Something to Say

by Lisa Moore Ramée

  Aubrey goes over to a small table in the corner and beckons me to follow him, but his mom rests a hand on my shoulder, keeping me next to her.

  A voice shouts from the kitchen, “Ellen, you want these tarts to go in the oven?”

  “Hold on, I’ll do it,” Mrs. Banks hollers back. Then she bends close to me. “I’m so glad Aubrey has made a friend here,” she says. “It’s so hard when you’ve been homeschooled to know how to fit in. I hope you’re being kind to him.”

  Homeschooled?

  She gives my shoulder a squeeze, leaving a faint white handprint, and then rushes back into the kitchen.

  I slowly make my way to the table. I think of things Aubrey said about Chicago and friends. I don’t think he ever talked about school, but it still feels like he lied to me somehow. I sit across from him, wondering what I should say.

  “My mom makes these apple tarts that are so good, but those won’t be ready for a while. Did she say she’d make calamari?” He smacks his lips. “Best snack ever! Or maybe the best is her spicy wings!”

  I decide to test him. “Your friends back in Chicago must’ve loved how good a cook your mom is.”

  “Click! You know it. She’d cook for us all the time!”

  I can’t tell if Aubrey is lying, but he’s not meeting my eyes, and that’s a bad sign.

  “Did they, um, come over a lot? Or did she, like, work in a restaurant there that you guys would go to?” I’m not sure why I feel so nervous when I’m not doing anything wrong. Asking Aubrey about his friends should be totally fine . . . if he really had them.

  Aubrey looks up at me and then looks away. He tries to laugh, but it doesn’t sound right. “She didn’t work at a restaurant there, remember? She did taxes. She just practiced her cooking at home.”

  Right away I notice how he avoided answering my question straight on. Another bad sign. “What was the name of your school in Chicago?” I ask. “Was it named after anybody?”

  Aubrey doesn’t say anything for a minute, and then, looking hugely embarrassed, he asks, “She told you, huh?”

  I don’t even know what to say. He was just tricking me all this time? I get up fast, and my chair almost crashes over. “I cannot believe you,” I hiss at him. I start to walk away, ready to get as far from Aubrey as I can, but he gets up and grabs my arm.

  “Let me go!” I tell him angrily.

  “Okay! Okay!” he says, letting go of my arm and raising both of his hands.

  And then we just stand there facing each other.

  “You lied to me,” I finally say.

  “Not really,” Aubrey says, lowering his arms. “At least, it wasn’t exactly lying. It’s just that, I don’t— I didn’t— I . . .” I expect him to start twisting his little unicorn horn, but he doesn’t. His arms stay down at his sides, and his hands are still. He’s watching me, and his usual smile is so deeply buried under sadness, or maybe regret, that it’s hard to believe it has ever lived on his face. “No one actually . . .”

  He is having trouble finishing a sentence, and I want to shake him.

  “I don’t understand what you mean,” I say, even though an idea is starting to creep up the back of my neck. “Why would you trick me like that?”

  “I really didn’t mean to! But you don’t know what it’s like being the weird kid.”

  “Are you serious right now? I don’t know what it’s like? Me? Do you pay attention to me at all? Who I actually am, not who you want me to be?” I don’t give him a chance to answer. “Obviously not! You don’t know one thing about me!” I turn away from him then, and my plan is to walk out of the restaurant and stomp off down the street and leave him all by his dumb self, but I can’t. I feel frozen like a huge slab of ice, and I just stand with my back to him, trying to breathe and staring at a painting of a woman dancing on a piece of honeydew melon. I think of all the stuff he told me.

  “You talked about your friends. And what you guys do. And what you guys say!” What a dummy I was, thinking all those made-up words were real. He must’ve laughed at me every day. The woman on the melon has her mouth open in laughter, and it feels like she’s laughing at me too.

  “Jenae,” Aubrey says softly. “I’m sorry. I just wanted to be sway. I—I mean cool.” His voice is rough and shaky. “Just for once,” he adds softly.

  It almost makes me laugh. Because the truth is, everything Aubrey did was so spectacularly uncool.

  “I was sick a lot,” he says. “With the leukemia and everything, and so that’s why I was homeschooled.”

  That makes me turn back around. “But kids who are homeschooled still do stuff and have activi—”

  “It wasn’t like that for me. My mom was nervous about me catching somebody’s cold or whatever. It could’ve been dangerous to get sick like that while I was having cancer treatments.” Aubrey looks over his shoulder nervously and then takes a step closer to me and lowers his voice. “But she took it too far. She didn’t let me go to anyone’s house, or go to group activities, or let anyone come over. She . . . she was scared.”

  Even though it sounds like Aubrey is standing up for his mom, he sounds angry at her.

  “You could’ve told me all that,” I say.

  “Everyone thinks it’s weird, that I’m weird, if I say I didn’t go to regular school. And that I didn’t have . . .”

  He doesn’t finish his sentence, but I can guess he was going to say that he didn’t have friends. And now I feel bad for making him have to admit it. My frozen edges begin to thaw.

  “I wouldn’t have thought that,” I say softly. I wonder if he felt as if he were invisible. “I would’ve thought it was interesting.”

  “Maybe you haven’t noticed this, but you’re not like other people.”

  I don’t know if I should be insulted or complimented.

  “Will you . . . can we sit back down?” Aubrey asks.

  I don’t want to stomp off anymore. I actually don’t know how I feel. Maybe more like I’m a slushy instead of frozen hard. And when Aubrey turns and goes back to the table, I go ahead and follow him.

  Mrs. Banks returns with two big glasses of what looks like both lemonade and orange juice. It’s yellow at the bottom half, and the top is orange, slowly sinking into the yellow. It looks delicious. “Sunsets for two!” she says. “Have you decided what you want to eat?”

  I want to taste the drink, but I’m not sure if you’re supposed to stir it up first or not.

  Aubrey glances at me and then asks his mom to bring us something delicious.

  “You got it, kids!” she says, and bustles back to the kitchen.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” Aubrey says, his voice low.

  “Still friends?” he asks, and smiles hopefully at me.

  The drink in front of me is begging for me to take a sip out of it. That’s how delicious it looks. Two different flavors, both yummy, and ready to be blended together and made even better. “Yeah,” I say, the word catching a bit in my throat. In my head I add, At least until Wednesday.

  His smile grows, and it’s basically impossible not to smile back at that mile-wide grin of his, and the last bit of ice surrounding me defrosts.

  I grin back at him.

  Aubrey’s smile gets so big I am positive it’s just going to gobble his whole face, and then he starts cracking up, which makes me laugh. And then we’re both laughing super hard and I don’t care if he didn’t tell me he was homeschooled and that he just makes up random words, and I stir up my sunset drink and take a huge satisfying slurp.

  Mrs. Banks comes back with a steaming plate. “Try this,” she says, setting it down in front of us. “Something new I’m trying. Mini grilled cheese sandwiches.”

  There’s a collection of small sandwiches, all with cheese oozing from the sides. Orange cheese, white cheese, cheese with little black specks that taste like pepper. Each one I try is delicious. Salty and crunchy and buttery, and one is a tiny bit sweet.

  Mrs. Banks stands there watching us eat,
her hands pressed together and her forehead all creased with worry, waiting for the verdict.

  “Oh, wow,” I say, my mouth still full of a sandwich. I quickly swallow. “That’s maybe the best thing I’ve ever tasted. What type of cheese is in this one?” I point to the one with white cheese and a bit of jam that’s brown and maybe fig.

  Mrs. Banks looks over both shoulders before leaning toward me and whispering, “Manchego, and that’s date jam.” She looks so pleased with herself, and her smile is about as big as Aubrey’s.

  “It’s so good,” I say, and I don’t even like dates.

  “You really like them?” she asks in a small squeal, and her face brightens up with a huge smile. She claps. “Yay!”

  Aubrey rolls his eyes. “I told you.”

  “Do you think I should serve them with tomato soup?” Mrs. Banks asks me.

  I pop another small sandwich into my mouth and then I smile at her. “Definitely.”

  A smiling woman comes from the kitchen. She has big brown happy eyes, and her hair is in really long braids. White braids. They look really cool against her dark skin, but as young as her face looks, it’s hard to believe her hair could’ve gone gray, so maybe she had it dyed white. “How many people are you going to test those sandwiches on before you believe us?” she asks Mrs. Banks.

  “I know. I know,” Mrs. Banks says, blushing. “But this is your place, Dom. I don’t want to mess with it.”

  Dom puts her hands on her narrow hips and gives Mrs. Banks one of those looks. Mama calls it the Girl, please look. “You think I’d let you mess this place up?”

  It’s funny how Mrs. Banks looks too old for tattoos, and Dom looks too young for white hair.

  Mrs. Banks laughs. “Okay, kiddos, we have lots of prep left to do before the dinner crowd. So finish up and skedaddle. And, Aubrey,” she adds sternly. “You make sure you answer me when I text you.”

  Aubrey rolls his eyes. “If you don’t text me every five seconds I will.”

  I hold my breath, waiting for Mrs. Banks to go off on Aubrey like Mama would with me if I talked back like that, but she just gives one of his curls a little pull and then laughs.

  “Go on, you two!” she says.

  When we step back into the sunshine, it’s a shock. There are so many people walking down the sidewalk; horns are honking, and the big security gates rattle and boom.

  We start walking back the way we came. I’m not sure if Aubrey plans on walking with me all the way to my house. I haven’t invited him over, but it’s not as if that would stop him.

  “So that’s my mom,” Aubrey says. “Sorry she’s so . . . extra.”

  “Like you,” I can’t resist saying, and Aubrey fake frowns like I’ve hurt his feelings. “What’s your dad like?” I ask.

  Aubrey stops in the middle of the sidewalk, and his frown doesn’t look fake anymore. “He, uh . . .”

  “That’s okay,” I say hurriedly. “You don’t have to say.” I know I’ve asked a bad question. I don’t know why it’s bad, but I know I shouldn’t have asked.

  Aubrey shakes his head. “No, it’s okay. It’s just that . . .” He takes a big breath. “He died. When I was really little. He had cancer too.”

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper.

  “Thanks,” Aubrey says. “But there’s nothing for you to be sorry for.”

  “I know,” I say. But isn’t that what you’re supposed to say? I wonder.

  “Hey, I bet I can beat you to the end of the block!” Aubrey says, and crouches down into a ready position.

  “Bet you can’t!” I yell, and take off running, and when Aubrey blazes past me, I don’t even mind.

  44

  Friendship Calendar

  When I get home, Gee’s eyes open wide, and then he starts pressing his hands into the armrests of his big chair, pushing himself up.

  “Dang, Jenae, I didn’t know you were going to be so long!” Malcolm complains. “Gee’s been all jumpy waiting for you.”

  “Waiting for me? Why?”

  “Don’t ask me,” Malcolm says. “But ever since the mail came, he’s been up and out of his chair and looking out the window for you.” He nods his head at the small stack of mail on the table by the door.

  I look at the mail, and then back at Gee, who is now standing up. He looks excited, and I realize he’s been waiting to deliver more mail. “Oh,” I say. I don’t think delivering mail with Gee is a bad thing to do, but Malcolm might think it’s dumb, or that it’s too much walking for Gee. I twist my hands together, unsure.

  Malcolm stands up and stretches big. His hands reach high above his head, and I marvel for a second at how tall my brother is and how long his arms are. And how if you ignore the big brace, he looks like he is maybe the most in-shape person ever.

  As if he heard my thoughts, he bends down and unstraps the brace. He bends his leg a few times, getting it loose, but then he grunts and straps the brace back on.

  “Does it still hurt?” I force myself to ask.

  Malcolm’s eyes darken. “All the time,” he says. “You set with Gee? I’m going to take a break upstairs. Only so many Westerns I can sit through.” I nod, and he makes his way to the stairs, doing the hoppy-step thing he does when he’s not using crutches.

  I wish I had thought to bring some of the tiny grilled cheese sandwiches home with me. It wouldn’t have helped his knee, but I bet enjoying those bites of buttery goodness sure would have made him feel better for a minute. When he gets all the way up the stairs, I do the next best thing. I pull out my phone and send Rox a text. About how I’m guessing she called him because he is smiling more and how physical therapy really helps Malcolm and he should go more. I don’t even feel guilty this time. Rox seems happy to help Malcolm, so what’s the harm?

  “Okay, Gee,” I say, putting my phone away. “Let’s get some mail delivered.” I toss my book bag on the couch and rush over to the desk and get some more envelopes ready. I don’t make as many as I did yesterday. It’s already sort of late, and I have homework.

  By the time I have the stack ready, Gee is at the front door, his hand on the knob.

  “Wait for me, Gee!” I call out.

  I sure hope once we get outside, I’ll be able to get him back in.

  Mail delivery goes smoothly, and when we get back, Malcolm is downstairs, talking on the phone. But as soon as we walk in, he tells the person he has to go. He doesn’t sound happy about it.

  “I’ll sit with Gee, Malcolm,” I say, hoping he was talking to Rox and that she was taking his mind off things. Maybe even encouraging him to go to physical therapy. Whether he plays again or not, he needs to make sure his knee heals the way it’s supposed to. “You can talk upstairs. It’s sway.”

  A bit of relief peeks from Malcolm’s eyes, and he nods at me, but then he asks, “Sway?”

  I rock my hands back and forth like we’re sailing, or gliding. Now that I know Aubrey’s words are made up, it’s almost more fun to use them. “Yep,” I say. “Totally sway.”

  He rolls his eyes, but then says, “Thanks.”

  Once he’s upstairs, a feeling of pride settles over me like a comfy blanket, and I start to hum as I get out my books to start homework, but then all of a sudden it’s like someone ripped the blanket off and replaced it with an itchy coat. Having someone nudge him to get on with his life is what Malcolm needs, but if it’s the right thing to do, why do I have to be so secretive about it? I’m smart enough to know that doing something behind someone’s back isn’t cool. That makes me think about what I’m doing to Aubrey. I’m pretending to him like I’m going to give the speech with him, when I know I’m not. What kind of friend does that make me?

  When one of the ghosts takes over Astrid Dane, it’s like she’s not herself anymore. Instead, for a while she becomes a witch, or a clown, or a farmer. She can’t control it and she’s not a huge fan of the feeling. I think I know what that must be like, because right now it’s as if an out-of-control monster has taken over me and I can’t
stop it from doing what it wants.

  In my room that night, I sit at my desk and make a small calendar. It’s only this week and next week. Not even the whole month.

  I have six days left to be friends with Aubrey. And that doesn’t seem like a lot, but that’s a lot more days of friendship than I’ve ever had before, so I should just enjoy them. Next Wednesday, when I don’t show up, it will be over. But I still have six days. And some of those days are the weekend. Aubrey and I can go to the library and go to the park and try to climb around stuff like Astrid Dane does. We can go to the mall and follow people like spies. Maybe I can make him a vest too. I wonder if he likes movies. I like all different kinds of movies, except the very scary ones. Malcolm loves those. Probably because he doesn’t think they are scary at all. He laughs through them and talks about how fake the blood is, or how he knew someone was about to jump out of the closet.

  Maybe Aubrey and I can just climb up in the apple tree in the backyard and pick fruit for Gee. I tap my pen against my teeth, trying to figure out what other types of things friends do together.

  I wish we could go on an incredible adventure. Find a ship heading out to sea and stow away. I shake my head at myself for being so ridiculous.

  Astrid Dane tries really hard not to make friends. They’d get old and she wouldn’t, and then they’d find out her secret.

  I wonder what Aubrey would say if he found out my secret. That hurting Malcolm and Gee isn’t the worst thing I’ve done. Breaking up Mama and my dad is worse than that. If I told him, he wouldn’t believe me. But I know the truth.

  Maybe Astrid Dane has the right idea. And maybe things would’ve been better if Aubrey had never moved here.

  Friendship seems all sorts of messy and hard.

  45

  A Pair

  When I make my lunch in the morning, I make a little extra so I can share with Aubrey. I even text him and ask whether he likes Anjou pears or Bosc. He texts me back a bunch of question marks, but then texts Anjou, so I start cutting up some of that kind.