I can’t help staring at his scar, which is maybe why he grabs his knee brace and straps it on. Scars don’t bother me. Lots of people have scars. But even though I think it makes him look like he survived a battle, I wish I hadn’t caused Malcolm’s.
“Malcolm,” I say, so softly he doesn’t even look toward me. “I missed you when you left for school. It was lonely.” My chest aches, and it feels as if my heart is too big. Like with each heavy beat it gets bigger and bigger, and in a moment, it might burst. “But . . . I never wanted you to get hurt.”
He hears that last part. Instead of him looking at me like he understands and appreciates me saying that to him, his face gets angry. “Tell me something I don’t know.” He scowls, and I wonder just how mad he’d get if I were to tell him what he doesn’t know. That I wanted him back home so much, I made him get hurt.
“Maybe the next time you go driving around, you could, um, catch up with old friends or something?” I don’t want to come right out and say he should go see Rox, but I’m laying the groundwork, which is pretty ironic, because it’s something Mr. Humphries said we should do when we are making a good argument. Laying the groundwork, he said, starts establishing the direction you’re going to go.
“Hah! Nobody I feel like catching up with,” Malcolm says. Then he slowly gets up, grabs his crutches, and makes his way to the stairs. Before he starts up, he sighs so loud it’s like he’s trying to get something unstuck from his throat. Then he starts hopping.
How mad will Malcolm be if he finds out about me talking to Rox about him? I picture Malcolm’s face. His really, really mad one. His eyes so angry they are just tiny slits of fury.
Malcolm stops midway up the stairs. Going up steps with a busted knee is hard. I can hear him panting all the way from here. Then he starts again and finally makes it to the top. After a few seconds, his door opens and closes, and then music starts thumping.
The hard beats are like angry thunderclaps. I wonder what bothers Malcolm more, not playing basketball or being back home with us? He and I used to play Sorry! all the time, and he’d get so mad whenever he got one of those move-backward cards. Maybe that’s how he feels now. Like he got dealt the worst card ever.
As much as I’ve been focused on fixing Malcolm, I haven’t thought too much about what that means. I want him to be happier. And Rox can probably help with that, but really what would make him the happiest is being able to play ball again. Not just play, but be as good as he used to be, and play for his team. That means him going away again. But could he maybe be happy without basketball? Is it so bad being home with me?
37
Only Person in the World
Mama and I don’t talk much on our way to school in the morning. I guess she’s too worried about Gee to be bothering with me, and I’m too worried about everything, especially what I’m going to say to Aubrey when I see him. Maybe I should’ve texted him, telling him I was sorry for being sort of rude about him coming over.
When I scan the crowd of people in front of the school, I see Tía Rosalie right in the midst of it, holding a sign that says SAY YES TO CHANGE.
She notices me going up the steps of the school and waves. I wave back but don’t stop to say hi—I’m too worried about what I’m going to say when I see Aubrey.
But worrying was a waste of time, because Aubrey’s not at his desk in history, and he doesn’t come rushing in late. He’s just absent.
I know it’s silly, but I can’t help thinking that him not being there has something to do with me. That he couldn’t stand the thought of sitting next to me in class because I got angry at him yesterday.
By the time lunch rolls around, I’ve convinced myself that either Aubrey hates me or his cancer came back last night and he had to be rushed to the hospital. I sit by myself at lunch, imagining him pale faced in a hospital bed, looking strangely like Gee, and coughing and trying to tell his mother that he needs to talk to his friend Jenae one last time.
Fat tears drip all over my Brie and fig jam, and I’m seriously considering calling Mama to pick me up so we can go check hospitals.
I shove my half-eaten lunch back into my bag and stare across the field at the whole world of people eating and laughing and gossiping and running and playing catch. Not one of them knows me. Not one of them sees me. What are they talking about? What do they care about? Are any of them friends with Aubrey? Do they know where he is? It’s just a wide stretch of grass between me and them, but it seems like a lot more.
I don’t fit in there, but maybe Aubrey doesn’t either. Maybe that’s why we fit together pretty well. And now he’s gone.
My stress sweat picks up, and I hop to my feet. Where is he? What happened?
I stare hard across the field, wondering what Astrid Dane would do. How would she get information, or maybe just escape from the prison of school, or whatever it is I have to do to find Aubrey? I pull my phone out, not sure what I’m going to do with it. Text him? Call hospitals? And then I see it. Flaming-hot-Cheeto hair. Right in the midst of the lunch area. Hair that is quite obviously not resting on a hospital pillow.
I march across the field and stomp my way in front of Aubrey. My chest heaves up and down, and my breath comes out in hard, choppy wheezes. He is standing at the edge of a lunch table, not really with the laughing group of eighth graders, just near them. But I don’t stop to think about that. I’m too mad.
“What happened to you?” I demand, so furious at him that the words spit from my mouth. “I thought—I thought . . .”
Aubrey stares at me, shocked. The table full of people stare. At me.
Heat engulfs my whole head, threatening to consume me. I try to sink into the asphalt. Try to make my body liquid so it can become a puddle that will slowly evaporate.
“Jenae?” Aubrey asks, as if he isn’t sure it’s really me.
It most definitely is not really me. All around the lunch area, I can feel eyes turning my way. Looking at me. Wondering about me. I want to disappear. I try to make myself invisible, but it doesn’t work.
“I was scared,” I whisper, and then I turn away from him and run.
You might think a chubby girl wouldn’t be very fast, but I am lightning. I am a bullet train. A shooting star. I am the Flash. I hear Aubrey calling me for only a second before there is no sound except the sonic wind blowing past me.
I run so fast, I make it all the way back to an alternate universe. One where I am invisible Jenae. With a healthy grandfather and a brother who has just left for college and will blow everyone’s mind with how awesome he is. I press my back against a building, feeling every dimple of the stuccoed wall. I press back even harder and almost convince myself that the building will absorb me and let me become a part of it. It feels good. It feels right. For the whole time I am panting and mopping sweat off my forehead, I think I have figured out my entire future. I am a wall. I can disappear and become stucco. My breathing slows down.
It occurs to me that although it was starting to feel like I had known Aubrey for ages, we actually just met, and I don’t know him at all. Not really. And that maybe, when I pushed him away for like the hundredth time, he decided I really didn’t want to be friends. If you ask for space often enough, Gee once told me, folks sure enough are going to give it to you.
Maybe, just maybe, I am the most ridiculous person who has ever lived.
I push off the wall. Because who wants to be part of a building? Especially a school building? Staring at loud, rude, farting, and burping kids all day long?
38
Big Enough
In English, before I take my seat, I look at Aubrey, waiting for him to meet my eyes. When he finally does, I beam a thought hard at him. The thought is in bold type, and underlined and in all caps. It is so loud, I’m sure the whole class can hear it. I WANT TO BE FRIENDS.
His smile spreads so wide I’m surprised his cheeks don’t crack.
“Listen up,” Mr. Humphries says, calling the class to attention. “There are a lo
t of steps involved with making an effective argument. One key thing for you to do is research. Not only will learning how to research aid you with your topics, it will also help with papers you’ll write in high school and college. It’s important to know how to get information that’s accurate and how to make use of it without just copying what you read. So we’re going to head to the library to explore the glories of research.”
Not for the first time, I think how strange Mr. Humphries is.
Aubrey falls in line next to me, and even though we don’t say anything to each other, it feels like we are connected.
I haven’t been to the school library before. It was locked when Malcolm gave me the tour. Our elementary school library was tiny, and the nonfiction part was much bigger than the fiction section. But John Wayne Junior High has a big library, with windows lining up one wall letting in lots of light. There’s rows and rows of fiction, and I wish we were there to check out books instead of doing research for a speech I know I can’t do. A painting of John Wayne covers one wall. He is wearing a cowboy hat and a wide smile, like he’s thinking, Come on in—welcome to my library! I sure hope he’d be saying that to every student, no matter what they look like.
Mr. Humphries leads us to a big bank of computers, and the librarian, Ms. Kompos, comes over to meet us. She seems really friendly.
She explains a few rules to us, and then Mr. Humphries tells the class to get with our partners at a computer. He’ll come around and check on us.
Before I can say anything to Aubrey, he whispers to me, “Why were you worried about me?”
I gulp before asking, “Can the cancer, the leukemia, can it come back? Can you get sick again?” I say a silent prayer for the answer I want.
Aubrey is really fair, but sometimes, like right now, it seems like even the little bit of color he has fades away and he just becomes a blank space of freckles.
He starts typing on the computer, and I worry he’s not going to answer me. Then he turns the screen toward me. There’s lots of results all about childhood leukemia and survival rates and how if it’s been over five years, chances are better that the cancer won’t come back. It’s not 100 percent or anything, but enough that I feel my heart go back to thumping at a regular rhythm.
“That’s what you were worried about?” Aubrey whispers. “Just because I wasn’t in first period?”
I nod. “And you weren’t at lunch.” My eyes tighten. “At least I thought you weren’t.”
Aubrey twists a tiny section of hair and sighs. It’s weird seeing him look so serious. “Look, I get checked every year.”
Mr. Humphries starts heading toward us, and Aubrey quickly types in Sylvia Mendez so it looks like we’re doing what we’re supposed to. Before getting to us, Mr. Humphries stops at Sophia and Rose’s computer and starts pointing out something to them.
“My doctor in Chicago was always really positive that I’m one of the lucky ones,” Aubrey whispers. “And my new doctor here agrees. So you don’t need to worry.”
I glance back at the computer screen. I wish it was 100 percent. “I can’t help it.”
“I’m surprised you were worried,” Aubrey says. “The reason I didn’t sit with you at lunch is because sometimes it seems like you don’t want me around.” He rubs a hand over his head. “You can just tell me if you don’t.” He doesn’t look at me.
I shake my head and say, “Yesterday was just a bad day.”
“Okay, well, we can’t be friends if you’re going to be worried every second that I’m going to get sick again.” He still isn’t looking at me. As if he’s afraid of what he might see in my eyes.
Would he really not want to be friends just because I worried about him? That doesn’t seem right. Shouldn’t a friend worry?
“It’s why I didn’t tell you.” He blinks a bunch of times, and I want to ask him if his friends in Chicago never worried about the cancer coming back. Maybe they worried and just didn’t tell him.
I’ve always assumed a friend is who you tell everything to, and I’m just about to tell Aubrey that when Mr. Humphries walks up behind us. “So, what’s your topic?”
When we tell him the school name change, he gets a big grin. “I’m glad one of the groups in class is tackling that issue,” he says. “It might not seem like it affects you much, but it’s important to look at both sides. How much have you learned so far?”
I’m glad Gee had me look up information about Sylvia Mendez, because I’m able to tell Mr. Humphries about Sylvia’s parents wanting her to go to the school that was close to their house. And how the superintendent of the district said terrible things about Mexicans when he testified at the trial.
“Sounds like you’ve been doing your research,” Mr. Humphries says, nodding. “And why do you think this school is the one being considered? Why not the school she went to?” Mr. Humphries doesn’t pause to let us answer him, which is good, because I don’t know the answers to those questions. “And what about the other side?” he asks. “This is a two-sided speech. What’s important about John Wayne? Why was the school named after him in the first place? If there was a good reason to name the school John Wayne, are things different now?”
I look at John Wayne’s picture. A smile that wide should be big enough to include everybody.
Aubrey doesn’t say anything, but I can tell from his eyes all sorts of thoughts are buzzing around in his head.
Mr. Humphries steps to the next set of partners and starts asking them questions about their topic.
It makes me feel a little sick that someone who thought it was okay to say horrible things about people of other races deserves to be honored. Hopefully when they decided to name our school after John Wayne, he was just the good guy in the Westerns who always saved the day and knew for sure what was right and what was wrong.
I think about Mr. Humphries’s question about why our school. Even though people in our neighborhood don’t all look the same, you hear a lot of Spanish when you’re walking down the streets.
Sylvia probably would’ve felt welcome at our school. It would be cool if kids in this neighborhood could go to a school that told them they belonged.
After making his way around to each group, Mr. Humphries has us all stop researching. “You’re all making good progress. Make sure you find facts to develop your argument, but also try to find information for the side you’re not supporting. Knowing both sides will always make your argument stronger. If any of you have trouble accessing a computer or using the public library, please let me know. I want to make sure you all have an equal opportunity to give great speeches.” He smiles.
The word speeches makes my mouth go dry, and my stress sweat starts pinging out all over. Doing research is interesting and almost fun; giving a speech is the opposite of that. No way. I can’t. I push away from the desk, away from the computer, away from Aubrey.
“It’ll be okay,” Aubrey whispers, as if he knows exactly what I’m thinking.
“I can’t wait to see which seventh graders will be joining us in the debate club,” Mr. Humphries says. “The first group of partners will go this coming Monday. Who wants to volunteer?” A few hands spring up. I stare hard at Aubrey’s hands, forcing them to stay down. I think if he tried to raise one, I’d chop it off.
Looking right at me, Mr. Humphries says, “Sometimes it’s good to just get something you’re afraid of doing over with. Then you can stop worrying about it.”
People say the same thing about yanking out a loose tooth. Well, pulling a wobbly tooth hurts like nobody’s business. No, thanks.
“I don’t want these speeches to eat up a whole week, so no makeups. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday. That’s what you have.” Mr. Humphries still seems to be looking at me.
After class, Aubrey says, “Just watch, Jenae! We’re going to be the best, and once we’re in the club, you’ll see it’s fun doing debates!”
He must see the look of horror on my face, because he says, “Don’t worry. It’ll be okay. We do
n’t have to go Monday. Or even Tuesday. We can be the last ones if you want.”
I don’t want. Not any part of it. It’s too late for me to tell Aubrey he needs to find a new partner. Everyone else has already been partnered up, so he’s stuck with me.
“I can come over and we can practice,” he says.
“No,” I say, probably too fast. “I mean . . .” Why does Aubrey have to be so excited about debate club anyway? Isn’t that the same as him saying being friends with me isn’t enough? “It’s not a good day for company.”
Aubrey seems disappointed, but I don’t think there’s anything I can do to change that. Besides, I didn’t really lie. Aubrey is like lightning. He’s bright and has so much flash and energy. It doesn’t seem right bringing that home right now.
“See ya,” I say, and head to sixth period.
39
Back to Invisible
In math, I relax into numbers, and for forty-five minutes, things make sense.
After school, I’m grateful there’s no sign of Aubrey, because I don’t want to talk about our speeches. With the people in front of the school waving signs and chanting about history and John Wayne and Sylvia Mendez, it would’ve been hard to avoid. People honk their horns as they drive by, but there’s no way to tell if they’re honking for or against the name change.
I walk quickly past the line of people, keeping my head down, hoping I won’t see Tía Rosalie and anxious to get out of the commotion.
Mr. Humphries saying there won’t be time for makeups was perfect. Now I don’t have to worry Mr. Humphries would just have Aubrey and me go on a different day when I don’t show up.
That’s my plan. I’m going to have my dad get me out of school Wednesday—the day Aubrey signed us up to go. The last day possible.
My dad has told me a bunch of times he’ll do anything for me. I’ve never tested him before. My head hurts worrying about it.
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