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, because 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.