brother, my heart racing in my chest. But he doesn’t know what’s going on either and just reaches back into his room for his crutches.

  It doesn’t take me more than a few seconds to make it downstairs, but it takes Malcolm longer, and I’m already at the French doors with my hand on the doorknob before Malcolm can catch me.

  But his voice makes me stop.

  “Jenae!” he hollers. “Hold up.”

  I stop, but that doesn’t keep me from staring outside, my hand twisting the knob.

  It’s not hard to see the whole backyard. Not hard to see Mama shouting at Gee, who’s got a tiny pistol in his hand. It’s dull gray, and so small, it looks ridiculous in his big hand.

  Mama tries to grab the gun from him, and everybody knows that’s a bad idea.

  Gee raises his hands and switches the gun from one hand to the other, while Mama tries to jump up and reach his hand. My heart thuds in my chest like cannonballs. What is he doing with a gun?

  “What is wrong with him?” Malcolm says, pushing me out of the way and opening the door.

  “He’s going to shoot Mama!” I cry, following behind him.

  Malcolm grabs me by the shoulder, as if he knew I was going to try and race outside. “No, he’s not.” His grip on my arm tightens. “Stay. In. Side.” He gives my arm a shake, and his fingers are starting to pinch. I nod fast.

  Then he crutches outside, leaving me all alone.

  “Gee!” Malcolm shouts. “Hey, Gee!”

  Mama yells at Malcolm to go back inside, but he ignores her. Gee looks at Malcolm, and then at Mama, and then up at the gun he’s still holding above his head. His hand lowers, and with all my might I think, STOP!

  And Gee crumples to the ground.

  31

  Vital Signs

  As soon as the ambulance leaves with Gee, I glide upstairs, quiet as a cloud. I go into my room and sit on my bed and rock back and forth.

  I did it again.

  Hurt someone without meaning to.

  I didn’t want Gee to fall down. All I wanted was for him not to shoot Mama.

  The paramedics were like ants on sugar, all over Gee, putting a mask on his face and a needle in his arm and checking his vitals.

  Hot tears streak down my face. Gee is vital to me. As vital as Mama and Malcolm. How could I have done that to him?

  All I do is break things.

  I climb into bed and pull the covers over my head and disappear.

  I stay in bed all day. And when Malcolm knocks on my door and tells me to come eat something, I ignore him. I don’t want anything. My pillow is wet, and I turn it over to the dry side. And then I have to do that again. And again. I have a whole ocean inside me.

  When I wake up in the morning, I force myself to go downstairs. Auntie Maug is in the kitchen with my uncle Harold. I don’t see Uncle Harold that much because he lives all the way in the valley.

  “Hey, Jenae,” Auntie Maug says, her voice raspy and tired. She rubs a hand over her face. “Where do you all hide the coffee?”

  Without answering her, I get the coffee from the freezer and measure out scoops into the coffeepot. I fill the reservoir with water and turn on the pot. I want to ask about Gee, but I’m too scared.

  “Your grandpa had a stroke,” Uncle Harold says. “A pretty big one. Doctors say he’s had a whole bunch of small ones.”

  “Now, see, that just doesn’t make sense to me,” Auntie Maug says. “How they gonna tell us he’s had all these strokes and we didn’t know a thing about it?”

  “I don’t know, Maug,” Uncle Harold says. “Guess it’s common? And we saw how he’s been getting confused lately.”

  “Thought it was just him getting old,” Auntie Maug complains. “And him having his old gun? That was one of the strokes making him get that out?” She blows out a sharp burst of air.

  “Why did he have a gun?” I ask, turning from the coffeepot.

  Uncle Harold first says to Auntie Maug, “They don’t know, Maug. Strokes can cause a lot of damage. Who knows what wires got crossed inside his head.” Then he turns to me. “Your grandpa carried a gun when he delivered mail. Didn’t like being unprotected while he was walking around neighborhoods. Course, it would’ve gotten him fired if anyone had known. Ma used to have a fit about it. But I don’t know what possessed him to get it out yesterday. Maybe he thought he was in one of those old Westerns, or I don’t know, maybe he was getting ready to deliver mail like back in the day.”

  I blink slowly, afraid to ask what I really want to know. “Is he . . . is he . . . ?”

  Auntie Maug comes over and squeezes my hand. “He regained consciousness once they got him to the hospital. They ran a whole bunch of tests, and they’ll want to keep him a little longer, but he looked good after he came around, didn’t he, Hal?” She looks over at her brother, sounding like she needs convincing.

  I need convincing too, because I just can’t believe that Gee is all right.

  Monday morning, Gee isn’t home from the hospital and Mama tells Malcolm to take me to school. I don’t want to go, but Mama’s not having it. You basically have to be bleeding to death for Mama to say it’s okay to miss a day of school. And she waves away my questions about Gee like I’m a pesky fly.

  I ride in Malcolm’s car pressed against the door, wishing we were driving to the hospital instead of school. Mama said I’m too young to get to visit Gee, and that doesn’t seem fair. I need to see him. I need to tell him how sorry I am.

  When we pull up to the school, Malcolm points to a banner that someone put up. The banner reads SYLVIA MENDEZ JUNIOR HIGH, and it’s covering the John Wayne sign.

  “Folks sure are doing the most over this thing.”

  I just shrug, not caring. I climb out of the car and slide into invisibility like it’s a pool of water. I don’t make a single ripple.

  I feel Aubrey trying to see me. Staring at my chair. Tapping my desk. But I dissolve into the hard gray plastic of my seat. Mrs. Crawford doesn’t call on me.

  At lunch, I whisk down a hallway, and then another, and end up in a room with a stage and a small curtain.

  Stars are painted on the floor instead of the ceiling, and I lie down in that field of stars and let myself melt into the dark sky.

  “Jenae, what’s the matter? What are you doing?”

  Red fire. I turn away.

  “You didn’t go to our lunch spot. You came here instead.”

  Why is Aubrey telling me things I know? Why can’t he leave me alone? I press hard into the floor. I throw a flood of thoughts at him. GO AWAY! LEAVE ME ALONE! GO! GO!

  Aubrey comes closer. “Jenae? What is it?”

  With a sigh that comes from my toes, I sit up. “What do you want?”

  “I was worried. Are you okay?”

  I’m not okay. But what’s wrong with me isn’t the type of thing you can say. I hurt my brother. I hurt my grandfather. And I did both even
though I already knew what I could do. How I could mess things up. I am the worst type of person who ever lived.

  “I’m fine,” I whisper; the words are spiderwebs. Frail and sticky.

  A harsh light comes on. “You kids can’t be in here at lunch,” a voice says. The drama teacher. Ms. Lee. She walks over to us. “Is everything okay?”

  I rub my face, erasing the wet trails, and look at my shoes.

  “Sorry!” Aubrey says, working his smile. “We were just practicing for a speech we have to give.”

  Mama told me never trust someone who spills lies like tea, but I can’t be mad at Aubrey for lying to save us.

  Ms. Lee steps forward until she’s all the way at the edge of the low stage. She squats down and looks at me. “Is that what was going on here?” she asks me.

  I think about how it might look. Two kids in a dark room with no adults around. I nod solemnly at her.

  “Well, this isn’t really where you should be practicing,” Ms. Lee says. She doesn’t sound angry. Her voice is soft, and I think maybe if I told her what I did to Gee, she’d let me stay here.

  “Sorry,” Aubrey says again.

  I don’t answer, but I pull myself off the floor, even though I just want to stay there, lying in the stars.

  32

  Completely Impossible

  “Come on,” Aubrey says. “Lunch is going to be over soon. Let’s at least get some air for a minute.”

  He leads me outside, and I’m not sure how. He’s not pulling on me, or pushing me, but my steps follow his.

  Outside he looks at me hard. “What happened?” he asks. “Something happened, right?”

  Instead of answering him, I reach up and touch his hair. It’s soft like the baby lambs at the petting zoo.

  “Why do you dye your hair?” I ask, not expecting him to answer me.

  Aubrey swallows once, twice. He rubs his hand over his hair, like he could wipe the color off. Then he takes a tiny piece and starts twisting. “I had leukemia. Cancer. When I was a kid. Chemo made me lose my hair.” He sounds like he’s reciting a grocery list. As if none of it is important. “My mom said once my hair grew back I could do anything I wanted with it. Cut it. Dye it. Let it grow into a super-big Afro. Anything. I had a Mohawk for a while. This year I decided to dye it red.”