“But it’s San Diego!” Mrs. Banks says. “The whole point is to get things they’re known for.”
I enjoy the bantering back and forth. Mama and I are never like this.
We get to my house way too soon.
“I’ll text you!” Aubrey shouts out the window before they drive off.
I grip the strap of my bag tight and watch them drive away.
When I get inside, my auntie Jackie is already in the kitchen starting to get things going for the fish fry.
“Your mama told me to make sure I keep you away from the flour,” she says. And even though I know she’s just kidding, it irritates me, and I stomp my foot like a two-year-old.
“I know how to hold a bag!” I say. Auntie Jackie’s eyes go wide, but before she can say anything, I spin on my heel and rush out the kitchen. Gee looks at me expectantly, but I’m in no mood to deliver mail today, and I head upstairs.
I need Malcolm’s music.
I need something hard and pounding and angry, but there’s no sound coming from Malcolm’s room, and when I knock on his door, he doesn’t answer. I creak the door open, but Malcolm isn’t there.
It’s like the whole world is letting me down.
48
Just a Dream
I put two big black Xs over Saturday and Sunday on my friendship calendar and stare at Monday and Tuesday. What’s the point? There’s nothing Aubrey and I can do for two days that will be epic-friendship material. Nothing I can hold on to that will make all the long friendless days after okay.
I get into comfy sweats and a too-small T-shirt my dad gave me from one of his movies and climb into bed. I hear the front door open and close a bunch of times as my aunties and uncles arrive. Mama will drag me downstairs once she gets home from work, but right now, I don’t want to see anyone or have to talk to anybody.
I pull my covers over my head. They almost drown out the laughter and commotion from my family.
When I open my eyes, at first I don’t hear anything. And then I hear it. The ba-thunk, ba-thunk of a basketball outside.
I sit straight up. It’s all been a dream! Malcolm never left. Gee didn’t have a stroke. Everything’s okay! Even as I notice that the ball outside doesn’t sound quite right, I try to hold on to the idea of a long, awful dream.
I push back the covers and hop out of bed. I see my clothes from yesterday in a heap instead of neatly put away. So no one came up to get me last night? They forgot all about me and just let me sleep through the fish fry? I shake my head hard. That couldn’t have happened. It must not be real.
“Dream,” I whisper to no one.
I shove my feet into shoes without socks and hustle downstairs and out the front door, chanting, “Dream, dream,” the whole way.
As I burst out the front door, my last “dream” dies on my lips. I bet this is how a hummingbird feels when it flies smack into a picture window.
Malcolm is sitting in the driveway, his head between his knees, his brace on the ground next to him and his crutches tossed on the grass. His basketball has rolled into the gutter, resting in the runoff from someone’s sprinklers and a pile of leaves.
I wipe my face off fast and run to get the ball. “You want me to rebound for you?” I ask, trying to sound chipper. As if I don’t even notice Malcolm looking defeated.
Malcolm slowly raises his head, and if I didn’t know my brother better, I’d swear he’d been crying. He looks at the ball in my hands, then at his basketball hoop. He takes a big breath and gets up on his feet, grimacing as he does. He picks up his brace and straps it back on. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, sure.”
I toss him the ball and he does a layup, nice and easy. He dribbles out to what would be about the free-throw line, taking limping steps, and thumps the ball hard on the ground and then starts dribbling between his legs. Around and through. Around and through. Threading a needle.
“Coach Eric called me. Talking ’bout how I need to stop feeling sorry for myself.” Coach Eric was Malcolm’s high school coach. He hollered a lot at the games, but all the players loved him. I wouldn’t like being shouted at. Maybe it’s easier to take when you’re winning almost all the time.
Malcolm takes a shot, and it goes neatly through the hoop without touching the rim. “He thinks he knows everything. But I’m not feeling sorry. I’m pissed.”
I run over and get the ball and bring it back to Malcolm.
He takes it with a frown. “I bet Mama told him to call me. Like it’s her life and not mine. People need to step off.”
“But everyone just wants you to get better,” I say in a shallow voice.
“What? I have a bad cold? The flu? Nobody can fix this for me, Jenae!” He points to his knee. “Maybe people should leave me alone and let me figure my own stuff out.”
I don’t know what to say. It’s like Malcolm somehow knows about me texting Rox about him, but I can’t stop texting her now. Aren’t you supposed to help people you care about?
Malcolm tosses the ball up and catches and turns it around in his hands like he’s looking for a sweet spot. Then he surprises me by giving a small half smile. “Of course, when I said all that to Coach, he said get outside and shoot.” Malcolm shakes his head like Coach Eric is so ridiculous. “Reminded me of when we weren’t playing as good as we were supposed to and he’d get on us. Tell us to get mad, but to use it.” Malcolm starts dribbling the ball slowly and keeps looking over at the basketball rim.
“You want to shoot some more?” I ask. “Or play some one-on-one?” I can’t really play basketball very well, but Malcolm and I used to joke around, playing together. Sometimes he’d lift me up high so I could make a shot.
Malcolm raises his eyebrows, the way he used to do when he was about to do something fancy on the court. “Check,” he says, and tosses the ball at me.
49
Frozen
It isn’t until we go inside a little while later, when the lingering scent of overheated oil and fish sting my nose, that I remember last night. Remember being forgotten. No matter how yummy the food was, it seems like Mama or one of my aunties or Malcolm would’ve said, “Where’s Jenae?” But no one did. Maybe they have gotten too used to me being invisible.
And even though it’s been my choice to go unnoticed, my feelings are hurt. Especially since my idea of hanging out with Aubrey this weekend is ruined. I wish I could go back to believing it had just been a bad dream.
Malcolm settles on the couch. “You mind getting me some ice?” he asks.
That’s a sure sign he’s in pain, so I hustle to the kitchen to put some ice in a gallon-size baggie. The kitchen isn’t as clean as when Mama and I clean up together after a fish fry. Did the family pitch in? Did Mama even think about it normally just being me and her?
I yank open the freezer and dig a hand into the ice tray. Clump by clump I fill the baggie. The ice makes my hand super cold. So cold, it hurts. I rub my hand fast over my sweats, to erase the pain. I think of Astrid Dane staying underneath the ice for so long. It never occurred to me that maybe being frozen like that might’ve hurt.
You’d think ice would numb all the pain away instead of making something hurt even worse.
When I bring Malcolm the baggie full of ice, he asks me, “You hanging out with your little friend today?”
The question pokes at me. Gets under my skin. Like I have one of Astrid’s ghosts inside me pushing to get out. “He’s not my friend, I mean, not really. I barely know him.” I hang my head and examine the grass clinging to my dew-drenched shoes.
“And he doesn’t know me,” I add under my breath.
“Don’t do that, Jenae,” Malcolm says, his voice sharp.
“What?”
“Throw away something good.”
“You mean like you’re doing with school?” I probably wouldn’t have asked that if Malcolm wasn’t making me mad. Like he already knows it’s my fault me and Aubrey aren’t going to stay friends.
Malcolm drums his fingers on his goo
d knee. His face is stormy, and I think he’s going to say something mean back to me, but then all he says is “Touché.” Then he adjusts the bag of ice, leans back, and closes his eyes. “Okay, worst thing. What was it?”
I don’t want to play. It seems like I have too many worst things. But after a few seconds I say, “Aubrey leaving for the weekend.”
“Oh,” Malcolm says. “But he’s coming back. Quit trippin’.”
“I’m not,” I say, even though I am.
I’m tripping so hard that if I was the sort of person to throw something, I would. Why couldn’t Aubrey have just left me alone? I wasn’t bothering anyone. I was fine. He should’ve picked someone else to sit with at lunch. He should’ve picked someone else to partner with. You can’t just force yourself on somebody. Especially somebody who doesn’t want anybody.
50
Not a Very Good Argument
Later that day, my phone buzzes with a message from Aubrey. It’s a picture of a plate of shrimp tacos. I don’t answer. What do I care about tacos? A little bit later, he texts:
Don’t they look delicious?
I guess they do, but I don’t feel like talking about tacos or anything else really, and I delete the message without answering. He keeps texting. Two more pictures of food. One message about the Astrid Dane graphic novel he bought and a video of his mom asleep and snoring. (With that one he also sent a laughing emoji.) His very last message says:
Hello? Hello? Checking 1, 2, 3!
I don’t answer any of them. I yank the friendship calendar off my wall. It was a stupid idea anyway.
And I don’t worry about it, not really, until Monday rolls around. My stomach feels nervous and achy the whole way to school. It doesn’t help at all seeing the usual groups of protesters outside of school.
I head to first period feeling as if my stomach is shriveled like a raisin.
“Hey,” Aubrey says when he sees me. “You really need to remember to charge your phone.”
I stare at him. I guess in his world people don’t get mad. Don’t ignore messages. I can imagine his mother giving him this solid reason for not hearing from me. I’m a typical kid who doesn’t remember to charge my phone. And it would be so easy to pretend that was really what happened and slide back into friendship. Two days is better than nothing, right? “My phone was charged. I got your messages.” I shrug. “Just didn’t have anything to say.”
Aubrey’s eyes open wide for a second, but then he nods. “Sway.”
“No one says that here,” I say, with as much anger as I can muster. I slide past him into class and try desperately to disappear. I push hard into the molded plastic of my chair, willing it to absorb my energy.
But it’s no use. I’m stuck here, and when Aubrey settles into the chair next to me, he reaches over and touches my arm and says, “Sorry.”
That just makes me feel worse, and I pull my arm away.
By lunch, I feel more numb than angry. The day is just a day. It’s the way the days will go from here on out, and so instead of going to the cafeteria like I had sort of maybe planned, I go over to our regular spot by the container and settle on the grass. Aubrey joins me a few minutes later.
“Hey,” he says, just like this morning, but it’s not just like this morning, because this time his greeting is soft and careful. It is creeping-up-on-a-moth careful.
“Hey,” I say, not angry, but not friendly either.
He sits next to me and starts pulling out stuff from his lunch. Prosciutto. Melon. Fancy crackers.
It’s exactly the type of lunch I would’ve packed for myself, and my mouth waters. I didn’t pack anything today.
He looks at my empty hands, the empty space around me, and holds out the container of melon. “Want some?”
I don’t bother hesitating. I just grab a chunk and let the sweetness of the melon fill my mouth and warm up all the frozen bits of me. When he shakes the baggie of prosciutto, I take a piece and let the saltiness of the meat blend with the melon. It’s delicious. “Thanks,” I say.
“Have you ever been to San Diego?” he asks, over a mouthful of melon.
I roll my eyes. “Uh, yeah,” I say sarcastically. “Of course I have.” The truth is, I’ve only been there once, and that was when I was small. Mama and my dad were still together. I barely remember it.
“The best Comic-Con is there.”
“I know,” I say. “I’m actually from California.” I don’t say it mean, more teasing, more like a friend would talk to another friend. At least how I imagine they would.
Aubrey chuckles. “It would be so cool to go. Especially if the creators of Astrid Dane had a booth.”
“Yeah,” I say, and take another piece of melon.
Aubrey and I sit side by side with the sun hitting our faces, chewing his lunch and letting the shouts and laughter from the lunch tables drift around us.
“It’s funny when you think how it wasn’t that long ago,” I say, really talking to myself.
“What wasn’t?”
“The whole Sylvia Mendez thing. The people who didn’t want her to go to their school. Do you think that’s what they didn’t want?” I point across the field. “All different races hanging out together?”
Aubrey shrugs. “Nothing about it makes sense to me,” he says.
“Not a very good argument,” I say before I can stop to think about it.
When the bell rings, Aubrey gets up and offers me his hand, and I grip it. He pulls me up harder than he should, and I stumble to my feet and almost face-plant.
“Watch it!” I say, but I’m laughing, and Aubrey laughs too, and that’s how we walk to English, both cracking up over something that wasn’t even funny.
51
Respecting History
But when we get to class, I start to feel nervous. I don’t know why. Aubrey and I aren’t on the schedule Mr. Humphries posted on the whiteboard. Still, just knowing the speeches start today is making me sweaty, and my stomach cramps. Not like period cramps. This is different. More like sharp rocks are inside me.
Mr. Humphries takes attendance, and then we head to the auditorium. On the way, we’re joined by a small group of eighth graders. Some of the debate club, I guess, and Aubrey says hi to all of them. Even though they act like they don’t know who he is, it still annoys me, and I slow down so we’re not walking next to each other. He doesn’t even notice.
Mr. Humphries is holding a clipboard and takes a seat behind all of us—probably so he can make sure we’re all paying attention.
“Remember what I told you last week,” he says to the backs of our heads. “The most important thing is managing your breath. Breathe deep before you begin. And don’t forget to take a breath before you run out of air. Don’t talk too fast. Talk slower than you think you should.” Then he calls the first set of partners.
The first argument is about school lunches, and one side argues they need to taste better, and the other side says they need to be healthy. They don’t seem nervous at all; it’s like they don’t even care a bunch of eighth graders are watching too. All I can think is, I would rather die than get up on that stage. And I’m not even kidding.
Dawn Hernandez and her partner take the stage after the first team is done. She obviously got dressed up for this. She looks so pretty in her purple dress with tiny turquoise flowers. Her hair is in a big loose bun, and she stands perfectly straight while she talks about how schools should make students wear uniforms. I wish she was Aubrey’s partner. I think she would’ve liked talking about Sylvia Mendez and how important the name change is. I think it might mean more to her than me. It means a lot to me too, but I know it’s not the same. Maybe I should talk to her to get her perspective.
The thought makes me dig my fingernails into my hand. I’m not giving the speech. I don’t need to talk to her about anything.
Six teams are scheduled for each day, and after each pair goes, Aubrey nudges me and whispers which side he thinks won. I agree with him each time.
When everyone groans, he chuckles. “Oh, didn’t I mention that?” Mr. Humphries thinks he is a riot factory.
“We’ll do a lot better than the groups today,” Aubrey whispers to me. “You’re practicing, right? You think you have a good argument for why we shouldn’t respect history?” he asks, still whispering.
“Some history doesn’t need to be respected,” I say. I forget to whisper, and Mr. Humphries looks over at us.
“Save your arguments for Wednesday,” Mr. Humphries tells me and Aubrey. Then he claps his hands, releasing everyone to sixth period.
As we start to file out, Aubrey says, “So that’s the point you’re gonna make? We shouldn’t respect John Wayne?”
“You think we should?” I ask.
“But a person isn’t bad just because they say one bad thing, right? Or only do one bad thing?”
It depends on what the bad thing is, I think, but I say, “No, not even. Besides, I don’t think it was just one bad thing.” I adjust the strap of my book bag. “But that’s not the point. I think the name should change so that we can respect history. Sylvia Mendez is more important than a movie star. Being in movies doesn’t make you so great.” I’m not sure if I’m talking about John Wayne or my dad.
Aubrey nods at me. “Not bad. Not bad at all. I’ll make a debater out of you yet.”
No, you won’t, I think.
In the hallway, I tell Dawn what a good job she did. She looks at me shocked that I’m talking to her, and honestly, I’m just as shocked myself.
“Thanks,” she says. “I’m looking forward to yours.”
“It’s going to be del!” Aubrey shouts, and I almost trip over my feet.
“Del?” Dawn says, and I rush away, not wanting to see Aubrey start being friends with someone new.
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