Something to Say Read online

  Dedication

  For Mamasita Baunita—no love is bigger

  And for Grandpa, who never met a Western he didn’t like

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  1. Not Like Anyone Else

  2. A Plan

  3. Too Soon

  4. The Way It Used to Be

  5. Not a Danish

  6. Mind Control

  7. Spectacularly Weird

  8. The Opposite of Me

  9. One Interesting Fact

  10. Complicated Equations

  11. The Worst Thing

  12. A New Contact

  13. Question Eight

  14. The Uninvited

  15. Red Vines

  16. An Origin Story

  17. A Tough One

  18. All That Time

  19. Nervous and Sizzling

  20. Early History

  21. Don’t Worry

  22. No Big Deal

  23. Everyone Else

  24. The Opposite of Fun

  25. A Bad Idea

  26. What Happened Was

  27. Just Old

  28. Leave the Name Alone

  29. What Side Do You Want?

  30. Gunshots

  31. Vital Signs

  32. Completely Impossible

  33. A Little Invisible

  34. The Worst Person Ever

  35. Can’t or Won’t

  36. Battle Scars

  37. Only Person in the World

  38. Big Enough

  39. Back to Invisible

  40. Going Somewhere

  41. Pile of Lies

  42. Cowboys

  43. Not Exactly Lying

  44. Friendship Calendar

  45. A Pair

  46. Last Thing Anyone Needs

  47. True Grit

  48. Just a Dream

  49. Frozen

  50. Not a Very Good Argument

  51. Respecting History

  52. A Thanksgiving Sandwich

  53. The Enemy

  54. Every Single Thing

  55. So Sick

  56. Gone Missing

  57. Not Anywhere

  58. A Terrible Thing

  59. Be Sorry for That

  60. Nothing Comes Out

  61. Something to Say

  62. Decision, Decision

  63. Safe but Not Sound

  64. Fixing Everything

  65. Finish What’s Started

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Books by Lisa Moore Ramée

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  1

  Not Like Anyone Else

  Mama gets home from work earlier than usual, and even though I shut my laptop quick and slide it under a couch cushion, it’s too late.

  “Hi, Mama,” I say innocently, raising my voice so she can hear me over my grandpa Gee’s blaring television. A rickety fan in the corner of the living room is blowing a steady breeze at me, but I’m still hot and my legs stick to the leather couch.

  Mama clanks her purse and keys down on the small table by the front door. “Oh, don’t even try it, Jenae,” she says, and points at the cushion. “Move that before someone sits on it.”

  Guiltily, I pull my computer out. Mama isn’t a fan of my shiny silver laptop. Mostly because my dad bought it. Anything that makes her think of him is never going to be good. She’s always talking about what he should or shouldn’t do, but she never says it would be better if he came by more. I guess I’m the only one who thinks that.

  I try not to care too much. He’s an actor and travels all over the place making movies, so he’s really busy. And in interviews he always says he has a daughter, so it’s not as if he has forgotten about me.

  Mama walks over to Gee. “Hey, Daddy,” she says, and gives him a kiss on the top of his head, then reaches over, grabs the remote, and turns down the volume.

  “Hey, yourself,” Gee says, not turning his head away from the old Western movie he’s watching. As soon as Mama leaves the room, he’ll crank the volume right back up. Gee’s hearing isn’t great, but he refuses to get hearing aids, so when he’s home, we all have to suffer with the TV volume set to ear-piercing loud.

  Mama frowns at me, which is not so unusual. Sometimes when Mama looks at me, I can tell she does not like what she sees. She doesn’t understand how her daughter could turn out so different from her. But I’m not like anyone. And I’m all right with that. Being unique should be a good thing, but the world is full of people like Mama who think fitting in is more important than being yourself.

  “I told your father buying you that thing was a bad idea,” Mama says. “Just plain ridiculous, encouraging you—”

  “Do you not see me trying to watch my program?” Gee hollers, cutting off Mama and gesturing at the TV. “If y’all want to be chatty, get on out of here.”

  Mama knows better than to argue with her father, so she raises her perfectly threaded eyebrows and beckons for me to follow her into the kitchen. She likes to complain that Gee still treats her like a baby, but it’s his house, so he makes the rules. We live here because the house is huge, and with Nana June gone, he’d get lonely.

  My grandmother didn’t die, she just decided she was tired of Gee—of all men actually—and moved to Florida to live with her best friend. She sends me neon T-shirts all the time that say things like Live Your Best Life! and Nothing’s Impossible! I don’t think Nana June gets how hard it is to live your own life when you’re only eleven. People steady want to tell you what to do.

  Mama clicks across the hardwood floor in her high heels, and I peel myself off the couch. As soon as I get in the kitchen, she starts up.

  “Your father gave you that computer so you could do your homework, not watch that foolishness.”

  That foolishness is what Mama calls Astrid Dane, my favorite YouTube show. “It’s summer, Mama. I don’t have any homework.” I don’t bother arguing that Astrid Dane is not foolishness, because Mama has her mind made up about that. Mama likes “real” things, nothing make-believe. Astrid Dane is a twelve-year-old immortal girl who has all sorts of ghosts living inside her, and they take over her personality sometimes, and that is just about as far from real as you can get—according to Mama.

  But I love Astrid Dane.

  Mama crosses her arms tight against her chest and stares at me. “What exactly are you wearing?” Her tone implies I am wearing my panties on my head.

  I look down at myself as if I don’t remember what I have on. “Just . . . a v-vest I made?” I can’t help my voice going up at the end. Nana June taught me how to sew. I can’t do a whole bunch, but a vest is pretty easy. And this one is great. It’s an exact copy of what Astrid Dane wore in the “Corruption” episode. I paid attention to every detail, even getting the elephant buttons right.

  “Lord, girl,” Mama starts, and I know nothing good is going to come after that. “How’re you going to have any friends if you walk around in crazy costumes?”

  I don’t answer. And not because I don’t want friends. But I don’t need them the way some people do. Especially if what I wear is going to matter to them. Mama acts as if that means there is something wrong with me.

  The kitchen door gets pushed open, and my brother, Malcolm, crutches in. He’s been on crutches since his surgery a few weeks ago. “You really need to come home and start hollering like that?” he asks Mama. Malcolm’s not afraid to talk back to Mama like I am. Maybe because he’s older, but probably even when I’m grown and not living with Mama anymore, I’ll still be scared to speak my mind.

  Mama puts her hands on her hips. “How come you didn’t start dinner?” she asks Malcolm, an
d I feel guilty right away. Even though it’s Malcolm’s turn to cook, I should’ve done it. Especially since his injury is all my fault.

  2

  A Plan

  Mama glares at Malcolm. “You can’t just sit up in your room all day, listening to music and not doing nothing else,” she says. “Tonight is your turn. You know that.”

  “It’s too hard,” Malcolm says. “Standing up that long hurts.” He moves the leg with the big black brace out in front of him, as if Mama might’ve forgotten about his injury.

  Mama doesn’t even look at Malcolm’s leg; she just leans against the island and puts her hands on her hips. “The doctors cleared you for regular activity. Seems to me if they said you could drive, you sure enough can stand up and cook some dinner. I’ve told you, you need to help out here. I’m sure not going to just watch you turn out like these supposed-to-be men.”

  She’s dragging both Malcolm’s dad and mine with that comment. Malcolm’s dad is Mama’s first husband, and mine is her second. After two marriages and two divorces, Mama has sworn off men forever. Maybe when your heart gets broken twice, it doesn’t ever fit right back together.

  “I’m not going to, Mama. Can you please give me a break?” Malcolm asks.

  “I’ll give you a break when you explain your plan to me,” Mama says. “You got one yet?”

  She’s been asking Malcolm this question since his surgery.

  Malcolm shrugs. “I don’t know.” He sounds so sad when he says it that I have to look away. Ever since he was my age, Malcolm had such a clear plan. A total slam dunk. Be the best point guard in his high school league, get recruited by a Division I college, get drafted into the NBA, make millions and buy Mama a mansion. (Mama always laughed at that part of Malcolm’s plan and said she had no use for a house that big.) But that was before. Before he tore his ACL and meniscus. And had to have surgery.

  “That’s not good enough, Malcolm,” Mama says.

  I don’t like when Mama gets on Malcolm’s case, but if she knew I was the reason Malcolm was home with a busted-up knee instead of still playing college basketball, she’d definitely go back to yelling at me.

  Gee always says, You break it, you buy it, which is his way of saying you have to take ownership of your mistakes and figure out a way to fix them. Since I’m the one who broke Malcolm, I have to make him better, but I sure don’t know how. So far, I’ve tried doing his chores, buying him sunflower seeds, and staying out of his way. None of that worked. Malcolm’s not the only one who needs a plan.

  “That assistant coach, Coach Naz, called me again,” Mama says. “He reminded me you still haven’t registered for classes. You know they don’t have to renew your scholarship.”

  Malcolm mumbles something, and it sounds a whole lot like he said he didn’t care. But I know that’s not the truth.

  Mama stares at him and her face is stone hard, but then it softens just a little. “Malcolm. You need to care. This is your life. Basketball was only one ticket to the ride. Whether you can play or not, they’re still willing to pay for school. You’re going to let that opportunity slip away? You know how few Black young men are even getting college degrees?”

  When Malcolm doesn’t answer, Mama throws up her hands in frustration. “Well, one of you needs to get some dinner started. I’m going upstairs to change.”

  When she leaves the kitchen, as nicely as I can, I ask Malcolm, “You want to help me make something?” He and I used to cook together before he went away to school. It was a lot of fun. Maybe cooking with me will start to make him feel better, but he shakes his head.

  “Naw,” he says, and crutches out of the kitchen.

  I open the refrigerator and stare dismally at the food, hoping something interesting will come to me. What am I supposed to make? Then the door pushes open, and I think it’s going to be Malcolm, changing his mind, but it’s Gee.

  He walks over, reaches into the fridge, and grabs a package of chicken. “You know, Nae-nae,” he says as he gets some seasonings out of the cupboard, “it’s important to respect your mama, but don’t be afraid of using your voice. God gave you a brain for a reason. Gave you a mouth too. Don’t be afraid to speak up.”

  Easy for him to say. Gee’s not afraid of anything. I’m afraid of more things than I can count.

  3

  Too Soon

  The first day of school comes too soon, and I’m trying to hold it off by savoring a piece of cinnamon toast. Until today I’ve been excited about starting junior high. Elementary school was okay, but it was starting to feel like a shirt that had gotten shrunk in the wash. Tight around the neck and arms; too snug and short. I figured junior high might be more comfortable. More space to spread out and find a nice empty spot to fade into. But now that the first day is here, I’m nervous. There will be a bunch of people I don’t know. And they’ll need to put me in some kind of box, the way people like to do. Everyone thinks you’re supposed to fit in somewhere. Be a type of thing. I just want to be left alone.

  “It’s about time to go, Jenae,” Mama says, and jangles her keys at me. “Big day.”

  “I just need to grab my bag, and then I’m ready.” Some crumbs and butter slide down my chin, and I wipe them off with the back of my hand.

  “Why aren’t you wearing that new sweatshirt we got? It’s cute, and it cost a grip too, so don’t be telling me it doesn’t fit right.”

  The amount of glitter on that sweatshirt should be illegal. “I want to save it. Not look like I was trying too hard on the first day?” I meant to say it like a statement, sound strong, but it’s hard to give that attitude when Mama is looking at me like I don’t make any sense. Like I’m the wrong-shaped piece in the puzzle she’s trying to put together.

  “Go on and get your bag, then,” Mama says.

  I rush upstairs. I still can’t believe I have it. An Astrid Dane bag. And Mama doesn’t even know. When we went school-clothes shopping, I saw it just hanging there on a wall of backpacks. A pale yellow messenger-style bag with tiny clocks. It doesn’t say Astrid Dane on it—luckily, or Mama never would’ve let me get it—but a true Astrid Dane fan would know. I had to act casual, like I didn’t care whether I got it or not. Mama humphed at the price but then said okay.

  I sling the bag over my shoulder and stare at myself in my mirror. Mama acts like new clothes are going to change my life, but I don’t think they make a difference. All I see is plain old me. Brown skin. Poufy hair. Wide brown eyes. Short. Pokey elbows and knees, but a pudgy middle. The bag doesn’t make me look any different either, but it makes me feel better. Like maybe junior high won’t crush me.

  “Jenae!” Mama calls from downstairs, and I hustle out of my room, but when I pass by Malcolm’s door, I can hear the pulsing boom, bah, boom of one of his hip-hop songs, so I know he’s awake. I wish there weren’t any sounds coming from his room. It should be silent. And he should still be away at college. Happy and whole.

  But I ruined everything.

  Watching him lying on the basketball court, rocking back in forth in pain, was probably the worst thing I’ve ever seen. I had wanted him home so badly. The thought had blasted out of me. COME HOME. I should’ve known thinking that super hard would cause something awful to happen. I should’ve learned from the first time.

  I knock on his door, and his music goes off and he says, “What?”

  I open the door slowly. Malcolm’s room isn’t tidy like mine. His room is a mess. Clothes are all over the floor, and dirty plates are on his dresser. His trash can is overflowing, and honestly, his room stinks. Mama must never come in here, because she would throw a fit if she knew how gross it was.

  “I’m leaving for school,” I say. “I just wanted to say bye.”

  Malcolm’s lying in bed like it’s the weekend. “Remember what I told you,” he says. “Cafeterias are for chumps. Eat outside. Like in the quad, all right?”

  Malcolm took me around the school last week so I would know where all my classes were. It made me feel bad, be
cause I’m trying to fix him; he’s not supposed to be helping me.

  “I’ll eat outside,” I say, not admitting I have no plans to sit in the quad. I try to think of something, anything I could say to make him feel like getting started on a new plan. “Malcolm, I . . .” I can’t think of a solitary thing.

  Maybe he knows I have nothing to offer, because he doesn’t even ask me what I was going to say. He just turns his music back on and grimaces as he gets into a different position.

  “You better get going,” he says, and almost smiles at me. I miss Malcolm’s smiles.

  I leave his room disappointed with myself. How am I going to make him better? I can’t even think of how to get him out of bed.

  The house is strangely quiet as I make my way downstairs. Gee is retired from his job as a mail carrier, but he still likes to get up early, and as soon as he is dressed and has had his cup of coffee (with so much sugar it’s even too sweet for me), he starts in television watching. But he left for Las Vegas last night.

  Mama had tons to say about “old folks driving late at night,” but that didn’t stop Gee. He has two favorite things: watching Westerns and getting the heck out of Dodge. That’s what Gee calls it when he takes one of his trips, or even when he just takes a walk around the block. He says someone who spent as much time walking around outside as he did, delivering mail, has to get going every once in a while. It’s no big surprise that his expression about getting out of Dodge comes straight from old Westerns.

  Even though when he’s home he tries to rupture our eardrums with the volume of the TV, as soon as he’s gone the house is too still. Like it’s holding its breath, just waiting for him to come back.

  4

  The Way It Used to Be

  When we get to the first main street, as soon as Mama puts on her blinker to turn left, my chest squeezes in. I look behind us, at the way we used to go when I was still in elementary school. I wipe the sweat off my nose and face back around, watching the road coming at us.

  Mama always drives me to school to make sure I’m not late (and so I don’t get sweaty), but she lets me walk home. It’s not very far, so before I’m ready, Mama’s joining the long line of cars pulling into the drop-off zone.