“I know. I’m sorry, I just . . .” Aubrey shrugs, and for a blip he really does look sorry, but then his big grin spreads across his face. “You really didn’t notice?”
Maybe that’s the thing that bothers me the most. I had no clue he was behind me. To be fair, I wasn’t expecting to be followed, so I wasn’t trying to be invisible, but that’s no excuse. What if he had been a deranged person?
What if he is a deranged person?
17
A Tough One
“Let’s go downstairs,” I say. If he is dangerous, I’d rather deal with it down in the kitchen, where at least I have both the front and back door to try and get to.
Music pounds Malcolm’s door, making the carpet dance. I quietly sing along to the angry words slathering the hall. Malcolm says he likes to feel music over his skin, through his hair follicles, down into his ankles and toes. He used to say it got him pumped up for a game; I don’t know what it pumps him up for now.
Before he left for school, the music he listened to talked about parties and girls and being better than everyone else, but when he came back, the words got heated. Hot enough to melt everything away.
“Didn’t Astrid Dane wear a vest like that in the ‘Corruption’ episode?” Aubrey asks as he follows me to the kitchen.
“Mm-hmm,” I say, and I can’t hide the grin teasing my face. He doesn’t seem dangerous.
“Cool buttons,” he says.
“Thanks.” The word comes out a little breathlessly. “I actually found the buttons first, and that’s when I knew I had to make the vest.” I’ve never had someone to talk to about Astrid Dane. It feels strange, but in a good way.
Aubrey takes a step back, as if he needs some distance to get a really good look, and then he nods appreciatively. “Sway,” he says. Then he holds up his hand as if I were talking and he needs me to hold on. He pulls out his phone and reads a message, then taps something back. He looks a little annoyed, which is a strange expression for him. But when he puts away his phone, he’s back to being all smiles.
But I don’t know what to do now. I’ve never had someone over. On TV shows it seems like when kids hang out, they are always snacking and joking around. I’m down for the snacking part of that. I get some crackers out from the cabinet.
“Your house is really big,” Aubrey says, staring at the space next to the kitchen, what Gee calls the butler’s pantry—it’s just a bunch of cabinets, but it sounds fancy.
“Yeah, Gee—that’s my grandfather—told me rich people used to live all up and down this street. That’s why the houses are so huge.”
“Are you guys rich?” Aubrey asks, his eyes wide and surprised.
“No,” I say, and giggle. “Gee said a Black movie star moved onto the street, when it was only white people living here before that. And all the rich white people started moving away.” I shrug. It all happened so long ago, and I can’t even imagine the neighborhood not being full of all sorts of people. “After they all left, then just regular people like Gee and Nana June bought the houses.” I love our house, and even though I think it’s silly for someone to move so they don’t have to live by a Black family, I’m sort of glad they did.
Aubrey keeps looking around and nodding, taking everything in. Then he looks up at the ceiling, as if he can see right up to the second floor. “So was that your brother?” he asks.
“Who else would it be?” I ask, knowing where this is going.
“You guys don’t look much alike.”
Malcolm and I don’t look anything alike. The whole different-dads thing.
“I know,” is all I tell Aubrey.
“Why is he on crutches?”
Because I was selfish. “He had an operation on his knee.”
“He’s pretty tall.”
“He played basketball.” I hear the ed tucked on the end like a bad dog’s tail, and I can’t take it back. I’ve never said it out loud before. Played, not plays. I pull the water pitcher out of the fridge and slam it so hard on the counter, the plastic cracks and water seeps out the bottom.
Aubrey grabs the broken pitcher out of my hand and dumps the rest of the water into the sink. He looks around for the recycling trash and puts the pitcher in there, then grabs paper towels and wipes the water from the counter. Anybody would think he was the one who lives here, not me.
“It’s just a pitcher,” he says. “No big deal, right?”
“I guess not.” I want Aubrey to leave. I want to go up to my room and lie on my bed and let Malcolm’s music melt me.
“I wasn’t thirsty anyway,” Aubrey says. “And even if I was . . .” He turns on the faucet and dips his head under it and guzzles up water like everyone knows you’re not supposed to do.
“We have glasses,” I say, but I can’t say it without laughing.
“Hah! Made you smile,” Aubrey crows, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
“You make it sound like that’s so hard or something.”
“You’re a tough one. I was thinking I might have to go to extraordinary measures.”
I sort of wish I hadn’t smiled, because I’m curious what extraordinary measures Aubrey might’ve tried.
“So, um . . .” I start to dig my toe into the kitchen tile. The crackers are still on the counter. Should I put them on a plate?
“What did you think of the last episode?” Aubrey’s smile is smeared across his whole face, as if he’s really only five. Most people my age aren’t quite as wide open as he seems to be. Maybe that’s how people act in Chicago.
“I thought it was cool how she sneaked onto the pirate ship,” I say.
Watching Astrid Dane episodes is almost like reading those Magic Tree House books. Since she’s immortal and has been around for hundreds and hundreds of years, you never know what era you’ll find her in. And then you wait to see what mystery she’s going to solve.
But since Astrid Dane isn’t a regular TV show, it can take a superlong time before a new episode gets posted. The last one was weeks ago.
“Who’s your favorite ghost?” Aubrey asks.
The question is sort of like asking what Harry Potter house you’d be in and feels personal, but it does make me curious who Aubrey’s favorite ghost might be. I squint my eyes at him. Explorer. Definitely. I’m not even sure if I have a favorite, but Aubrey is looking at me expectantly. “The witch,” I finally say.
“She’s pretty del.”
“Del?” I ask.
“Yeah!” Aubrey says. “Del!”
Aubrey acts like he can define a word by just repeating it a bunch of times.
“What does it even mean?”
“Del,” he says again, like it should be obvious. Then he gets red. “It’s short for delicious?”
“You think the witch is delicious?”
“No! But saying something’s cool doesn’t mean it’s actually cold, right?”
Aubrey has turned the color of a Christmas ribbon.
“Ooookay,” I say.
He starts twisting a tiny bit of his hair and then lets go, but the hair stays twisted. Just one small, tight red twist sticking from the front of his head like a tiny horn.