Something to Say

by Lisa Moore Ramée

  52

  A Thanksgiving Sandwich

  The next morning, I make a special lunch. It’s plenty big too. Enough for me and Aubrey. A farewell lunch.

  On the way to school, Mama sings along to the radio as if she’s the only one in the car. I wish she’d notice I’m feeling down. She told me things would be different in junior high, and she’s right, but I’m sure this isn’t what she meant.

  Even though I don’t know what I’d say, I wish she’d ask me what’s wrong. I wish she’d ask me something. I feel like I’m just watching myself. Floating above my own body like a balloon.

  I get out of the car and bounce along, feeling the tug of a string.

  Aubrey talks to me in history, and I watch myself answer. We laugh at something, but I don’t know what.

  At lunch, I see myself give him his sandwich, and he turns it around and around in amazement.

  “This is the best sandwich I’ve ever seen,” he says, and I know it’s the truth. Miles of turkey, a smear of goat cheese, crisp butter lettuce, a heavy dollop of cranberry sauce. A thanksgiving sandwich.

  “Thanks,” Aubrey says worshipfully, and I want to tell him I’m the one who should be thanking him. For the past two weeks. But I can’t make myself say the words. This is our last day. Our very last day, and I can’t make myself enjoy it. Not really.

  He pulls an Astrid Dane graphic novel out of his bag, and we sit side by side flipping the pages, and I watch and watch and watch. An image of Astrid Dane fills one whole page, and she looks like she’s staring right at me, and I draw closer and almost make it back into myself, but then Aubrey turns the page.

  When the bell rings, we get up and head straight to the auditorium like Mr. Humphries told us to yesterday.

  Our class files in, and I see several eighth graders are already there, talking to Mr. Humphries. After we’re in our seats, the door opens, and Ms. Garcia’s class comes in.

  “Great! You were able to join us,” Mr. Humphries calls out. “My students,” he says to us. “Ms. Garcia’s class is taking time out of their busy schedule to watch your speeches. You know when we do competitions, the rooms are packed with people.”

  Why did Mr. Humphries invite even more people? Why would he take something so bad and make it worse? All these people. Staring. Waiting to hear some dumb speeches about stuff no one cares about.

  Mr. Humphries must feel my worry, because he says, “When Ms. Garcia heard how great everyone did yesterday, she asked if her class could watch and get an idea of how to deliver an effective argument.” He smiles kindly at me, and I work hard not to stick my tongue out at him.

  I fold and unfold my legs. I wish the auditorium were dark. A girl almost sits right on top of me, and Aubrey points her to the next seat over. Maybe I’m really not here.

  When the first set of partners goes up, I feel nervous for them. The boy, Jeremy, drops his note cards and full-on panic settles into my neck and shoulders. It takes him a few minutes to pick up the cards because his hands are shaking a little. He must be nervous. Part of me hopes he won’t be able to do it. Maybe if one other person bails on giving a speech, Mr. Humphries will realize that for some of us, what he’s asked us to do is impossible.

  But Jeremy starts his speech, looking at his note cards the entire time even though Mr. Humphries told us how we’re supposed to look up. Jeremy’s voice wavers a little and he’s talking pretty low, but he finishes. When everyone claps, Jeremy looks so surprised, it’s almost funny, and then his partner gives her speech, they both make comments about each other’s points, and then they get to leave the stage.

  All the other partners scheduled for today deliver their speeches. You can tell who did research and who didn’t. But no one looks like they might die. I feel like I might die, and I don’t even have to go up onstage today.

  “Good job, everyone,” Mr. Humphries says, just as the bell rings. “Thank you, Ms. Garcia’s class. You were an excellent audience. Be ready, Wednesday partners. Mrs. Park’s class is going to come tomorrow.”

  Aubrey grins at me like he’s so excited for Wednesday. Like he actually wants to get up on that stage and stand in front of everyone with them staring, and wondering, and judging. Like the words will just come out easily and make sense instead of a horrible garble. He grins like not only does he believe all that but like he thinks I believe it too. And I realize he doesn’t know me at all. And I float far away.

  53

  The Enemy

  It’s our very last day of friendship, so when I see Aubrey after school and he says, “No consorting with the enemy,” instead of asking if he can come over, my heart dips all the way to my toes.

  “Besides,” he adds, “I have a lot of work to do if I’m going to beat you tomorrow. It’s going to be so great getting to be in the debate club!” Aubrey sounds so positive. He swings his Astrid Dane bag into my Astrid Dane bag, grins at me, and then heads in the opposite direction of where I’m going. As he gets farther away, I want to call him back to tell him it would be better if we worked together. At least we’d have a little more time. But I also want to shout that I’m sorry he won’t be in the club. I zip my lips closed. Our friendship is over, and I might as well accept that right now.

  Across the street, the crowd is big and loud. “Save John Wayne!” someone shouts, as if instead of a name change people want to close the school.

  We must be getting close to the school board meeting, because the crowd is not only bigger, it seems more intense.

  On my walk home, I force one foot in front of the other. After what Malcolm said about Mama having Coach Eric call him, it feels doubly wrong to be texting Rox, but last night I saw a list of college classes on the computer desktop. Malcolm must be thinking about going back. And maybe that means even if he doesn’t want help, he actually does need it. If I stop now, what if he goes back to feeling down and not wanting to do anything? You break it, you buy it. I have to finish what I started and really and truly fix him.

  I pull out my phone and type a text message to Rox. Telling her he said he doesn’t care about school anymore. That he said he doesn’t care about anything.

  It’s all a lie, and I stare at the message for a long time before finally pressing send.

  Rox texts me back right away.

  He’s just scared. Don’t worry. We’ve been talking and I think he’ll be okay. He’s supposed to come over. I’ll call him and make sure.

  Suddenly, my feet feel lighter and I just about glide all the way home. Everything else might be messed up, but at least I’ve done this one good thing.

  When I turn the corner of our street, I can see someone on the front porch, but it’s not until I get closer that I can tell it’s Malcolm. And it’s not until I’m really close that I see the anger written all over his face.

  “What were you thinking?” he yells at me.

  I clutch my bag tight and take a step back, away from the blast of anger.

  “You can’t just mess with people’s lives! You can’t go around texting folks trying to make something happen! What’s wrong with you?” He’s yelling so loud, I’m sure all the neighbors can hear.

  “Malcolm, I was only trying to h—”

  “Help?” He holds his phone out. “You think you’re helping by texting my ex? Making her feel sorry for me? Making me think . . . You didn’t help anybody!” He turns around and goes inside, slamming the door so hard behind him, I’m shocked it doesn’t crack.

  My phone vibrates, and I don’t want to look but I do anyway. It’s Rox. Saying she doesn’t understand why I told her things that weren’t true. And lots of sad face emojis. I want to explain that most of what I texted her wasn’t a complete lie. It was what I thought was true, or at least mostly. And that I’m really sorry. But I’m pretty sure she doesn’t want to see any more texts from me.

  I force myself up the steps and into the house. I’m afraid to see Malcolm, but when I get inside, he’s gone upstairs; the music blasting from his room is angry an
d lava hot.

  Even with all the commotion, Gee is asleep in his chair, and I don’t know what to do. I messed up everything.

  54

  Every Single Thing

  I walk to the kitchen and pull out things for dinner.

  I know it was wrong for me to text Rox behind Malcolm’s back, but I’m sure it made him happy hearing from her. Why is he so mad about it?

  I feel my phone buzzing, and I don’t want to look because it’s probably Rox again, but it’s not.

  It’s my dad.

  Sorry baby. Something came up. Have to fly to New York. I won’t be able to pick you up tomorrow after all.

  I stare and stare and stare. I know there’s not one solitary thing I can say that will make him change his plans. And even though it was a lie I told, him saying he can’t come after I told him I needed him to hurts so bad, it’s like having a whole mouthful of rotten teeth.

  Every single thing is ruined.

  I head upstairs and try to do homework, but instead I wonder and wonder and wonder. What am I going to do?

  “Astrid,” I whisper. “What would you do?”

  The answer comes so suddenly, I swear Astrid whispered it in my ear. Mama will be mad, but if it’s a choice between having my hide tanned or giving a speech, I’d rather get the spanking. I get into sweats and burrow into bed.

  55

  So Sick

  In the morning, I sneak downstairs and take a little bit of mustard and rub it on my face. Not so much that it’s obvious and cakey, but just enough to know I don’t look exactly right. I get the heating pad from the closet and take it to my room and turn it on high. And then I get back into bed. The mustard starts burning and it smells. Mama is never going to fall for it. I start rubbing the mustard off and it gets in my eyes. OUCH!

  I dash to the bathroom and scrub my face. My eyes are burning and red. I look terrible.

  Good. I climb into bed with the heading pad on my chest and wait.

  It doesn’t take too long. When I don’t go downstairs after Mama calls me a second time, I hear her marching up the stairs, and I quickly stash the heating pad out of sight. A few seconds later, Mama flings my door open.

  “Didn’t you hear—” Her voice breaks off when she sees me still in bed. “What’s wrong with you? Why aren’t you up?” She comes over and looks at me, then puts her hand on my forehead. I’m really glad I don’t still smell like mustard.

  “Oh, Lord, you’re burning up,” she says. “And you don’t look good at all.” She sighs loudly. “How do you feel?”

  “Like I might throw up,” I say. Vomit is something Mama would rather avoid.

  “Well, okay, then. I guess I better call the school. I hope this is just a one-day thing. You can’t be getting behind. Not in junior high.” She shakes her head, and I so want to tell her she doesn’t have to worry. That I’ll only be sick one day. But I stay quiet and look as mournful and queasy as I can.

  She stares at me for a minute, and I can tell she’s a little suspicious. I cough. I’ve never stayed home sick from school. Not once. I have a whole stack of perfect attendance records. Which is probably why she says, “All right, then,” and heads out of my room.

  I actually feel like I might really throw up. What I’m doing is horribly wrong.

  A little while later, Mama taps on my door and opens it slowly when I don’t answer. She comes over and kisses me on the forehead. “Let Malcolm know if you need anything, okay?” she says, and I nod sadly and close my eyes.

  I don’t think Malcolm would do a thing for me. I hear Mama’s soft steps cross the floor and then the click of my door closing. I don’t open my eyes until I hear her car pull out of the driveway.

  After first period, my phone buzzes and I know it’s Aubrey.

  Where are you? Do you have a doctor’s appointment or something?

  I don’t answer.

  A little while later he texts again.

  Okay, well I’ll see you at lunch.

  But before lunchtime rolls around, he must’ve figured it out, because he texts:

  You have to come!

  I head downstairs. Malcolm is in the kitchen frying some bacon.

  “Hey,” I say softly.

  “You want something to eat?” he asks, not turning around.

  I shake my head. My stomach feels hard and tight.

  When I don’t answer out loud, Malcolm turns to look at me. “You look whooped,” he says.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “Sorry,” we both say at the same time. Malcolm shakes his head at me.

  “I shouldn’t have yelled at you, but you can’t do stuff like that.”

  “I know,” I say. “But I hurt you, Malcolm, and I had to fix it. I had to.”

  “What are you talking about?” He takes the bacon out of the skillet and then cracks an egg into the hot bacon grease. I watch him while trying to figure out how to answer his question. He glances at me over his shoulder.

  “I did it,” I whisper. “I made you get hurt.”

  “What?” He turns back to his food for a second and slides his egg out of the skillet onto a plate, then turns around to face me. He looks confused and sort of annoyed. “So you sent some bad mojo at me? You made me fall? Made my knee snap all apart? Are you serious right now?” He chuckles in a dry way.

  Yes, I want to say. Yes. Yes. Yes. “Malcolm, I—I just missed you so much. And I wanted you to come back, but I didn’t mean for you to get hurt. I didn’t know that was going to happen.”

  Malcolm takes a bite of bacon and chews slowly. After he swallows, he says, “Jenae,” and waits for me to look at him.

  “I got injured playing ball, just like what happens to tons of players. You know how common this type of injury is?” he asks, pointing to his knee. “It didn’t have anything to do with you.”

  It’s okay that he doesn’t believe me—it still feels as if a boulder is lifted from my arms. It’s been so heavy carrying that around. “I shouldn’t have texted Rox,” I say.

  “No, you shouldn’t have,” Malcolm says. “I know you were trying to help. But it’s my life, got it?” He gobbles down the rest of his breakfast, watching me until I nod. “I’m not dumb. I can figure things out on my own.”

  “Okay,” I say.

  “Cool, or what’s that new word? Sway? It’s sway,” he says, and comes over and gives my shoulder a squeeze.

  Gee shambles into the kitchen. Even though he’s not walking super steady, he’s dressed in slacks and an ironed buttoned-up shirt. It’s strange to see, because since he’s been home from the hospital, he’s been wearing old beige chinos and one of his million Hawaiian shirts.

  “You going somewhere, old man?” Malcolm asks, and then laughs. “My bad. All your regular clothes are dirty, huh? Mama told me to do your laundry. Sorry, I’ll get to it today.”

  It looks good to see Gee dressed up, like he’s all better, but sort of sad too. Like he’s only wearing a costume.

  “Mornin’, Gee,” I say softly, as if, if I talk too loud, this version of Gee will evaporate and he’ll go back to looking frail.

  Malcolm makes Gee a bacon-and-egg sandwich and guides Gee out to the living room. I hear the television turn on, and the volume is so loud, I can tell it’s a Western, but I know even without checking it’s not a John Wayne one.

  With him appearing so much healthier than he’s been since he came home from the hospital, I’m surprised that Gee’s doing his same routine. “I’ll wash his clothes,” I tell Malcolm. I bet it’s not comfortable wearing stiff pants and a shirt when all you’re doing is lounging around watching TV.

  “Thanks,” Malcolm says. “You feeling okay?”

  I shrug.

  “Reason I’m asking is Coach Naz is in town. He’s recruiting Johnny Knox—you know that kid getting all the press?”

  I haven’t heard of him, but I don’t follow sports like Malcolm does.

  “He had asked if I could meet him for lunch. I guess they got all excited hear
ing I was thinking about coming back.” He actually looks embarrassed, and I’m surprised. Doesn’t he know how good he is? How much they’d want him back even if there was just a small chance he could still play?

  “Rox and I have been . . . you know, sort of talking, and she was pushing me to meet with him, but I wasn’t going to. . . .” Malcolm’s eyes drift away. He stares at the corner of the room. “Anyway, since you’re here, maybe I should, you know? Coach Eric was right about me being sorry for myself. And it’s not like I can just sit around at home for the rest of my life.”

  I nod fast at him. It’s almost as if I can see him right on the edge teetering. All he needs is one tiny push in the right direction.

  “But I didn’t want to leave Gee alone, and if you’re not up to it—”

  “You should go!” I almost shout. “I’m fine.” That’s too close to admitting my lie about being sick. “I mean, not fine, but you know, I can watch Gee.”

  “Maybe I better not,” he says. “You’re sick, and I don’t know if I even want to see this dude.”

  Just one little push. “Go,” I say.

  He looks down at his brace, then back at me, and then he surprises me by smiling. “Yeah, I guess. I know whatever else happens, I still want to get my degree. Maybe I’ll go into sports medicine or business. I sort of like numbers.”

  “Me too!” I say, smiling at him. He’s going back! I’m sure of it. And I feel happy but also sort of sad.

  A thought bubbles up inside of me, and I push it out to the universe. I think it as hard as I can.

  THANK YOU.

  Gee used to tell me all the time you can’t always just ask for things. Sometimes you have to show you’re grateful for what you’ve got.

  I join Gee in the living room and try not to pay attention to the day ticking away.

  Malcolm leaves around eleven thirty. First, he asks me, “You sure about this?”

  I look at Gee, point to the TV, and shrug. “Piece of cake.”