“You and these lunches!” Mama says. “You must get these fancy ways from your father’s side.”
Her mentioning my dad makes me almost cut myself with the knife. If Mama ever finds out about him getting me out of school, I’ll be in so much trouble.
In the car, we hear a news report about the upcoming school board meeting and how it’s going to be “contentious.” With a huff, Mama changes the station. “As if we don’t have real problems,” she mutters. “All this fuss about a name change.”
“You don’t think it’s important, Mama?”
Mama snaps her head so fast in my direction, I swear she forgot I was even in the car. “I’m not saying that,” she says. “Lord knows we need to do a better job of honoring folks in our community.” She shakes her head, and her dangling blue earrings swing back and forth. “But people fighting so hard against it?” She shakes her head again. “Why aren’t they fighting for new textbooks? Or basic school supplies?”
I wish I knew the answers.
She drops me off, and I hurry into school to meet up with Aubrey.
In history he leans over and asks what was up with the pears.
“You’ll see,” I say with a grin.
“Jenae,” Geoffrey says, “can I borrow a pencil?”
I’m so shocked that Geoffrey actually knows my name that my hand shakes a little when I reach to get him a pencil from my bag. “Here,” I say, trying to sound natural.
At lunch, almost as soon as he sits down, Aubrey says, “Lunch is so short.” He takes the baggie I hold out to him full of sliced pears. “Maybe we should try sitting over there?” He nods his head toward the lunch area, with all its noise and people. “Get to eating faster?” He stuffs some pear into his mouth.
In my head, I see my friendship calendar with so few days. He’ll be sitting over there at lunch soon enough. I shake my head. “I like it here. It’s quieter.”
Aubrey nods like he gets it. Like he gets me. “Okay,” he says. “It’s sway.”
I feel like a piece of pear is stuck in my throat. Even though Aubrey didn’t tell me the total truth about his life in Chicago, he’s been a good friend. I have to give the speech. That’s all there is to it. It’s just a speech. It won’t kill me. I can do it.
46
Last Thing Anyone Needs
We head to English, and before we have a chance to take our seats and settle down, Mr. Humphries tells us to follow him to the auditorium.
He seems way too excited, and I’m immediately suspicious.
Our school has a real auditorium, not just a multipurpose room.
Someone—maybe it was John Wayne—donated a whole bunch of money when our school was built so it could have an auditorium with soft seats and a stage with a row of black curtains and lights like they have in the movies.
As soon as we get there, Mr. Humphries says, “Line up, everyone.” He claps his hands. “I’m going to have you walk up on the stage and just belt out a sentence or two. Try to make them why sentences. It’s how we begin an argument. Maybe tell us . . . why you like weekends, or why your best friend likes you, or why you hate brussels sprouts.” He cracks up like he told the best joke. I do not laugh. I feel like someone punched me right in the stomach. “I want clear enunciation, and I want you to test your projection. Deliver your words to the very back row.”
I straight up hate Mr. Humphries right now. I was absolutely, awfully right to have suspected something was up.
Even though I don’t say how I feel out loud, Aubrey still gives me a nudge. “It’s not a speech,” he says. “Just some sentences. They can be short. Just make ’em loud.”
Aubrey doesn’t understand anything!
The lights are on in the auditorium, so I can’t even dissolve into a shadow and float out in a wisp of noise and hot air. I would get busted for sure. I would be seen. Why is Mr. Humphries making us do this?
“Come on,” Aubrey says. “We need to get in line.”
“You do,” I say. I can feel the whirring in my ears, and my stomach rolling and flipping. I can’t get up on a stage and have everyone stare at me.
People in line are joking around as if having to go up on that stage and say something is no big deal. Like they all secretly were hoping to have a chance to star in their own personal movie. I have never wanted to be a star. I do not want to get up there. No way.
The red exit signs are glowing, calling my name and telling me how easy it would be to just run away. I bend over and scratch my knee. I scratch so hard it feels like I’m ripping through my skin. I feel dizzy and like I might pass out or throw up or both.
I watch as my classmates walk one by one to the middle of the stage, say something, and then walk off. Omar Chalhoub tells us he likes playing football because he loves smashing into people. But as the next students go, a steady whirring noise is getting louder and louder in my ears. By the time it’s almost my turn, I can’t hear a word, and I can barely see. My stinky sweat burns my nose. I am going to swallow my tongue. I am going to barf.
Aubrey goes onstage, and I see his mouth moving, but I can’t concentrate on his words. Even so, I want him to talk and talk and talk so that we never get to my turn, but then he smiles down at me and walks off the stage.
The person behind me nudges me, signaling that it’s my turn. I don’t move. I want to. That’s the thing. I want to be able to walk right up on that stage and project a quick sentence and then walk back off, like no big deal. If I could, I would give a sentence about why I like the weather. Like how good sunshine feels on my face. Or how rain makes the world smell new and seems like a promise.
Mr. Humphries’s mouth is moving as he stares at me. Somewhere, Aubrey is watching me, and maybe finally realizing he made a huge mistake asking me to be his partner.
I get another nudge, and I force my legs to move. Burning-hot tears pile up in my eyes, and my lips are clenched together so tight my teeth are cutting into them. Weather. Weather. Weather, I chant to myself. I can do this. It’s just a sentence.
I reach the center of the stage and can’t open my mouth. If I do, squeaky ear-piercing sounds will come out. Not words, just bird chirps and grunts. I’m shaking so hard my knees knock together, and my nails dig so hard into my palms it hurts, but I keep doing it.
I try to melt into the floor, but it doesn’t work. I don’t know how to be invisible anymore.
People are staring at me. Everyone in the room. So much sweat oozes down my legs, my shoes are probably getting full.
Why can’t I be brave like Astrid Dane?
I unclench my lips and let my mouth fall open. I concentrate and try to form a word. I think of clouds and rainbows and fog so dense you feel alone in the world. My mouth is just hanging open. “I . . . ,” I say. It feels like hours pass. “. . . like sunny rain because . . . sparkle.” I definitely do not project. I walk off the stage and join the people who’ve already gone.
Someone near me giggles.
Aubrey is grinning and trying to talk to Grant Childress about chicken nuggets, and although Grant seems to be ignoring him, Aubrey looks calm and confident, and it is clear that he and I are nothing alike.
I can’t do the speech. And pretty quick Aubrey will realize I did him a big, huge favor, because the last thing anyone needs is to be friends with me.
47
True Grit
After school, the people outside make me anxious and annoyed. Don’t they have better things to do? Maybe everyone should just leave the school alone. Aubrey runs up like a puppy dog, acting like he expects to come over, but I tell him I have to go straight home and that Mama told me I couldn’t have company. I don’t know why I’m lying except I know having Aubrey over is inviting a whole bunch of speech talk.
“Okay,” he says, sounding disappointed. “See you later.”
My walk home is hot and feels longer than normal. I stop at the store hoping to make myself feel better with some Red Vines, but when I check my bag, I don’t have any money, and I h
ave to put the package back. When I make the turn onto our street, Tía Rosalie is out watering, and she tells me good afternoon in Spanish, and I raise my hand in an almost wave but don’t stop. I don’t feel like being friendly.
When I get home, Gee is of course in his chair, and Malcolm is over in the corner on the computer. He has headphones on and is drumming his hand to a beat. Guess he’s downloading some new music.
Surprisingly, Gee isn’t watching a Western. There’s some big robot thing smashing a town, so I’m pretty sure it’s something Malcolm wanted to watch.
With a glance at my brother, I squat next to Gee and whisper, “Have you ever had to do something, Gee, even though it maybe would hurt someone’s feelings? Like you didn’t have a single, solitary choice except to do it?”
Gee stares at me, his eyes so wide I can’t help but think he’s trying to say something. I stare at the blue around his irises. It’s summer-sky blue. Frost Popsicle blue. Faded-jeans blue. His eyes might be hypnotizing me.
He makes a noise like he’s trying to say something. “What is it, Gee? Are you okay?” I peek over at Malcolm, but he’s totally unaware of us. Maybe I should tell him something’s wrong with Gee.
I look back at Gee, and he opens his mouth, but no words come out.
“What, Gee?” I push the notepad at him, but he doesn’t even look at it. I’m pretty sure I know what Gee would say if he could. He’d say that there is always a choice. And I feel guilty that I’m a tiny bit happy that I don’t have to hear him say it.
“I can’t, Gee. I know you said I need to face things I’m afraid of, but I can’t.” I grip his hand tight, trying to convince him, but he only blinks and then turns his head to the television like he’s done with me.
To apologize, I turn on a Western. It’s a John Wayne one. He’s wearing a patch over one of his eyes. The movie is called True Grit, and I’ve seen it before, because it’s one of Gee’s favorites. There’s a girl in it who’s kind of obnoxious but also really brave.
The girl in the movie is more like Astrid Dane than me. Maybe it’s grit. It doesn’t sound like anything you’d want. But I think of how Astrid doesn’t seem to be afraid of anything. And how if she had a brother, she never would’ve stopped him from playing basketball just because she missed him.
When Mama comes through the front door that night, she looks like she’s had a long, hard day. Malcolm has disappeared.
Gee is rattling the windows with his snores, and Mama runs a hand over his back before heading to the kitchen. I follow her through the swinging door.
“I’m sorry I didn’t start anything for dinner,” I say. “You want me to make the pasta with broccoli that you like?”
Mama shakes her head. “Let’s just order pizza. We can all have the night off.”
That doesn’t seem like anything Mama would say, but I’m not about to argue. I love pizza.
Mama goes over to the drawer where we keep all the take-out menus and starts riffling through, looking for the good pizza place. “Can you believe I got a call at work today about your school’s name? I don’t know how some random parent got my number, but I sure did block them.” She tsk-tsks and shakes her head.
“I think it should change,” I say, and it’s the first time I’ve said it out loud. “What do you think, Mama?”
“You know, if you’d asked me a week ago, I probably would’ve said I didn’t care one way or the other, but . . .” Her voice fades away, and she looks off into the distance. “I want it to change, I do. But getting my dad back, that’s what I really want.”
Gee hasn’t left, but I know what Mama means. Without him talking to us, it does seem like he’s not totally there. Gee has always had so much to say about everything. “The neurologist and the speech pathologist both said there doesn’t seem to be any physical reason for him not talking,” Mama says.
“I miss being able to talk to him,” I say.
Mama doesn’t say anything for a moment. “You know, Jenae, I know it’s hard on you, not having your dad come around much.”
I’m so surprised, I take a step back.
“Oh, I know how it is,” Mama says. “Your dad just . . .”
I hold my breath, anxious to hear anything that might explain why I don’t see him. Why he doesn’t seem to be bothered very much about whether he sees me. Maybe he can feel a slight echo of me pushing him away all those years ago.
“Just what?” I ask when it doesn’t seem as if Mama is going to finish her sentence.
She shakes her head. “Honestly, I wish I knew. But at least you’ve had your grandfather.”
“I have my grandfather,” I correct her.
She smiles at me. “That’s right. That’s what I meant. And you have me.” Then she can’t resist adding, “Shoot, that’s a lot better than that man. Now let’s get this pizza ordered.” Mama finds the number of the pizza parlor on the menu, but before she can make the call, there’s a big crash in the living room and we both rush out the kitchen to find out what happened.
In the living room, there’s Gee, standing up and frowning at the TV. I’m not surprised that he went from being sound asleep to wide-awake, because he does that a lot, even before the stroke, but it is startling to see his tray knocked over—which was the crash—and the remote control on the floor broken into pieces.
“Daddy!” Mama yells. “What in the world is going on?”
It seems obvious to me what happened. Gee threw the remote at the TV.
Malcolm bursts out of his room. “What was that?” he shouts from upstairs.
John Wayne is still in the middle of a shouting match with someone.
Gee raises his arm and points at the TV and makes a sort of coughing, barking noise. It sounds a lot like no to me, and I go over and turn off the TV. I’m glad to see the remote didn’t crack the screen.
“If you wanted the channel changed, why didn’t you just say so?” Mama grumbles, and well, after that, I can’t help but laugh. It is too ridiculous. And the more I laugh, the more I can’t stop, and Malcolm starts, and then even Mama joins in.
And I’m telling you, those belly laughs feel so good. It has been a long time since we all had a good laugh together. Gee isn’t laughing, but his eyes are twinkling. I guess Gee really is done with John Wayne.
I wait for Aubrey outside of history in the morning. I can’t wait to tell him what happened.
“Who knew TV screens were so tough?” I ask. And the laughter comes right back, and Aubrey laughs with me.
“You think he’s tired of Westerns?” Aubrey asks.
“Hah!” I say. “John Wayne, yes, but Westerns? Never.” The idea of Gee not watching Westerns starts me laughing again.
But I’m not laughing at lunch when Aubrey tells me he and his mom are going out of town for the weekend.
“My mom wants to check out a couple of restaurants in San Diego. We’re driving down right after school. It’ll be fun. We’re not coming back until Sunday night!” He says it like him being gone for two whole days is no big deal.
“But . . .” I don’t know what to say. By the time he comes back, we’ll only have two days left.
“Oh, don’t worry, I’ll still work on my side of our debate,” Aubrey says, totally not understanding.
I put my lunch back in the bag. I’ve lost my appetite.
In English, Mr. Humphries shows us a clip from a movie called The Great Debaters. It’s strange seeing students so excited to give speeches. It’s hard for me to believe the movie is based on a true story.
I try to think of how I can make Aubrey forgive me after Wednesday. Speech Day. Maybe if he truly understood how completely impossible it is for me to stand in front of people so exposed? But people don’t understand something they can’t feel. What’s real for me doesn’t seem real for anyone else. Aubrey thinks I’m just nervous. It’s way more than that. And I don’t think there’s a way for me to convince him.
Two days is all I’ll have.
After school, I w
ait for him. I want to say bye before he leaves for San Diego.
He doesn’t come out right away, and as the minutes tick by, I start to get nervous. Should I keep waiting? Maybe he got held up in his sixth period. Maybe he already left.
People pass me, and I start to inch toward the line of bushes in front of the school. I am trying to disappear and can’t quite manage it. I’m out of practice.
Then Aubrey blows out the big front doors of the school, and I’m so relieved it’s embarrassing.
“You waited for me!” he shouts.
My face heats up as people turn to look at us, but I shrug like it’s no big deal. “I figured I’d say bye.”
“Del!” he says with that ginormous smile, bright enough to light up the whole block. “Hey, there’s my mom!” He points to a gray SUV that’s just pulled up. “Come and say hi.”
I slowly walk with him to the car. Even though I’ve met his mom, I still feel awkward going up to the car like this.
“Hi, Mrs. Banks,” I tell her shyly.
“Oh, shoot, call me Ellen!” she says, beaming at me, and I nod, even though I know I won’t do it. Mama doesn’t like me calling adults by their first names. Mrs. Banks’s hair is free from the bun she was wearing last time and flows in long waves. The blue streak is hidden away.
“We’re hitting the road!” she says, sounding excited. Gee would probably really like her.
Aubrey starts to climb into the car, and my shoulders slump. For the first time in my life, I’m not looking forward to the weekend.
“Hop in,” Mrs. Banks says. “We’ll give you a ride home.”
It’s only about five more minutes of Aubrey time, but I want it, and so I slide into the back seat.
“Thanks,” I say, and my voice comes out a little breathless and excited, as if we are about to set off on a fantastic voyage.
Aubrey and his mom joke around about stuff, including what type of food they’ll eat when they get to San Diego. Mrs. Banks really wants to focus on Mexican food and seafood, but Aubrey wants Italian.
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